mm II ■ ■ IS 'M mmm i^?&- i ■ i • -'-;>t. .v.'. 1 ■ Pass fR\4Ag fopyiightN^ilr 1 ® COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT FAMOUS SINGLE AND FUGITIVE POEMS COLLECTED AND EDITED BY ROSSITER JOHNSON Does he paint ? he fain would write a poem ; Does he write ? he lain would paint a picture,— Put to proof art alien to the artist's. Once, and only once, and for One only. Robert Bkowmng, REVISED AND ENLARGED NEW YORK HENRY HOLT & COMPANY LIBRARY of CUNGRESSj Two Copies Received NOV 21 1908 Copyrignt Entr; itSSW * MA J Copyright, 1880, 1890 BY HENRY HOLT & CO. Copyright, 1908 BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PREFACE. There are wide differences in the fame of the poems here collected, as well as in their merits. Some are familiar to everybody that reads poetry at all; others find reputation and perpetuity only with particular classes. Some are admired only by those who know nothing of real poetry; others almost require poets for appreciative readers. A few, like those of Bishop Berkeley and Michael Barry, have been saved from oblivion by a single happy line or quatrain ; while the richness and perfection of many leave us in wonder that their authors produced no more. If critical judgment in such matters is worth any- thing when opposed to a popular verdict, some of these authors have written, for no reward at all, better poems than those that have given them fame. However that may be, this volume is intended to represent popular rather than critical taste, and to include all the poems in the language that fairly come under its title,— excepting only those numerous anonymous ballads, belonging to the early centuries of our literature, which are preserved in Percy's and other similar collections. It is not expected that any one reader will prize all the pieces here brought together ; if each finds what he looks for, no one need be offended because the book also in- cludes some that he could have spared. Collecting poetry iii IV PREFACE. is like poking the fire ; nobody can sit by and see it done, without thinking that he himself could do it a little bet- ter, — as in truth he could, if it were for him alone. In all such work it is necessary to make a personal equation — a small allowance for quickness or slowness of appre- hension in the individual. Taking this into account, 1 hope the volume will be found to exhibit a generous ap- preciation of widely varied expressions of the poetic art, In a few instances the plan of the collection has been literally, but I think not essentially, transcended. Charles Wolfe wrote two other poems equally famous if not equally popular with "The Burial of Sir John Moore," and Francis M. Finch's " Nathan Hale " had an estab- lished place before he wrote "The Blue and the Gray." The best solution for this apparent difficulty seemed to be to include them all. My thanks are due to living writers represented, for permission to use their poems. The utmost pains have been taken to make the text absolutely correct, and in many instances the author's owm manuscript has been used. Where the poems have any special history, it will be found in the notes at the end of the book. R. J. New York. September 1. 1890. CONTENTS. Afar in the Desert . Angler's WrsH, The Ann Hathaway, Annuity, The Antony and Cleopatra, Auld Robin Gray, . Balaklava, . Ballad of Agixcourt, The Beacon, The Beggar, The . Bells of Shandon, The Bivouac of the Dead, The Blue and the Gray, The Bonnie George Campbell, Braes of Yarrow, The Bride, The Bucket, The . Burial of Beranger, . Burial of Moses, Burial of Sir John Moore. Burns, Ode on the Cente- nary of . Carcassonne, . Carmen Bellicosum, . Chameleon, The Children, The Christmas Hymn, A Churchyard, Lines writ- ten in A Civil War, . PAGE Thomas Pringle . 119 Izaak Walton . 23 William Shakespeare ? . 282 George Outram 142 William H. Lytle 217 Lady Anne Barnard 88 Alexander B. Meek 186 Michael Drayton 10 Paul Moon James 122 Thomas Moss 96 Francis Mahony . 149 TJieodore O'Hara 197 Francis M. Finch 291 Anonymous 36 William Hamilton 52 Sir John Suckling 24 Samuel Woodicorth 115 Alfred Watts . 309 Cecil Frances Alexander 249 Charles Wolfe . 276 Isa Craig Kno.r 229 Gustave Nadaud 313 Guy H. McMaster 220 James Merrick . 65 Charles M. Dickinson . 274 Alfred Domett . 180 Herbert Knowles . 130 Charles D. Shanly f . 262 vi CONTENTS. PAGE Closing Year, The George D. Prentice 135 Cloud, The . John Wilson 114 CONNEL AND FLORA, Alexander Wilson 95 Contented Mind, A Joshua Sylvester 15 Countersign, The . Anonymous . 264 Crossing the Rappahan- nock, .... Anonymous 314 Cuckoo, To the . John Logan . 87 Cuddle Doon, . Alexander Anderson 331 Cumnor Hall, William J. Mickle 72 Curfew Must not Ring To- night, Rosa Hartwick Tltorpe 253 Death- Bed, A James Aldrich 179 Death of King Bomba, The Anonymous 293 Death of Napoleon, The Isaac McLellan . 151 Death's Final Conquest, James Shirley . 24 Doneraile, A Litany for Patrick O'Kelly . 106 Doris, .... Arthur Muriby . 221 Driving Home the Cows. Kate Putnam Osgood . 267 Easter, Seicall S. Cutting 328 Exequy, .... Henry King 19 Exile to his Wife, The Joseph Brenan . 223 First Miracle, The Richard Crashaw . 279 Florence Vane, . Philip P. Cooke. 190 Forging of the Anchor, The Samuel Ferguson 146 Gaffer Gray, . Thomas Holcroft . 85 Geehale, Henry R. Schoolcraft 127 Gluggity Glug, George Colman 158 Golden Wedding, The David Gray 294 Good Ale, John Still 18 Grave of Bonaparte, The H. S. Washburn ? 152 Grongar Hill, John Dyer . 46 Groves of Blarney, The Richard A. Millikin . 92 Happy Land, The . Andrew Young . 157 Health, A Edward C. Pinkney . 138 CONTENTS. vn Helen of Kirkconnel, . Here She Goes— and There She Goes, . Hermit, The Heroes, Hospital, In the . Hundred Years to Come, A Hylas, . • • If I should die To-Night, Indian Gold Coin, To an Irish Emigrant, Lament of the Ivy Green, The I Would not Live Alway, Javanese Poem, A . Jolly Old Pedagogue, The Last Redoubt, The Life, .... Light Light, Lincoln, Abraham . Little Goose, A Love me Little, Love me Long, Lucy's Flittin'. Lye, The Man's Mortality, Mariner's Dream, The Marys Dream, Memory of the Dead, The Milton's Prayer of Pa tience, Mistress of the House, The Mitherless Bairn, The Modest Wit, A Moonlight, PAGE John Mayne ... 93 James Nack . . 158 Thomas Parnell . . 37 Edna Dean Proctor 317 Mary W. Howland . 299 William G. Brown . 203 Anonymous . . 284 Belle E. Smith . . 329 John Leyden . . 100 Lady Dufferin . .155 Charles Dickens . 181 William A. Muhlenberg 128 Eduard Douwes Dekker 279 George Arnold . . 226 Alfred Austin . . 336 Anna L. Barbauld . 83 Francis W. Bourdillon 333 William Pitt Palmer . 177 Tom Taylor ■ . 193 Eliza Sproat Turner . 270 Anonymous . . 16 William Laidlaw . 105 Sir Walter Raleigh . 2 Simon Wastel . . 6 William Dimond . 131 John Lowe ... 89 John Kells Ingram . 195 Elizabeth Lloyd Howell . 252 Leslie Walter . . 297 William Thorn . .117 Selleck Osborn . Ill Robert Kelley Weeks . 318 Vlll CONTENTS. Mortality, My Ain Cotjntree, My Dear and Only Love My Maryland, My Mind to me a Kingdom is, . Nathan Hale, Nautilus and the Ammo- nite, The . Nearer, my God, to Thee, Night, .... Nothing to Wear, Ocean, The Old Canoe, The . Old Grimes, Old Sergeant, The Old Sexton, The may I join the Choir, Only a Bary Small, Only Waiting, Orphan Boy, The . Over the River, Parting with his Books, On . Passage, The . Pauper's Drive, The . Petrified Fern, The Philosopher's Scales, The Picket Guard, The Place where Man should Die, The . Polish Boy, The . Popping Corn, Private of the Buffs, The Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in Amer- ica, On the PAGE William Knox . . 122 Mary Lee Demarest . 301 Marquis of Montrose . 27 James R. Randall . 259 William Byrd . . 1 Francis M. Finch . 289 G. F. Richardson . . 218 Sarah Flower Adams 199 Joseph Blanco White . 99 William Allen Butler 207 John Augustus Shea . 307 Emily R. Page . . 247 Albert G. Greene . .133 Forceythe Willson . 234 Park Benjamin . . 175 George Eliot . . 330 Matthias Barr . . 226 Frances Laughton Mace 248 Amelia Opie . . 97 Nancy Priest Wakefield 232 William Roscoe . 284 Ludwig Uhland . . 282 Thomas Noel . . 189 Mary L. Bolles Branch 302 Jane Taylor . . 109 Ethel Lynn Beers . 263 Michael J. Barry . 202 Ann S. Stephens . .182 Anonymous . . 268 Sir Francis H. Doyle . 176 George Berkeley 44 CONTENTS. IX Rain on the Roof, Reign of Law, Revelry in India, Riddle, A Rising of the Moon, The Rock me to Sleep, Roll-Call, Sailor's Wife, The Saint Patrick, Sally in our Alley, School-Mistress, The She Died in Beauty, Sherman's March to Sea, Sidney, Lament for Sir Philip Skeleton, Lines on a Soldier, The Soliloquy, A Song,— Go, forget me, Song,— If I had thought, Song,— Love Still has, Song of Rorek, Song of the Western Men, Soul's Defiance, The Spinning-wheel Song, Splendid Shilling, The Stanzas, .... Star-Spangled Banner, Tids Steam, The Song of Swallow, To a . Tacking Ship off Shore, Take thy Old Cloak About Thee, Tale of a Tub, The New Tears of Scotland, The The Dule 's 'i this Bonnet o' Mine, . . PAGE Coates Kinney . . 244 Francis T. Palgrave 324 Bartholomew Bowling . 256 Catherine Fanshawe . 109 John K. Casey . . 258 Elizabeth Akers Allen 224 Nathaniel G. Shepherd 316 Jean Adam ... 76 Henry Bennett . . 113 Henry Carey . . 44 William Shenstone . 56 Charles Doyne Sillery . 163 Samuel H. M. Byers . 265 Mathew Roydon . 5 Anonymous 201 William Smyth 95 Walter Harte . 51 Charles Wolfe 278 Charles Wolfe . 277 Sir Charles Sedley 26 John W. Weidemeyer 319 Robert S. Hawker 310 Lavinia Stoddard 116 John F. Waller 308 John Philips 32 Richard Henry Wilde 118 Francis Scott Key 103 George W. Cutter . 204 Jane Welsh Carlyle . 311 Walter Mitchell . 295 Anonymous 13 F. W. N. Bayley . 164 Tobias Smollett 69 Edwin Waugh 191 CONTENTS. The Teaks I Shed, . Three Sons, The Three Warnings, The Time and Eternity, . Tired Mothers, Too Late, Toper's Apology, The Tuloom, Twins, The Two Worlds, The PAGE Helen Cranstoun Stewart 99 John Moultrie . . 139 Hester Thrale . . 80 Horatius Bonar . 300 May Riley Smith . 272 Fitz Hugh Ludlow . 239 Charles Morris . . 78 Erastus W. Ellsworth 303 Henry S. Leigh . . 269 Mortimer Collins . 243 Vanitas Vanitatum, Verses, Vicar of Bray, The Visit from St. Nicholas. Gerald Griffin . . 286 Ched iock Ticheborne . 9 Anonymous . . 71 Clement C. Moore . 102 Waly, Waly, but Love be Bonny, We'll Go to Sea no More, We Parted in Silence, What Constitutes a State, What does it Matter ? What is Time ? What my Lover Said, What the End shall be, When Shall we Three Meet Again ? . Whistler, The Why thus Longing? Widow M alone, . Willie Winkie, Willy Drowned in Yarrow, Wonderland, . Ye Gentlemen of England Yukon Cradle-Song, A . Notes, Index of First Lines, Anonymous Miss Corbett Julia Crawford Sir William Jones Noah Barker William Marsden Homer Greene Frances Browne Anonymous Robert Story Harriet Winslow Sewall Charles Lever . William Miller Anonymous Cradock Newton . Martyn Parker William H. Ball 68 125 285 86 335 90 333 240 84 124 206 153 246 8 288 26 359 FAMOUS SINGLE AND FUGITIVE POEMS. M$ Mittti to me a itfngfcom (a. My mind to me a kingdom is, Such perfect joy therein I find As far exceeds all earthly bliss That God or nature hath assigned ; Though much I want that most would have r Yet still my mind forbids to crave. Content I 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 I thus I triumph like a king, Content with what my mind doth bring. I see how plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall ; I see that such as sit aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all : These get with toil and keep with fear ; Such cares my mind could never bear. SINGLE FAMOUS rOEMS. Some have too much, yet still they crave ; I little have, yet 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 lend ; they pine, I live. I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain : No worldly wave my mind can toss, I brook that is another's bane : I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend ; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. I wish but what I have at will, I wander not to seek for more, I like the plain, I climb no hill, In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain, To get what must be lost again. My wealth is health and perfect ease, My conscience clear my chief defense ; I never seek by bribes to please, Nor by desert to give offense ; Thus do I live, thus will I die, Would all did so as well as L William Btrd. Goe, soule, the bodie's guest, Upon a thanklesse arrant; Feare not to touche the best — The truth shall be thy warrant ! G-oe, since I needs must dye, And give the world the lye. THE LYE. Goe tell the court it glowes And shines like rotten wood ; Goe tell the church it showes What 's good, and doth* no good ; If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye. Tell potentates they live Acting by others' actions — Not loved unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions ; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye. Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate ; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye. Tell them that brave it most They beg for more by spending, Who in. their greatest cost Seek nothing but commending ; And if they make reply, Spare not to give the lye. Tell zeale it lacks devotion ; Tell love it is but lust ; Tell time it is but motion ; Tell flesh it is but dust ; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lye. Tell age it daily wasteth ; Tell honour how it alters ; SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Tell beauty how she blasteth ; Tell favour how she falters : And as they then reply, G-ive each of them the lye. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of nicenesse ; Tell wisdome she entangles Herself e in over-wisenesse ; And if they do reply, Straight give them both the lye. Tell physicke of her boldnesse ; Tell skill it is pretension ; Tell charity of coldnesse ; Tell law it is contention ; And as they yield reply, So give them still the lye. Tell fortune of her blindnesse ; Tell nature of decay ; Tell friendship of unkindnesse ; Tell justice of delay ; And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lye. Tell arts they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming ; Tell schooles they want profoundness©, And stand too much on seeming ; If arts and schooles reply, Give arts and schooles the lye. Tell faith it 's fled the citie; Tell how the country erreth; Tell, manhood shakes off pitie; Tell, vertue least preferreth ; LAMENT FOR SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lye. So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing — Although to give the lye Deserves no less than stabbing — Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soule can kill Sir Walter Raleigh. Eament for j&ir Wlip S ton eg. You knew — who knew not Astrophel ? That I should live to say I knew, And have not in possession still ! — Things known permit me to renew. Of him you know his merit such I cannot say — you hear — too much. Within these woods of Arcady He chief delight and pleasure took ; And on the mountain Partheny, Upon the crystal liquid brook, The muses met him every day, — Taught him to sing, and write, and say. When he descended down the mount His personage seemed most divine ; A thousand graces one might count Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne. To hear him speak, and see him smile, You were in Paradise the while. A sweet, attractive kind of grace ; A full assurance given by looks ; SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Continual comfort in a face ; The lineaments of gospel books : I trow that countenance cannot lie Whose thoughts are legible in the eye. Above all others this is he Who erst approved in his song That love and honor might agree, And that pure love will do no wrong. Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame To love a man of virtuous name. Did never love so sweetly breathe In any mortal breast before ; Did never muse inspire beneath A poet's brain with finer store. He wrote of love with high conceit, And beauty reared above her height. Mathew Roydon. jman'a jfflottalitg. Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossoms on the tree, Or like the dainty flower of May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had ; Even such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes, and man — he dies ! Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, Or like a tale that 's new begun, MAN'S MORTALITY. Or like a bird that 's here to-day. Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan ; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, The hour is short, the span not long, The swan near death,— man's life is done I Like to a bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of a stream ; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot, The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot, The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides,— man's life is done I Like to a blaze of fond delight, Or like a morning clear and bright, Or like a frost, or like a shower, Or like the pride of Babel's tower, Or like the hour that guides the time, Or like to Beauty in her prime ; Even such is man, whose glory lends That life a blaze or two, and ends. The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain, The frost is thawed, dried up the rain, The tower falls, the hour is run, The beauty lost,— man's life is done ! SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Like to an arrow from the bow, Or like swift course of water-flow, Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb, Or like the spider's tender web, Or like a race, or like a goal, Or like the dealing of a dole ; Even such is man, whose brittle state Is always subject unto Fate. The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, The time 's no time, the web soon rent, The race soon run, the goal soon won, The dole soon dealt, — man's life is done 1 Like to the lightning from the sky, Or like a post that quick doth hie, Or like a quaver in a short song, Or like a journey three days long, Or like the snow when summer's come, Or like the pear, or like the plum ; Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. The lightning 's past, the post must go, The song is short, the journey 's so, The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, The snow dissolves, — and so must all 1 Simon Wastel. TOillg Breton** m ¥anoto« " Willy 's rare, and Willy 's fair, And Willy 's wondrous bonny ; And Willy heght to marry me, Gin e'er he married ony. "Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid, This night I '11 make it narrow ; For a' the livelang winter night I ly twined of my marrow. VERSES. " Oh came you by yon water-side ? Pou'd you the rose or lily ? Or came you by yon meadow green ? Or saw you my sweet Willy ? " She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow ; Syne in the cleaving of a craig, She found him drowned in Yarrow. Anonymous. WRITTEN IN THE TOWER, THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION Mr prime of youth is but a frost of cares, " My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, My crop of corn is but a field of tares, And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain. The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun ; And now I live, and now my life is done ! My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green, My youth is past, and yet I am but young, I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun ; And now I live, and now my life is done ! I sought for death and found it in the wombe, I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe, And now I die, and now I am but made. The glass is full, and yet my glass is run ; And now I live, and now my life is done ! Chediock Tichebornk. 1* 10 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. &i)e $3allati of Egmcourt. Fair stood the wind for France. When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry ; But putting to the main, At Kaux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marched toward 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 To the king sending ; Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then ; Though they be one to ten. Be not amazed ; Yet have we well begun — Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. THE BALLAD OF AOINCOURT. j 1 And for myself, quoth he, This my full rest shall be ; England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain : Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell ; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led ; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen. Excester had the rear — A braver man not there : 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 I SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Which did the signal aim To our hid forces ; When, from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French hor&es, With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the wether: None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw And forth their bilbows drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy : Arms were from shoulders sent ; Scalps to the teeth were rent ; Down the French peasants went; Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broadsword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it ; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet Glo'ster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother— TAKE THY OLD (JLOAKE ABOUT THEE. 13 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 St. Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry ; Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry ? Michael Drayton. Cafce tljj) <©lfc OHoa&e afiout tfjee. This winter weather, it waxeth cold, And frost doth freese on every hill; And Boreas blows his blastes so cold That all our cattell are like to spill. Bell, my wife, who loves no strife, Shee sayd unto me quietlye, " Rise up, and save cowe Crumbocke's life — Man, put thy old cloake about thee." " Bell, why dost thou fly te and scorne ? Thou kenst my cloake is very thin ■ 2 U SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. It is so bare and overworne A cricke he thereon can not renn. Then He no longer borrowe or lend — For once He new apparelled be ; To-morrow He to town, and spend, For He have a new cloake about me." " Cow Crumbocke is a very good cow — She has been alwayes true to the payle ; She has helped us to butter and cheese, I trow, And other things she will not fayle ; I wold be loth to see her pine ; — Good husbande, counsel take of me — It is not for us to go so fine ; Man, take thy old cloake about thee." "My cloake, it was a very good cloake — It hath been alwayes true to the weare ; But now it is not worth a groat, I have had it four-and-forty year. Sometime it was of cloth in graine ; 'T is now but a sigh clout as you may see; It will neither hold nor winde nor raine — And He have a new cloake about me." " It is four-and-forty yeares ago Since the one of us the other did ken ; And we have had betwixt us towe Of children either nine or ten. We have brought them up to women and men- In the fere of God I trowe they be ; And why wilt thou thyself misken — Man, take thy old cloake about thee." u Bell, my wife, why dost thou floute? Now is now, and then was then ; A CONTENTED MIND. 15 Seeke now all the world throughout, Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen ; They are clad in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray, So far above their own degree — Once in my life He do as they, For He have a new cloake about me." " King Stephen was a worthy peere — His breeches cost him but a crowne ; lie held them sixpence all too deere, Therefore he called the tailor lowne. He was a wight of high renowne, And thou'se but of a low degree — It 's pride that puts this countrye downe ; Man, take thy old cloake about thee." Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, Yet she will lead me if she can • And oft to live a quiet life I 'm forced to yield though I be good-man. It 's not for a man with a woman to threepe, Unless he first give o'er the plea ; As we began sae will we leave, And He take my old cloake about me. ANONYMOUa & OTontentetr Miriti. I weigh not fortune's frown or smile ; I joy not much in earthly joys ; I seek not state, I seek not style ; I am not fond of fancy's toys. I rest so pleased with what I have, I wish no more, no more I crave. I quake not at the thunder's crack ; I tremble not at noise of war ; 16 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. I swound not at the news of wrack, I shrink not at a blazing star ; I fear not loss, I hope not gam ; I envy none, I none disdain. I see ambition never pleased ; I see some Tantals starved in store ; I see gold's dropsy seldom eased ; I see even Midas gape for more ; I neither want, nor yet abound — Enough 's a feast, content is crowned. I feign not friendship where I hate ; I fawn not on the great (in show) ; I prize, I praise a mean estate, Neither too lofty nor too low : This, this is all my choice, my cheer — A mind content, a conscience clear. Joshua Sylvester. ILobe me ILittle, ILobe me Hong. Love me little, love me long ! Is the burden of my song : Love that is too hot and strong Burnetii soon to waste. Still I would not have thee cold — Not too backward, nor too bold; Love that lasteth till 't is old Fadeth not in haste. Love me little, love me long 1 Is the burden of my song. If thou lovest me too much, 'T will not prove as true a touch; Love me little more than such, — For I fear the end. LOVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 1«7 I 'm with little well content, And a little from thee sent Is enough, with true intent To be steadfast, friend. Say thou lovest me, while thou live I to thee my love will give, Never dreaming to deceive While that lif e endures ; Nay, and after death, in sooth, I to thee will keep my truth, As now when in my May of youth : This my love assures. Constant love is moderate ever, And it will through life persever ; Give me that with true endeavor, — I will it restore. A suit of durance let it be, For all weathers, — that for me, — For the land or for the sea : Lasting evermore. Winter's cold or summer's heat, Autumn's tempests on it beat; It can never know defeat, Never can rebel ; Such the love that I would gain, Such the love, I tell thee plain, Thou must give, or woo in vain : So to thee — farewell 1 Anonymous. 1 8 SIKGLE FAMO US POEMS. <&oo*r me. I can not eat but little meat— My stomach is not good; But sure, I think that I can drink With him that wears a hood. Though I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a-cold— I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old! I love no roast but a nut-brown toast And a crab laid in the fire ; A little bread shall do me stead- Much bread I not desire. No frost or snow, nor wind, I trow Can hurt me if I wold— I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt Of jolly good ale and old. Bach and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old! And Tyb, my wife, that as her life Loveth well good ale to seek Full oft drinks she, till you may see The tears run down her cheek ■ Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, Even as a malt-worm should • And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part Of this jolly good ale and old." EXEQUY. 19 Bach and side go bare, go bare ; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old ! Now let them drink till they nod and wink, Even as good fellows should do ; They shall not miss to have the bliss Good ale doth bring men to ; And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, Or have them lustily trowled, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be young or old ! Back and side go bare, go bare ; Both foot and hand go cold ; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old I John Still. IEiequ;D. Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, Instead of dirges, this complaint ; And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse Receive a strew of weeping verse From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st Quite melted into tears for thee. Dear loss ! since thy untimely fate, My task hath been to meditate On thee, on thee ; thou art the book, The library whereon I look, Though almost blind ; for thee (loved clay) I languish out, not live, the day, Using no other exercise But what I practice with mine eyes, 2 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS By which wet glasses I find out How lazily Time creeps about To one that mourns ; this, only this, My exercise and business is : So I compute the weary hours With sighs dissolved into showers. Nor wonder if my time go thus Backward and most preposterous ; Thou hast benighted me ; thy set This eve of blackness did beget, Who wast my day (though overcast Before thou hadst thy noontide passed), And I remember must in tears Thou scarce hadst seen so many years As day tells hours : by thy clear sun My love and fortune first did run : But thou wilt never more appear Folded within my hemisphere, Since both thy light and motion Like a fled star is fallen and gone, And 'twixt me and my soul's dear wish The earth now interposed is, Which such a strange eclipse doth mako As ne'er was read in almanac. I could allow thee for a time To darken me and my sad clime : Were it a month, or year, or ten, I would thy exile live till then. And all that space my mirth adjourn, So thou wouldst promise to return, And, putting off thy ashy shroud, At length disperse this sable cloud ! But woe is me ! the longest date Too narrow is to calculate EXEQUT. 21 Those empty hopes : never shall I Be so much blessed as to descry A glimpse of thee, till that day come Which shall the earth to cinders doom, And a fierce fever must calcine The body of this world like thine, (My little world !) that fit of fire Once off, our bodies shall aspire To our souls' bliss : then we shall rise, And view ourselves with clearer eyes In that calm region where no night Can hide us from each other's sight. Meantime thou hast her, Earth : much good May my harm do thee 1 Since it stood With Heaven's will I might not call Her longer mine, I give thee all My short-lived right and interest In her whom living I loved best; With a most free and bounteous grief I give thee what I could not keep. Be kind to her, and, prithee, look Thou write into thy doomsday book Each parcel of this Rarity Which in thy casket shrined doth lie. See that thou make thy reckoning straight, And yield her back again by weight : For thou must audit on thy trust Each grain and atom of this trust, As thou wilt answer Him that lent, Not gave thee, my dear monument. So, close the ground, and 'bout her shade Black curtains draw : my bride is laid. Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed Never to be disquieted I 2* 2 2 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. My last good-night ! Thou wilt not wake Till I thy fate shall overtake : Till age or grief or sickness must Marry my body to that dust It so much loves, and fill the room My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. Stay for me there : I will not fail To meet thee in that hollow vale. And think not much of my delay ; I am already on the way, And follow thee with all the speed Desire can make, or sorrows breed. Each minute is a short degree, And every hour a step toward thee. At night when I betake to rest, Next morn I rise nearer my west Of life, almost by eight hours' sail, Than when Sleep breathed his drowsy gale. Thus from the sun my bottom steers, And my day's compass downward bears ; Nor labor I to stem the tide Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 'T is true, with shame and grief I yield ; Thou, like the van, first took'st the field, And gotten hast the victory, In thus adventuring to die Before me, whose more years might crave A just precedence in the grave. But hark ! my pulse, like a soft drum, Beats my approach, tells thee I come ; And slow howe'er my marches be, I shall at last sit down by thee. The thought of this bids me go on, And wait my dissolution With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive The crime) I am content to live, THE ANGLER'S WISH. 23 Divided, with but half a heart, Till we shall meet and never part. Henry King. Cije angler'8 &2atef). I in these flowery meads would be, These crystal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise T, with my angle, would rejoice, Sit here, and see the turtle-dove Court his chaste mate to acts of love ; Or, on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty ; please my mind, To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then washed off by April showers ; Here, hear my kenna sing a song : There, see a blackbird feed her young, Or a laverock build her nest; Here, give my weary spirits rest, And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love. Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice ; Or, with my Bryan and a book, Loiter long days near Shawf ord brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat; There see the sun both rise and set ; There bid good-morning to next day ; There meditate my time away ; And angle on ; and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. Izaak Walton. 24 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Heaths dFtnal atomum. The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial tilings ; There is no armor against fate — Death lays his icy hands on kings ; Sceptre and crown Must tumble down And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield — They tame but one another still ; Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow — Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar, now, See where the victor victim bleeds I All heads must come To the cold tomb — Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. James Shirley. FROM A BALLAD UPON A WEDDING. The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, For such a maid no Whitsun-ale Could ever yet produce : THE BR1DK 25 No grape that 'a kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice. Her finger was so small, the ring Would not stay on which they did bring— It was too wide a peck ; And, to say truth— for out it must- It looked like the great collar— just- About our young colt's neck. Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice, stole in and out, As if they feared the light; But 0, she dances such a way ! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. Her cheeks so rare a white was on, No daisy makes comparison ; Who sees them is undone ; For streaks of red were mingled there, Such as are on a Cath'rine pear, The side that 's next the sun. Her lips were red ; and one was thin, Compared to that was next her chin. Some bee had stung it newly ; But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face, I durst no more upon them gaze, Than on the sun in July. Her mouth so small, when she does speak, Thou 'dst swear her teeth her words did break, That they might passage get; But she so handled still the matter, They came as good as ours, or better, And are not spent a whit. Sir John Suckling. 20 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. ge (Gentlemen of <£itglanfc. Ye gentlemen of England That live at home at ease, Ah ! little do you think upon The dangers of the seas. Give ear unto the mariners, And they will plainly show All the cares and the fears When the stormy winds do blow. If enemies oppose us When England is at war With any foreign nation, We fear not wound or scar ; Our roaring guns shall teach 'em Our valor for to know, Whilst they reel on the keel, And the stormy winds do blow. Then courage, all brave mariners, And never be dismay'd ; While we have bold adventurers, We ne'er shall want a trade : Our merchants will employ us To fetch them wealth, we know ; Then be bold — work for gold, When the stormy winds do blow. Martyn Parker. Sang. Love still has something of the sea, From whence his mother rose ; No time his slaves from doubt can free, Nor give their thoughts repose. MY DEAR AND ONLY LOVE. 27 They are becalmed in clearest days, And in rough weather tossed ; They wither under cold delays, Or are in tempests lost. One while they seem to touch the port> Then straight into the main Some angry wind, in cruel sport. The vessel drives again. At first disdain and pride they fear, Which if they chance to 'scape, Rivals and falsehood soon appear, In a more cruel shape. By such degrees to joy they come, And are so long withstood ; So slowly they receive the sun, It hardly does them good. 'T is cruel to prolong a pain ; And to defer a joy, Believe me, gentle Celemene, Offends the winged boy. An hundred thousand oaths your fears, Perhaps, would not remove ; And if I gazed a thousand years, I could not deeper love. Sir Charles Sedley. M$ Btat anto The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. 116 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well ! Samuel Wood worth. Cf)e Sours ©euance. I said to sorrow's awful storm, That beat against my breast, Rage on I — thou may'st destroy this form, And lay it low at rest ; But still the spirit that now brooks Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks, With steadfast eye. I said to penury's meagre train, Come on ! your threats I brave ; My last poor life-drop you may drain, And crush me to the grave ; Yet still the spirit that endures Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yourti With bitter smile. I said to cold neglect and scorn, Pass on ! I heed you not ; Ye may pursue me till my form And being are forgot ; Yet still the spirit which you see Undaunted by your wiles, Draws from its own nobility Its high-born smiles. THE MITHERLESS BAIRN. 117 I said to friendship's menaced blow, Strike deep ! my heart shall bear ; Thou canst but add one bitter woe To those already there ; Yet still the spirit that sustains This last severe distress, Shall smile upon its keenest pains, And scorn redress. I said to death's uplifted dart, Aim sure ! oh, why delay ? Thou wilt not find a fearful heart — A weak, reluctant prey ; For still the spirit, firm and free, Unruffled by this last dismay, Wrapt in its own eternity, Shall pass away. Lavinia Stoddard. When a' ither bairnies are hushed to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless bairn. The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, And litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair ; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn. Yon sister that seng o'er his saf tly rocked bed Now rests in the mools where her mami de is laid , 10* 1 1 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth ; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn. 0, speak him na harshly, — he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless shall learn. That G-od deals the blow for the mitherless bairn. William Thom. Stanzas. My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But, ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground — to die ! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see, — But none shall weep a tear for me ! My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray ; Its hold is frail — its date is brief, Restless — and soon to pass away ! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, — But none shall breathe a sigh for me I My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand ; AFAR IN THE DESERT. 119 Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea,— But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! Richard Henry Wilde. &fat m tje IBesert. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years ; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead : Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon ; Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon ; Attachments by fate or falsehood reft ; Companions of early days lost or left — And my native land — whose magical name Thrills to the heart like electric flame ; The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time When the feelings were young, and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; All — all now forsaken — forgotten — foregone ! And I — a lone exile remembered of none — My high aims abandoned, — my good acts undone — Aweary of all that is under the sun — With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side. When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife — 120 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy ; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh, — 0, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride ! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death-fraught firelock in my hand, — The only law of the Desert Land ! Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, Away, away from the dwellings of men, By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen ; By valleys remote where the oribi plays, Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, And the kudu and eland unhunted recline By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine ; Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively ; And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray ; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane, With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain ; And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, Hieing away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, AFAR IN THE DESERT. 121 Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, Away, away, in the wilderness vast Where the white man's foot hath never passed, And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan, — A region of emptiness, howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear ; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the yawning stone ; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot ; And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink ; A region of drought, where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, Appears, to refresh the aching eye ; But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon, round and round, Spread, — void of living sight or sound. And here, while the night- winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, As I sit apart by the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, " A still small voice " comes through the wild (Like a father consoling his fretful child), Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, Saying, — Man is distant, but God is near ! Thomas Pringle. 11 122 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. &i)c ISeacon. The scene was more beautiful far to the eye, Than if day in its pride had arrayed it: The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky Looked pure as the spirit that made it : The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed On the shadowy waves' playful motion, From the dim distant hill, till the light-house fire blazed Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, All hushed was the billows' commotion, And o'er them the light-house looked lovely as hope, — That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar, Yet when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star That blazed on the breast of the billow : In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion ; 0, then may the seraph of mercy arise, Like a star on eternity's ocean ! Paul Moon Jamesl Jfflortaittp. O why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He passes from life to his rest in the grave. MORTALITY. 123 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid ; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall he. The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection that proved, The husband that mother and infant that blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure,— her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those that beloved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed That wither away to let others succeed ; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, Tc repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we are the same that our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,— We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun. And we run the same course that our fathers have run. 1 2 4 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink ; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling ; But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come ; They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. They died, ay ! they died ! and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'T is the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Wjlliam Knox. Cfje &2Rf)tetler. "You have heard," said a youth to his sweetheart, whc stood While he sat on a corn-sheaf, a?t daylight's decline, — " You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood : I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine." 1 And what would you do with it? Tell me," she said, While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. WE'LL GO TO SEA NO MORE. 125 " I would blow it," he answered, " and then my fair maid^ Would fly to my side and would there take her place." " Is that all you wish for ? Why, that may be yours Without any magic ! " the fair maiden cried : " A favor so slight one's good-nature secures; " And she playfully seated herself by his side. « I would blow it again," said the youth ; " and the charm Would work so that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your white arm." She smiled and she laid her white arm round his neck. « Yet once more I would blow ; and the music divine Would bring me a third time an exquisite bliss — You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine And your lips stealing past it would give me a kiss." The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee,— « What a fool of yourself with the whistle you 'd make ! For only consider how silly 't would be To sit there and whistle for what you might take." Robert Story. WAz 'U <&o to Sea no Jtf ore- O, blithely shines the bonny sun Upon the Isle of May, And blithely comes the morning tide Into St. Andrew's Bay. Then up, gudeman, the breeze is fair, And up, my braw bairns three ; There 's goud in yonder bonny boat That sails sae weel the sea ! When haddocks leave the Firth o' Forth, An' mussels leave the shore, 126 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. When oysters climb up Berwick Law, We '11 go to sea no more, — ISTo more, We '11 go to sea no more. I 've seen the waves as blue as air, I Ve seen them green as grass; But I never feared their heaving yet, From Grangemouth to the Bass. I 've seen the sea as black as pitch, I 've seen it white as snow ; But I never feared its foaming yet, Though the winds blew high or low. When squalls capsize our wooden walls, When the French ride at the Nore, When Leith meets Aberdour half way, We '11 go to sea no more, — No more, We '11 go to sea no more. I never liked the landsman's life, The earth is aye the same ; G-ie me the ocean for my dower My vessel for my hame. Gie me the fields that no man plows, The farm that pays no fee ; Gie me the bonny fish that glance So gladly through the sea. When sails hang flapping on the masts While through the waves we snore, When in a calm we 're tempest-tossed, We '11 go to sea no more, — No more, We '11 go to sea no more. The sun is up, and round Inchkeith The breezes softly blaw ; OEEEALK 127 The gudeman has the lines on board, — Awa, my bairns, awa ! An' ye be back by gloamin' gray, An' bright the fire will low, An' in your tales and sangs we '11 tell How weel the boat ye row. When life's last sun gaes feebly down, An' death comes to our door, When a' the world 's a dream to us, We '11 go to sea no more, — No more, We '11 go to sea no more. Miss Corbett. The blackbird is singing on Michigan's shore, As sweetly and gayly as ever before ; For he knows to his mate he at pleasure can hie, And the dear little brood she is teaching to fly. The sun looks as ruddy, and rises as bright, And reflects o'er the mountains as beamy a light As it ever reflected, or ever expressed, When my skies were the bluest, my dreams were the best The fox and the panther, both beasts of the night, Retire to their dens on the gleaming of light, And they spring with a free and a sorrowless track, For they know that their mates are expecting them back Each bird and each beast, it is blessed in degree ; All nature is cheerful, all happy, but me. I will go to my tent, and lie down in despair ; I will paint me with black, and will sever my hair ; I will sit on the shore where the hurricane blows, And reveal to the god of the tempest my woes ; I will weep for a season, on bitterness fed, For my kin dred are gone to the hills of the dead ; 1 2 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. But they died not b\ hunger, or lingering decay — The steel of the white man hath swept them away. This snake-skin, that once I so sacredly wore, I will toss with disdain to the storm-beaten shore ; Its charms I no longer obey or invoke, Its spirit hath left me, its spell is now broke. I will raise up my voice to the source of the light ; I will dream on the wings of the blue-bird at night ; I will speak to the spirits that whisper in leaves, And that minister balm to the bosom that grieves; And will take a new Manito, such as shall seem To be kind and propitious in every dream. 0, then I shall banish these cankering sighs, And tears shall no longer gush salt from my eyes ; I shall wash from my face every cloud-colored stain ; Red, red shall alone on my visage remain ! I will dig up my hatchet, and bend my oak bow ; By night and by day I will follow the foe j Nor lakes shall impede me, nor mountains, nor snows ; His blood can alone give my spirit repose. They came to my cabin when heaven was black ; I heard not their coming, I knew not their track ; But I saw, by the light of their blazing fusees, They were people engendered beyond the big seas. My wife and my children — 0, spare me the tale ! For who is there left that is kin to Geehale ? Henry Rowe Schoolcraft $ Mioul* not ILibe Hltoat). I would not live alway : I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAT. 129 Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin, Temptation without, and corruption within; In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, Scarce the victory 's mine ere I 'm captive again. E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears. The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. I would not live alway : no, welcome the tomb ; Immortality's lamp burns there bright 'mid the gloom. There too is the pillow where Christ bowed his head— 0, soft be my slumbers on that holy bed ! And then the glad morn soon to follow that night, When the sunrise of glory shall burst on my sight, And the full matin-song, as the sleepers arise To shout in the morning, shall peal through the skies. Who, who would live alway, away from his Grod, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, Where rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ; Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? That neavenly music ! what is it I hear ? The notes of the harpers ring sweet on my ear. And see soft unfolding those portals of gold, The King all arrayed in his beauty behold I 11* 1 30 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. give me, give me the wings of a dove ! Let me hasten my flight to those mansions above. Ay, 't is now that my soul on swift pinions would soar, And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. William Augustus Muhlenberg. Hint* W&xitttn in a (ftftutcj^gattu "It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles ; one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias." Methinks it is good to be here ; If thou wilt, let us build — but for whom ? Nor Elias nor Moses appear ; But the shadows of eve that encompass with gloom The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. Shall we build to Ambition ? Ah no 1 Affrighted he shrinketh away ; For see, they would pen him below In a small narrow cave and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. To Beauty ? Ah no ! she forgets The charms which she wielded before ; Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. Shall we build to the purple of pride ? To the trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas I they are all laid aside, And here 's neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet, and the fringe of the sliroud To Riches ? Alas, 't is in vain 1 Who hid, in their turns have been hid : The treasures are squandered again ; TEE MARINER'S DREAM. 131 And here in the grave are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin-lid. To the pleasures which Mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! Bit the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveler here. Shall we build to Affection and Love ? Ah no ! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above. Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. Unto Sorrow ? — the dead cannot grieve ; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah, sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear; Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here. Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow ? Ah no ! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow ! Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone, Ars the signs of a sceptre that none may disown. The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise ; The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled ; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skiest Herbert Knowles. Ct)e J^larmec'si Bream. In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay ; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 1 3 2 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; While memory stood sideways half covered with flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; All trembling with transport he raises the latch, And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; Joy quickens his pulses, — his hardships seem o'er ; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, — " God ! thou hast blest me, — I ask for no more." Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear ? 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky I 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere' He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck ; Amazement confronts him with images dire ; Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a-wreck; The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire. OLD GRIMES. 133 Like mountains the billows tremendously swell; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death- angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave I sailor-boy, woe to thy dream of delight! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss. Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, — Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or fame from the merciless surge, But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge ! On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid, — Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And every part suit to thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye, — sailor-boy I sailor-boy I peace to thy soul ! William Dimond. <©tti ©rimes. Old Grimes is dead ; that good old man We never shall see more ; He used to wear a long, black coat, All buttoned down before. 12 134 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true ; His hair was some inclined to gray, He wore it in a queue. Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned ; The large, round head upon his cane From ivory was turned. Kind words he ever had for all, He knew no base design ; His eyes were dark and rather small, His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind, In friendship he was true ; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er, And never wore a pair of boots For thirty years or more. But good old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown; He wore a double-breasted vest — The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find, And pay it its desert ; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbors he did not abuse, Was sociable and gay ; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. TEE CLOSING YEAR. 135 His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods lie never threw Ir. trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran ; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. Albert Gordon Greene. €f)e Closing ¥ear, 'T is midnight's holy hour, — and silence now Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark ! on the winds The bell's deep tones are swelling, — 't is the knell Of the departed year. No funeral train Is sweeping past ; yet, on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moon-beams rest Like a pale, spotless shroud ; the air is stirred As by a mourner's sigh ; and on yon cloud That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand, — Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with its aged locks, — and breathe, In mournful cadences that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year, Gone from the Earth forever. 'T is a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, 136 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Still chambers of the heart, a spectre dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away, And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That spectre lifts The coffin-lid of Hope, and Joy, and Love, And, bending mournfully above the pale, Sweet forms, that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness. The year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its sceptre o'er the beautiful, — And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, — and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous, — and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword, and spear, and shield, Flashed in the light of midday, — and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came, And faded like a wreath of mist at eve ; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams. Remorseless Time ! Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe ! — what power THE CLOSING YEAR. 13 f Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity ? On, still on, He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane, And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain crag, — but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinions. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow, — cities rise and sink Like bubbles on the water, — fiery isles Spring blazing from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns, — mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain, — new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations, — and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter a while in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away To darkle in the trackless void. Yet, Time, Time, the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought. George Denison Prentice 138 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'T is less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, The measures of her hours; Her feelings have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, — The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. THE THREE SONS. 139 I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon, — Her health I and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name. Edward Coate Pinkney. Cje Cf)tee Sons. I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his child- ish years. I cannot say how this may be ; I know his face is fair — And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: I know his heart is fond and kind ; I know he loveth me : But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills Ins mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed 1 40 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee; she Uacheth him tc pray; And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. 0, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be; And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee ; I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been; But his little heart 's a fountain pure of kind and tender feel- ing; And his every look 's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout for joy and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love; THE THREE SONS. 141 And if. beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him ! I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I cannot tell, For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given ; And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy forever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's di- vinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I) Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever ; 142 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours forever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be — When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery — When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain — 01 we 'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. John Moultrie. I oaed to spend a week in Fife — An unco week it proved to be — For there I met a waesome wife Lamentin' her viduity. Her grief brak out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell ; And, — I was sae left to mysel, — I sell't her an annuity. The bargain lookit fair eneugh — She just was turned o' saxty-three — I couldna guessed she'd prove sae teugh, By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years have gane, And there she 's yet as stieve as stane — The limmer 's growin' young again, Since she got her annuity. She 's crined' awa' to bane and skin, But that, it seems, is nought to me ; She 's like to live — although she 's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen'd gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums ; THE ANNUITY. 143 But comes, as sure as Christmas comes, To ca' for her annuity. I read the tables drawn wi' care For an insurance company ; Her chance o' life was stated there, Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here or tables there, She 's lived ten years beyond her share, An' 's like to live a dozen mair, To ca' for her annuity. Last Yule she had a fearfu' host, I thought a kink might set me free — I led her out, 'mang snaw and frost, Wi' constant assiduity. But deil ma' care — the blast gaed by, And miss'd the auld anatomy — It just cost me a tooth, for bye Discharging her annuity. If there 's a sough 0' cholera, Or typhus, — wha sae gleg as she ? She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity ! She doesna need — she 's fever proof — The pest walked o'er her very roof — She tauld me sae — an' then her loof Held out for her annuity. Ae day she fell, her arm she brak — A compound fracture as could be — Nae leech the cure wad undertake, Whate'er was the gratuity. It 's cured ! She handles 't like a flail- It does as weel in bits as hale — But I 'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and her annuity. 144 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. Her broozled flesh and broken banes Are weel as flesh and banes can be ; She beats the toads that live in stanes, An' fatten in vacuity ! They die when they 're exposed to air, They canna thole the atmosphere — But her ! expose her ony where, She lives for her annuity. If mortal means could nick her thread, Sma' crime it wad appear to me — Ca't murder — or ca't homicide — I 'd justify 't — an' do it tae. But how to fell a withered wife That 's carved out o' the tree of life — The timmer limmer dares the knife To settle her annuity. I 'd try a shot — but whar's the mark ? Her vital parts are hid f rae me ; Her backbone wanders through her sark In an unkenn'd corkscrewity. She 's palsified, an' shakes her head Sae fast about, ye scarce can see 't, [t 's past the power o' steel or lead To settle her annuity. ttlie might be drowned ; but go she '11 not Within a mile o' loch or sea ; Or hanged — if cord could grip a throat 0' siccan exiguity. It 's fitter far to hang the rope — It draws out like a telescope ; 'T wad tak' a dreadfu' length o' drop To settle her annuity. Will poison do it? It has been tried, But be 't in hash or fricassee, THE ANNUITY. 145 That 's just the dish she can't abide, Whatever kind o' gout it hae. It 's needless to assail her doubts, She gangs by instinct, like the brutes, An' only eats an' drinks what suits Hersel' and her annuity. The Bible says the age o' man Threescore and ten, perchance, may be; She 's ninety-four. Let them who can, Explain the incongruity. She should hae lived afore the flood — She 's come o' patriarchal blood, She 's some auld Pagan mummified Alive for her annuity. She 's been embalmed inside and oot — She 's sauted to the last degree — There 's pickle in her very snoot Sae caper-like an' cruety. Lot's wife was fresh compared to her — They 've kyanized the useless knir, She canna decompose — nae mair Than her accursed annuity. The water-drop wears out the rock, As this eternal jaud wears me ; I could withstand the single shock, But not the continuity. It 's pay me here, an' pay me there, An' pay me, pay me, evermair — I '11 gang demented wi' despair — I 'm charged for her annuity. George Outram. 13 146 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. 2H)e dForgtng of tje ^ncftor. Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 't is at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound ; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare ; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle-chains, the black mound heaves below, And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe ; It rises, roars, rends all outright, — Vulcan, what a glow ! 'T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright, the high sun shines not so ! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show, — The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing mon- ster slow Sinks on the anvil, — all about the faces fiery grow, — "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out:" bang, bang, the sledges go ; Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow ; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fount- ains flow ; And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!" THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 147 Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! Let 's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and broad ; For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road ; The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains, But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky- high, Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear nothing, here ami!" Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime ! But while you sling your sledges, sing ; and let the burden be, The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal craftsmen we ; Strike in, strike in, the sparks begin to dull their rustling redl Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped ; Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the Yeo-heave-o, and the Heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ; When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, far from love and home, And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom, he darkens down at last. A shapely one he is, and strong as e'er from cat was cast. 1 4 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea! deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou ? The hoary monsters' palaces! methinks what joy 't were now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails 1 Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his jaws to scorn ; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles, Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his black-browsing ocean-calves, or haply in a cove Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine ? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy cable line ; And night by night 't is thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play. But, shamer of our little sports, forgive the name I gave ! A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couldst thou but understand THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 149 Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that drip- ping band, Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round abt ut thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend — Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride; thou 'dst leap with- in the sea ! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of Fatherland ; Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church-yard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave. Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among ! Samuel Ferguson. Cf)e ^elte of £fjatttion> With deep affection And recollection I often think of Those Shandon bells, Whose sounds so wild would, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle Their magic spells. On this I ponder Where'er I wander, And thus grow fonder, Sweet Cork, of thee, — With thy bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on 150 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. The plesant waters Of the river Lee. I 've heard bells chiming Full many a clime in, Tolling sublime in Cathedral shrine, While at a glibe rate Brass tongues would vibrate; But all their music Spoke naught like- thine. For memory, dwelling On each proud swelling Of thy belfry, knelling Its bold notes free, Made the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. I 've heard bells tolling Old Adrian's Mole in, Their thunder rolling From the Vatican, — And cymbals glorious Swinging uproarious In the gorgeous turrets Of Notre Dame ; But thy sounds were sweeter Than the dome of Peter Flings o'er the Tiber, Pealing solemnly. Oh I the bells of Shandon Sound far more grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 151 There 's a bell in Moscow ; While on tower and kiosk In St. Sophia The Turkman gets, And loud in air Calls men to prayer, From the tapering summit Of tall minarets. Such empty phantom I freely grant them ; But there 's an anthem More dear to me, — 'T is the bells of Shandon, That sound so grand on The pleasant waters Of the river Lee. Francis Mahony. Ei)e Heatf) of Napoleon. Wild was the night, yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier's pillow ; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the wrathful billow. A few fond mourners were kneeling by, The few that his stern heart cherished ; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, That life had nearly perished. They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, And the nations' hosts were broken. 152 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle, And the struggling Austrian fled anew, Like the hare before the beagle. The bearded Russian he scourged again, The Prussian's camp was routed, And again on the hills of haughty Spain His mighty armies shouted. Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, At the pyramids, at the mountain, Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, And by the Italian fountain, On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, He led again, in his dying dreams, His hosts, the broad earth quelling. Again Marengo's field was won, And Jena's bloody battle ; Again the world was overrun, Made pale at his cannon's rattle. He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story ; In the rocky land they placed his clay, " And left him alone with his glory." Isaac MoLellan. Ct)e <£tabe of Bonaparte. On a lone barren isle, Avhere the wild roaring billows Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows, Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave. WIDOW MALONE. 153 The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle : He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain ; — He sleeps his last sleep — he has fought his last battle ! No sound can awake him to glory again ! shade of the mighty, where now are the legions That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them on ? Alas ! they have perish'd in far hilly regions, And all save the fame of their triumph is gone ! The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle ! They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain : They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle I No sound can awake them to glory again ! Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, For, like thine own eagle that soar'd to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee A name which before thee no mortal had won. Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle, No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain : Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle ! No sound can awake thee to glory again ! H. S. Washburn (?) TOIitJoto Jfflalone. Did you hear of the Widow Malone, Ohone 1 Who lived in the town of Athlone, Alone 1 0, she melted the hearts Of the swains in them parts, — So lovely the Widow Malone, Ohone I So lovely the Widow Malone. Of lovers she had a full score, Or more, 13* 15 i SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. And fortunes they all had galore, In store ; From the minister down To the clerk of the Crown, All were courting the Widow Malone, Ohone 1 All were courting the Widow Malone. But so modest was Mistress Malone, 'T was known That no one could see her alone, Ohone ! Let them ogle and sigh, They could ne'er catch her eye, So bashful the Widow Malone, Ohone ! So bashful the Widow Malone. Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare, (How quare! It 's little for blushing they care Down there) Put his arm round her waist, — Grave ten kisses at laste, — "0," says he, "you 're my Molly Malone, My own 1 " " 0," says he, " you 're my Molly Malone." And the widow they all thought so shy, My eye ! Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, — For why ? But, " Lucius," says she, 11 Since you've now made so free, You may marry your Mary Malone, Ohone I You may marry your Mary Malone." LAMENT OF THE UUS1I EMIGRANT 155 There 's a moral contained in my song, Not wrong ; And one comfort, it 's not very long, But strong : If for widows you die, Learn to kiss, not to si^fh ; For they 're all like sweet Mistress Malone, Ohone ! 0, they r re all like sweet Mistress Malone. Charles Lever. Eament of tf)e Ettef) Emigrant. I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May morn in' long ago, When first you were my bride-; The com was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek , And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, 1 5 6 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I 'm very lonely now, Mary — For the poor make no new friends ; But, 0, they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride : There 's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow, I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore, Oh ! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more I I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary, kind and true ! But I '11 not forget you, darling, In the land I 'm goin' to ; They say there 's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always tl: ere, But I '11 not forget old Ireland Were it fifty times as fair I THE HAPP T LAND. { 5 7 And often in those grand old woods I '11 sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I '11 think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. Lady Dufferin. There is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day. Oh, how they sweetly sing, Worthy is our Saviour King; Loud let his praises ring — Praise, praise for aye. Come to this happy land — Come, come away ; Why will ye doubting stand — Why still delay ? Oh, we shall happy be, When, from sin and sorrow free, Lord, we shall live with thee — Blest, blest for aye. Bright in that happy land Beams every eye : Kept by a Father's hand, Love cannot die. On then to glory run ; Be a crown and kingdom won ; And bright above the sun, Reign, reign for aye. Andrew Young. 158 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. ©luggt'tg <£lufi. A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store, And he had drunk stoutly at supper ; He mounted his horse in the night at the door, And sat with his face to the crupper. u Some rogue," quoth the friar, " quite dead to remorse, Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, While I was engaged at the bottle, Which went gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug.' The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, 'T was the friar's road home, straight and level ; But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, So he scampered due north like a devil. "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, "I perceive does n't make a horse trot ill; u And 't is cheap, for he never can eat off Ins head While I am engaged at the bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." The steed made a stop — in a pond he had got, He was rather for drinking than grazing; Quoth the friar, " 'T is strange headless horses should trot, But to drink with their tails is amazing ! " Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, In the pond fell this son of a pottle ; Quoth he, " The head 's found, for I 'm under his nose,— I wish I were over a bottle, Which goes gluggity, gluggity— glug— glug— glug." GrEORGE COLMAN. Two Yankee wags, one summer day, Stopped at a tavern on their way ; HERE SHE GOES— AND THERE SHE GOES. 159 Supped, frolicked, late retired to rest, And woke to breakfast on the best. The breakfast over, Tom and Will Sent for the landlord and the bill ; Will looked it over ; " Very right- But hold ! what wonder meets my sight ? Tom ! the surprise is quite a shock ! " " What wonder ? where ? " "The clock ! the clock ! ' Tom and the landlord in amaze Stared at the clock with stupid gaze, And for a moment neither spoke ; At last the landlord silence broke : "You mean the clock that 's ticking there? I see no wonder, I declare ; Though may be, if the truth were told, 'T is rather ugly — somewhat old; Yet time it keeps to half a minute, But, if you please, what wonder 's in it ? " 11 Tom, do n't you recollect," said Will, " The clock in Jersey near the mill, The very image of this present, With which I won the wager pleasant?" Will ended with a knowing wink- Tom scratched his head, and tried to think. 11 Sir, begging pardon for inquiring," The landlord said, with grin admiring, " What wager was it? " " You remember, It happened, Tom, in last December. In sport I bet a Jersey Blue That it was more than he could do, To make his finger go and come 1 6 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. In keeping with the pendulum, Repeating, till one hour should close, Still ' Here she goes — and there she goes ' — He lost the bet in half a minute." "Well, if I would, the deuce is in it! " Exclaimed the landlord ; " try me yet, And fifty dollars be the bet." " Agreed, but we will play some trick To make you of the bargain sick ! " "I'm up to that I" " Do n't make us wait; Begin, the clock is striking eight." He seats himself, and left and right His finger wags with all his might, And hoarse his voice, and hoarser grows, With " Here she goes— and there she goes I " " Hold," said the Yankee, " plank the ready I " The landlord wagged his fingers steady While his left hand, as well as able, Conveyed a purse upon the table. " Tom, with the money let 's be off! " This made the landlord only scoff. He heard them running down the stair, But was not tempted from his chair. Thought he, "The fools! I '11 bite them yet! So poor a trick sha' n't win the bet." And loud and loud the chorus rose Of " Here she goes— and there she goes ! " While right and left his finger swung, In keeping to his clock and tongue. His mother happened in, to see Her daughter. « Where is Mrs. B— When will she come, as you suppose ? Son!" HERE SHE GOES- AND THERE SHE GOES. 161 " Here she goes — and there she goes I " " Here ! where ? " — the lady in surprise His finger followed with her eyes ; u Son, why that steady gaze and sad ? Those words — that motion — are you mad ? But here 's your wife — perhaps she knows, And—" " Here she goes — and there she goes I " His wife surveyed him with alarm, And rushed to him and seized his arm ; He shook her off, and to and fro His finger persevered to go, While curled his very nose with ire, That she against him should conspire, And with more furious tone arose The " Here she goes — and there she goes I ' "Lawks I " screamed the wife, "I 'm in a whirl! Run down and bring the little girl ; She is his darling, and who knows But—" " Here she goes — and there she goes I " " Lawks I he is mad ! What made him thus ? Good Lord ! what will become of us ? Run for a doctor — run — run — run — For Doctor Brown, and Doctor Dun, And Doctor Black, and Doctor White, And Doctor Grey, with all your might." The doctors came, and looked and wondered, And shook their heads, and paused and pondered, Till one proposed he should be bled, "No — leeched, you mean," the other said — " Clap on a blister," roared another. " No — cup him " — " No — trepan him, brother! " 162 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. A sixth would recommend a purge, The next would an emetic urge, The eighth, just come from a dissection, His verdict gave for an injection ; The last produced a box of pills, A certain cure for earthly ills ; c: I had a patient yesternight," Quoth he, " and wretched was her plight^ And as the only means to save her, Three dozen patent pills I gave her, And by to-morrow, I suppose That—" " Here she goes — and there she goes/" "You all are fools," the lady said, " The way is, just to shave his head, Run, bid the barber come anon — " " Thanks, mother," thought her clever son, " You help the knaves that would have bit me, But all creation sha' n't outwit me! " Thus to himself, while to and fro His finger perseveres to go, And from his lips no accent flows But " Here she goes — and there she goes ! " The barber came — " Lord help him ! what A queer customer I 've got; But we must do our best to save him — So hold him, gemmen, while I shave him ! " But here the doctors interpose— "A woman never — " " There she goes ! " " A woman is no judge of physic, Not even when her baby is sick. He must be bled " — " No — no — a blister " — "A purge you mean" — "I say a clyster" — 11 No— cup him "— « leech him "— " pills ! pills ! pills 1 And all the house the uproar fills. SHE LIED IN BEAUTY. 163 What means that smile ? What means that shiver ? The landlord's limbs with rapture quiver, And triumph brightens up his face — His finger yet shall win the race 1 The clock is on the stroke of nine — And up he starts — " 'T is mine 1 't is minel " " What do you mean ? " " I mean the fifty 1 I never spent an hour so thrifty ; But you, who tried to make me lose, Go, burst with envy, if you choose I But how is this ! Where are they ? " "Who?" " The gentlemen — I mean the two Came yesterday — are they below ? " " They galloped off an hour ago." M Oh, purge me ! blister ! shave and bleed ! For, hang the knaves, I 'm mad indeed ! " James Nack. £>i>t Bt'efc in iSeautg, She died in beauty, — like a rose Blown from its parent stem ; She died in beauty, — like a pearl Dropped from some diadem. She died in beauty, — like a lay Along a moonlit lake ; She died in beauty, — like the song Of birds amid the brake. She died in beauty, — like the snow On flowers dissolved away ; She died in beauty, — like a star Lost on the brow of day. 104 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. She lives in glory, — like night's gems Set round the silver moon ; She lives in glory, — like the sun Amid the blue of June. Charles Doyne Sillert. Cf)e Neto Cale of a Cufr. The Orient day was fresh and fair, A breeze sang soft in the ambient air, Men almost wondered to find it there, Blowing so near Bengal, Where waters bubble as boiled in a pot, And the gold of the sun spread melting hot, And there 's hardly a breath of wind to be got At any price at all. Unless, indeed, when the great Simoom Gets up from its bed with the voice of doom, And deserts no rains e'er drench Rise up and roar with a dreadful gust, Pillars of sand and clouds of dust Rushing on drifted, and rapid to burst, And filling all India's throat with thirst That its Ganges could n't quench. No great Simoom rose up to-day, But only a gentle breeze, And that of such silent and voiceless play That a lady's bustle Had made more rustle Than it did among the trees. 'T was not like the breath of a British vale, Where each Green acre is blessed with a Gale Whenever the natives please ; But it was of that soft inviting sort That it tempted to revel in picnic sport A couple of Bengalese. THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 165 Two Bengalese Resolved to seize The balmy chance of that cool-winged weather, To revel in Bengal ease together. One was tall, the other was stout, They were natives both of the glorious East, And both so fond of a rural feast That off they roamed to a country plain, Where the breeze roved free about, That during its visits brief, at least, If it never were able to blow again, It might blow upon their blow-out. The country plain gave a view as small As ever man clapped his eyes on, Where the sense of sight did easily pall, For it kept on seeing nothing at all, As far as the far horizon. Nothing at all !— Oh ! what do I say ? — Something certainly stood in the way (Though it had neither cloth nor tray, With its " tiffin " I would n't quarrel)— It was a sort of hermaphrodite thing, (It might have been filled with sugar or ling But is very unfit for a muse to sing), Betwixt a tub and a barrel. It stood in the midst of that Indian plain, Burning with sunshine, pining for rain, A parenthesis balanced 'twixt pleasure and pain, And as stiff as if it were starching, — When up to it, over the brown and green Of that Indian soil, were suddenly seen Two gentlemen anxiously marching. Those two gentlemen were, if you please, The aforesaid couple of Bengalese ; And the tub or barrel that stood beyond— 14* 166 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS For short we will call it Tub — Contained with pride, In its jolly inside, The prize of which they were dotingly fond, The aforesaid gentlemen's grub. i Leave us alone — come man or come beast," Said the eldest, " We '11 soon have a shy at the feast." They are now at their picnic with might arid with main. But what do we see in the front of the plain ? A jungle, a thicket of bush, weed, and grass, And in it reposing — eh ? — no, not an ass — Not an ass, not an ass, — that could not come to pass ; No donkey, no donkey, no donkey at all, But, superb in his slumber, a Royal Bengal. Though Royal, he was n't a king — No such thing ! He did n't rule lands from the Thames to the Niger, But he did hold a reign O'er that jungle and plain, And besides was a very magnificent Tiger. There he lay, in his skin so gay, His passions at rest, and his appetites curbed; A Minister Prime, In his proudest time, Asleep, was never more undisturbed ; For who would come to shake him ? 0, it 's certain sure, in his dream demure, That none would dare to wake him. Only the Royal snore may creep Over the dreams of a Tiger's sleep. The Bengalese, in cool apparel, Meanwhile have reached their picnic barrel ; In other words, they have tossed the grub THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 167 Out of their great provision Tub, And, standing it up for shelter, Sit guzzling underneath its shade, With a glorious dinner ready-made, Which they're eating helter-skelter. Ham and chicken, and bread and cheese. They make a pass to spread on the grass. They sit at ease, with their plates on their knees, And now their hungry jaws they appease, And now they turn to the glass; For Hodgson's ale Is genuine pale, And the bright champagne Flows not in vain, The most convivial souls to please Of these very thirsty Bengalese. Ha ! one of the two has relinquished his fork, And wakes up the Tiger by drawing a cork. Blurting and spurting I List! Olist! Perhaps the Tiger thinks he is hissed. Effervescing and whizzed and phizzed ! Perhaps his Majesty thinks he is quizzed, Or haply deems, As he 's roused from his dreams, That his visions have come to a thirsty stop, And resolves to moisten his throat with a drop. At all events, with body and soul, He gives in his jungle a stretch and a roll, Then regally rises to go for a stroll, With a temperate mind, For a beast of his kind, And a tail uncommonly long behind. 1 6 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. He knows of no water, By field or by flood ; He does not seek slaughter, He does not scent blood. No ! the utmost scope Of his limited hope Is, that these Bengalese, When they find he arrives, May not rise from their picnic and run for their live But simply bow on that beautiful plain, And offer Sir Tiger a glass of champagne. " From my jungle it true is They woke me, I think, So the least they can do is To give me some drink." Gently Tiger crouches along, Humming a kind of animal song, A sweet subdued familiar lay As ever was warbled by beast of prey ; And all so softly, tunefully done, That it made no more sound Than his shade on the ground ; So the Bengalese heard it, never a one 1 Gently Tiger steals along, " Mild as a moonbeam," meek as a lamb, — What so suddenly changes his song From a tune to a growl ? "Och! by my sowl, Nothing on earth but the smell of the ham ! " He quickens his pace, The illigant baste, And he 's running a race With himself for a taste. And he 's taken to roaring, and given up humming, Just to let the two Bengalese know he is coming. THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 169 What terrors sieze The Bengalese As the roar of the Tiger reaches the ear, Their hair is standing on end with fear. Short-and-stout, with his hair all gray, Has a rattling note in his jolly old throat ; If choking his laugh with a truss of hay, He could n't more surely have stifled the gay. While Tall-and-thin with Ms hair all carroty, Looks thrice as red with fright as his head, And his face bounds plump, at a single jump, Into horror, and out of hilarity. All they can hear, in their terrible fear, Behind and before, is the Tiger's roar ; Again and again, o'er the plain, Clearer and clearer, nearer and nearer, Into the Tub now its way it has found, Where its echoes keep rolling round and round, Till out of the bung-hole they bursting come, Like a regiment of thunders escaped from a drum. If an earthquake had shattered a thousand kegs, The terrified Bengalese could n't, i' fegs, Have leapt more rapidly on to their legs. He 's at 'em, he 's on 'em, the jungle guest ! When a man's life by peril is prest, His wits will sometimes be at their best. So the presence of Tiger, I find, Inspires our heroes with presence of mind. There 's no time to be lost — Down the glasses are tossed; The Bengalese have abandoned their grub, And they 're dodging their gentleman round the Tub. Active and earnest they nowhere lodge, And he can't get at them, because of their dodge. Short-and-stout and Tall-and-thin Never before such a scrape were in, 15 i 7 o SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Nor ever yet used — can you well have a doubt of it ?- So uncommonly artful a dodge to get out of it. Tiger keeps prowling, Howling, and growling ; He feels himself that their dodge is clever ; But the quick fresh blood of the Bengalese Nicer and nicer he snuffs on the breeze. The more they practice their dodge recitals, The more he longs to dine on their vitals. His passion is up, his hunger is keen, His jaws are ready, his teeth are clean, And sharpened their limbs to sever. The fire is flashing in light from his eyes ; In his own peculiar manner he cries, The while they shine, "HI mean to dine, I had better begin," And then, with a grin, And a voice the loudest that ever was heard, He roars, " Never trust to a tiger's word, If this dodge shall last much longer ! No, no, no, no, — it shall be no go ! There 's a way of disturbing this Tub's repose ; So down on your knees, You Bengalese, And prepare to be eaten up, if you please. Here goes ! Here goes! here goes! " and he gave a spring. The gentlemen, looking for no such thing, Might have fallen a prey to the Tiger's fling ; But a certain interference, Which bursts from their most intelligent Tub, May enable them to return to their grub, On the selfsame plain a year hence. The Tub, though empty of roll and ration, Is full of a certain preservation, Of which — though it does not follow THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 171 In every case of argumentation It is full because it is hollow. For, not having a top, and no inside things, It turns top-heavy when Tiger springs, And, making a kind of balancing pause, Keeps holding the animal up by his claws, In a manner that seems to fret it ; While Short-and-stout, in a state of doubt, Keeps on his belly a sharp lookout ; And Tall-and-thin, with an impudent grin, Exults in his way, As much as to say, " I only wish you may get it ! But much as I may respect your ability, I don't see at present the great probability." The Tiger has leapt up, heart and soul. It 's clear he meant to go the whole Hog, in his hungry efforts to seize The two defianceful Bengalese. But the Tub ! the Tub ! Ay, there 's the rub ! At present he 's balanced atop of the Tub, His fore legs inside, And the rest of his hide, Not weighing so much as his head and his legs, And having no hand in A pure understandin' Of the just equilibrium of casks and of kegs, Not bred up in attics, Nor taught mathematics, To work out the problems of Euclid with pegs, — He has plunged with the impetus wild of a lover, And the Tub has loomed large, balanced, paused, and turned over. The Tiger at first had a hobby-horse ride, But now he is decently quartered inside ; 172 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. And the question is next, long as fortune may frown on him, How the two Bengalese are to keep the Tub down on him. 'Bout this there 's no blunder, The Tiger is under The Tub ! My verse need not run To the length of a sonnet, To tell how the Bengalese Both jumped upon it, While the beautiful barrel Keeps acting as bonnet To the Tiger inside, Who no more in his pride Can roam over jungle and plain, But sheltered alike from the sun and the rain, Around its interior his sides deigns to rub With a fearful hub-bub, And longs for his freedom again. The two Bengalese, Not at all at their ease, Hear him roar, And deplore Their prospects as sore, Forgetting both picnic and flask ; Each, wondering, dumb, What of both will become, Helps the other to press on the cask ; Resigned to their fate, But increasing their weight By action of muscle and sinew, In order that forcibly you, Mr. Tub, Whom their niggers this morning Rolled here with their grub, May still keep the Tiger within you. THE NEW TALE OF A TUB. 173 On the top of the Tub, In the warmest of shirts, The thin man stands, While the fat by his skirts Holds, anxiously puffing and blowing ; And the thin peers over the top of the cask, " Is there any hope for us ? " As much as to ask, With a countenance cunning and knowing ; And just as he mournfully 'gins to bewail, In a grief-song that ought to be sung whole, He twigs the long end of the old Tiger's tail As it twists itself out of the bung-hole. Then, sharp on the watch, He gives it a catch, And shouts to the Tiger, 11 You 've now got your match ; You may rush and may riot, may wriggle and roar, But I 'm blest if I '11 let your tail gc any more ! " It 's as safe as a young roasted pig in. a larder, And no two Bengalese could hold on by it harder. With the Tiger's tail clenched fast in his fist, And his own coat-tail grasped fast to assist, Stands Tall-and-thin with Short-and-stout, Both on the top of the Tub to scout, Tiger within and they without, And both in a pretty pickle. The Tiger begins by giving a bound ; The Tub 's half turned, but the men are found To have very carefully jumped to the ground — At trifles they must not stickle. It 's no use quaking and turning pale, Pluck and patience must now prevail, They must keep a hold on the Tiger's tail, And neither one be fickle. There they must pull, if they pull for weeks, Straining their stomachs and bursting tlieii cheeks, 174 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks, Trying to break away from 'em ; They must keep the Tub turned over his back, And never let his long tail get slack, For fear he should win the day from 'em. Yes, yes, they must hold him tight, From night till morning, from morn till night, — Must n't stop to eat, must n't stop to weep, Must n't stop to drink, must n't stop to sleep, — No cry, no laugh, no rest, no grub, Till they starve the Tiger under the Tub, Till the animal dies, To his own surprise, With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel, And his tail thrust through the hole of a barreL Oh dear ! oh dear ! it 's very clear They can't live so; but they dare n't let go — Fate for a pitying world to wail, Starving behind a Tiger's tail. If Invention be Necessity's son, Now let him tell them what 's to be done. What 's to be done ! ha ! I see a grin Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin, Some new device he has hit in a trice, The which he is telling all about To the gratified gentleman, Short- and -stout. What 's to be done ! what precious fun ! Have rit they found out what 's to be done I See! see! what glorious glee ! Note 1 mark ! what a capital lark ! Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and all, Baffled by what is about to befall. Excellent ! marvelous ! beautiful ! ! Is n't it now an original go ! What, stop ! I 'in ready to drop. Hold ! stay ! I 'm fainting away. THE OLD SEXTON. 175 Laughter I 'm certain will kill me to-day ; And Short-and-stout is bursting his skin, And almost in fits is Tall-and-thin, And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail, Though temper has all gone wrcng with him No ! they 've tied a knot in the Tiger's tail, And he carried the Tub along with him ; lie 's a freehold for life, with a tail out of joint, And has made his last climax a true knotty point. Frederick W. N. Bayley €f)e 4M* Sexton. Nigh to a grave that was newly made, Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade ; His work was done, and he paused to wait The funeral-train at the open gate. A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; And these words came from his lips so thin : 11 1 gather them in — I gather them in — Gather — gather — I gather them in. " I gather them in ; for man and boy, Year after year of grief and joy, I 've builded the houses that lie around In every nook of this burial ground. Mother and daughter, father and son, Come to my solitude one by one; But come they stranger, or come they kin, I gather them in — I gather them in. " Many are with me, yet I 'm alone ; I 'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold — My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. 1 76 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all ! May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, I gather them in — I gather them in. " I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast ! " And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; And I said to myself : When time is told, A mightier voice than that sexton's old, Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din ; " I gather them in — I gather them in — (rather — gather — gather them in." Park Benjamin Efte Iribate of tf)e Buffs. Last night among his fellow-roughs, He jested, quaffed, and swore ; A drunken private of the Buffs, Who never looked before. To-day, beneath the foeman's frown, He stands in Elgin's place, Ambassador from Britain's crown, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewildered, and alone, A heart with English instinct fraught He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, Bring cord or axe or flame, He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame. Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, Like dreams, to come and go; LIGHT. ITT Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow ; The smoke above his father's door In gray soft eddyings hung ; Must he then watch it rise no more, Doomed by himself so young? Yes, honor calls!— with strength like steel He put the vision by ; Let dusky Indians whine and kneel, An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, With knee to man unbent, Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, To his red grave he went. Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed, Vain those all-shattering guns, Unless proud England keep untamed The strong heart of her sons ; So let his name through Europe ring,— A man of mean estate, Who died as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great Sir Francis Hastings Doylk. From the quickened womb of the primal gloom The sun rolled black and bare, Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast Of the threads of my golden hair ; And when the broad tent of the firmament Arose on its airy spars, I penciled the hue of its matchless blue, And spangled it round with stars. 15* 178 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, And their leaves of living green, And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes Of Eden's virgin queen ; And when the fiend's art on the trustful heart Had fastened its mortal spell, In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear To the trembling earth I fell. When the waves that burst o'er the world accurs'd Their work of wrath had sped, And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true, Came forth among the dead , With the wond'rous gleams of my bridal beams, I bade their terrors cease, As I wrote, on the roll of the storm's dark scroll, God's covenant of peace ! Like a pall at rest on a senseless breast, Night's funeral shadow slept; — Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains Their lonely vigils kept — When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright Of Heaven's redeeming plan, As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born — Joy, joy to the outcast man ! Equal favor I show to the lofty and low, On the just and unjust I descend ; E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tear^ Feel my smile, the blest smile of a friend. Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, As the rose in the garden of Kings ; At the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, And lo ! the gay butterfly wings. The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, Conceals all the pride of her charms, A DEATH- BED. 179 Till I bid the bright hours chase night from her bowers, And lead the young day to her arms ; And when the gay Rover seeks Eve for his lover, And sinks to her balmy repose, I wrap their soft rest by the zephyr-fanned west, In curtains of amber and rose. From my sentinel steep, by the night-brooded deep, I gaze with unslumbering eye, When the cynosure star of the mariner Is blotted from out of the sky ; And guided by me through the merciless sea, Though sped by the hurricane's wings, His compassless bark, lone, weltering, dark, To the haven-home safely he brings. I waken the flowers in their dew-spangled bowers, The birds in their chambers of green, And mountain and plain glow with beauty again, As they bask in my matinal sheen. Oh, if such the glad worth of my presence to earth, Though fitful and fleeting the while, What glories must rest on the home of the blest, Ever bright with the Deity's smile 1 William Pitt Palmer Her suffering ended with the day ; Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun, in all his state, Illumed the eastern skies, She passed through glory's morning-gate, And walked in Paradise. James Aldrich. 1 8 SIN OLE FAM US P OEMS. It was the calm and silent night ! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars, — Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain : Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago. 'T was in the calm and silent night ! The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home ; Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway ; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ? Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor ; A streak of light before him lay, Fallen through a half -shut stable-door, Across his path. He passed, for naught Told what was going on within ; How keen the stars, his only thought — The air, how calm, and cold, and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! Oh, strange indifference ! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; THE IVY GREEN. 181 The earth was still, but knew not why ; The world was listening, unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world forever To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago ! It is the calm and solemn night ! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charmed and holy now ! The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given ; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago 1 Alfred Domett. O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old I Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he I 16 182 SINGLE FAMOUS POEMS. How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past ; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Charles Dickens Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair ? Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence come they ? From yon temple, where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. THE P OMSK BOY. \ 83 The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that 's kneeling by. What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress ? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp. It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there. With pallid Up and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark ! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street ; Nearer and nearer yet they come, With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep ; The gate is burst ; a ruffian band Rush in, and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain. The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child ; Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye, Shouted with fearful energy, u Back, ruffians, back ! nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead ; Nor touch the living boy ; I stand Between him and your lawless band. 1 84 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 't will save my child ! " " Peace, woman, peace ! " the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. " One moment! " shrieked the mother; " one ! Will land or gold redeem my son ? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russia's thrall ! Take these ! " and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there ; Her cross of blazing rubies, last, Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store ; — Up springing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no ! The Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony. But the brave child is roused at length, And, breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks ; THE TOLISH BOY. 185 With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band : " Ye hold me not ! no ! no, nor can ; This hour has made the boy a man. I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept ! I was a child ; but now My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me ! " He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, The jeweled haft of poniard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. 11 Ha ! start ye back ? Fool ! coward ! knave ! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave ? The pearls that on the handle flame, Would blush to rubies in their shame ; The blade would quiver in thy breast Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No ! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " A moment, and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright ; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang, And on the air his clear voice rang : 1 Up, mother, up ! I 'm free ! I 'm free I The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up ! Look on thy son ! His freedom is forever won ; And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss, One last embrace, one blessing, — one ! To prove thou know'st, appro v'st thy son. 186 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. What ! silent yet ? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er thy heart congeal ? Speak, mother, speak ! lift up thy head 1 What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead ! Great God, I thank thee ! Mother, I Rejoice with thee, — and thus — to die." One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom, — dead. Ann S. Stephens. 9Saiafciaba. the charge at Balaklava ! that rash and fatal charge I Never was a fiercer, braver, Than that charge at Balaklava, On the battle's bloody marge 1 All the day the Russian columns, Fortress huge, and blazing banks, Poured their dread destructive volumes On the French and English ranks, — On the gallant allied ranks ! Earth and sky seemed rent asunder By the loud incessant thunder 1 When a strange but stern command — Needless, heedless, rash command — Came to Lucan's httle band, — Scarce six hundred men and horses Of those vast contending forces : — " England 's lost unless you save her ! Charge the pass at Balaklava 1 " that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge 1 Far away the Russian Eagles Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles, Dense and countless, round them yell I BALAKLAVA. 187 Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, Sweep the field in every quarter ! Never, since the days of Jesus, Trembled so the Chersonesus ! Here behold the Gallic Lilies — Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — Float as erst at old Ramillies ! And beside them, lo ! the Lion ! With her trophied Cross, is flying ! Glorious standards ! — shall they waver On the field of Balaklava ? No, by Heavens ! at that command — Sudden, rash, but stern command — Charges Lucan's little band ! Brave Six Hundred ! lo ! they charge, On the battle's bloody marge ! Down yon deep and skirted valley, Where the crowded cannon play, — Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli, — Down that gorge they swept away ! Down the new Thermopylae, Flashing swords and helmets see ! Underneath the iron shower, To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power, Press they without fear or pause, — To the very cannon's jaws I Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland At the field of Roucesvalles, Dashes down the fatal valley, Dashes on the bolt of death, Shouting with his latest breath, " Charge, then, gallants ! do not waver Charge the pass at Balaklava! " that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge ! 1 8 8 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Now the bolts of volleyed thunder Rend the little band asunder, Steed and rider wildly screaming, Screaming wildly, sink away ; Late so proudly, proudly gleaming, Now but lifeless clods of clay, — Now but bleeding clods of clay ! Never since the days of Jesus, Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! Yet your remnant, brave Six Hundred, Presses onward, onward, onward, Till they storm the bloody pass, — Till, like brave Leonid as, They storm the deadly pass ! Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, In that wild shot-rended valley, — Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, Awful pass at Balaklava ! that rash and fatal charge, On that battle's bloody marge ! For now Russia's rallied forces, Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, Trampling o'er the reeking corses, Drive the thinned assailants back, Drive the feeble remnant back, O'er their late heroic track ! Vain, alas ! now rent and sundered, Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred ! Thrice your number lie asleep, In that valley dark and deep. Weak and wounded you retire From that hurricane of fire, — That tempestuous storm of fire, — But no soldiers firmer, braver, Ever trod the field of fame, Then the Knights of Balaklava, — Honor to each hero's name ! THE PA UPER'S DRIVE. 1 80 Yet their country long shall mourn For her ranks so rashly shorn, — So gallantly, but madly shorn In that fierce and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge. Alexander B. Meek. Ci)e ^aupei's Bribe. There 6 a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot — To the church-yard a pauper is going, I wot ; The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs ; And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings : Rattle his bones over the stones ! He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns 1 Oh, where are the mourners ? Alas ! there are none — He has left not a gap in the world, now he 's gone — Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man ; To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can : Rattle his bones over the stones ! He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns I What a jolting, and creaking, and splashing, and din ! The whip, how it cracks ! and the wheels, how they spin How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled ! The pauper at length makes a noise in the world ! Rattle his bones over the stones / He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! Poor pauper defunct ! he has made some approach To gentility, now that he 's stretched in a coach ! He 's taking a drive in his carriage at last ; But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast. Rattle his bones over the stones ! He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! You bumpkins, who stare at your brother conveyed, Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid ! 16* 190 SWGLE FAMO US P OEMS. And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, You 've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go I Battle his bones over the stones ! He 's only a pauper, whom nobody owns ! But a truce to this strain ; for my soul it is sad, To think that a heart in humanity clad Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, And depart from the light without leaving a friend. Bear soft his bones over the stones ! Though a pauper, he J s one whom his Maker yet owns ! Thomas Noel. ^Florence Van*. I loved thee long and dearly, Florence Yane ; My life's bright dream and early Hath come again ; I renew in my fond vision My heart's dear pain, My hopes and thy derision, Florence Vane I The ruin, lone and hoary, The ruin old, Where thou didst hark my story, At even told, That spot, the hues elysian Of sky and plain I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane ! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime ; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme ; THE DULE 'S P THIS BONNET 0' MINE 191 Thy heart was as a river Without a main, Would I had loved thee never, Florence Vane. But fairest, coldest wonder ! Thy glorious clay Lieth the green sod under ; Alas the day! And it boots not to remember Thy disdain, To quicken love's pale ember, Florence Vane ! The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep, May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. Philip Pendleton Cooke. W$z Bnlt '* V tjfe ISomtet o' Mint. The dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine : My ribbins '11 never be reet ; Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine, For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ; He met me i' th' lone t' other day (Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will I When he took my two honds into his, G-ood Lord, heaw they trembled between I 1 92 SINGLE FAMO US POEMS. An' aw durst n't look up in his face, Becose on him seein' my e'en. My cheek went as red as a rose ; There 's never a mortal con tell Heaw happy aw felt, — for, thae knows, One could n't ha' axed him theirsel'. But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung : To let it eawt would n't be reet, For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrong ; So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet. But, Mally, thae knows very weel Though it is n't a thing one should own, Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o' th' world to mysel', Aw 'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind ; What would to do iv ' t wur thee ? " Aw 'd tak him just while he 's inclined, An' a f arrantly bargain he '11 be ; For Jamie 's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed ; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it 's done ! " Eh, dear ! but it 's time to be gwon : Aw should n't like Jamie to wait; Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel : Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ? " Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo ! " Edwin WAUoa ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 193 Eficafjam Hmcoln. FIRST PUBLISHED IN PUNCH. You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please ; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity or people's pain, — Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet The Stars and Stripes he lived to rear anew, Between the mourners at his head and feet, Say, scurrile jester, is there room for you P Yes : he had lived to shame me from my sneer, To lame my pencil and confute my pen ; To make me own this hind of princes peer, This rail-splitter, a true-born king of men. My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, Noting how to occasion's height he rose ; How his quaint wit made home-truth seem more true ■ How, iron-like, his temper grew by blows ; How humble yet how hopeful he could be ; How in good fortune and in ill the same ; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, Thirsty for gold, nor feverish for fame. 17 1 9 4 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. He went about his work, such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, As one who knows, where there 's a task to do, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command ; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights — The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The prairie hiding the mazed wanderer's tracks, The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear, — Such were the deeds that helped his youth to train : Rough culture, but such trees large fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it ; four long-suffering years' 111 fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood, — Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, And seemed to touch the goal from where he stood, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long -laboring limbs were laid to rest; THE MEMORY OF THE VEjW. ] 95 The words of mercy were upon his lips, Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, When this vile murderer brought swift eclipse To thoughts of peace on earth, good will to men. The Old World and the New, from sea to sea, Utter one voice of sympathy and shame. Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high ! Sad lif e, cut short just as its triumph came ! A deed accursed ! Strokes have been struck before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out, Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly striven, And with the martyr's crown crownest a life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. Tom Taylor. Cf)e JHemotg oi tfje Beab. Who fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ? Who blushes at the name ? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, Who hangs his head for shame ? He 's all a knave, or half a slave, Who slights his country thus ; But a true man, like you, man, Will fill your glass with us. We drink the memory of the brave, The faithful and the few — Some lie far off beyond the wave — Some sleep in Ireland, too ; All, all are gone — but still lives on The fame of those who died — 1 9 6 SIKG L E FA MO US P OEMS. All true men, like you, men, Remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands Their weary hearts have laid, And by the stranger's heedless hands Their lonely graves were made ; But, though their clay be far away Beyond the Atlantic foam — In true men, like you, men, Their spirit 's still at home. The dust of some is Irish earth ; Among their own they rest ; And the same land that gave them birth Has caught them to her breast ; And we will pray that from their clay Full many a race may start Of true men, like you, men, To act as brave a part. They rose in dark and evil days To right their native land; They kindled here a living blaze That nothing shall withstand. Alas ! that might can vanquish right — They fell and passed away ; But true men, like you, men, Are plenty here to-day. Then here 's their memory — may it be For us a guiding light, To cheer our strife for liberty, And teach us to unite. Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, Though sad as theirs your fate ; And true men, be you, men, Like those of Ninety-Eight I John Kells Ingram. THE BIVO XI AG OF THE DEAD \ 9 f CJe Wbouac of tfte 2Bea*L The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo ; No more on life's parade shall meet That brave and fallen few. On fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind ; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind ; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms ; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed ; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud. And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms, by battle gashed, Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle's stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are past; Nor war's wild note nor glory's peal Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feel The rapture of the fight. 1 98 SINGLE FAMO US P OEMS. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe. Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was " Victory or death." Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain ; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide ; Not long, our stout old chieftain knew, Such odds his strength could bide. 'T was in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too. Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain — And long the pitying sky has wept Above the mouldering slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray. Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 199 Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air; Tour own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave ; She claims from war his richest spoil — The ashes of her brave. So, 'neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field, Borne to a Spartan mother's breast, On many a bloody shield ; The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead, Dear as the blood ye gave ; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave ; Nor shall your glory be forgot While Fame her record keeps, Or Honor points the hallowed spot Where Valor proudly sleeps. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone, In deathless song shall tell, When many a vanished age hath flown, The story how ye fell ; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight, Nor Time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of glory's light That gilds your deathless tomb. Theodore O'Hara* J£eam, mg <&