Class ?H un ^ R(t(ik i H% r (bipglil N"_ COPYRIC.IIT UK POSIT. LITTLE MASTERPIECES OF ENGLISH POETRY LITTLE MASTERPIECES OF ENGLISH POETRY By British and American Authors EDITED BY HENRY VAN DYKE ASSISTED BY HARDIN CRAIG, PH.D. INSTRUCTOR IN ENGLISH LITERATURE PRINCETON Volume I BALLADS OLD AND NEW NEW YORK DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 1905 OCT 23 mb Copyright, 1905, by DouBLEDAY, Page & Company Published September, 1905 All rights reserved, including that of translation — also right of transla- tion into the Scandinavian languages GENERAL PREFACE This is a collection of Little Masterpieces of Poetry. The title of the collection gives the clue to the principle of choice. This is not an at- tempt to make another historical anthology of English verse, giving illustrations of the work of every -acknowledged poet more or less famous, and carefully apportioning the number of selec- tions from each writer according to the supposed measure of his fame. That question, indeed, has not entered into the process of choice, to disturb and hamper it. It has not been necessary to ask whether too much has been taken from one poet, or too little from another. I have looked only at the value and the beauty of the poems them- selves, at their perfection as poetry, at the clear- ness, strength, and depth of their feeling, at the truth and vividness of their imagery, at the power or the loveliness of their expression and form. Those that seemed the best have been chosen out of many, not to illustrate a theory, but for their own sake, because they are good to read. A masterpiece, of course, cannot be a fragment or an extract. It must stand alone, complete and rounded; and no matter how small it may be, it must carry within itself its own claim to excel- lence. For this reason I have not included any General Preface disconnected portions of longer poems, or brilliant passages from works which as a whole are not of even merit. Each poem that has been chosen is given in its entirety, as the author wrote it. The only exception is in the case of certain songs and lyrics, which can be taken out of their setting in a play or a story, without marring either their form or their effect; and this is not an exception in reality, but only in appearance. Some poems of great beauty, like Milton's Comus and Tennyson's Maud, reluctant as I am to omit them, are ruled out by the limitation of space. The same reason explains the fact that dramas are omitted, and that the epic element also is lacking, except in its minor forms, the idyll and the story in verse, and in its lyrical modification, the ballad. It has seemed best to confine the selections to the work of those poets who have already " gone over to the majority." It would be difficult, and perhaps embarrassing, to choose from the writ- ings of the minority who are still living. I have thought it wise, also, not to include any metrical translations of poetry from other lan- guages ; for, however admirable they may be as renderings of the originals, they can hardly rank as English masterpieces. To deserve that title a poem must be conceived and composed, as well as written, in the English language. It makes no difference where the poet was born, in Scotland or England or Ireland or America, if his poetry came to him in English, it belongs to English General Preface literature, the common heritage of all the races and tribes which use that noble language as their own. In the gathering and the sifting of the materials for this collection my colleague, Dr. Hardin Craig, has rendered much valuable assistance, which is here gratefully acknowledged. The se- lection of the particular text of the poems, the reading of proofs, and the insertion of dates have been entrusted to his scholarly care. The poems have been grouped on a principle of arrangement which seems to me both new and good, — the principle of poetic form. Thus in one volume we have ballads, in another idylls and stories in verse, in another lyrics, in another odes, sonnets and epigrams, in another elegies and epitaphs. This method of grouping not only brings together the poems which are most alike in their effect (a matter of the first importance to the reader's comfort and pleasure), but also serves to show how significant and how vital the element of form is in poetry. It is not a mere ac- cident or an unimportant adjunct. The spirit and the body are the man ; the substance and the form are the poem. There is usually more kinship, for example, between two ballads dealing with dif- ferent subjects, like Thomas the Rhymer and Longfellow's Sir Humphrey Gilbert, than there is between a ballad and a sonnet dealing with the same subject, like Coleridge's Love and one of Mrs. Browning's Sonnets from the Portuguese. This arrangement by poetic form has also an- General Preface other advantage, which I have had in view in anticipating a possible use of these volumes in colleges and schools and by private students. It will enable the reader to follow, without effort, the development of the various forms of verse, and to see how a ballad or a lyric or a sonnet of the sixteenth century differs from one of the nineteenth. As far as possible, the date of the publication of each poem has been printed with the author's name. When the date of composi- tion is widely different from that of publication it has also been added ; such dates are printed in italics. Within the main divisions, the poems have been grouped in a rather loose way, according to their subjects; and within these minor groups again, a chronological order has been generally fol- lowed. Thus it will be found, unless I am mis- taken, that one can read on from poem to poem without serious discord, and with a certain con- tinuity of interest and feeling. The amount of verse taken from the British poets is, of course, much greater than that which comes from the American poets. The reason is plain. In the former case there are four centuries of poetry to choose from, and in the latter case less than a hundred years. But unless these vol- umes altogether fail in their purpose, one result of reading them will be a clearer understanding and a deeper sense of the vital relationship of that which is best, that which is permanent, in British and in American verse. They are not sepa- viii General Preface rate growths. They are the two main branches of a great and spreading tree. The elder branch is far larger, and has borne far more fruit, than the younger. But the difference is one of degree and not of kind ; and the years to come may lessen even that. Meantime it is certain that the loftiest thoughts and imaginings, the deepest and noblest feelings, the finest hopes, and the fairest dreams of all " Who speak the tongue That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and morals hold Which Milton held ", are embodied in the masterpieces of English poetry, — of which a goodly number are brought together in these little volumes. Carry one of them in your pocket, and you will not lack good comradeship, and elevating discourse, and music by the way. Henry van Dyke. CONTENTS General Preface Introduction Of Love The Gay Goshawk Young Beichan The Bonny Earl of Murray . The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington Hind Horn Waly, Waly, up the Bank . . . Auld Robin Gray .... Black-eyed Susan .... The Sailor's Wife .... Lochinvar The Maid of Neidpath . . A Weary Lot is Thine . Brignall Banks Love Glenkindie Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Amy Wentworth .... Annabel Lee The Blessed Damozel . . Lady Anne Lindsay Gay .- Mickle Scott . . Scott Scott . . Scott . . Coleridge . W. B. Scott Tennyson Whittier Poe Rossetti Fairyland Thomas the Rhymer . . . Kemp Owyne The Lady of Shalott . . The Romance of the Swan's Nest The Fairies La Belle Dame Sans Merci Tennyson E. B. Browning Allingham Keats Browning . Wordsworth Contents Adventure Robin Hood and Allen-a-Dale .... Robin Hood and Guy of Gisborne . Kinmont Willie Chevy Chase The Skeleton in Armor . . Longfello' " How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix " Hart-Leap Well .... The Sea Sir Patrick Spens .... On the Loss of the Royal George The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Ye Mariners of England The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England The Inchcape Rock . The Wreck of the Hes perus Sir Humphrey Gilbert . Herve Riel War The Battle of Otterburn Agincourt Boadicea Bonny Dundee .... The Soldier's Dream . . Hohenlinden The Battle of the Baltic After Blenheim Ivry Song of Marion's Men . A Ballad of the French Fleet , Carmen Bellicosum . Monterey The Black Regiment . , Cow per Coleridge Campbell . Hemans Southey Longfellow Longfellow Browning Drayton Cowper Scott . Campbell Campbell Campbell Southey Macaulay Bryant . Longfellow McMaster Hoffman . Baker . PAGE 91 95 105 113 124 XU Contents Barbara Frietchie . . . . Incident of the French Camp The Three Troopers . The Charge of the Light Brigade The Charge of the Heavy Brigade at Balaclava . The Revenge Of Death and Sorrow Fair Helen of Kirconnell Robin Hood's Death . . Bonnie George Campbell Lord Randal The Wife of Usher's Well The Douglas Tragedy The Twa Corbies . . . The Braes of Yarrow . . Thy Braes were Bonny . A Lament for Flodden . We are Seven .... Lucy Gray Proud Maisie .... Lord Ullin's Daughter . The Sands of Dee . . The Three Fishers '. . The High-tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire The Execution of Montrose The Shameful Death . , Rizpah The Raven Whittier . Browning . Thornbury Tennyson Tennyson Tennyson Logan . Jean Elliot Wordsworth Wordsworth Scott . . Campbell Kingsley . Kingsley . Ingelow Aytoun Morris Tennyson . Poe . . . PAGE 236 239 241 245 248 259 260 264 2t>4 266 268 272 275 277 284 285 287 2SS 289 296 303 ACKNOWLEDGMENT The texts used in these volumes follow closely what were thought to be the best available mod- ern editions ; except that punctuation has been, now and then, in cases where no change of mean- ing would arise, made to conform to a more general standard. The dating of the poems has been done from the work of editors and biog- raphers, as in a vast majority of cases original editions have not been at hand. In the case of a few poems the date is that of earliest publica- tion in book form. Sometimes the composition date has been thought more significant, or found more convenient. The selections included in these volumes from Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Bret Harte, Lucy Larcom, James Russell Lowell, H. W. Longfellow, Thomas William Parsons, Bayard Taylor, J. G. Whittier, E. R. Sill, and Celia Thaxter are published by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized publishers of the works of those authors. The selections from the poems of William Morris are reprinted by permission of XV Acknowledgment Longmans, Green & Co. The two poems by Paul Hamilton Hayne are copyrighted, 1882, by D. Lothrop & Co. " Anthony and Cleopatra " by Gen. Wm. H. L3^tle is published by permission of Robert Clarke Co., the publishers of his poems. The two poems by Emily Dickinson are reprinted by permission of Little, Brown & Co. Charles Scribner's Sons, as authorized publishers, have granted permission for the republication of "Little Boy Blue," " Wynken, Blynken, and Nod " from " With Trumpet and Drum " by Eu- gene Field ; of " A Ballad of Trees and the Mas- ter," " The Stirrup Cup," " Sunrise," " The Marshes of Glynn " from " The Poems of Sidney Lanier " ; of " It Never Comes Again," " The Sky " from " The Poetical Writings of Richard Henry Stoddard " ; and of " Requiem," " The Whaups," " Youth and Love " from " Poems and Ballads " by Robert Louis Stevenson. The selec- tions from Matthew Arnold are from the edition issued by The Macmillan Company, the author- ized publishers of the works of Matthew Arnold. H. C. BALLADS OLD AND NEW INTRODUCTION TO THE VOLUME OF BALLADS What is a ballad? In the strict sense of the word, it ought to mean a song set to dance music, — a string of verses to accompany the movements of a rustic or courtly ballet. But this original meaning was soon lost and confused in a wider usage. The word was applied to many kinds of poems which were current among the people in the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries. Metrical tales of love and adventure and tragedy, versified satires on the nobility and the clergy, moral exhortations and short sermons in rhyme, lyrics in praise of a sweetheart or a soldier, — almost any piece of poetry that passed from mouth to mouth among the minstrels, or was printed on broadside sheets and sold by the pedlars, who were the book- canvassers of that day, — might be called a " tragi- cal ballett," or a " godly ballett," or a " diverting ballett," according to the supposed effect upon the hearer. The chaplain of Henry VIII quoted in one of his sermons, " the ballates off ' Passe tyme with goodde cumpanye ' and ' I love un- lovydde.' " In the Bishops' Bible the title of Solomon's Song is " The Ballet of the Ballets of Solomon." Little Masterpieces of English Poetry No distinction was made, in those early times, between narrative ballads and other songs ; nor between those which had their anonymous origin among the people and those which were care- fully wrought out by certain poets. Indeed, the term " ballade," so far as it had a technical sense, was used to describe one of the most artificial and difficult forms of verse, which could be written only by a skilled master. The attempt to restrict the use of the name " ballad " to story-poems which are traditional in character and purely popular in origin and form, is a somewhat modern invention. Famous col- lections of such poems have been made; Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, Ritson's Robin Hood, Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, Motherwell's Minstrelsy Ancient and Modern, Child's English and Scottish Popular Ballads, and many other books of the same kind, are filled with the naive, irregular, graphic, and often strangely beautiful narratives in rhyme which have been handed down to us without an author's name, preserved and transmitted by the loving memory of the people. And these, some critics say, are the only true ballads, because they are not the work of personal poets, but the unconscious flowerings of poetry from the com- mon heart of man. It seems to me that this effort to narrow the meaning of the word is misdi- rected, and that the reason which the critics give for it begs the whole question. The fact that no author's name is attached to Introduction the rude and vigorous verses of A Gest of Robyn Hode, or The Battle of Otterhourne, does not prove that they never had an author, but only that he has been forgotten. Verses do not come to the birth without the aid of some minstrel to give them form and set them to music. A community never makes a poem. It is a man who makes it. The community, if the age is poetical, takes the song-story up, and repeats it, in hall and cottage, with changes and variations. So it comes to us, from a time when books were rare and copyright was unknown, in half a dozen different forms, and often with great improvements, but with- out the name of the original minstrel. This, it seems to me, is the true explanation of what is called "communal authorship,"— an unseen poet singing in obscurity, — his song caught up and carried down to us by the love of the people. Coleridge was instinctively right when he wrote of " the bard . . . who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence." Moreover, even if we accepted at its face value the notion that the primitive ballads were made by a whole village, or a county perhaps, or even an entire kingdom, rhyming in unconscious uni- son, why should we be more narrow and par- ticular in our definition of ballads than the very people who made them? They were willing to admit that King James's The Kingis Quair and Lord Dorset's " To all you ladies " were ballads. Little Masterpieces of English Poetry It is hardly likely that the critics will be able to confine the use of the word " ballad " to the limited sense which some of them have assigned to it. Language has a way of escaping from the control of the learned and making its own con- nections with human life. There are folk-words as well as folk-songs. And this very word " bal- lad " which we are considering is one of them. It has followed its own course in common speech and writing. It is no longer applied, it is true, to purely lyrical songs, or to hymns, or to didactic verse. But it is still used to describe poems, dif- fering considerably in form and origin, which have three main characteristics in common. First, they have a certain simplicity of theme, appealing not to reflection or to philosophic thought (as an epic or an idyll does), but more directly to some strong, common, human feeling of wonder, of admiration, or of pity. Second, they have an interesting story, clear and vivid, either told directly (as in The Bailiff's Daughter), or suggested in the background (as in Fair Helen). Third, they are free and lyrical in spirit and movement, not composed in blank-verse, or in complicated stanzas, but in more flowing and easy forms. These are the three characteristics that have been followed in selecting the ballads in this volume. I do not suppose that all the good ones are here: but I think that all here are good. Some of them, perhaps, come very near to the border- line of the story in verse, or of the pure lyric: 6 Introduction just as some of the poems in the second and third volumes of this series might possibly be called ballads and included here. The affair of classify- ing poetry is not like a chemical analysis or a land survey. There is always room for a differ- ence, and sometimes for a change, of opinion. But, upon the whole, I am satisfied that these poems represent the mastery of the ballad-form and illustrate its history. Ranging from The Death of Robin Hood to Rizpah, from Young Beichan to Amy Wentworth, from Sir Patrick Spens to The Wreck of the Schooner Hesperus, they give a rich and splendid picture of the ballad- poetry of love, of fairyland, of adventure, of the sea, of war, and of death and sorrow. H. V. D. OF LOVE THE GAY GOSHAWK . " O WALY, waly, my gay goshawk, Gin your feathering be sheen ! " " And waly, waly, my master dear, Gin ye look pale and lean ! " O have ye tint at tournament 5 Your sword, or yet your spear? Or mourn ye for the Southern lass. Whom ye may not win near? " " I have not tint, at tournament. My sword, nor yet my spear; i'-> But sair I mourn for my true-love, Wi' mony a bitter tear. " But weel 's me on ye, my gay goshawk. Ye can baith speak and flee ; Ye sail carry a letter to my love, ^5 Bring an answer back to me." " But how sail I your true-love find. Or how suld I her know? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake. An eye that ne'er her saw." 20 II Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " O weel sail ye my true-love ken, Sae sune as ye her see ; For of a' the flowers of fair England, The fairest flower is she. •' The red that 's on my true-love's cheek, ^5 Is like blood-drops on the snaw ; The white, that is on her breast bare, Like the down o' the white sea-maw. " And even at my love's bour-door There grows a flowering birk ; 3o And ye maun sit and sing thereon, As she gangs to the kirk. " And four-and-twenty fair ladies Will to the mass repair ; But weel may ye my lady ken, 35 The fairest lady there." Lord William has written a love-letter. Put it under his pinion gray ; And he is awa' to Southern land, As fast as wings can gae. 4o And even at that lady's hour, There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sung thereon, As she gaed to the kirk. And weel he kent that lady fair 4S Amang her maidens free, 12 The Gay Goshawk For the flower that springs in May morning Was not sae sweet as she. And first he sang a low, low note, And syne he sang a clear ; 5° And aye the o'erword o' the sang Was, " Your love can no win here." " Feast on, feast on, my maidens a', The wine flows you amang. While I gang to my shot-window, 55 And hear yon bonny bird's sang. " Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird. The sang ye sung yestreen ; For weel I ken, by your sweet singing, Ye are frae my true-love sen'." 60 O first he sang a merry sang, And syne he sang a grave ; And syne he peck'd his feathers gray. To her the letter gave. " Have there a letter from Lord William ; 65 He says he 's sent ye three ; He canna wait your love langer, But for your sake he '11 die." " Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, And brew his bridal ale; 7o And I sail meet him at Mary's kirk, Lang, lang ere it be stale." 13 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry The lady 's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu' woman was she, As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash, 75 And were about to die. " A boon, a boon, my father dear, A boon I beg of thee ! " " Ask not that paughty Scottish lord. For him you ne'er shall see. 80 " But, for your honest asking else, Weel granted it shall be." " Then, gin I die in Southern land. In Scotland gar bury me. " And the first kirk that ye come to, 85 Ye'se gar the mass be sung; And the next kirk that ye come to, Ye'se gar the bells be rung; " And when ye come to St. Mary's kirk, Ye'se tarry there till night." 90 And so her father pledged his word, And so his promise plight. She has ta'en her to her bigly hour, As fast as she could fare, And she has drank a sleepy draught, 95 That she had mix'd wi' care. And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek, That was sae bright of blee ; 14 The Gay Goshawk And she seemed to be as surely dead As any one could be. They drapt a drap o' the burning red gowd, They drapt it on her chin; ' And ever alas ! " her mother cried, " There is nae life within." ') They drapt a drap o' the burning red gowd, 105 They drapt it on her breast-bane ; ' Alas ! " her seven bauld brothers said, " Our sister 's dead and gane." Then up arose her seven brethren, And hew'd to her a bier; no They hew'd it frae the solid aik, Laid it o'er wi' silver clear. Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell ; And every steek that they pat in, "S Sewed to a siller bell. The first Scots kirk that they cam to. They gar'd the bells be rung; The next Scots kirk that they cam to, They gar'd the mass be sung. 120 But when they cam to St. Mary's kirk. There stude spearmen all on raw ; 15 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And up and started Lord William, The chieftain amang them a'. " Set down, set down the bier," he said ; 125 " Let me look her upon." But as soon as Lord William touched her hand. Her colour began to come. She brightened like the lily-flower, Till her pale colour was gone; 130 With rosy cheek, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon. " A morsel of your bread, my lord. And one glass of your wine ; For I ha'e fasted these three lang days, ^35 All for your sake and mine. " Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers, Gae hame and blaw your horn! I trow you wad ha'e gi'en me the skaith. But I 've gi'en you the scorn." 140 " Ah ! woe to you, you light woman ; An ill death may you die ! For we left father and mother at hame, Breaking their hearts for thee." Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord. 16 YOUNG BEICHAN In London city was Beichan born, He long'd strange countries for to see, But he was ta'en by a savage Moor, Who handl'd him right cruelly. 4 For thro' his shoulder he put a bore, An' thro' the bore has pitten a tree, An' he 's gar'd him draw the carts o' wine, Where horse and oxen had wont to be. S He 's casten him in a dungeon deep. Where he cou'd neither hear nor see; He 's shut him up in a prison strong, An' he 's handl'd him right cruelly. 12 The savage Moor had but ae dochter, And her name it was Susie Pye, And ilka day as she took the air. The prison door she passed bye. ^^ But it fell ance upon a day. As she was walking, she heard him sing; She listen'd to his tale of woe, A happy day for young Beichan ! 20 17 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " My hounds they all go masterless, My hawks they flee frae tree to tree, My youngest brother will heir my lands, My native land I '11 never see." 24 " O were I but the prison-keeper, As I 'm a ladie o' hie degree, I soon wad set this youth at large, And send him to his ain country." 28 She went away into her chamber. All nicht she never closed her ee ; And when the morning begoud to dawn. At the prison door alane was she. 32 " O hae ye ony lands or rents, Or cities in your ain country, Cou'd free you out of prison strong. An' cou'd maintain a lady free ? " 3^ " O London city is my own, An' other cities twa or three, Cou'd loose me out o' prison strong. An' cou'd maintain a lady free." 40 O she has bribed her father's men Wi' meikle goud and white money, She 's gotten the key o' the prison doors, And she has set young Beichan free. 44 She 's gi'n him a loaf o' good white bread, But an' a flask o' Spanish wine, 18 young Beichan An' she bad' him mind on the lady's love That sae kindly freed him out o' pine. 48 Go set your foot on good ship-board, An' haste you back to your ain country, An' before that seven years has an end, Come back again, love, and marry me." 52 It was long or seven years had an end ; She long'd fu' sair her love to see ; She 's set her foot on good ship-board, An' turn'd her back on her ain country. 56 She 's sail'd up, so has she doun. Till she came to the other side ; She 's landed at young Beichan's gates. An' I hope this day she sail be his bride. 60 Is this young Beichan's gates?" says she, " Or is that noble prince within? " He 's up the stairs wi' his bonny bride. An' mony a lord and lady wi' him." ^4 O has he ta'en a bonny bride. An' has he clean forgotten me ! " An' sighing said that gay lady, " I wish I were in my ain country." 68 But she 's pitten her han' in her pocket, An' gi'n the porter guineas three ; Says, " Take ye that, ye proud porter. An' bid the bridegroom speak to me." 72 19. Little Masterpieces of En^^lish Poetry O whan the porter came up the stair, He 's fa'n low down upon his knee ; " Won up, won up, ye proud porter. An' what makes a' this courtesy?" 76 "01 've been porter at your gates This mair nor seven years an' three, But there is a lady at them now The like of whom I never did see. 80 ** For on every finger she has a ring. An' on the mid-finger she has three. An' there 's as meikle goud aboon her brow As would but an earldome o' Ian' to me." 84 Then up it started young Beichan, An' sware so loud by our Lady, " It can be nane but Susie Pye, That has come o'er the sea to me." 88 O quickly ran he down the stair, O' fifteen steps he has made but three ; He 's tane his bonny love in his arms, An' a wot he kiss'd her tenderly. 92 " O hae you tane a bonny bride ? An' hae you quite forsaken me ? An' hae ye quite forgotten her That gae you life and liberty ? " 96 She 's lookit o'er her left shoulder To hide the tears stood in her ee : The Bonny Earl of Murray Now fare thee well, young Beichan," she says, " I '11 strive to think nae mair on thee." 10° * Take back your daughter, madam," he says, " An' a double dowry I '11 gi' her wi' ; For I maun marry my first true love, That 's done and suffered so much for me." 104 He 's take his bonny love by the han', An' led her to yon fountain stane ; He 's changed her name frae Susie Pye, An' he 's call'd her his bonny love. Lady Jane. loS Child, Pop. Bal., No. 5sA (Gummere's Version). THE BONNY EARL OF MURRAY Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands, O where hae ye been ? They hae slain the Earl of Murray, And they laid him on the green. Now wae be to thee, Huntley ! ; And wherefore did ye sae? I bade you bring him wi' you. But forbade you him to slay. 21 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring ; i And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh he might have been a king ! He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the ba' ; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower amang them a' ! He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the glove ; And the bonny Earl of Murray, Oh he was the Queen's love ! Oh lang will his Lady Look o'er the Castle Down, Ere she see the Earl of Murray Come sounding thro' the town ! Child, Pop. Bal, No. 181A. THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON There was a youth, and a well-beloved youth. And he was a squire's son : He loved the bailiff's daughter dear, That lived in Islington. The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington Yet she was coy and would not believe 5 That he did love her so, No, nor at any time would she Any countenance to him show. But when his friends did understand His fond and foolish mind, *o They sent him up to fair London An apprentice for to bind. And when he had been seven long years, And never his love could see : " Many a tear have I shed for her sake, »5 When she little thought of me." Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and play. All but the bailiff's daughter dear; She secretly stole away. 20 She pulled off her gown of green, And put on ragged attire. And to fair London she would go Her true love to enquire. And as she went along the high road, 25 The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank, And her true love came riding by. She started up, with a color so red. Catching hold of his bridle-rein ; 3o 23 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " One penny, one penny, kind sir," she said, " Will ease me of much pain." " Before I give you one penny, sweetheart, Pray tell me where you were born." "At Islington, kind sir," said she, 35 " Where I have had many a scorn." " I prithee, sweetheart, then tell to me, O tell me, whether you know The bailiff's daughter of Islington." " She is dead, sir, long ago." 4° " If she be dead, then take my horse. My saddle and bridle also ; For I will into some far country, Where no man shall me know." '' O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth, 45 She standeth by thy side ; She is here alive, she is not dead, And ready to be thy bride." " O farewell grief, and welcome joy. Ten thousand times therefore; 5o For now I have found mine own true love, Whom I thought I should never see more.' Percy, Reliques. 24 HIND HORN " Hind Horn fair, and Hind Horn free, O where were you born, in what countrie?" " In gude green-wood, there I was born. And all my forebears me beforn. " O seven years I served the king, 5 And as for wages, I never gat nane; " But ae sight o' his ae daughter. And that was thro' an auger-bore. " My love ga'e me a siller wand, 'T was to rule over a' Scotland. ^o " And she ga'e me a gay gowd ring, The virtue o' 't was above a' thing. " ' As lang 's this ring it keeps the hue, Ye '11 know I am a lover true : ■ ' But when the ring turns pale and wan, ^5 Ye .'11 know I love another man.' " He hoist up sails, and awa' sail'd he, And sail'd into a far countrie. 25 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And when he look'd upon his ring. He knew she loved another man. 2 He hoist up sails and home came he, Home unto his ain countrie. The first he met on his own land, It chanc'd to be a beggar man. " What news, what news, my gude auld man ? 25 What news, what news ha'e ye to me ? " " Nae news, nae news," said the auld man, " The morn 's our queen's wedding day." "Will ye lend me your begging weed? And I '11 lend you my riding steed." 3o " My begging weed will ill suit thee, And your riding steed will ill suit me." But part be right, and part be wrang, Frae the beggar man the cloak he waa. " Auld man, come tell to me your leed ; 35 What news ye gi'e when ye beg your bread." " As ye walk up unto the hill. Your pike staff ye lend ye till. " But whan ye come near by the yett, Straight to them ye will upstep. 4o 26 Hind Horn " Take nane frae Peter, nor frae Paul, Nane frae high or low o' them all. " And frae them all ye will take nane, Until it comes frae the bride's ain hand." He took nane frae Peter nor frae Paul, 45 Nane frae the high nor low o' them all. And frae them all he would take nane, Until it came frae the bride's ain hand. The bride came tripping down the stair, The combs o' red gowd in her hair. 5o A cup o' red wine in her hand, And that she ga'e to the beggar man. Out o' the cup he drank the wine, And into the cup he dropt the ring. " O got ye 't by sea, or got ye 't by land, 55 Or got ye 't on a drown'd man's hand ? " " I got it not by sea, nor got it, by land, Nor got I it on a drown'd man's hand. " But I got it at my wooing gay, And I '11 gi'e 't you on your wedding day. " I '11 take the red gowd frae my head, And follow you, and beg my bread. 27 6o Little Masterpieces of English Poetry I '11 take the red gowd frae my hair, And follow you for evermair." Atween the kitchen and the ha', 65 He loot his cloutie cloak down fa', And wi' red gowd shone ower them a', And frae the bridegroom the bride he sta'. Child, Pop. Bal., No. 17H. WALY, WALY, UP THE BANK [jAMIE DOUGLAS] WALY, waly, up the bank. And waly, waly, doun the brae, And waly, waly, yon burn-side. Where I and my love wont to gae ! 1 lean'd my back unto an aik, I thocht it was a trustie tree ; But first it bow'd and syne it brak— Sae my true love did lichtlie me. O waly, waly, gin love be bonnie A little time while it is new ! But when 't is auld it waxeth cauld, And fades awa' like morning dew. 28 Waly, Waly, Up the Bank O wherefore should I busk my heid, Or wherefore should I kame my hair? For my true love has me forsook, And says he'll never lo'e me mair. i6 Now Arthur's Seat sail be my bed, The sheets sail ne'er be 'filed by me ; Saint Anton's well sail be my drink ; Since my true love has forsaken me. 20 Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves aff the tree? gentle Death, when wilt thou come? For of my life I am wearie. 24 'T is not the frost that freezes fell, Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie ; 'T is not sic cauld that makes me cry. But my love's heart grown cauld to me. 28 When we cam in by Glasgow toun. We were a comely sicht to see ; My love was clad in the black velvet, And I mysel' in cramasie. 32 But had I wist, before I kist, That love had been sae ill to win, 1 'd lock'd my heart in a case o' gowd, And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. 3^ 29 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And O ! if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee ; And I mysel' were dead and gane, For a maid again I '11 never be. 40 Child, Pop. Bal., No. 204a AULD ROBIN GRAY When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye 's come hame, And a' the warld to rest are gane, The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, Unkent by my gudeman, wha sleeps sound by me. 4 Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride ; But saving ae croun-piece he had naething else beside : To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund — they were baith for me. ^ He hadna been awa' a week but only twa. When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa' ; My mother she fell sick — and my Jamie at the sea — And auld Robin Gray came a-courting me. i- 30 Auld Robin Gray My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin ; I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win ; Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e Said, " Jennie, for their sakes, will ye no marry me ? " My heart it said nay ; I look'd for Jamie back ; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; His ship it was a wrack— Why didna Jamie dee? Or why am I spared to cry, Wae 's me ! -o My father urged me sair : my mother didna speak ; But she look'd in my face' till my heart was like to break : They gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me. 24 I hadna been a wife a week but only four. When mournfu" as I sat on the stane at my door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, — for I couldna think it he. Till he said, " I 'm come hame, love, to marry thee." -'8 sair, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a' ; 1 gi'ed him but ae kiss, and bade him gang awa' : 31 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry I wish that I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee ; For, though my heart is broken, I 'm but young, wae 's me ! 32 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to spin ; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I '11 do my best a gude wife aye to be. For auld Robin Gray he is kind to me. 36 177 1' Lady Anne Lindsay. BLACK-EYED SUSAN All in the Downs the fleet was moored. The streamers waving in the wind. When black-eyed Susan came aboard; " O, where shall I my true-love find? Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true, If my sweet William sails among the crew." ^ William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro. Soon as her well-known voice he heard. He sighed, and cast his eyes below: The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. 12 32 Black-eyed Susan So the sweet lark, high poised in air, Shuts close his pinions to his breast. If chance his mate's shrill call he hear. And drops at once into her nest: — The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. i8 O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. 24 Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind: They '11 tell thee, sailors, when away. In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe t-hem when they tell thee so, For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. 3° If to fair India's coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright. Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. 36 Though battle call me from thy arms, Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his dear return. 33 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." 42 The boatswain gave the dreadful word. The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard : They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; " Adieu ! " she cried ; and waved her lily hand. 48 1720. John Gay. THE SAILOR'S WIFE And are ye sure the news is true ? And are ye sure he 's weel ? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jades, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread. When Colin's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there 's nae luck about the house, There 's nae luck at a' ; There 's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman 's awa'. 12 And gie to me my bigonet. My bishop's-satin gown ; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin 's in the town. 34 The Sailor's Wife My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockin's pearly blue ; It 's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he 's baith leal and true. Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot ; Gie little Kate her button gown. And Jock his Sunday coat ; And mak their shoon as black as slaes. Their hose as white as snaw ; It 's a' to please my ain gudeman. For he 's been long awa'. 28 There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair ; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare ; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw. For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa'? 36 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air ; His very foot has music in 't As he comes up the stair, — And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I 'm like to greet ! 41 35 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry If Colin 's weel, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave : And gin I live to keep him sae I 'm blest aboon the lave : And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I 'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I 'm like to greet. For there 's nae luck about the house, There 's nae luck at a' ; There 's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman 's awa'. 56 1769. W. J. Mickle. LOCHINVAR LADY heron's SONG From Marmion Oh ! young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war. There never was knight like the young Lochin- var. 6 Lochinvar He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But ere he ahghted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochin- var. ^- So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, — For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — Oh ! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochin- var?"- i8 I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far. That would gladly be bride to the young Loch- Zl Little Masterpieces of English Poetry The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, — " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Loch- invar. 30 So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume. And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 36 One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the chacger stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. 42 38 The Maid of Neidpath There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch- invar? 48 1808. Sir Walter Scott. THE MAID OF NEIDPATH O, lovers' eyes are sharp to see, And lovers' ears in hearing; And love in life's extremity Can lend an hour of cheering. Disease had been in Mary's bower, And slow decay from mourning, Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower To watch her love's returning. ^ All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, Her form decayed by pining, Till through her wasted hand at night You saw the taper shining; 39 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry By fits, a sultry hectic hue Across her cheek was flying; By fits, so ashy pale she grew, Her maidens thought her dying. i6 Yet keenest powers to see and hear Seemed in her frame residing ; Before the watch-dog pricked his ear, She heard her lover's riding; Ere scarce a distant form was kenned. She knew, and waved to greet him ; And o'er the battlement did bend, As on the wing to meet him. 24 He came— he passed— an heedless gaze. As o'er some stranger glancing; Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, Lost in his courser's prancing — The castle arch, whose hollow tone Returns each whisper spoken, Could scarcely catch the feeble moan Which told her heart was- broken. 32 1806. Sir Walter Scott. A WEARY LOT IS THINE From Rokeby "A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid. And press the rue for wine ! 40 Brignall Banks A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, — No more of me you knew. My love! No more of me you knew. This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again." He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore. He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said " Adieu for evermore, My love! And adieu for evermore." Sir M' alter Scott. BRIGNALL BANKS From Rokehy O, Brignall banks are wild and fair. And Greta woods are green. And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton-hall, Beneath the turrets high, 41 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily, — " O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair. And Greta woods are green; I 'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen." 12 " If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may. Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, As blithe as Queen of May." Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, * And Greta woods are green ; I 'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen. 24 " I read you, by your bugle horn, And by your palfry good, I read you for a ranger sworn To keep the king's greenwood." ** A ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 't is at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn. And mine at dead of night." Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay ; I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May ! 36 42 Brignall Banks " With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum." " I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. And O, though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare Would reign my Queen of May ! 48 " Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I '11 die ; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I ! And when I 'm with my comrades met Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget. Nor think what we are now. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green. And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen." 60 18 1 3. Sir Walter Scott. 45 LOVE All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. 4 Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay. Beside the ruined tower. 8 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! 12 She leant against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. ^6 Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. 20 44 Love I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story— An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. 24 She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. 28 I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. 32 I told her how he pined : and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. 36 She listened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! 40 But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; 44 That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, 45 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, — 48 There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ! 52 And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land ! 5^ And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;— 60 And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away. When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay;— 64 His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faultering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! 68 All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; 72 46 Love And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An iindistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long ! 7t\t^i j i\' ton of a ship. (Heavens Mother send us grace!), As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd With broad and burning face. 180 Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres? 184 And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The Spectre- Woman and her Death-mate, and no other, on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew! Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner. " Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that Woman's mate? ^89 " Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold : Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. •'94 " The naked hulk alongside came. And the twain were casting dice; ' The game is done ! I 've won ! I 've won I ' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. ^98 IS8 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. No twilight within the courts of the Sun. " We Hsten'd and look'd sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seem'd to sip ! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white ; From the sails the dew did drip — Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. 211 At the rising of the Moon, One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh. Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. 215 one after another. " Four times fifty living men (And I heard nor sigh nor groan), With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropp'd down one by one. 219 his shipmates drop down dead. The souls did from their bodies fly — They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul, it pass'd me by Like the whizz of my crossbow ! " 159 22Z But Life-in- Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner. Little Masterpieces of English Poetry PART IV The Wedding- Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him. I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 227 But the an- cient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and pro- ceedeth to re- late his horrible penance. I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand so brown." — Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! This body dropt not down. 231 Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. 235 He despiseth The many men, so beautiful ! the creatures of . , , ,, , ,,.,,. the calm. And they all dead did he : And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did I. 239 And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead. " I look'd upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away ; I look'd upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. 160 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner " I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky. Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. 252 The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they look'd on me But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. Had never pass'd away. " An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. 2s6 262 " The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide ; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside — 266 stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. In his loneli- ness and fixedness he yearneth toward the journeying Moon, and the Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. 161 271 By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's crea- tures of the great calm. Little Masterpieces of English Poetry ' Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watch'd the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they rear'd, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. 276 " Within the shadow of the slap I watch'd their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coil'd and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. 281 Their beauty and their happiness. He blesseth them in his heart. O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gush'd from my heart, And I bless'd them unaware : Sure my kind saint took pity on mb, And I bless'd them unaware. 287 The spell begins to break. The selfsame moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. 291 PART V O sleep ! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. 162 296 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remain'd, I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew ; And when I awoke, it rain'd. 300 By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs : I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost. 308 And soon I heard a roaring wind : It did not come anear ; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere. 312 The upper air burst into life ! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about ! And to and fro, and in and out. The wan stars danced between. 3^7 He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element. " And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud ; The Moon was at its edge. 321 163 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry ' The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side ; Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. 326 The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on : The loud wind never reach'd the ship, Yet now the ship moved on ! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. 330 They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose. Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. 334 but not by the souls of the men, nor by daemons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down t)y the invocation of the guardian saint. " The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on ; Yet never a breeze up-blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do ; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — We were a ghastly crew. 34o " The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee : The body and I pull'd at one rope, But he said naught to me." 344 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " " Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 'T was not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest : 349 164 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner " For when it dawn'd— they dropp'd their arms, And cluster'd round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies pass'd. 353 " Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mix'd, now one by one. 357 " Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seem'd to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! 362 " And now 't was like all instruments. Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the Heavens be mute. 366 " It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. 37^ " Till noon we quietly sail'd on. Yet never a breeze did breathe : Slowly and smoothly went the ship. Moved onward from beneath. 376 i6s The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " Under the keel nine fathom deep From the land of mist and snow The Spirit slid : and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left ofT their tune, And the ship stood still also. 382 The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fix'd her to the ocean : But in a minute she 'gan stir. With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. 38S Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound : It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. 392 The Polar Spirit's fellow- daemons, the invisible inhabi tants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. " How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life return'd, T heard, and in my soul discern'd Two voices in the air. By Him who died on cross, With his cruel blow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. " ' The Spirit who abideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, 166 397 401 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' 40s " The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew : Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.' 409 PART VI First Voice: " ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again. Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the Ocean doing?' 413 Second Voice: " ' Still as a slave before his lord, The Ocean hath no blast ; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast — 417 " ' If he may know which way to go ; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see ! how graciously She looketh down on him.' First Voice: " ' But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind ? ' Second Voice: " ' The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. 167 421 The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure. Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go. When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 4^ The super- natural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew. I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather : 'T was night, calm night, the Moon was high ; The dead men stood together. 433 All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter : All fix'd on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. 437 The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never pass'd away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. 44i The curse is finally expiated. And now this spell was snapt : once more I viewed the ocean green, And look'd far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — 445 " Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread. And having once turn'd round, walks on. And turns no more his head ; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. i68 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made : Its path was not upon the sea, hi ripple or in shade. 4SS It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring — It mingled strangely with my fears. Yet it felt like a welcoming. " Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sail'd softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze- On me alone it blew. 463 O dream of joy! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? And the ancient Mariner be- holdeth his native country. 467 " We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray — O let me be awake, my God ! Or let me sleep alway. 471 " The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn ! And on the bay the moonlight lay. And the shadow of the Moon. 475 " The rock shone bright, the kirk no less That stands above the rock : 169 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry The moonlight steep'd in silentness The steady weathercock. 479 The angelic "And the bay was white with silent light spirits leave the t^-ii • • r a_i dead bodies, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. 483 and appear in A little distance from the prow their own forms rr^, . , , of light. Those crimson shadows were : I turn'd my eyes upon the deck- O Christ ! what saw I there ! 487 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. 491 ' This seraph-band, each waved his hand It was a heavenly sight ! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light ; 495 *' This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart — No voice ; but Oh ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. " But soon I heard a dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer ; My head was turn'd perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. 170 503 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast : Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. S07 I saw a third — I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good ! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He '11 shrieve my soul, he '11 wash away The Albatross's blood. 513 PART VII " This Hermit good lives in that wood The Hermit Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. S18 He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump : It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. 522 The skiff-boat near'd : I heard them talk, Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair, 'That signal made but now?' 5^6 171 approacheth the ship with wonder. Little Masterpieces of English Poetry ' * Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said — ' And they answer'd not our cheer ! The planks look warp'd ! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere ! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were 53^ ' Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along;. When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young.' * Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look- (The Pilot made reply) I am a-fear'd.' — ' Push on, push on ! Said the Hermit cheerily. 541 The boat came closer to the ship. But I nor spake nor stirr'd ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. 545 The ship sud- denly sinketh. " Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread : It reach'd the ship, it split the bay ; The ship went down like lead. 549 The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound. Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drown'd My body lay afloat ; 172 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. 555 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. 559 I moved my lips — the Pilot shriek'd And fell down in a fit ; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And pray'd where he did sit. 563 " I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. * Ha ! ha I ' quoth he, * full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.' 569 And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat. And scarcely he could stand. 573 ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ' The Hermit cross'd his brov/. Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou ? ' 577 173 The ancient Mariner earnestly en- treateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the pen- ance of life falls on him. Little Masterpieces of English Poetry * Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale ; And then it left me free. sSi And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land; Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns : And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. 58s I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me : To him my tale I teach. 59o *' What loud uproar bursts from that door ! The wedding-guests are there : But in the garden-bower the Bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark, the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer ! 596 O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea : So lonely 't was, that God Himself Scarce seemed there to be. 600 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'T is sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — 174 604 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner " To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay ! 609 " Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. " He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all," 613 617 and to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth. The Mariner, whose eye is bright. Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest Turn'd from the Bridegroom's door. 621 He went like one that hath been stunn'd, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. 6-25 1798. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 175 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND Ye Mariners of England ! That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years> The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe ! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! — For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. ■ Britannia needs no bulwarks. No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. 176 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below, — As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow ; When the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow. 3o The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn ; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name. When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more. And the storm has ceased to blow. 4<> iSoi. Thomas Campbell. THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND The breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; 4 And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. ^ 177 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame. i Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear, — They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. i6 Amidst the storm they sang. And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. -^ The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam. And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — This was their welcome home. 24 There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim-band, — Why had they come to wither there. Away from their childhood's land? 28 There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high. And the fiery heart of youth. 2,2 17S The Inchcape Rock What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? —They sought a faith's pure shrine! 36 Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ; They have left unstained what there they found, — Freedom to worship God. 4° [g28. Felicia Dorothea He mans. THE INCHCAPE ROCK No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, — The ship was as still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion; Her keel was steady in the ocean. 4 Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock; So little they rose, so little they fell. They did not move the Inchcape bell. ^ The holy Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. i- 179 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry When the rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning bell ; And then they knew the perilous rock, And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. i6 The sun in heaven was shining gay, — All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around, And there was joyance in their sound. ■20 The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen, A darker speck on the ocean green ; Sir Ralph, the rover, walked his deck. And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. 24 He felt the cheering power of spring, — It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess ; But the rover's mirth was wickedness. ^8 His eye was on the bell and float : Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat ; And row me to the Inchcape rock, And I '11 plague the priest of Aberbrothok." 32 The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape rock they go ; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. And cut the warning bell from the float. 36 180 The Inchcape Rock Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound ; The bubbles rose, and burst around. Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the rock Will not bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." 40 Sir Ralph, the rover, sailed away, — He scoured the seas for many a day; And now, grown rich with plundered store. He steers his course to Scotland's shore. 44 So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the sun on high ; The wind hath blown a gale all day; At evening it hath died away. 48 On the deck the rover takes his stand ; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon." S- Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For yonder, methinks, should be the shore. Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell." 56 They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; Though the v^^ind hath fallen, they drift along; Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — O Christ ! it is the Inchcape rock ! 60 i8r Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair; He cursed himself in his despair. The waves rush in on every side ; The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 64 But ever in his dying fear One dreadful sound he seemed to hear, — A sound as if with the Inchcape bell The Devil below was ringing his knell. 68 1801. Robert Southey. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. 4 Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day. And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. 8 The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth. And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. ^^ 182 The Wreck of the Hesperus Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. ^6 Last night, the moon had a golden ring. And to-night no moon we see ! " The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. 20 Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. -4 Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shuddered and paused, like a frightened steed, Then leaped her cable's length. 28 Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter,. And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." 32 He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar, A.nd bound her to the mast. 3^ 183 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " O father ! I hear the church-bells ring, O say, what may it be ? " " 'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast ! "— And he steered for the open sea. 4o " O father ! I hear the sound of guns, O say, what may it be ? " " Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea ! " 44 " O father ! I see a gleaming light, O say, what may it be? " But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. 48 Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark. With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. 52 Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. 56 And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 60 184 The Wreck of the Hesperus And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 64 The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. 68 She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. 7 2 Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 7^ At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast. To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. So The salt sea was frozen on her breast. The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, On the billows fall and rise. ^4^ 185 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow ! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe ! S 1S39. Henry Wadswortli Longfcllozv. SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death ; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath. His lordly ships of ice Glisten in the sun ; On each side, like pennons wide. Flashing crystal streamlets run. His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain ; But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main. Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed ; Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas ! the land-wind failed. Alas ! the land-wind failed. And ice-cold grew the night ; 186 Sir Humphrey Gilbert And nevermore, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 20 He sat upon the deck. The Book was in his hand ; " Do not fear ! Heaven is as near," He said, " by water as by land ! " 24 In the first watch of the night, Without a signal's sound, Out of the sea, mysteriously, The fleet of Death rose all around. 28 The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds ; Every mast, as it passed, Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 32 They grappled with their prize. At midnight black and cold ! As of a rock was the shock ; Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 36 Southward through day and dark. They drift in close embrace, With mist and rain, o'er the open main ; Yet there seems no change of place. 40 Southward, forever southward, They drift through dark and day ; And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream Sinking, vanish all away. 44 .8. Henry Wadswortli Longfellozv. 187 HERVE RIEL On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the EngHsh fight the French, — woe to France ! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to Saint Malo on the Ranee, With the English fleet in view. ^ 'T was the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase ; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville ; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place Help the winners of a race ! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick — or, quicker still. Here 's the English can and will!" m i88 Herve Riel Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board ; " Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass ? " laughed they : ■ Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored. Shall the ' Formidable ' here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 't is ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 't is slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay ! " 25 Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: Here 's the English at our heels ; would you have them take in tow All that 's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground ! " (Ended Damfreville his speech). Not a minute more to wait ! Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach ! France must undergo her fate. 36 189 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " Give the word ! " But no such word Was ever spoke or heard ; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these — A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate — first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete ! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tour- ville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 44 And " What mockery or malice have we here? " cries Herve Riel : " Are you mad, you Malouins ? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell, 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay. Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor. Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues ! 190 Herve Riel Sirs, they know I speak the truth ! Sirs, be- lieve me there 's a way ! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer. Get this ' Formidable ' clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound ; And if one ship misbehave, — Keel so much as grate the ground. Why I 've nothing but my life, — here 's my head ! " cries Herve Riel. 65 Not a minute more to wait. Steer us in, then, small and great ! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! " cried its chief. Captains, give the sailor place ! He is Admiral, in brief. Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! See the noble fellow's face As the big ship, with a bound. Clears the entry like a hound. Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide sea's profound ! See, safe through shoal and rock. How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief ! 191 Little Masterpieces of English Poetiy The peril, see, is past. All are harbored to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor! " — sure as fate. Up the English come — too late! 83 So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. " Just our rapture to enhance. Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance As they cannonade away ! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee ! " How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance ! Out burst all with one accord, " This is Paradise for Hell ! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing ! " What a shout, and all one word, " Herve Riel ! " As he stepped in front once more. Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes. Just the same man as before. io3 Then said Damfreville, " My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. 192 Herve Riel Praise is deeper than the Hps : You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith, our sun was near eclipse ! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. • Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name 's not Damfreville." ^^3 Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke. As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue : Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty 's done. And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run? — Since 't is ask and have, I may — Since the others go ashore — Come ! A good whole holiday ! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore ! " That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. ^-5 Name and deed alike are lost : Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell Not a head in white and black On a single fishing-smack, 193 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris : rank on rank Search the heroes fiung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank ! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse ! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife. the Belle Aurore ! mo 1871. Robert Broivning. 194 WAR THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN It fell about the Lammas tide, When the muir-men win their hay, The doughty Douglas bound him to ride Into England, to drive a prey. He chose the Gordons and the Graemes, With them the Lindesays, light and gay ; But the Jardines wald not with him ride, And they rue it to this day. And he has burned the dales of Tyne, And part of Bamb'rough shire ; And three good towers on Reidswire fells, He left them all on fire. And he marched up to Newcastle, And rode it round about ; " O wha 's the lord of this castle, Or wha 's the lady o't?" But up spake proud Lord Percy, then. And O but he spake hie ! " I am the lord of this castle, My wife 's the lady gay." 107 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry *' If thou 'rt the lord of this castle, Sae weel it pleases me ! For, ere I cross the Border fells, The tane of us shall die." He took a lang spear in his hand, 25 Shod with the metal free, And for to meet the Douglas there. He rode right furiouslie. But O how pale his lady looked, Frae aff the castle wa', 3^ When down before the Scottish spear She saw proud Percy fa'. " Had we twa been upon the green. And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell ; 35 But your sword sail gae wi' me," " But gae ye up to Otterburn, And wait there dayis three ; And if I come not ere three dayis end, A fause knight ca' ye me." ^'' " The Otterburn 's a bonny burn ; 'T is pleasant there to be ; But there is nought at Otterburn, To feed my men and me. " The deer rms wild on hill and dale, '^' The birds fly wild from tree to tree ; ic8 The Battle of Otterburn But there is neither bread nor kale, To fend rny men and me. " Yet I will stay at Otterburn, Where you shall welcome be ; so And, if ye come not at three day is end, A fause lord I '11 ca' thee." '' Thither will I come," proud Percy said, " By the might of Our Ladie ! " " There will I bide thee," said the Douglas, 55 " My trowth I plight to thee." They lighted high on Otterburn Upon the bent sae brown ; They lighted high on Otterburn, And threw their pallions down. 60 And he that had a bonny boy. Sent out his horse to grass ; And he that had not a bonny boy, His ain servant he was. But up then spake a little page, 65 Before the peep of dawn : " O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord. For Percy 's hard at hand." '' Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! Sae loud I hear ye lie : 7° For Percy had not men yestreen To dight my men and me. 199 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry * But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Sky ; I saw a dead man win a fight, 75 And I think that man was I." He belted on his guid braid sword, And to the field he ran ; But he forgot the helmet good, That should have kept his brain. 80 When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wat he was fu' fain ! They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain. But Percy with his guid braid sword, 85 That could so sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, Till he fell to the ground. Then he called on his little foot-page, And said, " Run speedily, 90 And fetch my ain dear sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomery, " My nephew good," the Douglas said, " What recks the death of ane ! Last night I dreamed a dreary dream, 95 And I ken the day 's thy ain. "My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the three, Tlie Battle of Otterburn And hide me by the braken bush. That grows on yonder Hly lee. ^'^o O bury me by the braken bush, Beneath the blooming brier, Let never living mortal ken. That ere a kindly Scot lies here.'' He lifted up that noble lord, io5 Wi' the saut tear in his e'e ; He hid him in the braken bush, That his merry men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near. The spears in flinders flew, ^"^ But mony a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew. The Gordons good, in English blood. They steeped their hose and shoon ; The Lindesays flew like fire about, "5 Till all the fray was done. The Percy and Montgomery met ; That either of other were fain ; They swapped swords, and they twa swat, And aye the blood ran down between. i-o Yield thee, O yield thee, Percy," he said. '' Or else I vow I *1I lay thee low ! " Whom to shall I yield," said Earl Percy. " Now that I see it must be so? " Little Masterpieces of English Poetry "Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, ^^s Nor yet shalt thou yield to me ; But yield thee to the braken bush. That grows upon yon lily lee ! " " I will not yield to a braken bush, Nor yet will I yield to a brier; uo But I would yield to Earl Douglas. Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here." As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, He struck his sword's point in the grond; The Montgomery was a courteous knight, us And quickly took him by the bond. This deed was done at Otterburn About the breaking of the day ; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, And the Percy led captive away. ^4o Scotf, Minst. Scot. Bord. AGINCOURT To the Cambro-Britains and their Harp, his Ballad of Agincourt Fair stood the wind for France When we our sails advance. Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry ; 202 Agincourt But putting to the main. At Caux. the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train Landed King Harry: 8 And taking many a fort Furnish'd in warlike sort, Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt In happy hour ; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopp'd his way, Where the French gen'ral lay With all his power. i6 Which, in his height of pride. King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide Unto him sending; Which he neglects the while As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. 24 And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then: ' Though they to one be ten, Be not amazed : Yet have we well begun ; Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. 32 203 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry "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. 40 " 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 Lopp'd the French lilies." 48 The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led ; With the main Henry sped Among his hench-men. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there, — O Lord, how hot they were On the false Frenchmen ! 56 They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, — To hear was wonder. 204 Agincourt That with the cries they make The very earth did shake ; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. 64 Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham. Which didst the signal aim To our hid forces ; When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly The English archery Stuck the French horses, r^ With Spanish yew so strong. Arrows a cloth-yard long That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather ; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts. Stuck close together. 80 When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilbos drew. And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy ; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent. Down the French peasants went. Our men were hardy. ^S 205 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry This while our noble king, His broad sword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'er-whelm it ; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet. 96 Gloster, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood With his brave brother; Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. ^04 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. i" Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry : Boadicea O when shall English men With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry! ^' 1605, Michael Drayton. BOADICEA When the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien. Counsel of her country's gods, 4 Sage beneatfe the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief ; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief: ^ " Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'T is because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues, " " Rome shall perish, — write that word In the blood that she has spilt ; Perish, hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt. ^^ *' Rome, for empire far renowned. Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground, — Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! 20 207 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. -4 " Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. 28 *' Regions Csesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway. Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they." 3- Such the bard's prophetic words. Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. 3^ She. with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow ; Rushed to battle, fought and died, — Dying, hurled them at the foe. 40 Ruffians, pitiless as proud. Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestowed. Shame and ruin wait for you ! -1 ^ 1782. WUUam Coii'l'^r. 208 BONNY DUNDEE To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke, " Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke ; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me. Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 4 Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can. Come saddle your horses and call up your men ; Come open the West Port and let me gang free. And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee ! " ^ Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street. The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat ; But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee." i- As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Pik carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; 209 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee! i6 With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged ; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e. As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. 20 These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; But they shrunk to close-heads and the cause- way was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee, 24 He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke ; " Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three, For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee," ^8 The Gordon demands of him which way he goes — " Where'er shall direct me the shade of Mon- trose ! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me. Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 32 210 Bonny Dundee "' There are hills beyond Pentland and lands be- yond Forth, If there 's lords in the Lowlands, there 's chiefs in the North ; There are wild Dunie wassals three thousand times three, Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 36 " There 's brass on the target of barkened bull- hide ; There 's steel in the scabbard that dangles be- side ; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free, At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 40 " Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks — Ere I own an usurper, I '11 couch with the fox ; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, ■ You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me ! " 44 He waved his proud hand and the trumpets were blown. The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on. Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dun- dee. 45 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the men ; Come open your gates and let me gae free. For it 's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee! 52 1825. 1830. Sir Walter Scott. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM Our bugles sang truce, — for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground over- powered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 4 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain ; At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw. And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. ^ Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array. Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 212 The Soldier's Dream 'T was autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. ^^ I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn- reapers sung. ^6 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore. From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 20 Stay, stay with us, — rest, thou art weary and worn ! " And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn. And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 24 1800. Thomas Campbell. 213 HOHENLINDEN On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly, 4 But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. 8 By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry. i- Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven ; And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery. ^6 But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 2<> 2T4 The Battle of the Baltic 'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. -4 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. And charge with all thy chivalry ! -8 Few, few shall part, where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 2>2 iSoo. Thomas Campbell. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC Of Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown. When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown. And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand. And the Prince of all the land Led them on.— 9 Like leviathans afloat. Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: 215 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death ; And the boldest held his breath For a time. — ^^ But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene ; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. " Hearts of oak ! " our captains cried, when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. ^7 Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — Then ceased — and all is wail, As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. ■SS Out spoke the victor then. As he hail'd them o'er the wave : " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! And we conquer but to save: — 216 The Battle of the Baltic So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King." — 45 Then Denmark bless'd our chief, That he gave her wounds repose ; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose. As Death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, M'^here the fires of funeral light Died away. 54 Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might. By the festal cities' blaze, Wliilst the wine-cup shines in light ; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep. By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! 63 Brave hearts ! to Briton's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died ; With the gallant good Riou : Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their 217 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!— 72 1809. Thomas Campbell. AFTER BLENHEIM It was a summer evening. Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 6 She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found ; He came to ask what he had found That was so large, and smooth, and round. ^^ Old Kaspar took it from the boy^ Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, " 'T is some poor fellow's skull," said he, " Who fell in the great victory. 18 ** I find them in the garden. For there 's many here about ; 218 30 After Blenheim And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out ! For many thousand men," said he, ' Were slain in that great victory." ' Now tell us what 't was all about," Young Peterkin, he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes ; ' Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." ' It was the English," Kaspar cried, " Who put the French to rout ; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out ; But every body said," quoth he, ' That 't was a famous victory. ' My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ; They burnt his dwelling to the ground. And he was forced to fly ; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide. And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died ; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. 4» 219 36 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun ; But things Hke that, you know, must be After a famous victory. 5* ** Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." " Why 't was a very wicked thing ! " Said little Wilhelmine. " Nay . . nay . . my little girl," quoth he, " It was a famous victory. 60 " And every body praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." " But what good came of it at last ? " Quoth little Peterkin. " Why that I cannot tell," said he, " But 't was a famous victory." ^6 j^g8. Robert Southey. IVRY A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! 220 Ivry Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, 5 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war. Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. ^° Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; is And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a trun- cheon in his hand : And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, 221 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And good Coligni's hoary hair aM dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. 20 The King is come to marshal us, in all his ar- mour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from.' wing to wing, -5 Down all our line, a deafening shout, " God save our Lord the King ! " ' And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may. For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." 30 Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. 222 Ivry The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentle- men of France, 35 Charge for the golden lilies, — upon them with the lance. A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou- sand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest ; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. 40 Now, God be praised, the day is ours. May- enne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, 45 " Remember Saint Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, " No Frenchman is my foe : 22-^ Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the sol- dier of Navarre? so Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day ; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, 55 The cornet white, with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war. Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. 60 Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lu- cerne ; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. 224 Song of Marion's Men Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; 65 Ho ! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave. And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. 7° 1824. Lord Macaulay. SONG OF MARION'S MEN Our band is few but true and tried. Our leader frank and bold ; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree ; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. 225 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. i Wo to the English soldiery That little dread us near ! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear : When, waking to their tents on fire. They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again ; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil : We talk the battle over. And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. 36 226 Song of Marion's Men Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads — The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'T is life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain ; 'T is life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp — A moment— and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. 48 Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs ; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, For ever, from our shore. 60 1831. William Cullen Bryant. 227 A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET OCTOBER, 1746 A FLEET with flags arrayed Sailed from the port of Brest, And the Admiral's ship displayed The signal : " Steer southwest." For this Admiral D'Anville Had sworn by cross and crown To ravage with fire and steel Our helpless Boston Town. There were rumors in the street, In the houses there was fear Of the coming of the fleet. And the danger hovering near. And while from mouth to mouth Spread the tidings of dismay, I stood in the Old South, Saying humbly : " Let us pray ! " O Lord ! we would not advise ; But if in thy Providence A tempest should arise To drive the French Fleet hence, 228 A Ballad of the French Fleet And scatter it far and wide, Or sink it in the sea, We should be satisfied, And thine the glory be." ^4 This was the prayer I made, For my soul was all on flame. And even as I prayed The answering tempest came ; It came with a mighty power, Shaking the windows and walls, And tolling the bell in the tower, As it tolls at funerals. 3^ The lightning suddenly Unsheathed its flaming sword, And I cried : '' Stand still, and see The salvation of the Lord ! " The heavens were black with cloud, The sea was white with hail. And ever more fierce and loud Blew the October gale. 40 The fleet it overtook, And the broad sails in the van Like the tents of Cushan shook, Or the curtains of Midian. Down on the reeling decks Crashed the o'erwhelming seas ; Ah, never were there wrecks So pitiful as these ! 48 229 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Like a potter's vessel broke The great ships of the line ; They were carried away as a smoke, Or sank Hke lead in the brine. O Lord ! before thy path They vanished and ceased to be, When thou didst walk in wrath With thine horses through the sea ! s^ 187^. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. CARMEN BELLICOSUM In their ragged regimentals. Stood the old Continentals, Yielding not, While the grenadiers were lunging, And like hail fell the plunging Cannon-shot ; When the files Of the isles. From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant Unicorn ; And grummer, grummer, grummer, rolled the roll of the drummer Through the morn ! Then with eyes to the front all. And with guns horizontal. Stood our sires ; 230 Carmen Bellicosum While the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly- Blazed the fires : As the roar On the shore Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green- sodded acres Of the plain ; And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain ! 24 Now like smiths at their forges Worked the red St. George's Cannoneers, And the villainous saltpetre Rang a fierce, discordant metre Round their ears : As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger, came the horseguards' clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher, burned the old- fashioned fire Through the ranks ! 36 Then the bare-headed colonel Galloped through the white infernal Powder-cloud ; 231 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And his broad sword was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet-loud ; Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle-breath ; And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared the iron six-pounder. Hurling death! 48 tS4g. Guy Humphreys McMaster. MONTEREY We were not many, we who stood Before the iron sleet that day; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have been with us at Monterey. 5 Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. 10 And on, still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way ; Where fell the dead, the living stept. Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey. ^5 232 The Black Regiment The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay. We swooped his flanking batteries past, And braving full their murderous blast, Stormed hom.e the towers of Monterey. 20 Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange-boughs above their grave, Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. 25 We are not many, we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day ; But who of us has not confessed He 'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey? 3o 1847? Charles Fenno Hoffman. THE BLACK REGIMENT MAY 27TH, 1863 Dark as the clouds of even. Ranked in the western heaven, Waiting the breath that lifts All the dead mass, and drifts Tempest and falling brand Over a ruined land; — 233 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry So still and orderly, Arm to arm, knee to knee. Waiting the great event, Stands the black regiment. i Down the long dusky line Teeth gleam and eyeballs shine ; And the bright bayonet, Bristling and firmly set, Flashed with a purpose grand, Long ere the sharp command Of the fierce rolling drum Told them their time had come, Told them what work was sent For the black regiment. ^o " Now," the flag-sergeant cried, " Though death and hell betide. Let the whole nation see If we are fit to be Free in this land ; or bound Down, like the whining hound — Bound with red stripes of pain In our cold chains again ! " Oh ! what a shout there went From the black regiment 1 3o " Charge ! " Trump and drum awoke, Onward the bondmen broke; Bayonet and sabre-stroke Vainly opposed their rush, 234 The Black Regiment Through the wild battle's crush, With but one thought aflush, Driving their lords like chaff, In the guns' mouths they laugh; Or at the slippery brands Leaping with open hands, Down they tear man and horse, Down in their awful course ; Trampling with bloody heel Over the crashing steel, All their eyes forward bent, Rushed the black regiment. 46 ' Freedom ! " their battle-cry, — ' Freedom ! or leave to die ! " Ah ! and they meant the word, Not as with us 't is heard, Not a mere party shout : They gave their spirits out ; Trusted the end to God, And on the gory sod Rolled in triumphant blood. Glad to strike one free blow, Whether for weal or woe ; Glad to breathe one free breath. Though on the lips of death. Praying — alas ! in vain ! — That they might fall again. So they could once more see That burst to liberty! This was what " freedom " lent To the black regiment. 65 235 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Hundreds on hundreds fell ; But they are resting well ; Scourges and shackles strong Never shall do them wrong. Oh, to the living few, Soldiers, be just and true! Hail them as comrades tried ; , Fight with them side by side; Never, in field or tent, Scorn the black regiment ! 75 1864. George Henry Boker. BARBARA FRIETCHIE Up from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. ' Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep. Fair as a garden of the L^rd To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, ^ On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain-wall; Over the mountains winding down. Horse and foot, into Frederick town. ^■ 236 Barbara Frietchie Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind : the sun Of noon looked doAvn, and saw not one. ^6 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 20 In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. ^4 Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced ; the old flag met his sight. Halt ! " — the dust-brown ranks stood fast. Fire ! "—out blazed the rifle-blast. 28 It shivered the window, pane and sash ; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf. 32 She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. 237 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. 36 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came ; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word : 40 ' Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet : 44 All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 48 And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 52 Honor to her ! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! s6 238 Incident of the French Camp Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law ; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 60 1863. John Greenleaf Whittier. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how. Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. 8 Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans That soar, to earth may fall. Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall," — Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. 16 239 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Then off there flung in smiHng joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect — (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. 24 " Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace We 've got you Ratisbon ! The marshal 's in the market-place, And you '11 be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his plans Soared up again like fire. 32 The chief's eye flashed ; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes ; " You 're wounded ! " " Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said : " I 'm killed, sire ! " And his chief beside, Smiling the boy fell dead. 40 1842. Robert Browning. 240 THE THREE TROOPERS Into the Devil tavern Three booted troopers strode, From spur to feather spotted and splash'd With the mud of a winter road. In each of their cups they dropp'd a crust, And star'd at the guests with a frown ; Then drew their swords, and roar'd for a toast, " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 8 A bhie smoke rose from their pistol locks, Their sword blades were still wet ; There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff, As the table they overset. Then into their cups they stirr'd the crusts, And curs'd old London town ; Then wav'd their swords, and drank with a stamp, "God send this Crum-well-down! " ^6 The 'prentice dropp'd his can of beer. The host turn'd pale as a clout ; The ruby nose of the toping squire Grew white at the wild men's shout. 241 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Then into their cups they flung the crusts, And show'd their teeth with a frown ; They flash'd their swords as they gave the toast, " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 24 The gambler dropp'd his dog's-ear'd cards, The waiting-women scream'd, As the Hght of the fire, like stains of blood, On the wild men's sabres gleam'd. Then into their cups they splash'd the crusts. And curs'd the fool of a town, And leap'd on the table, and roar'd a toast, " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 3-2 Till on a sudden fire-bells rang, And the troopers sprang to horse ; The eldest mutter'd between his teeth, Hot curses — deep and coarse. In their stirrup cups they flung the crusts, And cried as they spurr'd through town, With their keen swords drawn and their pis- tols cock'd, " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 40 Away they dash'd through Temple Bar, Their red cloaks flowing free. Their scabbards clash'd, each back-piece shone — None lik'd to touch the three. The silver cups that held the crusts They flung to the startled town, Shouting again, with a blaze of swords, " God send this Crum-well-down ! " 48 1857. George Walter Thornbury. 242 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. *' Forward, the Light Brigade ! Charge for the guns ! " he said : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 8 ■" Forward, the Light Brigade ! " Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered : Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. ^7 Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them. Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well ; 243 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry . Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. ^6 Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there. Charging an army, while All the world wondered : Plunged in the battery-smoke Right through the line they broke : Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not — Not the six hundred. 38 Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them. Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered : Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, — All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. 49 When can their glory fade ? O the wild charge they made ! All the world wondered. 244 The Heavy Brigade Honour the charge they made ! Honour the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred ! 55 1854. Lord Tennyson. THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE AT BALACLAVA OCTOBER 25, 1854 The charge of the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade ! Down the hill, down the hill, thou3ands of Russians, Thousands of horsemen, drew to the valley — and stay'd ; For Scarlett and Scarlett's three hundred were riding by When the points of the Russian lances arose in the sky ; And he call'd " Left wheel into line ! " and they wheel'd and obey'd. Then he look'd at the host that had halted he knew not why, And he turn'd half round, and he bade his trumpeter sound To the charge, and he rode on ahead, as he • waved his blade To the gallant three hundred whose glory will never die — 245 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry ' Follow," and up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, Follow'd the Heavy Brigade. ^~ The trumpet, the gallop, the charge, and the might of the fight ! Thousands of horsemen had gather'd there on the height. With a wing push'd out to the left and a wing to the right. And who shall escape if they close? but he dashed up alone Thro' the great gray slope of men, Sway'd his sabre, and held his own Like an Englishman there and then ; All in a m6ment follow'd with force Three that were next in their fiery course, Wedged themselves in between horse and horse. Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made — Four amid thousands ! and up the hill, up the hill, Gallopt the gallant three hundred, the Heavy Brigade. 25 Fell like a cannonshot, Burst like a thunderbolt, Crash'd like a hurricane. Broke thro' the mass from below, Drove thro' the midst of the foe. Plunged up and down, to and fro, Rode flashing blow upon blow, 246 The Heavy Brigade Brave Inniskillens and Greys Whirling their sabres in circles of light ! And some of us, all in amaze, Who were held for a while from the fight, And were only standing at gaze. When the dark-muffled Russian crowd Folded its wings from the left and the right, And roird them around like a cloud, — O mad for the charge and the battle were we, When our own good redcoats sank from sight, Like drops of blood in a dark-gray sea, And we turn'd to each other, whispering, all dismay'd. Lost are the gallant three hundred of Scarlett's Brigade ! " 45 " Lost one and all " were the words Mutter'd in our dismay; But they rode like Victors and Lords Thro' the forest of lances and swords In the heart of the Russian hordes. They rode, or they stood at bay — Struck with the sword-hand and slew, Down with the bridle-hand drew The foe from the saddle and threw Underfoot there in the fray — Ranged like a storm or stood like a rock In the wave of a stormy day ; Till suddenly shock upon shock Stagger'd the mass from without. Drove it in wild disarray, 247 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry For our men gallopt up with a cheer and a shout, And the foeman surged, and waver'd, and reel'd Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, And over the brow and away. 64 Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made ! Glory to all the three hundred, and all the Brigade ! 66 1882. Lord Tennyson. THE REVENGE A BALLAD OF THE FLEET At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away ; Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three ! " Then sware Lord Thomas Howard : " 'Fore God I am no coward ; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 248 The Revenge And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line ; can we fight with fifty-three ? " 7 Then spake Sir Richard Grenville : " I know you are no coward ; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I 've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." i^ So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven ; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below ; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. ■21 249 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. " Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die ! There '11 be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again : " We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." 31 Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe. With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below ; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen. And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. 36 Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft 250 The Revenge Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fif- teen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns. Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 42 And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 49 But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went. Having that within her womb that had left her ill content ; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land. 55 And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. 25; I Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame ; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more — God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before? 62 For he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck ; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone. With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead. And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said, " Fight on ! fight on ! " 69 And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea. And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 252 The Revenge And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the des- perate strife ; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side ; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride: " We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again ! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die — does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her in twain ! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain ! " 9o And the gunner said, " Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply : " We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike an- other blow." And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe. 96 253 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace ; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried : ' I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true ; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do. With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die ! " And he fell upon their decks, and he died. ^°4 And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true. And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few ; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down into the deep. And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own ; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, 254 The Revenge And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew. And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main, 119 1878. Lord Tennyson. 255 OF DEATH AND SORROW FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNELL I WISH I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries ; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell L2e! Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot. When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me. thinkna ye my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spak nae mair ! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell Lee. As I went down the water-side. None but my foe to be my guide, None but my foe to be my guide, i On fair Kirconnell Lee. I lighted down, my sword did draw, 1 hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. 2 259 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Helen fair, beyond compare ! 1 '11 make a garland of thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I die. O that I were where Helen lies ! 25 Night and day on me she cries ; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, " Haste, and come to me ! " — Helen fair ! O Helen chaste ! If I were with thee, I were blest, 30 Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, On fair Kirconnell Lee. 1 wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying, 35 On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries ; And I am weary of the skies. For her sake that died for me. 40 Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord. ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH When Robin Hood and Little John Down a down, a doivn, a down Went o'er yon bank of broom. Said Robin Hood bold to Little John, 260 Robin Hood's Death ' We have shot for many a pound. 5 Hey, down, a down, a down. ' But I am not able to shoot one shot more, My broad arrows will not flee; But I have a cousin lives down below, Please God, she will bleed me." lo Now Robin he is to fair Kirkley gone, As fast as he can win ; But before he came there, as we do hear, He was taken very ill. And when he came to fair Kirkley-hall, ^5 He knocked all at the ring, But none was so ready as his cousin herself For to let bold Robin in. ' Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin," she said, "And drink some beer with me?" 20 No, I will neither eat nor drink, Till I am blooded by thee." Well, I have a room, cousin Robin," she said, " Which you did never see, And if you please to walk therein, 25 You blooded by me shall be." She took him by the lily-white hand. And led him to a private room. And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, While one drop of blood would run down. 30 261 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry, She blooded him in the vein of the arm, And locked him up in the room ; Then did he bleed all the live-long day, Until the next day at noon. He then bethought him of a casement there, 35 Thinking for to get down ; But was so weak he could not leap, He could not get him down. He then bethought him of his busle-horn, Which hung low down to his knee ; 4o He set his horn unto his mouth. And blew out weak blasts three. Then Little John, when hearing him, As he sat under a tree, " I fear my master is now near dead, 45 He blows so wearily." Then Little John to fair Kirkley is gone, As fast as he can dree ; But when he came to Kirkley-hall, He broke locks two or three: So Until he came bold Robin to see, Then he fell on his knee ; " A boon, a boon," cries Little John, " Master, I beg of thee." "What is that boon," quoth Robin Hood, 55 "Little John, [thou] begs of me?" 262 6o Robin Hood's Death " It is to burn fair Kirkley-hall, And all their nunnery." " Now nay, now nay," quoth Robin Hood, " That boon I '11 not grant thee ; I never hurt woman in all my life, Nor man in woman's company. ** I never hurt fair maid in all my time, Nor at mine end shall it be ; But give me my bent bow in my hand, ^s And a broad arrow I '11 let flee ; And where this arrow is taken up, There shall my grave digged be. " Lay me a green sod under my head, And another at my feet ; 7o And lay my bent bow by my side. Which was my music sweet ; And make my grave of gravel and green. Which is most right and meet. " Let me have length and breadth enough, 75 With a green sod under my head ; That they may say, when I am dead, Here lies bold Robin Hood." These words they readily granted him. Which did bold Robin please : 8o And there they buried bold Robin Hood, Within the fair Kirkleys. Child, Pop. Bal, No. 120B. 263 BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL Hie upon Hielands and low upon Tay, Bonnie George Campbell rade out on a day. Saddled and bridled and gallant rade he; Hame cam his guid horse, but never cam he. Out cam his auld mither greeting fu' sair, s And out cam his bonnie bride rivin' her hair. Saddled and bridled and booted rade he; Toom hame cam the saddle, but never cam he. My meadow lies green, and my corn is unshorn, My barn is to big, and my babie 's unborn." ^° Saddled and bridled and booted rade he ; Toom hame cam the saddle, but never cam he. Child, No. 210 (Motherwell's Version). LORD RANDAL O WHERE ha'e ye been. Lord Randal, my son? O where ha'e ye been, my handsome young man ? " 264 Lord Randal " I ha'e been to the wild wood ; mother, make my bed soon ; For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald He down." 4 " Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man ? " " I dined wi' my true-love ; mother, make my bed soon ; For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 8 " What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man ? " " I gat eels boiled in broo' ; mother, make my bed soon ; For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." 12 " What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Ran- dal, my son? What became of your bloodhounds, my hand- some young man? " " O they swelled and they died ; mother, make my bed soon ; For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." i6 265 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry ' O I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son ! O I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man ! " ' O yes ! I am poisoned ; mother, make my bed soon ; For I 'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down." 20 Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord. THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she ; She had three stout and stalwart sons. And sent them o'er the sea. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, Whan word came to the carline wife, That her three sons were gane. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, ' Whan word came to the carline wife. That her sons she'd never see. " I wish the wind may never cease, Nor fishes in the flood, Till my three sons come hame to me, ^ In earthly flesh and blood ! " 266 The Wife of Usher's Well It fell about the Martinmas, When nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk. 20 It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh ; But at the gates o' Paradise, That birk grew fair eneugh. ***** " Blow up the fire, my maidens ! 25 Bring water from the well ! For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well." And she has made to them a bed, She 's made it large and wide ; 30 And she 's ta'en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bed-side. ***** Up then crew the red, red cock. And up and crew the gray ; The eldest to the youngest said, 35 " 'T is time we were away." The cock he hadna crawed but once, And clapped his wings at a', Whan the youngest to the eldest said, " Brother, we must awa'. 40 " The cock doth craw, the day doth daw', The channerin' worm doth chide ; 2^7 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Gin we be missed out o' our place, A sair pain we maun bide. 4 " Fare ye weel, my mother dear ! Fareweel to barn and byre! And fare ye weel, the bonny lass, That kindles my mother's fire." 48 Scott, Minst. Scot. Bcni. THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, " And put on your armour so bright ; Let it never be said that a daughter of thine Was married to a lord under night. Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, 5 And put on your armour so bright, And take better care of your youngest sister, For your eldest 's awa' the last night." He 's mounted her on a milk-white steed. And himself on a dapple grey, ^o With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And lightly they rode away. Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder. To see what he could see, And there he spied her seven brethren bold, ^S Come riding o'er the lee. 268 The Douglas Tragedy Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, " And hold my steed in your hand, Until that against your seven brethren bold, And your father, I mak a stand." 20 She held his steed in her milk-white hand, And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', And her father hard fighting, who loved her so dear. O hold your hand, Lord William ! " she said, 25 " For your strokes they are wond'rous sair ; True lovers I can get many a ane. But a father I can never get mair." O she 's ta'en out her handkerchief. It was o' the holland sae fine, 30 And aye she dighted her father's bloody wounds. That were redder than the wine, chuse, O chuse. Lady Marg'ret," he said, " O whether will ye gang or bide? " 1 '11 gang, I '11 gang, Lord William," she said, 35 " For ye have left me no other guide." He 's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away. 40 269 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down. They lighted down to talc a drink 45 Of the spring that ran sae clear ; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she 'gan to fear. Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, " For I fear that you are slain ! " 5" 'T is naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak, That shines in the water sae plain." O they rade on, and on they rade. And a' by the light of the moon. Until they cam to his mother's ha' door, 5S And there they lighted down. Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, " Get up, and let me in ! Get up, get up, lady mother ! " he says, " For this night my fair lady I 've win. 60 O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, " O mak it braid and deep ! And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, And the sounder I will sleep." 270 The Twa Corbies Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, 65 Lady Marg'ret lang ere day — And all true lovers that go thegither, May they have mair luck than they ! Lord William was buried in St. Mary's kirk, Lady Margaret in Mary's quire ; 70 Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose. And out o' the knight's a brier. And they twa met, and they twa plat, And fain they wad be near ; And a' the warld might ken right weel, 75 They were twa lovers dear. But bye and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough ! For he pulled up the bonny brier, And flang 't in St. Mary's Loch. 80 Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord. THE TWA CORBIES As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane : The tane unto the t' other say, Whar sail we gang and dine to-day? — In behint yon auld fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight ; 271 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And naebody kens that he hes there But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. " His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady 's ta'en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet. ^^ " Ye '11 sit on his white hause-bane. And I '11 pike out his bonny blue e'en : Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair " We '11 theek our nest when it grows bare. i6 " Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sail ken whare he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare. The wind sail blaw for evermair." ^o Scott, Minst. Scot. Bord. THE BRAES OF YARROW Late at een, drinkin' the wine. Or early in a mornin'. They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawnin'. " O stay at hame, my noble lord ! O stay at hame, my marrow ! My cruel brother will you betray, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow." 272 The Braes of Yarrow " O fare ye weel, my lady gay ! fare ye weel, my Sarah ! For I maun gae, tho' I ne'er return Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow." ^^ She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair, As she had done before, O ; She belted on his noble brand, An' he 's awa to Yarrow. i6 O he 's gane up yon high, high hill — 1 wat he gaed wi' sorrow — An' in a den spied nine arm'd men, r the dowie houms o' Yarrow. 20 " O are ye come to drink the wine. As ye hae doon before, O ? Or are ye come to wield the brand, On the bonnie banks o' Yarrow?" 24 " I am no come to drink the wine, As I hae doon before, O, But I am come to wield the brand. On the dowie houms o' Yarrow." 28 Four he hurt, an' five he slew, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, An' ran his body thorrow. 32 " Gae hame, gae hame, good brother John, An' tell your sister Sarah 273 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry To come an' lift her noble lord, Who 's sleepin' sound on Yarrow." 3^ " Yestreen I dream'd a dolef u' dream ; I kend there wad be sorrow ; I dream'd I pu'd the heather green, On the dowie banks o' Yarrow." 4o She gaed up yon high, high hill — I wat she gaed wi' sorrow — An' in a den spied nine dead men, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow. 44 She kiss'd his cheek, she kaimed his hair. As oft she did before, O ; She drank the red blood frae him ran, On the dowie houms o' Yarrow. 48 " O baud your tongue, my douchter dear, For what needs a' this sorrow? I '11 wed you on a better lord Than him you lost on Yarrow." 52 " O baud your tongue, my father dear, An' dinna grieve your Sarah; A better lord was never born Than him I lost on Yarrow. 56 " Tak hame your ousen, tak hame your kye. For they hae bred our sorrow ; I wiss that they had a' gane mad Whan they cam first to Yarrow." 6o Child, Pop. Bal., No. 214E. 274 THY BRAES WERE BONNY • ** Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream, When first on them I met my lover ; Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream, When now thy waves his body cover ! For ever now, O Yarrow stream ! Thou art to me a stream of sorrow ; For never on thy banks shall I Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow. ^ "He promised me a milk-white steed To bear me to his father's bowers ; He promised me a little page To 'squire me to his father's towers ; He promised me a wedding-ring, — The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow ;— Now he is wedded to his grave, Alas, his watery grave in Yarrow! i6 *' Sweet were his words when last we met ; My passion I as freely told him ; Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought That I should never more behold him ! Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost ; It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow ; Thrice did the water-wraith ascend. And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow, 24 275 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " His mother from the window look'd With all the longing of a mother ; His little sister weeping walk'd The green-wood path to meet her brother ; They sought him east, they sought him west, They sought him all the forest thorough ; They only saw the cloud of night. They only heard the roar of Yarrow. 32 "No longer from thy window look — Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! No longer walk, thou lovely maid ; Alas, thou hast no more a brother ! No longer seek him east or west, And search no more the forest thorough ; For, wandering in the night so dark. He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. 40 '' The tear shall never leave my cheek, No other youth shall be my marrow — I '11 seek thy body in the stream. And then with thee I '11 sleep in Yarrow." — The tear did never leave her cheek. No other youth becam.e her marrow; She found his body in the stream. And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow. 48 1781-2. John Logan. 276 A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN I 'vE heard the lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day ; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 4 At bughts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sab- bing. Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. 8 In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray: At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleech- ing— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ^^ At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roam- ing, 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie— The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ^^ 277 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 20 We hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. 2+ 1755- Jean Elliot. WE ARE SEVEN A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? 4 I met a little cottage Girl : She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. 8. She had a rustic, woodland air. And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; — Her beauty made me glad. ^^ 278 We are Seven " Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be ? " " How many ? Seven in all," she said And wondering looked at me. ^6 " And where are they ? I pray you tell." She answered, " Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. ^o " Two of us in the church-yard lie. My sister and my brother ; And in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother," 24 " You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! — I pray you tell. Sweet Maid, how this may be." 28 Then did the little Maid reply, " Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the church-yard lie. Beneath the church-yard tree." 32 " You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the church-yard laid. Then ye are only five." 36 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, 279 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. 4o " My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit. And sing a song to them. 44 " And often after sunset, Sir, When it is Hght and fair, I take my Httle porringer, And eat my supper there. 48 " The first that died was sister Jane ; In bed she moaning lay. Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away. 52 " So in the church-yard she was laid ; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. 56 " And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." 60 " How many are you, then," said I, " If they two are in heaven? " 280 Lucy Gray Quick was the little Maid's reply, '* O Master ! we are seven." 64 " But they are dead ; those two are dead ! Their spirits are in heaven ! " 'T was throwing words away ; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 68 1798. William Wordszvorth. LUCY GRAY OR, SOLITUDE Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; She dwelt on a wide moor, — The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door ! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green ; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. 281 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry "To-night will be a stormy night — You to the town must go ; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow." i6 " That, Father ! will I gladly do : 'T is scarcely afternoon — The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon ! " 20 At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a fagot-band; He plied his work; — and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. 24 Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. 28 The storm came on before its time : She wandered up and down ; And many a hill did Lucy climb : But never reached the town. 32 The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. 36 At day-break on the hill they stood That overlooked the moor; 282 Lucy Gray And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door. 40 They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, " In heaven we all shall meet ; " — When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet. 44 Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small ; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall ; 48 And then an open field they crossed : The marks were still the same ; They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; And to the bridge they came. 52 They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none! s6 — Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild. 60 283 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind ; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. 64 1800. William Wordsworth. PROUD MAISIE From The Heart of Mid-Lothian Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early ; Sweet Robin sits on the bush. Singing so rarely. 4 " Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" — " When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye." 8 " Who makes the bridal bed. Birdie, say truly?" — "• The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. 12 " The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady. The owl from the steeple sing, 'Welcome, proud lady.'" ^6 !i8. Sir Walter Scott. 284 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER A Chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I '11 give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry ! " — " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" " O, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. — 8 "And fast before her father's men Three days we 've fled together. For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. 12 " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?" — 16 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight — "I '11 go, my chief— I 'm ready: — It is not for your silver bright ; But for your winsome lady : ^o 285 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry " And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So though the waves are raging white, I '11 row you o'er the ferry." — 2. By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. 28 But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arm^d men, Their trampling sounded nearer. — 3^ ' O haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, " Though tempests round us gather ; I '11 meet the raging of the skies. But not an angry father." — 36 The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, — When, O ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather'd o'er her. 40 And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, — His wrath was changed to wailing. 44- 286 The Sands of Dee For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, His child he did discover : — One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. 48 " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief " Across this stormy water : And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!— O my daughter! " 52 'T was vain : the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. 56 1804. Thomas Campbell. THE SANDS OF DEE O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee ! " The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. 6 The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, 287 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land : And never home came she. 12 Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." 18 They rowed her in across the rolling foam. The cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam. To her grave beside the sea : But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. 24 1849. Charles Kings ley. THE THREE FISHERS Three fishers went sailing away to the West, Away to the West as the sun went down ; Each thought on the woman who loved him the best. And the children stood watching them out of the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And there 's little to earn, and many to keep, Tholigh the harbour bar be moaning. High-tide on Coast of Lincolnshire Three wives sat up in the Hght-house tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower. And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown. But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. M Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down. And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come home to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to sleep ; And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 21 1851. Charles Kingsley. THE HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, [time, 1571.] The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three ; " Pull ! if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. " Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells ! Ply all your changes, all your swells ! Play uppe The Brides of Enderby! " 7 28g Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Men say it was a " stolen tyde," — The Lord that sent it, he knows all, But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall ; And there was naught of strange, beside The flights of mews and peewits pied, By millions crouched on the old sea-wall. ^4 I sat and spun within the doore ; My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes : The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies ; And dark against day's golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, — My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 21 ' Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling. Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. ' Cusha ! Cusha ! " all along ; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Faintly came her milking-song. 29 ' Cusha ! Cusha ! Cusha ! " calling, ' For the dews will soone be falling ; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow ! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow ! 290 High-tide on Coast of Lincolnshire Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow ; From the clovers lift your head ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! Come uppe, Jetty ! rise and follow, Jett}^ to the milking-shed." 42 If it be long — aye, long ago — When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow. Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee. Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Endcrby. 49 Alle fresh the level pasture lay. And not a shadowe mote be scene, Save where, full fyve good miles away, The steeple towered from out the greene. And lo ! the great bell farre and wide Was heard in all the country side That Saturday at eventide. 56 The swannerds, where their sedges are. Moved on in sunset's golden breath ; The shepherde lads I heard afarre. And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; Till, floating o'er the grassy sea, Came downe that kyndly message free, The Brides of Mavis Enderby. 63 Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows 291 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, " And why should this thing be, What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby. 7o ' For evil news from Mablethorpe, Of pyrate galleys, warping down, — For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne ; But while the west bin red to see. And storms be none, and pyrates flee. Why ring The Brides of Enderby f" 77 I looked without, and lo ! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main ; He raised a shout as he drew on. Till all the welkin rang again : ' Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! " (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 84 'The olde sea-wall (he cryed) is downe! The rising tide comes on apace ; And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market-place ! " He shook as one that looks on death : ' God save you, mother ! " straight he sayth ; ' Where is my wife, Elizabeth? " 9i ' Good Sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long ; 292 High-tide on Coast of Lincolnshire And ere yon bells beganne to play. Afar I heard her milking-song." He looked across the grassy sea, To right, to left. Ho, Endcrby! They rang The Brides of Enderby. 98 With that he cried and beat his breast ; For lo ! along the river's bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And iippe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud, — Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud. 105 And rearing Lindis, backward pressed, Shook all her trembling bankes amaine ; Then madly at the eygre's breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout, — Then beaten foam flew round about, — Then all the mighty floods were out. "^ So farre, so fast, the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat. Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet : The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, — And all the world was in the sea. ^^9 Upon the roofe we sate that night ; The noise of bells went sweeping by; 293 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church-tower, red and high,— A lurid mark, and dread to see ; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang Endcrhy. 126 They rang the sailor lads to guide, From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; And I, — my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed ; And yet he moaned beneath his breath, ' O come in life, or come in death ! lost ! my love, Elizabeth ! " i33 And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. uo That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea. — A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! To manye more than myne and mee ; But each will mourne his own (she saith) And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. ^47 1 shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, 294 High-tide on Coast of Lincolnshire " Ciisha ! Ciisha ! Cnsha ! " calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, " Ciisha ! Cnsha ! " all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth, Where the water, winding down. Onward floweth to the town. 158 I shall never see her more, Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver. Stand beside the sobbing river, — Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, To the sandy, lonesome shore ; I shall never hear her calling, " Leave your meadow grasses mellow. Mellow, mellow ! Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ! Come uppe, Whitefoot ! come uppe, Lightfoot ! Quit your pipes of parsley hollow. Hollow, hollow ! Come uppe, Lightfoot ! rise and follow ; Lightfoot! Whitefoot! From your clovers lift the head ; Come uppe. Jetty ! follow, follow. Jetty, to the milking-shed ! " "^i^ 1863. Jean Ingelow. 295 THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE Come hither, Evan Cameron ! Come, stand behind my knee — I hear the river roaring down Towards the wintry sea. There 's shouting on the mountain-side, There 's war within the blast — Old faces look upon me, Old forms go trooping past : I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight. And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night. 12 'T was I that led the Highland host Through wild Lochaber's snows, What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I 've told thee how the Southrons fell Beneath the broad claymore. And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore. I 've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsays' pride ; But never have I told thee yet How the great Marquis died. 24 296 The Execution of Montrose A traitor sold him to his foes; O deed of deathless shame ! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name — Be it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the glen, Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by armed men — Face him, as thou wouldst face the man Who wronged thy sire's renown ; Remember of what blood thou art, And strike the caitiff down ! 36 They brought him to the Watergate, Hard bound with hempen span. As though they held a lion there. And not a fenceless man. They set him high upon a cart — The hangman rode below — They drew his hands behind his back. And bared his noble brow. Then, as a hound is slipped from leash. They cheered the common throng, And blew the note with yell and shout, And bade him pass along. 48 It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day, To watch the keen malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the Whig west-country lords, In balcony and bow ; 297 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry There sat their gaunt and withered dames, And their daughters all a-row. And every open window Was full as full might be With black-robed Covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see! 60 But when he came, though pale and wan, He looked so great and high, So noble was his manly front, So calm his steadfast eye ; — The rabble rout forbore to shout, And each man held his breath, For well they knew the hero's soul Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder Through all the people crept. And some that came to scoff at him Now turned aside and wept. 72 But onward — always onward. In silence and in gloom, The dreary pageant laboured, Till it reached the house of doom. Then first a woman's voice was heard In jeer and laughter loud. And an angry cry and a hiss arose From the heart of the tossing crowd : Then as the Graeme looked upward, He saw the ugly smile Of him who sold his king for gold — The master-fiend Argyle ! 84 298 The Execution of Montrose The Marquis gazed a moment, And nothing did he say, But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale, And he turned his eyes away. The painted harlot by his side, She shook through every limb, For a roar like thunder swept the street. And hands were clenched at him ; And a Saxon soldier cried aloud, " Back, coward, from thy place ! For seven long years thou hast not dared To look him in the face." 96 Had I been there with sword in hand, And fifty Camerons by. That day through high Dunedin's streets Had pealed the slogan-cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse, Nor might of mailed men — Not all the rebels in the south Had borne us backwards then ! Once more his foot on Highland heath Had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name. Been laid around him there! io8 It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall. Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor, 299 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And perjured traitors filled the place Where good men sate before. With savage glee came Warristoun To read the murderous doom ; And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room. 120 " Now, by my faith as belted knight, And by the name I bear, And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross That waves above us there — Yea, by a greater, mightier oath — And Oh, that such should be ! — By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me — I have not sought in battle-field A wreath of such renown, Nor dared I hope on my dying day To win the martyr's crown ! '32 " There is a chamber far away Where sleep the good and brave. But a better place ye have named for me Than by my father's grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, This hand hath always striven. And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower — Give every town a limb — And God who made shall gather them: I go from you to Him ! " ^44 300 The Execution of Montrose The morning dawned full darkly, The rain came flashing down, And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town : The thunder crashed across the heaven, The fatal hour was come ; Yet aye broke in with muflled beat, The 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below And anger in the sky, And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die. 156 Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet ! How dismal 't is to see The great tall spectral skeleton. The ladder and the tree ! Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms — The bells begin to toll— "He is coming! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul ! " One last long peal of thunder — The clouds are cleared away, And the glorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. ^68 "He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, 301 ' Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die : There was colour in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan ; And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man ! i8o He mounted up the scaffold, And he turned him to the crowd ; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens, And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether The eye of God shone through ! Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill, As though the thunder slept within — All else was calm and still. 192 The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee ; And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace Beneath the gallows-tree. Then radiant and serene he rose, And cast his cloak away: For he had ta'en his latest look Of earth and sun and day. 204 302 The Shameful Death A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, And a stunning thunder-roll ; And no man dared to look aloft, For fear was on every soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush and then a groan ; And darkness swept across the sky — The work of death was done! 216 1848. William Edmondstoune Aytoun. THE SHAMEFUL DEATH There were four of us about that bed; The mass-priest knelt at the side, I and his mother stood at the head. Over his feet lay the bride ; We were quite sure that he was dead, Though his eyes were open wide. He did not die in the night, He did not die in the day, But in the morning twilight His spirit pass'd away, When neither sun nor moon was bright, And the trees were merely gray. 303 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry He was not slain with the sword, Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, Yet spoke he never a word After he came in here ; I cut away the cord From the neck of my brother dear. i8 He did not strike one blow. For the recreants came behind, In the place where the hornbeams grow, A path right hard to find, For the hornbeam boughs swing so, That the twilight makes it blind. 24 They lighted a great torch then, When his arms were pinion'd fast, Sir John the knight of the Fen, Sir Guy of the Dolorous Blast, With knights threescore and ten. Hung brave Lord Hugh at last. 3o I am threescore and ten, And my hair is all turn'd grey, But I met Sir John of the Fen Long ago on a summer day, And am glad to think of the moment when I took his life away. 36 I am threescore and ten, And my strength is mostly pass'd. But long ago I and my men, When the sky was overcast, 304 Rizpah And the smoke roU'd over the reeds of the fen, Slew Guy of the Dolorous Blast. 42 And now, knights all of you, I pray you pray for Sir Hugh, A good knight and a true, And for Alice, his wife, pray too. 46 1858. William Morris. RIZPAH 17— Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea — And Willy's voice in the wind, " O mother, come out to me ! " Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go? For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares at the snow. 4 We should be seen, my dear ; they would spy us out of the town. The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down. When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain, And grovel and grope for my son till I find my- self drenched with the rain. 8 305 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Anything fallen again? nay — what was there left to fall? I have taken them home, I have number'd the bones, I have hidden them all. What am I saying? and what are you? do you come as a spy? Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie. " Who let her in? how long has she been? you — what have you heard? Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have spoken a word. O — to pray with me — yes — a lady — none of their spies — But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes. i6 Ah — you, that have lived so soft, what should you know of the night, The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright? I have done it, while you were asleep — you were only made for the day. I have gather'd my baby together — and now you may go your way. 20 Nay — for it 's kind of you. Madam, to sit by an old dying wife. But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life. 306 Rizpah I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he went out to die. " They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me a lie. I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child — " The farmer dared me to do it," he said ; he was always so wild — And idle — and could n't be idle — my Willy — he never could rest. The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been one of his best. 28 But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would let him be good ; They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would ; And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done He flung it among his fellows — "I'll none of it," said my son. 32 I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale, God's own truth — but they kill'd him, they kill'd him for robbing the mail. They hang'd him in chains for a show — we had always borne a good name — To be hang'd for a thief — and then put away — is n't that enough shame? Dust to dust — low down — let us hide! but they set him so high 307 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. God '11 pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air, But not the black heart of the lawyer who kill'd him and hang'd him there. 40 And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good bye ; They had fasten'd the door of his cell. " O mother ! " I heard him cry. I could n't get back tho' I tried, he had some- thing further to say, And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away. 44 Then since I could n't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead, They seized me and shut me up : they fasten'd me down on my bed. 'Mother, O mother!" — he call'd in the dark to me year after year — They beat me for that, they beat me — you know that I could n't but hear ; And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still They let me abroad again — but the creatures had worked their will. 5o Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left — I stole them all from the lawyers — and you, will you call it a theft? — 308 Rizpah My baby, the bones that had suck'd me, the bones that had laugh'd and had cried— Theirs? O, no! they are mine — not theirs — they had moved in my side. 54 Do you think I was scared by the bones ? I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all — I can't dig deep, I am old — in the night by the churchyard wall. My Willy '11 rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment '11 sound; But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground. 58 They would scratch him up — they would hang him again on the cursed tree. Sin? O yes, we are sinners, I know — let all that be, And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good- will toward men — Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord" — let me hear it again ; Full of compassion and mercy — long-suffering." Yes, O yes ! For the lawyer is born but to murder — the Saviour lives but to bless. He '11 never put on the black cap except for the worst of the worst. And the first may be last — I have heard it in church — and the last may be first. 309 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Suffering — O, long-suffering — yes, as the Lord must know, Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow. ^8 Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin. How do they know it? are they his mother? are you of his kin? Heard ! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began. The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan like a man? 72 Election, Election, and Reprobation — it 's all very well. But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell. For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has look'd into my care. And He means me I 'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where. 76 And if /zr be lost — but to save 7ny soul, that is all your desire — Do you think that I care for jny soul if my boy be gone to the fire? I have been with God in the dark — go, go, you may leave me alone — You never have borne a child — you are just as hard as a stone. 80 310 The Raven Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that you mean to be kind, But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice is in the wind — The snow and the sky so bright — he used but to call in the dark. And he calls to me now from the church and not from the gibbet — for hark! Nay — you can hear it yourself — it is coming — shaking the walls — Willy — the moon 's in a cloud Good night. I am going. He calls. 86 1880. Lord Tennyson. THE RAVEN Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume of for- gotten lore, — While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 'T is some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber door ; Only this, and nothing more." 6 311 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each -separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, — sorrow for the lost Lenore, — For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore, — Nameless here for evermore. 12 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, — Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; That it is, and nothing more." ^8 Presently my soul grew stronger ; hesitating then no longer, " Sir," said I, " or Madam, truly your forgive- ness I implore ; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 312 The Raven That I scarce was sure I heard you" — Here I opened wide the door ; Darkness there, and nothing more. 24 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whis- pered word " Lenore ! " This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word " Lenore ! " Merely this, and nothing more. 30 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window-lattice ; Let me see then what thereat is, and this mys- tery explore, — Let my heart be still a moment, and this mys- tery explore ; — 'T is the wind, and nothing more." 36 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 313 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry Not the least obeisance made he ; not an instant stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, — Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door, — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 42 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the counte- nance it wore, Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven ; Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore. Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore?" Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 48 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning, little rele- vancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door. Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as " Nevermore ! " 54 314 The Raven But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered, — not a feather then he fluttered, — Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have flown before, — On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " 60 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken. Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom un- merciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his song one burden bore. Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy bur- den bore, — Of ' Never — nevermore ! ' " 66 Eut the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door. Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 315 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore — Meant in croaking "Nevermore!" 7^ This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp- light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp- light gloating o'er. She shall press — ah ! nevermore ! 78 Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer. Swung by Seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, — by these angels he hath sent thee Respite, — respite and nepenthe from thy memo- ries of Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! "' Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 84 Prophet! " said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 316 The Raven Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, — On this home by Horror haunted, — tell me truly, I implore, — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me, — tell me, I implore ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 9o Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil ! By that heaven that bends above us, — by that God we both adore. Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the an- gels name Lenore, Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 96 ".Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting, — " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 10- 317 Little Masterpieces of English Poetry And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted — nevermore! loS". 1845. Edgar Allan Poe. 318 OCT 33 12--' III 014 013 772 8