i» a >» « <»<» €» o e a a e •<» e o e o^^ o o' <» ty? f^w^cyci^c^ ci c^c^gM^ a ^^mii{:^.y'?»;|;;^ai li^ oaoaooaQaaoaaQOOMMa Jfcii.,Jt>MtftfcMJfc>«JktM DNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 1 " Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds. OUR POETICAL FAVORITES ^ Selection FROM THE BEST MINOR POEMS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE BY ASAHEL C. KENDRICK PROFESSOR IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ROCHESTER THREE VOLUMES IN ONE \ ILLUSTRATED BOSTON JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY 1885 Copyright, 1870 AND 3875, BY Sheldon & Co.; 1880, by A. C Kendkick; AND 1884, BY James R. Osgood & Co. Al/ rights reserved. iHnibfrsitD Press : John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. OUR POETICAL FAVORITES A SELECTION FROM THE BEST MINOR POEMS OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE iFirst Series CONTENTS. Page Absence Frances Anne Keiiihle. 127 Address to the Mummy at Belzoni's Exhibition . , Horace Smith. 42 Afifliction one Day Horace Smith. 219 After the Burial James Russell Lozvell. 340 A Little While Jane Crewdson. 462 Alpine Shepherd, The Maria White Loxvell. 308 Among the Beautiful Pictures Alice Gary. 241 Angel Charlie Emily C. Judson. 194 An Ode Sir William Jones. 96 Arsenal at Springfield, The Henry W. Longfellow. 109 Ascension, The Charles Wesley. 368 As Down in the Sunless Retreats Thomas Moore. 447 As to the Distant Moon Anne C. Lynch. 127 At the Window Richard Realf. 227 AufWiedersehen! (Summer) James Russell Loicell. 338 Battle Autumn, The John G. Whittier. no Beacon, The P^'"^ ^^''^"' J"""''' 32 Beating of mv Heart, The .... Richard MoncJdon Milnes. 121 Beautiful River, Tlie Benjamin F. Taylor. 20 Beautv and the Butterfly Lord Byron. 182 Bells, The ^^.?'^^ ^- P''^' 276 Bill and Joe Oliver Wendell Holmes. 211 Bingen on the Rhine Mrs. Garoline Norton. 74 Boadicea William Gowpcr. 85 Break, Break, Break Alfred Tennyson. 244 Bridal of Andalla, The Anonymous. 180 Bridge of Sighs, The Thomas Hood. 1S5 Bringing our Sheaves with us Elizabeth Akers, Allen. 407 Brooklet, The ^ir Robert Grant. 439 viii CONTENTS. PAGE Burial of Sir John Moore, The Charles Wolfe. 84 But Who Shall See? Thomas Moore. 41 ''Can find out God?" Eliza Sctidder. 401 Carrier-Pigeon, To a J^^^^" G. Percival. 123 Casa Wappy ^^'"'''^ ^^- '^^°"'- 33^ Catarina to Camoens Elizabeth Barrett Broxvning. 150 Chambered Nautilus, The Oliver Wendell Holmes. 404 Charge of the Light Brigade Alfred Tennyson. 48 Children's Hour, The Heriry W. Longfellow. 193 Chillon Lord Byron. 112 Christmas Hymn, A Alfred Domett. 357 Christ's Call to the Soul Jerome Savonarola. 377 " Christ turned, and looked upon Peter " . Elizabeth B. Browning. 379 Christus Consolator ■ Francis T. Palgrave. 374 Cleopatra at Actium Thomas K. Hervey. 46 Cleopatra Embarking on the Cydnus .... Thomas K. Hervey. 44 Closing Scene, The Thomas Buchanan Read. 413 Cloud, The Jo^"^ Wilson. 438 Cloud, The P^^'^y Bysshe Shelley. 7 Come into the Garden, Maud Alfred Tennyson. 129 Come to me. Dearest Joseph Brenan. 133 Consolation George Crabbe. 378 Convict Ship, The Thomas K. Hervey. 234 Coronach Sir Walter Scott. 333 Cowper's Grave Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 325 Crucifixion, The Henry Hart Milman. 362 Crucifixion, The James Montgomery. 363 Cuckoo, To the 7^^^" Logan. 16 Daughters of Toil Evangeline M. Johnson. 233 Day is Done, The Henry W. Longfellow. 3 Day's Ration, The Ralph Waldo Emerson. 261 Dead House, The James Russell Lowell. 341 Death-bed, A James Aldrich. 107 Death-bed, The Thomas Hood. 317 Death of the Flowers, The William C. Bryant. 34 Death-Song of the Oneida Chief Thomas Campbell. 106 Desiderium William C. Wilkinson. 432 Destruction of Sennacherib, The Lord Byron. 37 Dies Irse Thomas de Celano. 464 Dies IrjE (translated) Abraham Coles. 468 Dies Irje (translated) A. C. Kendrick. 466 CONTENTS. IX PAGE Difference, The - Evangeline M. Johnso7i. 350 Dirge, A George Croly. 444 Divided Jean Ingelow. 250 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true . . . Dinah Maria Miilock. 346 Drifting Thomas Biiclianan Read. 26 " Dum vivimus, vivamus " Philip Doddridge. 403 Dying Christian to his Soul, The Alexander Pope. 451 Each and All Ralph Waldo Emerson. 247 Elegy in a Country Churchyard Thomas Gray. 317 Enslaved Greece Lord Byron. 6 1 Enticed William C. Wilkinson. ^ 427 Epiphany Reginald Heber. 360 Evelyn Hope Robert Browning. 175 Evening Guest, An Dinah Maria Miiloek. 344 Excellency of Christ Giles Fleteher. -i^-]-}^ Extract Samuel T. Coleridge. 262 Extreme Unction James Riissell Loivell. 290 Faith Frances Anne Kcmble. iSi Faith William Henry Hiirlbert. 402 Fancy in Nubibus Samuel T. Coleridge. 266 Farewell Life, Welcome Life Thomas Hood. 452 Farewell to his Wife Lord Byron. 203 First of March, The Horace Smith. 33 First Voices of Paradise, The Hartley Coleridge, z-j^ Flow down, cold Rivulet Alfred Tennyson. iS Flower's Name, The Robert Brozvning. 125 " Follow Thou Me " Lncy Larcom. 426 Footsteps of Angels Henry W. Longfellow. 347 For a Timepiece Samuel T. Coleridge. 2S7 Fragment Emily Bronte. 343 From the Epipsychidion Percy Bysshe Shelley. 12S Future Life, The William C. Bryant. 420 Genevieve Satmiel T. Coleridge. 114 Genius of Death, The George Croly. 443 Gethsemane William O. Stoddard. 369 Gifts of God, The George Herbert, t,^ Giving in Marriage : — (Songs of Seven) .... Jean Ingeloxv. 190 God Francis Quarks. 390 God Gabriel Romanowitch Derzhavin. 470 Go, Forget. Me Charles Wolfe. i^6 X CONTENTS. PAGE Going and Coming Edward A. Jcnks. 419 Going Out and Coming In . Isa Craig Knox. 287 Golden Street, The William O. Stoddard. 436 Golden Wedding, Tlie David Gi-ay. 202 Good Great INIan, The Samuel T. Coleridge. 295 Grave, The J- G. von Salis. 331 Greece Lord Byron. 60 Haste Not ! Rest Not ! Johann W. von Goethe. 406 Haunted Palace, The Edgar A. Poc. 263 Health, A Edward C. Pinhficy. 117 Heart's Song, The Artlmr C. Coxe. 376 Heaven Nancy A. W. Priest. 454 Henry Kirke White Lord By)'on. 302 Hermit, The . James Beattie. 274 Heroes Edna Dean Proctor. 348 Highland Mary Robert Burns. 177 Hour of Death, The Felicia Hemans. 314 " How amiable are Thy Tabernacles " .... Henry F,. Lyfe. 375 How Many now are Dead to Me .... yoli7i G. C. Brainard. 243 How Sleep the Brave ? William Collins. 112 How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix R. Broxvning. 78 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid Sir Walter Scott. 36 Hymn to Adversity Thomas Gray. 303 If I had Thought Charles Wolfe. 332 If Thou wert by my Side Reginald Hebcr. 198 I know Thou hast Gone Thomas K. Hervey. 455 Imagination William Shakespeare. 267 Imperfection of Human Sympathy John Keble. 384 In Italy Bayard Taylor. 141 In View of Death Anonymous. 448 Is it Come? Frances Bi-own. 257 Isles of Greece, The Lord Byron. 57 '■ It is more Blessed " Rose Terry Cooke. 408 Ivry Thomas B. Macaulay, 80 Jamie 's on the Stormy Sea David Macbeth Moir. Q.) 145 Jeanie Morrison William Mothe7-wcll. 147 Knight Toggenburg F. von Schiller. 170 Know Thyself Samuel T. Coleridge. 261 CONTENTS. xi PAGE Labor and Rest Dinah Maria Mitlock. 389 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers Felicia Hemans. 10 1 Land of Lands, The Alfred Tcmiyson. 100 Langley Lane Robert Buchanan. 137 Last Leaf, The Oliver W. Holmes. 209 Life Lord Byron. 214 Life's " Good-Morning " Anna Letitia Barbaidd. 452 Light and Color F. von Schiller. 10 Lines on a Skeleton Anonymous. 220 Lines on Leaving Europe Nathaniel P. Willis. 102 Lines to an Indian Air Percy Bysshc Shelley. 122 Lines written in a Churchyard Herbert Knowles. 421 Lines written in an Album Lord Byron. 136 Litany Sir Robert G^-ant. 370 Lochiel's Warning Thomas Campbell. 86 Locksley Hall Alfred Tennyson. 155 Long-Aj^o, The Richard Monckton Milnes. 236 Longing James Russell Lowell. 246 " Looked upon Peter " Samuel M. Waring. 379 Lord the Good Shepherd, The James Montgomery. 398 Lord Ullin's Daughter Thomas Campbell. 89 Lord will come, The Reginald Hebcr. 464 Lore-Lei, The Heinrich Heine. "j-j Losses Frances Brown. 285 Lost Leader, The Robert Brozvning. 113 Lotus-Eaters, The Alfred Tennyson. 50 Love: — (Songs of Seven) Jca^t Ingelow. 124 Love-Letter, A Robert Bulwcr Lytton. 134 Lucy William Wordsworth. 225 Lycidas John Milton. 297 Maidenhood Henry W. Longfelloiv. 222 Marco Bozzaris Fitz-Greene Halleck. 63 Martha, thy Maiden Foot Hartley Coleridge. 404 Maud and Madge ^r^ra Perry. 229 Maud Muller John G. Whitticr. 166 Messiah ." Alexander Pope, y^^ Moncontour Thomas B. Macau lay. S3 Monterey Charles Feiino Hoffman. ic8 Morning Hymn to Mont Blanc .... Samuel T. Coleridge. 30 Mother and Poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 68 My Ain Countree Miss M. A. Lee. 441 My Angel Guide Emily C. Judson. 207 xii CONTENTS. PAGE My Bird Emily C. Judson. 191 My Child John Pierpont. 306 My Friend Plmbe Gary. 457 My Life is like the Summer Rose .... Richard Henry Wilde. 293 My Love James Russell Lowell. 119 My Psalm John G. Whiiiier. 351 My Thirty-sixth Year Lord Byron. 284 " My Times are in Thy Hand " .... Anna Letiiia Waring. 410 Nearer Home Phoebe Gary. 442 Night and Dath J- Blanco White. 1 1 Northern Lights, The Benjamin F. Taylor. 12 Nuremberg Henry W. Longfellow. 72 Ocean, The John Augustus Shea. 19 Ode William Wordsworth. 268 Ode on a Grecian Urn John Keats. 67 O Doubting Heart ! Adelaide A. Procter. 418 Oft, in the Stilly Night Thomas Moore. 240 Oh ! Blame not the Bard Thomas Moore. 98 Old Folks Anonymous. 208 Old World and the New, The George Berkeley. 105 On a Picture of Peel Castle William Wordsivorth. 215 On first looking into Chapman's Homer John Keats. 266 On his Blindness John Milton. 295 Only a Curl FAizabeth Bar'rctt Browning. 310 On Parent Knees Sir William Jones. 292 On the Cliff Rossiter Johnson. 143 On the Death of George the Third Horace Smith. 92 On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture .... William Cowper. 322 O Saviour, whose Mercy Sir Robert Grant. 399 Our Baby P'^<^^^ Cary. 433 Our Samts John G. Whittier. 403 Palinode. (Autumn) James Russell Lowell. 339 Pahns of Glory Ja7nes Montgomery. 453 Parallel, The Thottias Moore. 40 Passage, The Ludwig Uhland. 345 Patriot Bard, The. (Charade) . . . Winihrop Mackzvorth Praed. 99 Pericles and Aspasia George Croly. 56 Per Pacem ad Lucem Adelaide A. Procter. 425 Philip, my King Dinah Maria Mulock. 192 Pilgrimage Sir Walter Raleigh. 370 CONTENTS. xiii PAGE Prayer ... James Montgomery. 380 Present The Adelaide A. Procter, 256 Presumption and Despair Richard Chenevix Treitch. 2S9 Prophet The Robert Bulwer Lytton. 2S PsahTi of Life, A Henry W. Longfellow. 260 Qua Cursum Ventus Arthur Hugh Clongh. 249 Raven, The Edgar A. Poe. 279 Resignation Henry W. Longfellow. 304 j^gst Mrs. Robert S. Hoivland. 437 Retribution Longfellow and Lowell. 293 Return of Youth, The William C. Bryant. 3S8 Rhymes of the River ' . . Benjamin F. Taylor. 21 Ring out, Wild Bells Alfred Tennyson. 359 River Path, The Johji G. Whittier. 434 River, The Anonymous. 17 Roll on, thou Sun Anony)7tons. 29 Rose, The .... Edimtnd Waller and Henry Kirke White. 429 Ruth Thomas Hood. 1 1 S Sands o' Dee, The Charles Kingslcy. 91 Seas are Quiet, The Anonymous. 440 Seraph throwing off his Disguise, The .... Thomas Parncll. 374 Sexton, The Park Benjamin. 330 Shall I fear, O Earth, thy Bosom ? Thomas Davis. 423 She walks in Beauty Lord Byron. 36 She was a Phantom of Delight William Wordsworth. 224 Ships at Sea Kobert B. Coffin. 416 Skylark, To the Percy Bysshe Shelley. 12 Sleep The EUzabcih Barrett Broxvning. 328 Snows on Parnassus, The Lord Byron. 63 Soldier's Dream, The Thomas Campbell. 199 Son-dayes Henry Vaughan. 394 Son And our great deeds as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle ? Let what is broken so remain. The gods are hard to reconcile : 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death. Trouble on trouble, pain on pain. Long labor unto aged breath. Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, Anut we meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen on the Rhine." His trembling voice grew faint ;md hoarse, — his grasp was childish weak, — His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and cease-d tc speak ; THE LORE-LEi: 7 His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,— The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corsef, strewn ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed ic shine, As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the Rhine. Mrs. Caroline E. Norton. The Lore-Lei, KNOW not whence it rises, This thought so full of woe ; But a tale of the times departed Haunts me — and will not go. I The air is cool, and it darkens. And calmly flows the Rhine ; The mountain peaks are sparkling In the sunny evening-shine. And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair ; With gold is her garment glittering. And she combs her golden hair. With a golden comb she combs it. And a wild song singeth she, That melts the heart with a wondrous And powerful melody. The boatman feels his bosom With a nameless longing move; He sees not the gulfs before him, His gaze is fixed above. 78 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Till over boat and boatman The Rhine's deep waters run ; And this with her magic singing The Lore-Lei hath done ! Anonymous Translation. HEINRICH HeiN: ILow they hr ought the good news fi-oni Ghent to Aix. T" SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he : -^ I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; " Good speed !" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew ; '* Speed !" echoed the wall to us galloping through. Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other : we kept the great pace — Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place ; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit. Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear ; At Boom a great yellow star came out to see ; At Dlifteld 'twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime- So Joris broke silence with '' Yet there is time !" At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last. With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray ; HOIV THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS. 79 And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ; And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. By Hasselt Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her ; We'll remember at Aix" — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh ; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble Hke chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And " Gallop" gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight !" " How they'll greet us !" — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. Then I cast loose my bufl"-coat, each holster let fall. Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer- Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad 1 1 good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is friends flocking round. As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; bo OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. , Robert Browning. Ivry, Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance. Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters. Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daugh- ters; 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 I Hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war ! Hurrah I 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; A.nd dark Mayenne was m the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empur- pled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; /VJ^V. 81 A.nd we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war. To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us in all his armor drest ; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallan* crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout : God save our lord the king ! "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may — For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — Press where ye see my white plume shine amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steel, and trump, and drum, and roaring cul- verin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain. With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne, Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies — upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- white crest ; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star. Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours : Mayenne hath turned his rein ; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flemish count is slain : 82 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 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, " Remember Saint Bartholomew !" was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry — " No Frenchman is my foe : Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go !"- Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ? Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day ; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight ; And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white — Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lor- raine. Up with it high ; unfurl it wide— that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons of Lucerne — Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear- men's souls. Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright ; Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to- night ! MONCONTOUR. 83 For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave. And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ; And glory to our sovereign lord. King Henry of Navarre ! Thomas B. Macau i.a\-. Moncontoitr.—A Song of the Huguenots. OH ! weep for Moncontour ! Oh ! weep for the hour When the children of darkness and evil had power ; When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod On the bosoms that bled for their rights and their God ! Oh ! weep for Moncontour ! Oh ! weep for the slain, Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in vain ! Oh ! weep for the living, who linger to bear The renegade's shame, or the exile's despair ! One look, one last look, to the cots and the towers, To the rows of our vines, and the beds of our flowers , To the church where the bones of our fathers decayed. Where we fondly had deemed that our own should be laid. Alas ! we must leave thee, dear desolate home, To the spearman of Uri, the shavelings of Rome ; To the serpent of Florence, the vulture of Spain, To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine. Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades, To the songs of thy youths, and the dance of thy maids ; To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy bees. And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees ! H4 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Farewell, and forever ! The priest and the slave May rule in the halls of the free and the brave ; — Our hearths we abandon ; — our lands we resign ; But, Father, we kneel at no altar but thine ! Thomas B. Macaulay. Burial of Sir John Moore. l^rOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, -'-^ As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly, at dead of night, The sod with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And our lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him ! Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed. And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on. In the grave where a Briton has laid him ! " We buried him darkly, at dead of night. BOADICEA. But half of our heavy task was done, When the bell tolled the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame, fresh and gory ! We carved not a line, we raised not a stone- But we left him alone with his glory ! Charles Wolfe. 8S Boadicea. "\^7"HEN the British warrior queen, ^ ^ Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief. " Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. " Rome shall perish— write that word In the blood that she has spilt ; — Perish, hopeless and abhorred. Deep in ruin as in guilt. ** Rome, for empire far renowned. Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground- Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates 86 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. '' Other Romans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize ; Harmony the path to fame. '* Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command, *' Regions Cassar never knew Thy posterity shall sway ; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they." Such the Bard's prophetic words. Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow : Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; Dying, hurled them at the foe. '' Ruffians, pitiless as proud, Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestowed. Shame and ruin wait for you." William Cowper. LochieVs Warning. Wizard. OCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. L LOCHIEVS WARNING, 87 They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown ; Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning — no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave — CuUoden, that reeks with the blood of the brave I LOCHIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer I Or, if gory CuUoden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Wizard. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north ? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. O crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might. Whose banners arise on the battlements' height. Heaven's fire is around thee to blast and to burn : Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 88 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. For the blackness ot ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood ! LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan : Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one. They are true to the last of their blood and their breath And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — Wizard. — Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. But man cannot cover what God would reveal ! 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadovvs before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath. Behold where he flies on his desolate path ! Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight : Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! — 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors CuUoden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn. Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier : LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 89 His death-bell is tolling: Oh ! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims \ Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — LOCHIEL. — Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale ! For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat ! Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore. Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains. While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame ! Thomas Campbell. Lord JJllin's Daughter. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, '' Boatman, do not tarry ! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." *' Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water ?" '*0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's da ighter. 90 OUR POETICAL FA VORITES. *' And fast before her father's men Three days we 've fled together ; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. •' His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should the) our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover ?" — Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, '* rU go, my chief— I 'm ready. It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady." ** And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace : The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men — Their trampling sounded nearer. *' O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries; *• Though tempests round us gather ; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her — When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. • THE SANDS O' DEE. 91 And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing ; — Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade His child he did discover; One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. " Come back ! come back !" he cried in grief, *' Across this stormy water ; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter ! — Oh, my daughter !" 'Twas vain : — the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. Thomas Campbell The Sands o' Dee, *' /^ MARY, go and call the cattle home, ^^ And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee !" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand. And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see ; The blinding mist came down and hid the land- And never home came she. 92 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. *• Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress o' golden hair — O' drowned maiden's hair — Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolhng 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 o' Dee ! Charles Kingsley. On the Death of George the Third. (Written under Windsor Terrace.) I SAW him last on this terrace proud, Walking in health and gladness, Begirt with his court ; and in all the crowd Not a single look of sadness. Bright was the sun, the leaves were green — Blithely the birds were singing ; The cymbals replied to the tambourine, And the bells were merrily ringing. I have stood with the crowd beside his bier, When not a word was spoken — When every eye was dim with a tear, And the silence by sobs was broken. I have heard the earth on his coffin pour To the muffled drum's deep rolling, While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar, Drowned the death-bell's tollincr. ON THE DEA TH OE GEORGE THE THIRD. The time — since he walked in his glory thus, To the grave till I saw him carried — Was an age of the mightiest change to us, But to him a night unvaried. A daughter beloved, a queen, a son, And a son's sole child, have perished ; And sad was each heart, save only the one By which they were fondest cherished : For his eyes were sealed, and his mind was dark, And he sat in his age's lateness — Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark Of the frailty of human greatness : His silver beard o'er a bosom spread Unvexed by life's commotion, Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed On the calm of a frozen ocean. Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay, Though the stream of life kept flowing ; When they spoke of our king, 'twas but to say : The old man's strength is going. At intervals thus the waves disgorge, By weakness rent asunder, A piece of the wreck of the Royal George, To the people's pity and wonder. He is gone at length — he is laid in the dust, Death's hand his slumbers breaking ; — For the coffined sleep of the good and just Is a sure and blissful waking. His people's heart is his funeral urn ; And should sculptured stone be denied him, There will his name be found, when in turn We lay our heads besice him. Horace Smith. 93 94 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. Ye Mariners of England, YE Mariners of England ! That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and th.e 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. III. Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain-wave, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below. As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow — When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. THE TWO VOICES. 95 IV. . 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. Thomas Campbell The Two Voices. ' I ^WO voires are there ; one is of the sea, -'- One of the mountains — each a mighty voice : In both from age to age thou didst rejoice ; They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! There came a tyrant, and with holy glee Thou fought'st against him — but hast vainly striven ; Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, Where not a torrent murmurs, heard by thee. Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be That Mountain floods should thunder as before, And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore. And neither awful voice be heard by thee? William Wordsworth o6 OUR POETICAL FA VO RITES. An Ode, WHAT constitutes a State? Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned ; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride ; Not starred and spangled courts. Where low- browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No: — Men, high-minded men. With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den. As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude — Men who their duties know. But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain. Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain: — These constitute a State ; Ana sovereign Law, that State's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks ; And e'en the all-dazzling Crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this Heaven-loved isle. Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan short ! No more shall freedom smile ? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more ? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave ! Sir William Jones. WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 9? While History's Muse. "\ "\ 7"HILE History's Muse the memorial was keeping * * Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves, Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping, For hers was the story that blotted the leaves. But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright, When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame, She saw History write, With a pencil of hght That illumed all the volume, her Wellington's name. " Hail, star of my isle !" said the Spirit, all sparkling With tears, such as break from her own dewy skies — " Through ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling, I've watched for some glory hke thine to arise. For, though heroes I've numbered, unblest was their lot, And unhallowed they sleep in the crossways of Fame ; — But oh ! there is not One dishonoring blot On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name, " Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining. The grandest, the purest, even thou hast yet known ; Though proud was thy task, other nations unchaining. Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own. At the foot of that throne for whose weal thou hast stood, Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame. And, bright o'er the flood Of her tears and her blood. Let the Rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name !" Thomas Moore. q8 our poetical FAVORITES. Oh! Blame not the Bard, OH ! blame not the bard if he fly to the bowers Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame ; He was born for much more, and in happier hours His soul might have burned with a holier flame. The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre. Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ; And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire, Might have poured the full tide of a patriot's heart ! But alas for his country ! — her pride is gone by. And that spirit is broken which never would bend ; O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend ! Unprized are her sons, till they've learned to betray ; Undistinguished they live, if they shame not their sires ; And the torch that would light them through dignity's way, Must be caught from the pile where their country expires ! Then blame not the bard if in pleasure's soft dream He should try to forget what he never can heal : Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel ! That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down Every passion it nursed, every bliss it adored ; While the myrtle, now idly entwined with his crown, Like the wreath of Harmodius should cover his sword. But though glory be gone, and though hope fade away, Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his songs; Not e'en in the hour when his heart is most gay, Will he lose the remembrance of thee and th/ wrongs. The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains ; The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep. Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains, Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep ! Thomas Moore. THE PA TRIOT BARD. 99 Tlte Tatriot Bard. A CHARADE. COME from my First — ay, come ! The battle-dawn is nigh ; And the screaming trump and thundering drum Are caUing thee to die ! Fight as thy father fought ; Fall as thy father fell : Thy task is taught ; thy shroud is wrought : So forward, and farewell ! Toll ye my Second, toll ! Fling high the flambeau's light ; And sing the hymn for a parted soul Beneath the silent night ! The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast, Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed, So, — take him to his rest ! Call ye my Whole, ay, call The Lord of lute and lay ; And let him greet the sable pall With a noble song to-day ! Go, call him by his name ! No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame On the turf of a soldier's grave. WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PRAED. loo OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Tl%e Land of Lands, You ask me why, though ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose; The land where, girt with friends or foes, A man may speak the thing he will : A land of settled government, A land of just and old renown, Where freedom broadens slowly down. From precedent to precedent : Where faction seldom gathers head ; But, by degrees to fullness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread. Should banded unions persecute Opinion, and induce a time When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute ; Though power should make, from land to land, The name of Britain trebly great— Though every channel of the state Should almost choke with golden sand^ Yet waft me fiom the harbor-mouth. Wild wind ! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see, before I die, The palms and temples of the South. Alfred Tennyson. LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. loi Landing of the Filgrim Fathers. THE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed ; 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. 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 ; 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. 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 ! There were men with hoary hair. Amidst that pilgrim-band : Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye. Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. i02 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 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 ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod : They have left unstained what there they found- Freedom to worship God ! Mrs. Felicia Hemans, B Lines on Leaving 'Europe. RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast 1 Fling out your field of azure blue ; Let star and stripe be westward cast, And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! Strain home ! oh lithe and quivering spars 1 Point home, my country's flag of stars ! The wind blows fair ! the vessel feels The pressure of the rising breeze. And, swiftest of a thousand keels, She leaps to the careering seas ! O fair, fair cloud of snowy sail. In whose white breast I seem to lie, How oft, when blew this eastern gale, I've seen your semblance in the sky, And longed, with breaking heart, to flee On cloud-like pinions o'er the sea ! Adieu, oh lands of fame and eld ! I turn to watch our foamy track, And thoughts with which I first beheld Yon clouded line, come hurrying back ; LINES ON LEAVING EUROPE, loj My lips are dry with vague desire, — My cneek once more is hot with joy — My pulse, my brain, my soul on fire ! Oh, what has changed that traveler-boy ? As leaves the ship this dying foam. His visions fade behind — his weary heart speeds home ! Adieu, O soft and southern shore, Where dwelt the stars long missed in heaven — Those forms of beauty seen no more. Yet once to Art's rapt vision given ! O, still the enamored sun delays. And pries through fount and crumbling fanCi To win to his adoring gaze Those children of the sky again ! Irradiate beauty, such as never That light on other earth hath shown, Hath made this land her home forever; And could I live for this alone — Were not my birthright brighter far Than such voluptuous slaves' can be — Held not the West one glorious star New-born and blazing for the free — Soared not to heaven our eagle yet — ■ Rome, with her Helot sons, should teach me to forget 1 Adieu, oh fatherland ! I see Your white cliffs on the horizon's rim, And though to freer skies I flee. My heart swells, and my eyes are dim t As knows the dove the task you give her, When loosed upon a foreign shore — As spreads the rain-drop in the river In which it may have flowed before-- To England, over vale and mountain. My fancy flew from climes more fair — My blood, that knew its parent fountain, Ran warm and fast in England's air. in4 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Dear mother, in thy prayer, to-night. There come new words and warmer tears ! On long, long darkness breaks the light — Comes home the loved, the lost for years I Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! Fear not, to-night, or storm or sea ! The ear of heaven bends low to her ! He comes to shore who sails with me ! The spider knows the roof unriven. While swings his web, though lightnings blaze — And by a thread still fast on heaven, I know my mother lives and prays ! Dear mother ! when our lips can speak — When first our tears will let us see — When I can gaze upon thy cheek. And thou, with thy dear eyes on me — 'Twill be a pastime little sad To trace what weight Time's heavy fingers Upon each other's forms have had — For all may flee, so feeling lingers ! But there's a change, beloved mother ! To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; I come — but with me comes another To share the heart once only mine ! Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, One star arose in memory's heaven — Thou, who hast watched one treasure only- Watered one flower with tears at even — Room in thy heart ! The hearth she left Is darkened to lend light to ours ! There are bright flowers of care bereft. And hearts — that languish more than flowers ! She was their light — their very air — Room, mother, in thy heart ! place for her in thy prayer ! Nathaniel P. Willis. rHE OLD WORLD AND THE NEW. 105 The Old World and the JSfew. nPHE Muse, disgusted at an age and clime -■- Barren of every glorious theme, In distant lands now waits a better time Producing subjects worthy fame : In happy chmes where, from the genial sun And virgin earth, such scenes ensue ; The force of art by nature seems outdone, And fancied beauties by the true : In happy climes the seat of innocence. Where nature guides and virtue rules ; Where men shall not impose for truth and sense The pedantry of courts and schools : There shall be sung another golden age, The rise of empire and of arts ; The good and great inspiring epic rage, The wisest heads and noblest hearts. Not such as Europe breeds in her decay, — Such as she bred when fresh and young. When heavenly flame did animate her clay, By future poets shall be sung. Westward the course of empire takes its way : The four first acts already past, A fifth shall close the drama with the day ; Time's noblest offspring is his last. George Berkeley io6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Death-Song of the Oneida Chief. *' \ ND I could weep ;" — the Oneida chief "^*- His descant wildly thus begun : ''But that 1 may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son, Or bow this head in wo ! For by my wrongs, and by my wrath ! To-morrow Areouski's breath, (That fires yon heaven with storms of death,) Shall light us to the foe ; And we shall share, my Christian boy ! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy I "But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep, The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep : Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve. To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun— thy heaven— of lost delight ! " To-morrow let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hurl'd. Ah ! whither then with thee to fly. Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once-loved home ? The hand is gone that cropt its flowers : Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bowers ! And should we thither roam. Its' echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead ! DEA TH-SONG OF THE ONEIDA CHIEF. 107 " Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, **■ • Whose streams my kindred nation qi^ff'dv And by my side, in battle true, . T - A thousand warriors drew the shafts? ' Ah ! there in desolation d^ld, The desert serpent dwells aik>ne. Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bonr;, And stones tl>Gmselyes to ruin grown, Like me, ai'i^death-like old. Th^n.lS^I^ve not their camp, — for there The 'silence dwells of my despair ! ''JBut hark, the trump ! to-morrow thou Iri glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : Even from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears Amidst the clouds that round us roll ! He bids my soul for battle thirst ; He bids me dry the last, the first, The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief!" Thomas Ca.mphelu A Death-Bed, HER sufferings ended with the day, Yet lived she at its close, And breathed the long, long night away In statue-like repose. But when the sun in all its state Illumed the eastern skies. She passed through Glory's morning gate, And walked in paradise. James Aldrich. io8 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. 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 he but could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot was hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray ; Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shouts at Monterey. And on, still on, our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way ; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns that swept The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast. Stormed home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play, Where orange-boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey. We are not many — we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day ; But who of us hath not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey ? Charles F. Hoffman THE ARSENAL A T SPRINGFIELD. loq The Arsenal at Springfield. npHIS is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, -*- Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms ; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms. Ah ! what a sound will rise — how wild and dreary — When the death-angel touches those swift keys ! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies ! I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus — The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own. On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer; Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song And loud, amid the universal clamor, O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din ; And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war-drums made of serpents' skin ; The tumult of each sacked and burning village ; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns ; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage ; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns ; The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder. The rattling musketry, the clashing blade — And ever and anon, in tones of thunder. The diapason of the cannonade. no OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies ? Were half the power that fills the world with tenor. Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,. Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals nor forts ; The warrior's name would be a name abhorred ; And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain I Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease ; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, Peace ! — and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies ; But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise. Henry W. Longfellow. The Battle Autumn {1862). nPHE flags of war like storm -birds fly, -■- The charging trumpets blow ; Yet rolls no thunder in the sky, No earthquake strives below. And, calm and patient, Nature keeps Her ancient promise well. Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps The battle's breath of hell. THE BA TTLE A UTUMN. And still she walks in golden hours Through harvest-happy farms ; And still she wears her fruits and flowers Like jewels on her arms. What mean the gladness of the plain, This joy of eve and morn, The mirth that shakes the beard of grain, And yellow locks of corn ? Ah ! eyes may well be full of tears, And hearts with hate are hot : But even-paced come round the years, And Nature changes not. She meets with smiles our bitter grief, With songs our groans of pain ; She mocks with tint of flower and leaf The war-field's crimson stain. Still, in the cannon's pause, we hear Her sweet thanksgiving psalm ; Too near to God for doubt or fear. She shares the eternal calm. She knows the seed lies safe below The fires that blast and burn ; For all the tears of blood we sow She waits the rich return. She sees with clearer eye than ours The good of suffering born, — The heart that blossoms like her flowers. And ripens like her corn. Oh, give to us, in times like these. The vision of her eyes ; And make her fields and fruited trees Our golden prophecies ! OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Oh, give to Ls her finer ear ! Above this stormy din We, too, would hear the bells of cheer Ring Peace and Freedom in ! John G. Whittier. B^ow Sleep the Brave! How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould. She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung : There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay ; And Freedom shall awhile repair. To dwell a weeping hermit there ! William Collins Chillon, T^ TERNAL Spirit of the chainless mind I -■— ' Brightest in dungeons. Liberty, thou art ; For there thy habitation is the heart, The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; And when tliy sons to fetters are consigned, To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conq lers with their martyrdom, And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod. THE LOST LEADER, 1 13 Until his very steps have left a trace Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! For they appeal from tyranny to God. Lord Byrox, Tlie Lost Leader, JUST for a handful of silver he left us ; Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, — Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us. Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. So much was theirs who so little allowed : How all our copper had gone foi his service ! Rags, — were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die ! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from, their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! We shall march prospering,— not through his presence: Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre : Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name then,— record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod ; One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God I 5 114 <^U^ POETICAL FAVORITES. Life's night begins ; let him never come back to us ! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain ; Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight. Never glad, confident morning again ! Best fight on well, for we taught him, — strike gallantly; Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the throne ! ROEERT Browntn(; Genevieve, ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine stealing o'er the scene. Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man. The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay. Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her OAvn, My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. GENEVIEVE. 115 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. 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. 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. I told her how he pined — and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight. And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a fiend, This miserable knieht ! 1 1 6 OUR POE TIC A L FA VO RITES. And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous "band, And saved from outrage worse than death, The Lady of the Land. And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; And how she .ended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; — And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay : — His dying words — but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long ! She wept with pity and delight — She blushed with love, and virgin shame : And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved ; she stepped aside — As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept. A HEALTH. u; She half inclosed me with her arms ; She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. 'T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly 't was a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride. Samuel T. Coleridge. I A Health. FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone. A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'T is less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds ; And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, And from her lips each flows As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. 1 8 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Affections are as thoughts to her. The measures of her hours ; Her feehngs have the fragrancy, The freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft. So fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns,- The idol of past years ! Of her bright face one glance will trace > A picture on the brain ; And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain : But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears. When death is nigh my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex The seeming paragon. Her health ! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might be all poetry, And weariness a name ! Edward C. Pinkney Ruth, SHE stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born. Like red poppies grown with corn. MY LOVE. 119 Round her eyes her tresses fell — Which were blackest none could tell ; But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim ; — Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks. Sure, I said, heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown, and come, Share my harvest and my home. Thomas Hood- My Love, TVT OT as all other women are -*- ^ Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far; Beneath the silver evening star ; And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know ; God giveth them to her alone. And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow, Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair ; No simplest duty is forgot ; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share 120 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. She doeth little kindnesses Which most leave undone, or despise ; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things ; And though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth Blessing she is : God made her so ; And deeds of week-day hohness Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize ; FeeUng or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman ; one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might. Which by high tower and lowly mill Goes wandering at its own will. And vet doth ever flow aright, THE BE A TING OF MY HEART. And on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles, my duties lie ; It flows around them and between. And makes them fresh and fair and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die. James R. Lowell. 12) The Beating of my Heart T WANDERED by the brook-side, -*• I wandered by the mill ; I could not hear the brook flow The noisy wheel was still. There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. I sat beneath the elm-tree : I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not,— no, he came not— The night came on alone- The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden throne ; The evening wind passed by my cheek. The leaves above were stirred ; But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. 5* 122 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Fast silent tears were flowing, When something stood behind ; A hand was on my shoulder — I knew its touch was kind ; It drew me nearer — nearer — We did not speak one word ; For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. Richard Monckton Milnes. Lines to an Indian Air, I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee. And a spirit in my feet Has led me — who knows how ? — To thy chamber-window, sweet ! The wandering airs, they faint On the dark, the silent stream— The champak odors fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, beloved as thou art ! O lift me from the grass ! 1 die, I faint, I fail ! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. TO A CARRIER PIGEON. 123 My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast; Oh ! press it close to thine again. Where it will break at last. Percy Bysshe Shelley, To a Carrier Pigeon. /^^OME hither, thou beautiful rover, ^^-^ Thou wanderer of earth and of air, That bearest the sighs of the lover. And bringest him news of his fair. Bend hither thy light-waving pinion, And show me the gloss of thy neck : Come, perch on my hand, dearest minion, And turn up thy bright eye, and peck. Here is bread of the brightest and sweetest, And here is a sip of red wine ; Though thy wing is the lightest and fleetest, 'Twill be fleeter when nerved by the vine. I have written on rose-scented paper. With thy wing-quill, a soft billet-doux; I have melted the wax in love's taper, — 'Tis the color of true heart's sky-blue, I have fastened it under thy pinion. With a blue ribbon round thy soft neck; So go from me, beautiful minion. While the pure ether shows not a speck.— Like a cloud, in the dim distance fleeting. Like an arrow, he hurries away ; And farther and farther retreating. He is lost in the clear blue of day. James G. Percival T2A OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, I Love— {Songs of Seven,) LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover. Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate ; Now if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — Hush, nightingale, hash ! O, sweet n'ghtingale, wail Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near ; For my love, he is late ! "The skies in the darkness stoop nearei and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit on the tree : The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer; — To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see ? Let the star-clusters glow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. •'You night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle, or sleep; You glow-worms shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste. For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep — " Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover. And all the sweet speech I had fashioned, took flight. But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright. Jean Ingf.low. THE FLOWER'S NAME. 125 The Flower's Kame. T T ERE's the garden she walked across, -'- -^ Arm in my arm, such a short while since ; Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss Hinders the hinges and makes them wince ! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung ; For she laid the poor snail my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among. Down this side of the gravel-walk She went, while her robe's edge brushed the box And here she paused in her gracious talk To point me a moth on the milk-white phlox. Roses, ranged in valiant row, I will never think that she passed you by ! She loves you, noble roses, I know ; But yonder see, where the rock-plants lie ! This flower she stopped at, finger on lip. Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim ; Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip, Its soft meandering Spanish name. What a name ! Was it love or praise ? Speech half-asleep or song half-awake ? I must learn Spanish one of these days. Only for that slow sweet name's sake. Roses, if I live and do well, I may bring her, one of these days. To fix you fast with as fine a spell. Fit you each with his Spanish phrase ! But do not detain me now ; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found. f26 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not ; Stay as you are, and be loved forever ! Bud, if I kiss you 'tis that you blow not, Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never ! For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle, Twinkling the audacious leaves between, Till round they turn and down they nestle — Is not the dear niark still to be seen ? Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; Is there no method to tell her in Spanish June's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces, Measure my lady's lightest footfall ; Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces- Roses, you are not so fair after all ! Robert Browning Too Late I Stayed. Too late I stayed — forgive the crime ! Unheeded flew the hours ; How noiseless falls the foot of Time That only treads on flowers ! And who with clear account remarks The ebbings of his glass, When all its sands are diamond sparks, That dazzle as they pass ? Oh, who to sober measurement Time's happy swiftness brings. When birds of Paradise have lent Their plumage to his wings ? William R. Spencer, ABSENCE. 127 As to the Distant Moon, As to the distant moon The sea forever turns ; As to the polar star The earth forever yearns : So doth my constant heart Beat oft for thine alone, And o'er its far-off heaven of dreams Thine image high enthrone. But ah ! the sea and moon, The earth and star meet never ; And space as wide, and dark, and high Divideth us forever ! Anne C. Lynch- Absence. WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy face ? Kow shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense- Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence Cheat myself to forget the present day? Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? O, how, or by what means, may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 28 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES, I'll tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds, each moment that is told While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; For thy dear sake I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains, I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time ; and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine ; So may my love and longing hallowed be. And thy dear thought an influence divine. Frances Anne Kemble. From the Epipsychidion. THIS isle and house are mine, and I have vowed Thee to be lady of the solitude ; And I have fitted up some chambers there. Looking toward the golden eastern air, And level with the living winds, which flow Like waves above the living waves below. I have sent books and music there, and all Those instruments with which high spirits call The future from its cradle, and the past Out of its grave, and make the present last In thoughts and joys which sleep, but cannot die. Folded within their own eternity. COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 129 Meanwhile, We two will rise, and sit, and walk together, Under the roof of blue Ionian weather. And wander in the meadows, or ascend The mossy mountains, where the blue heavens bend With lightest winds to touch their paramour ; Or linger where the pebble-paven shore, Under the quick, faint kisses of the sea, Tumbles and sparkles as with ecstasy, — Possessing and possessed by all that is Within that calm circumference of bliss, And by each other, till to love and live Re one. Percy Bysshe Shelley. Come into the Garden, Maud. COME into the garden, Maud— For the black bat, night, has flown ! Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbme spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky. To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon : All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing in tune — Till a silence fell with the waking bird. And a hush with the setting moon. I30 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. I said to the lily, " There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone ? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day ; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away. I said to the rose, " The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine ? But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, " Forever and ever, mine !" And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clashed in the hall ; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood- Our wood, that is dearer than all ; — From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes — To the woody hollows in which we meet, And the valleys of Paradise. The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree ; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me ; The lilies and roses were all awake — They sighed for the dawn and thee. THE WELCOME, n^ Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither ! the dances are done ; In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one ; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear ! She is coming, my life, my fate ! The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near I''* And the white rose weeps, *' She is late ;" The larkspur hstens, " I hear, I hear;" • And the lily whispers, '* I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet ! Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed ; My dust would hear her and beat. Had I lain for a century dead — Would start and tremble under her feet. And blossom in purple and red. Alfred Tennyson. The Welcome. COME in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're looked for, or come without warninj Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, A.nd the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. And the linnets are sin2"incr, "True lovers don't sever!* 132 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. II. I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them ! Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom ; I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer. Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me. III. We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie ; We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river. Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh ! she'll whisper you — " Love, as unchangeably beaming, And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming ; Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." IV. Come when you're looked for, or come without warning : Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever. And the linnets are singing, *' True lovers don't sever !' Thomas Davis. COME TO ME, DEAREST, 13: Come to v%e, Dearest. COME to me, Dearest, I'm lonely without thee, Day-time and night-time, I'm thinking about thee Night-time and day-time, in dreams I behold thee ; Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten. Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten ; Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin. Telling of spring and its joyous renewing, And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom. Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; The waste of my life has a rose-root within it. And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. Figure that moves like a song through the even, Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other ; Smiles coming seldom, but child-like and simple, Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple ; — Oh, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened ; Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened ? Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love : 1 cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing ; I would not die without you at my side, love. You will not linger when I shall have died, love. 134 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Come to me. dear, ere I die of my sorrow, Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow ; Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, lovCj With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. Come, for my heart in your absence is weary — Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary — Come to the arms which alone should caress thee, Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee, Joseph Brenan. A Love-Letter. MY love— my chosen— but not mine ! I send My whole heart to thee in these words I write ; So let the blotted Unes, my soul's sole friend, Lie upon thine, and there be blest at night. Irene, I have loved you, as men love Light, music, odor, beauty, love itself — Whatever is apart from and above Those daily needs which deal with dust and pelf. And I had been content, without one thought Our guardian angels could have blushed to know, So to have lived, and died, demanding naught Save living, dying, to have loved you so. My wildest wish was vassal to thy will : My haughtiest hope a pensioner on thy smile, Which did with hght my barren being fill. As moonlight glorifies some desert isle. And so I write to you ; and write and write, For the mere sake of writing to you, dear. What can I tell you, that you know not ? Night Is deepening through the rosy atmosphere, A LOVE LETTER. \y About the lonely casement of this room, Which you have left familiar with the grace That grows where you have been. And on the gloom I almost fancy I can see your face. Perchance I shall not ever see again That face. I know that I shall never see Its radiant beauty as I saw it then, — Save by this lonely lamp of memory — With childhood's starry graces lingering yet In the rosy orient of young womanhood ; And eyes like woodland violets newly wet ; And lips that left their meaning in my blood ! Man cannot make, but may ennoble, fate, By nobly bearing it. So let us trust Not to ourselves, but God, and calmly wait Love's orient out of darkness and of dust. Farewell, and yet again farewell, and yet Never farewell — if farewell means to fare Alone and disunited. Love hath set Our days in music, to the self-same air; And I shall feel, wherever we may be. Even though in absence, and an alien clime, The shadow of the sunniness of thee, Hovering, in patience, through a clouded time. Farewell ! the dawn is rising, and the light Is making, in the east, a faint endeavor To illuminate the mountain peaks. Good-night ! Thine own, and only thine, my love, forever, Robert Bulwer Lytton. 136 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. Sonnet, WHENE'ER I recollect the happy time When you and I held converse, dear, together There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather, Of early blossoms and the fresh year's prime : Your memory lives forever in my mind With all the fragrant beauties of the Spring, With odorous lime and silver hawthorn twined. And many a noon-day woodland wandering. There's not a thought of you but brings along Some sunny dream of river, field, and sky ; 'Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song. Or some wild snatch of ancient melody. And as I date it still, our love arose *Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose. Frances Anne Kemble. Lines Written in an Alhum, As o'er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer-by, So, when thou view'st this page alone, Let mine attract thy pensive eye ; And when by thee that name is read. Perchance, in some, succeeding year. Reflect on me as on the dead. And think my heart is buried here. Lord Byron. LANG LEY LANE. 137 Langley Lane, IN all the land, range up, range down, Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet As Langley Lane in London town, Just out of the bustle of square and street? Little white cottages all in a row, Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow, Swallows' nests in roof and wall, And up above, the still blue sky Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by, — I seem to be able to see it all. For now, in summer, I take my chair. And sit outside in the sun, and hear The distant murmur of street and square, And the swallows and sparrows chirping near ; And Fanny, who lives just over the way, Comes running many a time each day. With her little hand's touch so warn and kind ; And 1 smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek. And the little live hand seems to stir and speak; — For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear; And I am older by summers three, — Why should we hold each other so dear? Because she cannot utter a word. Nor hear the music of bee or bird, The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call ! Because I never have seen the sky. Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — Yet know she is gazing upon them all ! 138 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, The bees and the blue-flies murmur low. And I hear the water-cart go by, With its cool splash ! splash ! down the dusty row ; And the little one close at my side perceives Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves. Where birds are chirping in summer shines ; And I hear, though I cannot look, and she. Though she cannot hear, can the singers see,— And the little soft fingers flutter in mine. Hath not the dear Httle hand a tongue. When it stirs on my palm for the love of me ? Do I not know she is pretty and young ? Hath not my soul an eye to see ? 'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir, To wonder how things appear to her. That I only hear as they pass around ; And as long as we sit in the music and light, She is happy to keep God's sight, And I am happy to keep God's sound. Why, I know her face, though I am blind, — I made it of music long ago : Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined Round the pensive light of a brow of snow ; And when I sit by my little one. And hold her hand and talk in the sun. And hear the music that haunts the place, I know she is raising her eyes to me, And guessing how gentle my voice must be. And seeing the music upon my face. Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, (I know the fancy is only vain), I should pray, just once, when the weather is fair, To see httle Fanny in Langley Lane : A SONG OF THE CAMP. ^39 Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The voice of the friend she holds so dear, The song of the birds, the hum of the street, — It is better to be as we have been — Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen. To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane ! There is always something sweet to hear — Chirping of birds or patter of rain. And Fanny, my little one, always near. And though I am weakly and can't live long, And Fanny my darling is far from strong, And though we never can married be, — What then ? — since we hold each other so dear. For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see ? Robert Buchanan A Song of the Camp. " /'"^ IVE us a song !" the soldiers cried, ^^ The outer trenches guarding. When the heated guns of the camp allied Grew weary of bombarding. The dark Redan, in silent scoff. Lay grim and threatening under ; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder. There was a pause. A guardsman said : " We storm the forts to-morrow ; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow." 6 . I40 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon ; Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon. They sang of love, and not of fame ; Forgot was Britain's glory ; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang ''Annie Laurie." Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,- - Their battle-eve confession. Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But, as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier's cheek Washed off the stains of powder. Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers. And once again a fire of hell Ramed on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars ! And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory ; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of '' Annie Laurie." Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest, — The loving are the daring. Bayard Tavlor. IN ITALY, MI In Italy, TPVEAR Lillian, all I wished is won ; -*-^ I sit beneath Italia's sun. Where olive-orchards gleam and quiver Along the banks of Arno's river. Through laurel leaves the dim green light Falls on my forehead as I write ; And the sweet chimes of vesper ringing Blend with the contadina's singing. Rich is the soil with Fancy's gold; The stirring memories of old Rise thronging in my haunted vision, And wake my spirit's young ambition. But as the radiant sunsets close Above Val d'Arno's bowers of rose, My soul forgets the olden glory, And deems our love a dearer story. Thy words, in Memory's ear, outchime The music of the Tuscan rhyme ; Thou standest here— the gentle-hearted— Amid the shades of bards departed. I see before thee fade away Their garlands of immortal bay. And turn from Petrarch's passion-glances To my own dearer heart-romances. Sad is the opal glow that fires The midnight of the cypress spires ; And cold the scented wind that closes The heart of bright Etruscan roses. 1 4 2 OUR FOE TIC A L FA VO RITES. The fair Italian dream I chased, A single thought of thee effaced ; For the true land of song and sun Lies in the heart that mine hath won. Bayard Taylor. Zara's Ear-Fangs. MY ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped into tht well, And what to say to Muga, I cannot, cannot tell — 'T was thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez' daugh- ter:— The well is deep — far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water ; To me did Muga give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell. My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — they were pearls in silver set, That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him for- get ; That I ne'er to other tongues should list, nor smile on other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear-rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well. Oh ! what will Muga think of me ? — I cannot, cannot tell ! My ear-rings ! my ear-rings ! — he'll say they should have been. Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear. Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere ; That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting well: — Thus will he think — and what to say, alas ! I cannot telL ON THE CLIFF. 143 He'll think when I to market went I loitered by the way ; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say ; He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses noosed, From the ears where he had placed them my rings of pearl unloosed ; He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in — and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell. He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same ; He'll say I loved, when he was here to whisper of his flame- But when he went to Tunis, my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muga, and cared not for his token. My ear-rings ! my ear-rings : oh ! luckless, luckless well ! — For what to say to Muga — alas 1 I cannot tell. I'll tell the truth to Muga — and I hope he will believe — That I thought of him at morning, and thought of him at eve ; That, musing on my lover when down the sun was gone. His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone ; And that my mind was o'er the sea when from my hand they fell, A id that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the well. Anonymous. Spanish. Translated by John Gibson Lockhart. On the Cliff. *' Q*EE where the crest of the long promontory, ^ Decked by October in crimson and brown, Lies like the scene of some fairy-land story. Over the sands to the deep sloping down. See the white mist on the hidden horizon Hang like the folds of the curtain of fate ; See where yon shadow the green water flies on, Cast from a cloud for the conclave too late. 144 ^^^'^' POETICAL FAVORITES. *' See the small ripples in curving ranks chasing Every light breeze running out from the shore, Gleeful as children when merrily racing, Hands interlocked, o'er a wide meadow floor. See round the pier how the tossing wave sparkles, Bright as the hope in a love-lighted "breast ; See the one sail in the sunlight that darkles. Laboring home from the land of the west. " See the low surf where it restlessly tumbles, Swiftly advancing, and then in retreat ; See how the tall cliff yields slowly and crumbles, Sliding away to the waves at our feet. Sure is thy victory, emblem of weakness — Certain thine overthrow, ponderous wall ; Brittle is sternness, but mighty is meekness — O wave that will conquer ! O cliff that must fall !' " Ah lady, how deep is the truth of your teaching ! All that delights and enthralls you I see ; But little you dream of the meaning far-reaching. Yea more than you meant them, your words have for me. Light run my fancies that once were too sober ; All the fair land of the future lies spread Brightly before me in hues of October ; Homeward, full laden, my ship turns her head. " Dimly across them falls fate's mystic curtain — If but thy fingers could draw it away. Making the fanciful turn to the certain, Then would the sounds and the sights of to-day Ring like the strains of a ballad pathetic. Heard when the voice of the singer is dumb ; Glow like the great words on pages prophetic, Read when the fingers that wrote them are numb. JAMIE'S ON THE STORMY SEA. 145 '• Into the depths of thy dreamy eyes peering, Watching thy Hps for some shadowy sign, Trembhng in doubt betwixt hoping and fearing, Stands my poor soul and appeals unto thine. Barren as sea-sand is every ambition — Pride proves of clay when its feet are revealed ; Only affection brings joy's full fruition — O love that will triumph ! O life that must yield !" RossiTER Johnson. Jamie 's on the Stormy Sea, ERE the twihght bat was flitting, In the sunset, at her knitting, Sang a lonely maiden, sitting Underneath the threshold tree ; And as daylight died before us, And the evening star shone o'er us Fitful rose her gentle chorus, — "Jamie's on the stormy sea.'' Curfew bells remotely ringing, Mingled with her sweet voice singing, And the last red ray seemed clinging Lingeringly to tower and tree ; And her evening song ascending, With the scene and season blending, Ever had the same low ending, — ''Jamie 's on the stormy sea." "Blow, thou west wind, blandly hovei Round the bark that bears my lover : Blow, and waft him safely over To his own dear home and me : id6 OUR POETICAL FAVORITES. For when night-winds rend the willow, Sleep forsakes my lonely pillow, Thinking on the raging billow, — Jamie's on the stormy sea." How could I but list, but linger To the song, and near the singer. Sweetly wooing heaven to bring her Jamie from the stormy sea ? And while yet her voice did name me, Forth I sprang — my heart o'ercame me, — "Grieve no more, sweet ; I am Jamie, Hoir