Glass TRiij5 
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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 YOURS AND MINE 
 
 COMPILED BY 
 
 WARREN SNYDER 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 WESSELS & BISSELL CO. 
 
 1910 
 
Copyright, 1910, by 
 
 WeSSELS & BiSSELL Co. 
 
 Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 
 All rights reserved 
 
 
 THE . PLIMPTON • PRESS 
 
 [W.D.O] 
 KORWOOD . MASS • U . S . A 
 
 ©CI.A278533 
 

 TO MY SISTERS 
 
 WHO, EVER SINCE I WAS TEN YEARS OLD, HAVE 
 
 LISTENED WITH SO MUCH PATIENCE TO 
 
 MY RECITING OF POETRY 
 
A PERSONAL WORD 
 
 It can be said with truth that this compilation was 
 begun thirty years ago, or more; for some of the poems 
 were taken from the compiler's scrap-book, where they 
 have been his good friends and companions for fully 
 that length of time. 
 
 No effort has been made to make the collection 
 exhaustive, for no one volume could possibly contain 
 all the favorite poems. 
 
 It is hoped, however, that between the covers of this 
 little book there will be found enough of your favorites 
 to justify its title. 
 
 The compiler wishes to express his thanks to pub- 
 lishers and authors who have so kindly permitted him 
 to include a number of poems subject to Copyright. 
 Thanks are also due to my young friend and business 
 associate, Herbert H. Fletcher, of Philadelphia, for 
 suggestions and assistance. The title was given to the 
 collection by him. 
 
 New York 
 June, 1910. 
 
COPYRIGHT NOTICE AND PUBLISHERS' 
 ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 All rights on poems in this work are reserved by the 
 holders of copyright. 
 
 The pubUshers named in the subjoined hst are the 
 proprietors in their own right or as agents for the authors 
 of the books and poems of which the authorship and 
 titles are given respectively, and of which the ownership 
 is thus specifically noted and is hereby acknowledged. 
 
 The Publishers op 
 "Poetical Favorites, Yours and Mine." 
 
 By special permission of The Bobbs-Merrill Company, 
 "The Old Swimmin'-Hole," from Neighborly Poems, by 
 J. W. Riley, copyright 1891; "Little Orphant Annie," 
 from Child Rhymes, by J. W. Riley, copyright 1898; "An 
 Old Sweetheart of Mine," from Love Lyrics, by J. W. Riley, 
 copyright 1898; "Old Fashioned Roses," from Farm 
 Rhymes, by J. W. Riley, copyright 1901. 
 
 By special permission of The Grafton Press "The Eyes 
 of the Christ," from The Dream Child and other Verses, 
 by N. B. Carson, copyright 1905. 
 
 By special permission of Houghton, Mifflin Company, 
 as authorized pubUshers of "The Angels of Buena Vista," 
 "The Barefoot Boy," "Maud Muller," "In School-Days," 
 by Whittier;"A Psalm of Life," "Suspiria," "Resignation," 
 "The Village Blacksmith," "There is no Death," "The 
 Arrow and the Song," "The Children's Hour," "God's 
 Acre," by H. W. Longfellow; "Freedom," "The Heritage," 
 "A Prayer," "A Requiem," "The Present Crisis," by 
 J. R. Lowell; "The Kings," by L. I. Guiney; "Plain 
 Language from Truthful James," "Miss Edith Helps 
 Things Along with her Elder Sister's Beau," by Francis 
 Bret Harte; "The Boys," "Old Ironsides," "The Height 
 of the Ridiculous," "The Last Leaf," "The Voiceless," 
 
 fix! 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 by O. W. Holmes; "Are the Children at Home," "Our 
 Own," by M. E. Sangster. 
 
 By special permission of John Lane Company, "Leetla 
 Joe," from Carmina, by T. A. Daly. 
 
 By special permission of Catholic Standard and Times 
 Publishing Company, "The Song of the Thrush," from 
 Canzoni, by T. A. Daly. 
 
 By special permission of Charles Scribner's Sons, 
 "Christmas at Sea," "The Departed Friend," from Poems, 
 by R. L. Stevenson; "The Questioner," by Carl Werner, 
 from Scribner's Magazine, copyright 1910; "Fiddle-Dee- 
 Dee," "Jes' fore Christmas," from Love Songs of Child- 
 hood, copyright 1894, by Eugene Field; " Little Boy Blue," 
 "Wynken, Blynken, and Nod," from With Trumpet and 
 Drum, copyright 1892, by Mary French Field. 
 
 By special permission of Little, Brown & Company, 
 "Lines on the Death of his Son Charles," by Daniel 
 Webster, from Daniel Webster's Complete Works. 
 
 By special permission of Longmans, Green & Company, 
 "Outward," from Poems, by W. J. Cameron. 
 
 By special permission of Edwin Markham, "Lincoln, 
 the Man of the People." 
 
 X] 
 
POETICAL 
 FAVORITES 
 
 RECOMPENSE 
 
 BY EDWIN M. ABBOTT 
 
 What is the price of manhood? 
 
 What sale does honor bring? 
 Does pure, untarnished character 
 
 Count nought in Hfetime's ring? 
 Do bauble scions rule us? 
 
 Does riot, ruin reign 
 The purest soul to trample down 
 
 To crush, destroy, rend twain? 
 Is there no truth or honor 
 
 To cause mankind to stay 
 The all-consuming thirst for lust 
 
 That lures them far away? 
 Does honest labor cheapen 
 
 The mold wherein we're cast; 
 Is black, corrupt impurity 
 
 The flag flung from life's mast? 
 Forget not. One is watching. 
 
 Our actions, day by day, 
 
 [1] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And riches gained at such a cost 
 
 He surely will repay. 
 For though mankind is judging 
 
 Appearances, poor art, 
 The God, the just the righteous Judge. 
 
 Inspects our inmost heart. 
 Condemn not, then, I pray thee, 
 
 For thou, thyself, some day 
 May seek for mercy from thy Judge, 
 
 Whose verdict none can sway. 
 And temper all thy judgments 
 
 With love and common sense. 
 The end well merits all 'twill bring; 
 
 It serves full recompense. 
 
 LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS 
 
 BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS 
 
 I haf got a leedle boy 
 
 Vot gomes schust to my knee; 
 Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue 
 
 As efer you dit see; 
 He runs and jumps, and smashes dings 
 
 In all barts of der house — 
 But vot of dot? he vas mine son, 
 
 Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He get der measles und der mumbs, 
 
 Unt eferyding dot's oud; 
 He sbills mine glass of lager beer, 
 
 Foots schnuff indo mine kraut; 
 [21 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He fills my pipe mit Limburg cheese, — 
 Dot vas der roughest chouse; 
 
 I'd dake dot vrom no oder boy 
 But leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He dakes der milk ban for a dhrum, 
 
 Und cuts mine cane in dwo 
 To make der schticks to beat it mit — 
 
 Mine cracious, dot vas drue! 
 I dinks mine head vas schplit abart, 
 
 He kicks oup sooch a touse — 
 But nefer mind, der poys vas few 
 
 Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He asks me questions sooch as dese: 
 
 Who baints mine nose so red? 
 Who vas it cut dot schmoot blace out 
 
 Vrom der hair ubon mine head? 
 Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
 
 Vene'er der glim I douse — 
 How gan I all dose dings eggsblain 
 
 To dot shmall Yawcob Strauss? 
 
 I somedimes dink I schall go vild 
 
 Mit sooch a grazy poy, 
 Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest 
 
 Und beaceful dimes enshoy; 
 But ven he was ashleep in ped 
 
 So guiet as a mouse, 
 I braj^s der Lord, "Dake any dings, 
 
 But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 
 
 [3] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS 
 
 El Dorado, 1851 
 
 BY CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS 
 
 I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys, 
 
 'N feelin' kind o' blue, 
 I thought I'd look in at " The Ranch," 
 
 Ter find out what wuz new; 
 When I seed tliis sign a-hanging 
 
 On a shanty by the lake : 
 " Here's whar yer get your doughnuts 
 
 Like yer mother used ter make." 
 
 I've seen a grizzly show his teeth, 
 
 I've seen Kentucky Pete 
 Draw out his shooter, 'n advise 
 
 A " tenderfoot " ter treat; 
 But nuthin' ever tuk me down, 
 
 'N made my benders shake. 
 Like that sign about the doughnuts 
 
 That my mother used ter make. 
 
 A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, 
 
 'N standin' thar instead, 
 I seen an old, white farm-house, 
 
 With its doors all painted red. 
 A whiff came through the open door — 
 
 Wuz I sleepin' or awake? 
 The smell wuz that of doughnuts 
 
 Like my mother used ter make. 
 
 [41 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The bees wuz hummin' round the porch 
 
 Wliar honeysuckles grew; 
 A yellow dish of apple-sass 
 
 Wuz settin' thar in view. 
 'N on the table, by the stove, 
 
 An old-time " Johnny-cake," 
 'N a platter full of doughnuts 
 
 Like my mother used ter make. 
 
 A patient form I seemed ter see, 
 
 In tidy dress of black, 
 I almost thought I heard the words, 
 
 " When will my boy come back? " 
 'N then — the old sign creaked : 
 
 But now it was the boss who spake: 
 " Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts 
 
 Like yer mother used ter make." 
 
 Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 
 
 'N ez I've " struck pay gravel," 
 I ruther think I'll pack my kit, 
 
 Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel. 
 I'll make the old folks jubilant, 
 
 'N if I don't mistake, 
 I'll try some o' them doughnuts 
 
 Like my mother used ter make. 
 
 5] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE WANTS OF MAN 
 
 BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 
 
 " Man wants but little here below, 
 
 Nor wants that little long." • 
 
 'T is not with me exactly so; 
 
 But 't is so in the song. 
 M]i wants are many and, if told, 
 
 Would muster many a score; 
 And were each wish a mint of gold, 
 
 I still should long for more. 
 
 What first I want is daily bread — 
 
 And canvas-backs — and wine — 
 And all the realms of nature spread 
 
 Before me, when I dine. 
 Four courses scared}^ can provide 
 
 My appetite to quell ; 
 With four choice cooks from France beside, 
 
 To dress my dinner well. 
 
 What next I want, at princely cost, 
 
 Is elegant attire: 
 Black sable furs for winter's frost, 
 
 And silks for summer's fire, 
 And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace 
 
 My bosom's front to deck, — 
 And diamond rings my hands to grace. 
 
 And rubies for my neck. 
 
 [6] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I want (who does not want?) a wife, — 
 
 Affectionate and fair; 
 To solace all the woes of life, 
 
 And all its joys to share. 
 Of temper sweet, of yielding will, 
 
 Of firm, yet placid mind, — 
 With all my faults to love me still 
 
 With sentiment refined. 
 
 And as Time's car incessant runs, 
 
 And Fortune fills my store, 
 I want of daughters and of sons 
 
 From eight to half a score. 
 I want (alas! can mortal dare 
 
 Such bliss on earth to crave?) 
 That all the girls be chaste and fair, 
 
 The boys all wise and brave. 
 
 I want a warm and faithful friend, 
 
 To cheer the adverse hour; 
 Who ne'er to flatter will descend. 
 
 Nor bend the knee to power, — 
 A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, 
 
 My inmost soul to see; 
 And that my friendship prove as strong 
 
 For him as his for me. 
 
 I want the seals of power and place. 
 
 The ensigns of command ; 
 Charged by the People's unbought grace 
 
 To rule my native land. 
 
 [7] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Nor crown nor sceptre would I ask 
 But from my country's will, 
 
 By day, by night, to ply the task 
 Her cup of bliss to fill. 
 
 I want the voice of honest praise 
 
 To follow me behind, 
 And to be thought in future days 
 
 The friend of human kind, 
 That after ages, as they rise, 
 
 Exulting may proclaim 
 In choral union to the skies 
 
 Their blessings on my name. 
 
 These are the Wants of mortal Man, 
 
 I cannot want them long, 
 For life itself is but a span, 
 
 And earthly bliss — a song. 
 My last great Want — absorbing all 
 
 Is, when beneath the sod, 
 And summoned to my final call, 
 
 The Mercy of my God. 
 
 ROCK ME TO SLEEP 
 
 BY ELIZABETH ANN AKERS 
 
 Backward, turn backward, Time, in your flight, 
 Make me a child again just for to-night! 
 Mother, come back from the echoless shore, 
 Take me again to your heart as of yore; 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
 Smooth the few silver threads out of my liair; 
 Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ;— 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! 
 
 Backward, flow backward, tide of the years! 
 I am so weary of toil and of tears, — 
 Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — 
 Take them, and give me my childhood again! 
 I have grown weary of dust and decay, — 
 Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; 
 Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 
 
 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, 
 Mother, mother, my heart calls for you! 
 Many a summer the grass has grown green. 
 Blossomed, and faded our faces between. 
 Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain 
 Long I to-night for y6ur presence again. 
 Come from the silence so long and so deep; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — ■ rock me to sleep! 
 
 Over my heart, in the days that are flown. 
 No love like mother-love ever has shone ; 
 No other worship abides and endures, — 
 Faitliful, unselfish, and patient like yours: 
 None like a mother can charm away pain 
 From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. 
 Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ;- 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 
 
 [91 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, 
 Fall on yoiu" shoulders again as of old; 
 Let it drop over my forehead to-night. 
 Shading my faint eyes away from the light; 
 For with its sunny-edged shadows once more 
 Haply will throng the sweet vision of yore; 
 Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 
 
 Mother, dear mother, the years have been long 
 Since I last listened your lullaby song: 
 Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem 
 Womanhood's years have been only a dream. 
 Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace. 
 With your light lashes just sweeping my face, 
 Never hereafter to wake or to weep; — 
 Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep! 
 
 THE SECRET OF DEATH 
 
 BY EDWIN ARNOLD 
 
 " She is dead! " they said to him; " come away; 
 Kiss her and leave her, — thy love is clay! " 
 
 They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; 
 On her forehead of stone they laid it fair; 
 
 Over her eyes that gazed too much 
 They drew the lids with a gentle touch; 
 
 With a tender touch they closed up well 
 The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; 
 
 [101 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 About her brows and beautiful face 
 They tied her veil and her marriage-lace, 
 
 And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes — 
 Which were the whitest no eye could choose! 
 
 And over her bosom they crossed her hands. 
 
 " Come away! " they said; " God understands! " 
 
 And there was silence, and nothing there 
 But silence, and scents of eglantere. 
 
 And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; 
 
 And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she." 
 
 And they held their breath till they left the room, 
 With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. 
 
 But he who loved her too well to dread 
 The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead, 
 
 He lit his lamp and took the key 
 
 And turned it. Alone again — he and she! 
 
 He and she; but she would not speak, 
 
 Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. 
 
 He and she; yet she would not smile, 
 
 Though he called her the name she loved erewhile. 
 
 He and she; still she did not move 
 To any one passionate whisper of love. 
 
 [11] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Then he said: " Cold lips, and breasts -wathout breath, 
 Is there no voice, no language of death, 
 
 " Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, 
 But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? 
 
 " See now; I will Usten with soul, not ear; 
 T\Tiat was the secret of djing, dear? 
 
 " Was it the infinite wonder of all 
 That you ever could let life's flower fall? 
 
 " Or was it a greater mar\'el to feel 
 The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? 
 
 " Was the miracle greater to find how deep 
 Beyond all di'eams sank downward that sleep? 
 
 " Did life roU back its records, dear, 
 
 And show, as they say it does, past things clear?" 
 
 And was it the innermost heart of the bliss 
 To find out so, what a wisdom love is? 
 
 " perfect dead ! dead most dear, 
 I hold the breath of my soul to hear! 
 
 " I listen as deep as to horrible hell. 
 
 As high as to heaven, and j'ou do not tell. 
 
 " There must be pleasure in d3'ing, sweet. 
 To make you so placid from head to feet! 
 [121 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, 
 
 And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed, — 
 
 " I would say, though the angel of death had laid 
 His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. 
 
 " You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, 
 Which of all death's was the chief est surprise, 
 
 " The very strangest and suddenest thing 
 Of all the surprises that dying must bring." 
 
 Ah, foolish world! 0, most kind dead! 
 
 Though he told me, who will believe it was said? 
 
 Who will believe that he heard her say, 
 With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: 
 
 " The utmost wonder is this, — I hear, 
 
 And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; 
 
 " And am your angel, who was your bride. 
 
 And know that, though dead, I have never died." 
 
 WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY 
 
 BY SIR ROBERT AYTON 
 
 I loved thee once, I'll love no more, 
 Thine be the grief as is the blame; 
 
 Thou art not what thou wast before, 
 What reason I should be the same? 
 
 fl3 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He that can love unloved again, 
 Hath better store of love than brain: 
 God send me love my debts to pay, 
 While unthrifts fool their love away. 
 
 Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, 
 
 If thou hadst still continued mine; 
 Yea, if thou hadst remain'd thy own, 
 I might perchance have yet been thine. 
 But thou thy freedom did recall. 
 That if thou might elsewhere in thrall; 
 And then how could I but disdain 
 A captive's captive to remain? 
 
 When new desires had conquer'd thee, 
 And changed the object of thy will, 
 It had been lethargy in me. 
 Not constancy, to love thee still. 
 Yea, it had been a sin to go 
 And prostitute affection so, 
 Since we are taught no prayers to say 
 To such as must to others pray. 
 
 Yet do thou glory in thy choice. 
 
 Thy choice of his good fortune boast; 
 I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice. 
 To see him gain what I have lost; 
 The height of my disdain shall be, 
 To laugh at him, to blush for thee; 
 To love thee still, but go no more 
 A begging to a beggar's door. 
 
 [14] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 BY THE REV. DR. MALTBIE D. BABCOCK 
 
 Lord, let me make this rule, 
 To think of life as school, 
 
 And try my best 
 
 To stand each test. 
 
 And do my work 
 
 And nothing shirk. 
 
 Should some one else outshine 
 This dullard head of mine, 
 
 Should I be sad? 
 
 I will be glad. 
 
 To do my best 
 
 Is Thy behest. 
 
 If weary with my book 
 I cast a wistful look 
 Where posies grow 
 
 let me know 
 That flowers within 
 Are best to win. 
 
 Dost take my book away 
 Anon to let me play. 
 
 And let me out 
 
 To run about? 
 
 1 grateful bless 
 Thee for recess. 
 
 [15] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Then recess past, alack, 
 I turn me slowly back. 
 
 On my hard bench 
 
 My hands to clench. 
 
 And set my heart 
 
 To learn my part. 
 
 These lessons Thou dost give 
 To teach me how to hve. 
 
 To do, to bear, 
 
 To get and share. 
 
 To work and pray 
 
 And trust alway. 
 
 What though I may not ask 
 To choose my daily task? 
 
 Thou hast decreed 
 
 To meet my need. 
 
 What pleases Thee, 
 
 That shall please me. 
 
 Some day the bell will sound 
 Some day my heart will bound. 
 
 As with a shout 
 
 That school is out 
 
 And lessons done, 
 
 I homeward run! 
 
 16] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LIFE 
 
 "Animula, vagula, blandula." — Emperor Hadrian 
 BY ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD 
 
 Life! I know not what thou art, 
 But know that thou and I must part; 
 And when, or how, or where we met 
 I own to me's a secret yet. 
 But this I know, when thou art fled, 
 Where'er they lay these Hmbs, this head, 
 No clod so valueless shall be. 
 As all that then remains of me. 
 O, whither, whither dost thou fly. 
 Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 
 
 And in this strange divorce, 
 Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? 
 
 To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, 
 From whence thy essence came. 
 Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
 From matter's base encumbering weed? 
 Or dost thou, hid from sight. 
 Wait, like some spell-bound knight. 
 
 Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour 
 
 To break thy trance and reassume thy power? 
 
 Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be? 
 
 0, say what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee? 
 
 Life! we've been long together 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 
 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, — 
 
 [17] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; 
 Then steal away, give little warning, 
 
 Choose thine own time; 
 Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 
 
 Bid me Good Morning. 
 
 THE NEW YEAR LEDGER 
 
 BY AMELIA E. BARE 
 
 I said one year ago, 
 
 " I wonder, if I truly kept 
 A list of days when life burnt low. 
 
 Of days I smiled and days I wept, 
 If good or bad would highest mount 
 When I made up the year's account? " 
 
 I took a ledger fair and fine, 
 
 " And now," I said, " when days are glad, 
 I'll write with bright red ink the line, 
 
 And write with black when they are bad, 
 So that they'll stand before my sight 
 As clear apart as day and night. 
 
 " I will not heed the changing skies, 
 
 Nor if it shine nor if it rain; 
 But if there comes some sweet surprise, 
 
 Or friendship, love or honest gain. 
 Why, then it shall be understood 
 That day is written down as good. 
 
 " Or if to any one I love 
 
 A blessing meets them on the way, 
 
 [18] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 That will to me a pleasure prove: 
 
 So it shall be a happy day; 
 And if some day, I've cause to dread 
 Pass harmless by, I'll write it red. 
 
 When hands and brain stand labor's test, 
 
 And I can do the thing I would 
 Those days when I am at my best 
 
 Shall all be traced as very good. 
 And in ' red letter,' too, I'll write 
 Those rare, strong hours when right is might. 
 
 When first I meet in some grand book 
 A noble soul that touches mine. 
 
 And with this vision I can look 
 
 Through some gate beautiful of time, 
 
 That day such happiness will shed 
 
 That golden-lined will seem the red. 
 
 And when pure, holy thoughts have power 
 To touch my heart and dim my eyes. 
 
 And I in some diviner hour 
 
 Can hold sweet converse with the skies, 
 
 Ah! then my soul may safely write: 
 
 ' This day has been most good and bright.' " 
 
 What do I see on looking back? 
 
 A red-lined book before me lies, 
 With here and there a thread of black, 
 
 That like a gloomy shadow flies, — 
 A shadow it must be confessed, 
 That often rose in my own breast. 
 
 119] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And I have found it good to note 
 
 The blessing that is mine each day; 
 For happiness is vainly sought 
 
 In some dim future far away. 
 Just try my ledger for a year, 
 
 Then look with grateful wonder back, 
 And you will find, there is no fear. 
 
 The red days far exceed the black. 
 
 THE QUESTIONS 
 
 BY BYEON BEACH 
 
 Ah, Life, what art thou. 
 
 With thy smiles, and with thy fears? 
 And what is Love, 
 
 That kisses Youth, and lingers tlirough the years? 
 And what is Death, 
 
 That cliills each heart, and stills all troubling fears? 
 
 Dost thou not know, thou wanderer of mine? 
 
 Dost thou not barken to the breath of Spring 
 And hopes that thrill and pine? 
 
 Dost thou know enough, that Life is good; 
 That Life is joy untold. 
 
 As free and broad as sunset 
 
 rav: 
 
 A clay it is, for thine own hand to mold; 
 To make or mar it — as you may. 
 
 And what is Love? 
 
 Ah, foolish child, to ask it in thy mood. 
 
 What it is, thine own heart knows, 
 
 [201 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And strives to do its bidding. 
 It serves thee well and tenderly. 
 What else it is, thou canst not know. 
 
 And what is Death? 
 
 Ah, child of mine, seek far and well 
 
 Before you turn from me. 
 
 A dream is but a rose's breath — so pure and free; 
 And so is Death. 'Tis but a dream, 
 
 A sleep — a tender kiss; 
 A pillow for thy care and tear; — 
 
 It is not, then, 
 
 And what is Life? 
 And what is Love? 
 And what is Death? 
 
 Seek, child, no more, nor worry with thy queries, 
 For Life is Love; and Love is Death, 
 And Death is peace and sweet, — 
 
 Sweet rest for one who wearies. 
 
 DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER 
 
 On the death of General Philip Kearney at Chantilly, Va. 
 
 BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER 
 
 Close his eyes; his work is done! 
 
 What to him is friend or foeman, 
 Rise of moon or set of sun. 
 
 Hand of man or kiss of woman? 
 
 [211 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What cares he? he cannot know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 As man may, he fought his fight, 
 
 Proved his truth by his endeavor; 
 Let him sleep in solemn night, 
 Sleep forever and forever. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What cares he? he cannot know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 Fold him in his country's stars. 
 
 Roll the drimi and fire the volley! 
 What to him are all our wars? — 
 What but death-bemocking folly? 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What cares he? he cannot know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 Leave him to God's watching eye; 
 
 Trust him to the hand that made him. 
 Mortal love weeps idly by; 
 God alone has power to aid him. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow! 
 What care he? he cannot know; 
 Lay him low! 
 
 [221 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LIGHT 
 BY FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the day but one; 
 Yet the hght of the bright world dies, 
 
 With the dying sun. 
 
 The mind has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the heart but one; 
 Yet the hght of a whole life dies, 
 
 When love is done. 
 
 LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM 
 
 BY THE REV. DR. PHILLIPS BROOKS 
 
 little town of Bethlehem, 
 
 How still we see thee lie! 
 Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 
 
 The silent hours go by; 
 Yet in thy dark street shineth 
 
 The everlasting Light; 
 The hopes and fears of all the years 
 
 Are met in thee to-night. 
 
 For Christ is born of Mary, 
 
 And, gathered all above, 
 While mortals sleep, the angels keep 
 
 Their watch of wond'ring love; 
 morning stars, together 
 
 Proclaim the holy birth, 
 
 [231 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And praises sing to God the King, 
 And peace to men on earth. 
 
 How silently, how silently. 
 
 The wondrous gift is given! 
 So God imparts to human hearts 
 
 The blessings of His heaven; 
 No ear may hear His coming. 
 
 But in this world of sin, 
 Where meek souls will receive Him, still 
 
 The dear Christ enters in. 
 
 Holy Child of Bethlehem, 
 
 Decend to us, we pray; 
 Cast out our sin and enter in; 
 
 Be born in us to-day; 
 We hear the Christmas angels 
 
 The great glad tidings tell; 
 come to us, abide with us, 
 
 Our Lord Immanuel. 
 
 A COURT LADY 
 
 BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple 
 
 were dark. 
 Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless 
 
 spark. 
 
 Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race; 
 Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. 
 [24] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Never was lady on earth more true as woman and 
 
 wife, 
 Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners 
 
 and life. 
 
 She stood in the early morning, and said to her maidens, 
 
 " Bring 
 That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of 
 
 the king. 
 
 " Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the 
 
 mote. 
 Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the 
 
 small at the throat.* 
 
 " Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten 
 
 the sleeves, 
 Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow 
 
 from the eaves." 
 
 Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered 
 her up in a flame. 
 
 While straight, in her open carriage, she to the hospi- 
 tal came. 
 
 In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end, 
 " Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place 
 of a friend." 
 
 Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a 
 young man's bed: 
 
 [25] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Bloody the band on his brow, and hvid the droop of 
 his head. 
 
 " Art thou a Lombard, my brother? Happy art 
 
 thou! " she cried, 
 And smiled hke Italy on him: he dreamed in her 
 
 face and died. 
 
 Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second : 
 He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons 
 were reckoned. 
 
 Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life 
 were sorer. 
 
 " Art thou a Romagnole? " Her eyes drove light- 
 nings before her. 
 
 " Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten 
 
 the cord 
 Able to bind thee, strong one, — free by the stroke 
 
 of a sword. 
 
 " Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life over- 
 cast 
 
 To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms 
 of the past." 
 
 Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like 
 
 a girl's, 
 Young, and pathetic with dying, — a deep black hole 
 
 in the curls. 
 
 [26] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, 
 
 dreaming in pain, 
 Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list 
 
 of the slain? " 
 
 Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks 
 
 with her hands : 
 " Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she 
 
 should weep as she stands." 
 
 On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off 
 
 by a ball : 
 Kneeling, . . . "0 more than my brother! how shall 
 
 I thank thee for ail? 
 
 "Each of the heroes around us has fought for his 
 
 land and line. 
 But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrong 
 
 not thine. 
 
 " Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dis- 
 
 But blessed are those among nations who dare to be 
 strong for the rest! " 
 
 Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couch 
 
 where pined 
 One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope 
 
 out of mind. 
 
 Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at 
 the name, 
 
 [27] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But two great crystal tears were all that faltered 
 and came. 
 
 Only a tear for Venice? — she turned as in passion 
 
 and loss, 
 And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she 
 
 were kissing the cross. 
 
 Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on then 
 
 to another. 
 Stern and strong in his death. " And dost thou 
 
 suffer, my brother? " 
 
 Holding liis hands in hers: — " Out of the Piedmont 
 
 Hon 
 Cometh the sweetness of freedom! sweetest to live 
 
 or to die on." 
 
 Holding his cold, rough hands, — " Well, 0, well 
 
 have j'^e done 
 In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble 
 
 alone." 
 
 Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her feet 
 
 with a spring, — 
 " That was a Piedmontese! and this is the Court 
 
 of the King." 
 
 28 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 A WOMAN'S ANSWER 
 
 BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 Do you know you have asked for the costhest thing 
 
 Ever made by the Hand above — 
 A woman's heart and a woman's Ufe, 
 
 And a woman's most wonderful love? 
 
 Do you know you have asked for this priceless thing, 
 
 As a child might ask for a toy? 
 Demanding what others have died to win, 
 
 With a reckless dash of a boy? 
 
 You have written my lesson of duty out, 
 
 Manlike you have questioned me — 
 Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul 
 
 Until I question thee. 
 
 You require your mutton shall always be hot, 
 Your socks and your sliirts shall be whole; 
 
 I require your heart to be true as God's stars, 
 And pure as heaven your soul. 
 
 You require a cook for your mutton and beef; 
 
 I require a far better thing: 
 A seamstress you ask for stockings and shirt, 
 
 I look for a man and a king. 
 
 A king for a beautiful realm called home, 
 
 And a man that the Maker, God, 
 Shall look upon as he did the first. 
 
 And say, " It is very good." 
 
 [29] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I am fair and young, but the rose will fade 
 From my soft young cheek one day; 
 
 Will you love me then 'mid the falhng leaves, 
 As you did 'mid the bloom of May? 
 
 Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep 
 
 I may launch my all on its tide? 
 A loving woman finds heaven or hell 
 
 On the day she is made a bride. 
 
 I require all things that are grand and true, 
 
 All things that man should be; 
 If you give this all I would stake my life 
 
 To be all you demand of me. 
 
 If you cannot do this — a laundress and cook 
 
 You can hire, with little to pay; 
 But a woman's heart and a woman's life 
 
 Are not to be won that way. 
 
 EVELYN HOPE 
 
 BY ROBERT BROWNING 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 
 
 She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass. 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think; 
 The shutters are shut, — no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 
 [30] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name, — 
 It was not her time to love; beside, 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim, 
 Duties enough and little cares; 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, — 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares. 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? 
 
 What! your soul was pure and true; 
 The good stars met in your horoscope, 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; 
 And just because I was thrice as old, 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
 Each was naught to each, must I be told? 
 
 We were fellow-mortals, — naught beside? 
 
 No, indeed! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant as mighty to make. 
 And creates the love to reward the love; 
 
 I claijn you still, for my own love's sake! 
 Delayed, it may be, for more hves yet. 
 
 Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; 
 Much is to learn and much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 But the time will come — at last it will — 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, 
 
 In the lower earth, — in the years long still, — 
 That body and soul so pure and gay? 
 
 [31] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Why your hair was amber I shall divine, 
 
 And your mouth of your own geranium's red, — 
 
 And what you would do with me, in fine. 
 In the new life come in the old one's stead. 
 
 I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, 
 
 Given up myself so many times, 
 Gained me the gains of various men, 
 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
 Yet one thing — one — in my soul's full scope, 
 
 Either I missed or itself missed me, — 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! 
 
 What is the issue? let us see! 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; 
 
 My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
 There was place and to spare for the frank young 
 smile. 
 
 And the red young mouth, and the hair's young 
 gold. 
 So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; 
 
 See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. 
 There, that is our secret! go to sleep; 
 
 You will wake, and remember, and understand. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
 
 year. 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 
 
 brown and sere. 
 
 [32] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves 
 
 lie dead; 
 They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 
 
 tread. 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs 
 
 the jay, 
 And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the 
 
 gloomy days. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 
 lately sprang and stood 
 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- 
 hood? 
 
 Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of 
 flowers 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of 
 ours. 
 
 The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold Novem- 
 ber rain 
 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones 
 again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long 
 ago. 
 
 And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- 
 mer glow; 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the 
 wood. 
 
 And the yeUow sunflower by the brook, in autumn 
 beauty stood. 
 
 Tin fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls 
 the plague on men, 
 
 [331 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And the brightness of their smile was gone from up- 
 land, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such 
 days will come, 
 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter 
 home; 
 
 When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all 
 the trees are still. 
 
 And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 
 rill. 
 
 The south wind searches for the flowers whose fra- 
 grance late he bore, 
 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream 
 no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty 
 
 died. 
 The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my 
 
 side. 
 In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest 
 
 cast the leaf, 
 And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so 
 
 brief; 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend 
 
 of ours. 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 
 
 flowers. 
 
 [34 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 mother of a mighty race, 
 Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! 
 The elder dames, thy haughty peers, 
 Admire and hate thy blooming years; 
 
 With words of shame 
 And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 
 
 For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
 That tints thy morning hills with red; 
 Thy step, — the wild deer's rustling feet 
 Within thy woods are not more fleet; 
 
 Thy hopeful eye 
 Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 
 
 Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones, 
 While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
 They do not know how loved thou art, 
 How many a fond and fearless heart 
 
 Would rise to throw 
 Its life between thee and the foe. 
 
 They know not, in their hate and pride, 
 What virtues with thy children bide, — 
 How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
 Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades; 
 
 What generous men 
 Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; 
 [35] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
 By thy lone rivers of the west; 
 How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
 And man is loved, and God is feared, 
 
 In woodland homes. 
 And where the ocean border foams. 
 
 There's freedom at thy gates, and rest 
 For earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
 A shelter for the hunted head. 
 For the starved laborer toil and bread. 
 
 Power, at thy bounds. 
 Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. 
 
 fair young mother! on thy brow 
 Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
 Deep in the brightness of thy skies, 
 The thronging years in glory rise. 
 
 And, as they fleet, 
 Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 
 
 Thine eye, with every coming hour, 
 Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; 
 And when thy sisters, elder born, 
 Would brand thy name with words of scorn. 
 
 Before thine eye 
 Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 
 
 36 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 
 Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; 
 Wide let its hollow bed be made; 
 There gently lay the roots, and there 
 Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 
 
 And press it o'er them tenderly, 
 As round the sleeping infant's feet 
 We softly fold the cradle-sheet; 
 
 So plant we the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree? 
 Buds, which the breath of summer days 
 Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; 
 Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast 
 Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; 
 
 We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
 A shadow for the noontide hour, 
 A shelter from the summer shower, 
 
 When we plant the apple-tree. 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree? 
 Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
 To load the May-wind's restless wings, 
 When, from the orchard row, he pours 
 Its fragrance through our open doors; 
 
 A world of blossoms for the bee, 
 Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
 For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 
 
 We plant with the apple-tree. 
 [37] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 What plant we in this apple-tree? 
 Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
 And redden in the August noon, 
 And drop, when gentle airs come by. 
 That fan the blue September sky, 
 
 While children come, with cries of glee, 
 And seek them where the fragrant grass 
 Betrays their bed to those who pass, 
 
 At the foot of the apple-tree. 
 
 And when, above this apple-tree. 
 The winter stars are quivering bright, 
 And winds go howling through the night, 
 Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, 
 Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth. 
 
 And guests in prouder homes shall see. 
 Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 
 And golden orange of the Line, 
 
 The fruit of the apple-tree. 
 
 The fruitage of this apple-tree 
 Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
 Shall bear to coasts that lie afar. 
 Where men shall wonder at the view. 
 And ask in what fair groves they grew; 
 
 And sojourners beyond the sea 
 Shall think of childhood's careless day 
 And long, long hours of summer play. 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree. 
 
 Each year shall give this apple-tree 
 A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
 
 [381 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
 And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
 The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. 
 
 The years shall come and pass, but we 
 Shall hear no longer, where we he. 
 The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, 
 
 In the boughs of the apple-tree. 
 
 And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
 0, when its aged branches throw 
 Thin shadows on the ground below, 
 Shall fraud and force and iron will 
 Oppress the weak and helpless still? 
 
 What shall the tasks of mercy be. 
 Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
 Of those who live when length of years 
 
 Is wasting this apple-tree? 
 
 " Who planted this old apple-tree? " 
 The children of that distant day 
 Thus to some aged man shall say; 
 And, gazing on its mossy stem. 
 The gray-haired man shall answer them : 
 
 " A poet of the land was he, 
 Born in the rude but good old times; 
 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes 
 
 On planting the apple-tree." 
 
 [39] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THANATOPSIS 
 
 BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 " ' Thanatopsis ' appeared in the September number of the North 
 American Review for 1817 [Bryant wrote it in 1812 at the age of 18], 
 and proved to be not only the finest poem which had yet been pro- 
 duced on this continent, but one of the most remarkable poems ever 
 produced at such an early age. From the day this poem appeared, 
 the name of its author was classed among the most cherished literary 
 assets of the nation." — John Bigelow. 
 
 To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
 A various language : for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
 Go forth under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice: — Yet a few days, and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
 
 [40] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements; 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world, — with kings, 
 The powerful of the earth, — the wise, the good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hiUs, 
 Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
 The venerable woods; rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks. 
 That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death. 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
 Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness. 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
 
 [41] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Save his own dashings, — yet the dead are there! 
 And miUions in those sohtudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them down 
 In their last sleep, — the dead reign there alone! 
 So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
 His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men — 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron and maid. 
 And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man — 
 Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side 
 By those who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan that moves 
 To the pale realms of shade, where each shaU take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death. 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and Ues down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 42 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY 
 
 BY WILLIAM C-ULLEN BRYANT 
 
 Yet has no month a prouder day, 
 Not even when the summer broods 
 
 O'er meadows in their fresh array, 
 Or autumn tints the glowing woods. 
 
 For this chill season now again 
 
 Brings in its annual rounds the morn 
 
 When greatest of the sons of men, 
 Our glorious Washington, was born. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And never brought to min' ? 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
 And days o' lang syne? 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 For auld lang syne, my dear, 
 
 For auld lang syne, 
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 We twa hae run about the braes, 
 
 And pu'd the go wans fine; 
 But we've wandered mony a weary foot 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 [43] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 We twa hae paidl't i' the bum, 
 
 Frae mornin' sun till dine; 
 But seas between us braid hae roared 
 
 Sin' auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, 
 
 And gie's a hand o' thine; 
 And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 
 
 And surely I'll be mine; 
 And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 
 
 For auld lang syne. 
 
 For auld, etc. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY 
 
 BY KOBERT BURNS 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 
 
 Your waters never drumlie! 
 There simmer first unfauld her robes, 
 
 And there the langest tarry; 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 0' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 
 How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
 
 [441 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 As, underneath their fragrant shade, 
 
 I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
 The golden hours, on angel wings, 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary! 
 
 Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace. 
 
 Our parting was fu' tender; 
 And, pledging aft to meet again. 
 
 We tore oursels asunder; 
 But, oh, fell death's untimely frost. 
 
 That nipp'd flower sae early! 
 Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 
 
 That wraps my Highland Mary! 
 
 Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips 
 I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly! 
 
 And closed for aye the sparkling glance 
 That dwalt on me sae kindly! 
 
 And mouldering now in silent dust 
 That heart that lo'ed me dearly; 
 
 But still within my bosom's core- 
 Shall live my Higliland Mary I' 
 
 [45] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN 
 
 BY ROBERT BURNS 
 
 Gilbert Burns, the brother of the poet, says: "He (Burns) used 
 to remark to me that he could not well conceive a more mortifying 
 picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about 
 in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, 
 'Man was Made to Mourn' was composed." 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 
 
 Made fields and forests bare, 
 One evening, as I wandered forth 
 
 Along the banks of Ayr, 
 I spied a man whose aged step 
 
 Seemed weary, worn with care; 
 His face was furrowed o'er with years, 
 
 And hoary was liis hair. 
 
 " Young stranger, whither wanderest thou? " 
 
 Began the reverend sage; 
 " Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, 
 
 Or youthful pleasures rage? 
 Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 
 
 Too soon thou hast began 
 To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
 
 The miseries of man! 
 
 " The sun that overhangs yon moors, 
 
 Outspreading far and wide. 
 Where hundreds labor to support 
 
 A haughty lordling's pride, — 
 I've seen yon weary winter sun 
 
 Twice forty times return; 
 
 [46] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And every time has added proofs 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " man, while in thy early years, 
 
 How prodigal of time! 
 Misspending all thy precious hours, 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime! 
 Alternate follies take the sway: 
 
 Licentious passions burn; 
 Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " Look not alone on youthful prime, 
 
 Or manhood's active might; 
 Man then is useful to his kind. 
 
 Supported in his right; 
 But see him on the edge of life, 
 
 With cares and sorrows worn. 
 Then age and want, ill-matched pair! 
 
 Show man was made to mourn. 
 
 " A few seem favorites of fate, 
 
 In pleasure's lap carest; 
 Yet think not all the rich and great 
 
 Are likewise truly blest. 
 But, 0, what crowds in every land 
 
 Are wretched and forlorn! 
 Through weary life this lesson learn, — 
 
 That man was made to mourn. 
 
 " Many and sharp the numerous ills, 
 Inwoven with our frame! 
 
 [47] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 More pointed still we make ourselves, 
 Regret, remorse, and shame! 
 
 And man, whose heaven-erected face 
 The smiles of love adorn, 
 
 Man's inhumanity to man 
 INIakes countless thousands mourn! 
 
 " See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight, 
 
 So abject, mean, and vile, 
 "WTio begs a brother of the earth 
 
 To give him leave to toil; 
 And see his lordly fellow-worm 
 
 The poor petition spurn, 
 Unmindful, 'though a weeping wife 
 
 And helpless offspring mourn. 
 
 " If I'm designed yon lordling's slave, 
 
 By Nature's law designed, — 
 "VMiy was an independent wish 
 
 E'er planted in my mind? 
 If not, why am I subject to 
 
 His cruelty or scorn? 
 Or why has man the wnll and power 
 
 To make his feUow mourn? 
 
 " Yet let not this too much, my son, 
 Disturb thy youtliful breast: 
 
 Tliis partial view of humankind 
 Is surely not the last! 
 
 The poor, oppressed, honest man 
 Had never, sure, been born, 
 
 [481 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Had there not been some recompense 
 To comfort those that mourn! 
 
 " Death! the poor man's dearest friend, 
 
 The kindest and the best! 
 Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
 
 Are laid with thee at rest! 
 The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 
 
 From pomp and pleasure torn; 
 But 0, a blest rehef to those 
 
 That weary-laden mourn! " 
 
 FARE THEE WELL 
 
 BY LORD BYRON 
 
 Fare thee well! and if for ever, 
 
 Still for ever, fare thee well : 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 
 Would that breast were bared before thee 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain. 
 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again! 
 
 Would that breast, by thee glanced over. 
 Every inmost thought could show! 
 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 'Twas not well to spurn it so. 
 
 Though the world for this commend thee,- 
 Though it smile upon the blow, 
 
 [491 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Even its praises must ofifend thee, 
 Founded on another's woe : 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me, 
 Could no other arm be found, 
 
 Than the one which once embraced me, 
 To inflict a cureless wound? 
 
 Yet, oh j-et, thyself deceive not: 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 Hearts can thus be torn away: 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth, — 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 
 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 Than the wail above the dead; 
 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 Wake us from a widowed bed. 
 
 And when thou wouldst solace gather, 
 "WTien our child's first accents flow. 
 
 Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" 
 Though his care she must forego? 
 
 When her httle hands shall press thee, 
 WTien her lip to thine is pressed, 
 
 foOl 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
 Think of him thy love had blessed! 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 Those thou nevermore mayst see, 
 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 All my faults perchance thou knowest. 
 All my madness none can know; 
 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest. 
 Wither, yet with thee they go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been shaken; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow, 
 Bows to- thee,— by thee forsaken, 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now: 
 
 But 'tis done : all words are idle, — 
 Words from me are vainer still; 
 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 Force their way without the will. 
 
 Fare thee well! — thus disunited, 
 
 Torn from every nearer tie. 
 Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted. 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 51 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE TEAR 
 
 BY LORD BYRON 
 
 " O lachrj-marum fons, tenero sacroa 
 Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater 
 Felix! in imo qui soatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray. 
 
 When Friendship or Love our sympathies move, 
 When Truth in a glance should appear, 
 
 The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile. 
 But the test of affection's a Tear. 
 
 Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's \\ale. 
 
 To mask detestation or fear; 
 Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye 
 
 Is dinmi'd for a time with a Tear. 
 
 Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 
 
 Shows the soul from barbarity clear; 
 Compassion will melt whore this virtue is felt. 
 
 And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 
 
 The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, 
 
 Through billows Atlantic to steer. 
 As he bends o'er the wave which ma}^ soon be his 
 grave. 
 
 The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 
 
 The soldier braves death for a fanciful \\Teath 
 
 In Glory's romantic career; 
 But he raises the foe when in battle laid low. 
 
 And bathes every sound ^\ith a Tear. 
 
 [521 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride, 
 
 Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 
 All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, 
 
 From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 
 
 Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth, 
 Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 
 
 Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, 
 But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
 
 Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more. 
 
 My Mary to Love once so dear. 
 In the shade of her bower I remember the hour 
 
 She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 
 
 By another possesst, may she live ever blest! 
 
 Her name still my heart must revere: 
 With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, 
 
 And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 
 
 Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart. 
 
 This hope to my breast is most near; 
 If again we shall meet in this rural retreat. 
 
 May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
 
 When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, 
 
 And my corse shall recline on its bier. 
 As ye pass bj'- the tomb where my ashes consume, 
 
 Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
 
 May no marble bestow the splendor of woe 
 
 Which the children of vanity rear; 
 No fiction of fame shall blazon my name, 
 
 All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 
 [531 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 OUTWARD 
 
 BY W. J. CAMERON 
 
 The sun's high and the moon's high; 
 
 The bay's a crescent of blue. 
 The ships of the world go by without, 
 But the great hill-gates stand round about, 
 
 And only the waves come tlirough. 
 
 The town sleeps and the bay sleeps. 
 
 Tangled and golden brown, 
 The seaweed drifts on a dreaming sea, 
 Where anchored boats rock lazily, 
 
 As the waves lap, up and down. 
 
 The night comes and the wind comes; 
 
 Landward the white crests ride. 
 Hark to the voice in the wind that cries. 
 As it drifts hke a bird 'twixt the sea and the skies, 
 
 " There is one that will go with the tide! " 
 
 The dawn's here and the day's here! 
 
 The wind ebbs out, and the sea. 
 The mists roll back and the hills are plain, 
 But the great sea-gates are narrow in vain, 
 
 For the sea-bird's out to the sea. 
 
 [54] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 
 
 BY THOMAS CAMPBELL 
 
 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 UUin's daughter. 
 
 " And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we've fled together, 
 
 For should he find us in the glen. 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 " Llis horsemen hard behind us ride; 
 
 Should they our steps discover. 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 
 When they have slain her lover? " 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 " I'll go, my chief, — I'm ready: — 
 
 It is not for your silver bright; 
 But for your winsome lady : 
 
 " And by my word! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry: 
 So, though the waves are raging white, 
 
 I'll row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 [55] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 By this the storm grew loud apace, 
 The water- wraith was slarieking; 
 
 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, 
 Ado^Ti the glen rode armed men, 
 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 " 0, haste thee, haste! " the lady cries, 
 " Though tempests round us gather; 
 
 rU meet the raging of the skies. 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, — 
 When, 0, too strong for human hand. 
 
 The tempest gathered o'er her. 
 
 And still they rowed amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing: 
 Lord UUin 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 roimd her lover. 
 
 " Come back! come back! " he cried in grief, 
 " Across this stormy water: 
 
 [56]. 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 
 My daughter! — my daughter! " 
 
 'T was vain; — the loud waves lashed the shore, 
 
 Return or aid preventing; 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 SALLY IN OUR ALLEY 
 
 BY HENRY CAREY 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart 
 
 There's none like pretty Sally; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 There is no lady in the land 
 
 Is half so sweet as Sally; 
 She is the darhng of my heart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Her father he makes cabbage-nets, 
 
 And through the streets does cry 'em; 
 Her mother she sells laces long 
 
 To such as please to buy 'em; 
 But sure such folks could ne'er beget 
 
 So sweet a girl as Sally! 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When she is by I leave my work, 
 I love her so sincerely; 
 
 [571 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 My master comes like any Turk, 
 And bangs me most severely. 
 
 But let him bang his bellj'ful, 
 I'll bear it all for Sally; 
 
 For she's the darling of my heart, 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 Of all the days that's in the week 
 
 I dearly love but one day, 
 And that's the day that comes betwixt 
 
 The Saturday and Monday; 
 For then Fm drest all in my best 
 
 To walk abroad with Sally; 
 She is the darling of my heart. 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master carries me to church. 
 
 And often am I blamed 
 Because I leave him in the lurch 
 
 As soon as text is named : 
 I leave the church in sermon-time, 
 
 And slink away to Sally; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 When Christmas comes about again, 
 0, then I shall have money! 
 
 FU hoard it up, and box it all, 
 And give it to my honey; 
 
 I would it were ten thousand poimd! 
 Fd give it all to Sally; 
 
 [58] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 She is the darUng of my heart, 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
 My master and the neighbors all 
 
 Make game of me and Sally, 
 And, but for her, I'd better be 
 
 A slave, and row a galley; 
 But when my seven long years are out, 
 
 O, then I'll marry Sally! 
 And when we're wed, we'll bhthesome be, 
 
 But not in our alley ! 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 
 
 BY NORMA BRIGHT CARSON 
 
 Though frail of form, thou wert of spirit large and 
 
 free, 
 A living, burning flame, that spirit seemed to be. 
 Enkindled from a spark of holy fire; 
 To glorious expression did thy soul aspire; 
 Close to the border-land of Heav'n, thou dwelt'st 
 
 through life, 
 Yet actively could stand for right in the world's 
 
 strife. 
 Great was the suffering set to be thy lot. 
 But suffering, in Love's compensation was forgot; 
 The Valley of the Shadow round thee grew. 
 When valiant Love, the spectre Death o'erthrew. 
 Ah! Life for fifteen years was the proud prize; 
 Yes, so it is that Love all unkind force defies. 
 Thy greatest gift to man does lie in this — 
 
 [59] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The poet thou didst inspire; the bhss 
 Thou perfected. No verse whate'er of thine 
 Can bounds of mankind's gratitude to thee define, 
 As does this fact of thy sweet woman's heart 
 Which had in poet's growth so large a part. 
 Yet, we must cherish thee for thy sweet song, 
 Which has with nobler thoughts enriched the world 
 
 for long; 
 Let us not fail a tribute large to bring, 
 For that thou from a pure and perfect heart didst 
 
 sing. 
 
 THE EYES OF THE CHRIST 
 
 BY NORMA BRIGHT CARSON 
 
 Pause now and let a lightsome world go by; 
 
 Heed not the laughter frivolous, the sinwTought sigh; 
 
 The music and the dance, the pride, the sham, the 
 boast; 
 
 What have you kin with all this selfish and this fool- 
 ish host? 
 
 Parade of affectation; self-sought joy; 
 
 And sorrow, more self-seeking, false sympathies decoy. 
 
 Turn from this tinselled army, in extravagance be- 
 decked; 
 
 Turn to where Calvary's Cross the ages long has 
 becked. 
 
 See where the Christ sits by Samaria's well. 
 And gently rolls the sealing stone across the mouth 
 of hell. 
 
 [601 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 See how his eyes in pity's tenderness do rest 
 Where sin hath fixed its mark — the mark of passion's 
 zest. 
 
 No smile of grieved condoling — but a pardon full 
 
 gives he, 
 Though the great heart bleeds because of that the 
 
 shadowed eyes did see. 
 Down future years those eyes go travelling — pained, 
 
 distressed, 
 The while a prayer for mercy's kindness is addressed 
 The Father's ear. 
 
 That was the sacrifice of Christ, 
 To see, to know the future and the past — 
 To hear the voice of martyr loudly shrieking; 
 To hear the ribald laughter, the rude speaking 
 Of ungodly tongues. 
 
 To see the crimson blood go flowing. 
 Of these and all earth's sorrows always knowing. 
 A torture this, not Dante even could portray 
 With truth's reality; oh, brother, turn and pray. 
 
 AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE 
 
 BY ALICE GARY 
 
 Oh, good painter, tell me true. 
 
 Has your hand the cunning to draw 
 Shapes of things that you never saw? 
 
 Aye? Well, here is an order for you. 
 
 [611 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Woods and corn fields, a little brown, — 
 The picture must not be over-bright, — 
 Yet all in the golden and gracious light 
 
 Of a cloud, when the summer sun is down. 
 Alway and alway, night and morn, 
 Woods upon woods, with field of corn 
 Lying between them, not quite sere, 
 
 And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom, 
 
 When the wind can hardly find breathing-room 
 Under their tassels, — cattle near, 
 
 Biting shorter the short green grass, 
 
 And a hedge of sumach and sassafras, 
 
 With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
 
 (Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) — 
 These, and the house where I was born, 
 
 Low and little, and black and old. 
 
 With children, many as it can hold, 
 
 All at the windows, open wide, — 
 
 Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
 
 And fair young faces all ablush: 
 
 Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
 Roses crowding the self-same way. 
 
 Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 
 
 Listen closer. When you have done 
 
 With woods and corn fields and grazing herds, 
 
 A lady, the loveliest ever the sun 
 Looked down upon you must paint for me: 
 Oh, if I only could make you see 
 
 The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 
 The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace, 
 
 [62] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The woman's soul, and the angel's face 
 That are beaming on me all the while, 
 I need not speak these foolish words: 
 Yet one word tells you all I would say, — 
 
 She is my mother: you will agree 
 That all the rest may be thrown away. 
 
 Two little urchins at her knee 
 You must paint, sir : one like me, — 
 The other with a clearer brow, 
 
 And the light of his adventurous eyes 
 
 Flashing with boldest enterprise: 
 At ten years old he went to sea, — 
 
 God knoweth if he be Uving now, — 
 
 He sailed in the good ship Commodore, 
 Nobody ever crossed her track 
 To bring us news, and she never came back. 
 
 Ah, it is twenty long years and more 
 Since that old ship went out of the bay 
 
 With my great-hearted brother on her deck: 
 
 I watched him till he shrank to a speck 
 And his face was toward me all the way. 
 Bright his hair was, a golden brown, 
 
 The time we stood at our mother's knee: 
 That beauteous head, if it did go down. 
 
 Carried sunshine into the sea! 
 
 Out in the fields one summer night 
 We were together, half afraid 
 Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and of the shade 
 Of the high hills stretching so still and far, — 
 
 [63] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Loitering till after the low little light 
 
 Of the candle shone through the open door, 
 And over the hay-stack's pointed top, 
 All of a tremble and ready to drop 
 
 The first half-hour, the great yellow star. 
 
 That we, ^\^th staring, ignorant eyes. 
 Had often and often watched to see 
 
 Propped and held in its place in the skies 
 By the fork of a tall red mulberry-tree, 
 
 Which close in the edge of our flax field grew. 
 Dead at the top, — just one branch full 
 Of leaves, notched round, lined with wool. 
 
 From which it tenderly shook the dew 
 Over our heads, when we came to play 
 In its hand-breadth of shadow, day after day. 
 
 Afraid to go home, sir; for one of us bore 
 A nest full of speckled and thin-shelled eggs, — 
 The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
 Not so big as a straw of wheat: 
 The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, 
 But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
 So slim and shining, to keep her still. 
 
 At last we stood at our mother's knee. 
 Do you think, sir, if you try, 
 You can paint the look of a He? 
 If you can, pray have the grace 
 To put it solely in the face 
 Of the urchin that is likest me : 
 
 I think 't was solely mine, indeed: 
 But that's no matter, — paint it so; 
 [64] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — 
 Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 
 Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs, 
 But straight through our faces down to our lies, 
 And, oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise! 
 I felt my heart bleed where that glance went, 
 
 as though 
 A sharp blade struck through it. 
 
 You sir, know 
 That you on the canvas are to repeat 
 Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
 Woods and corn fields and mulberry-tree, — 
 The mother, — the lads, with their bird, at her 
 knee: 
 But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! 
 High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
 If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 
 
 PICTURES OF MEMORY 
 
 BY ALICE CARY 
 
 Among the beautiful pictures 
 
 That hang on Memory's wall 
 Is one of a dim old forest. 
 
 That seemeth best of all; 
 Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 
 
 Dark with the mistletoe; 
 Not for the violets golden 
 
 That sprinkle the vale below; 
 Not for the milk-white lilies 
 
 That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
 
 [65] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Coquetting all day with the sunbeams, 
 And stealing their golden edge; 
 
 Not for the vines on the upland, 
 Where the bright red berries rest. 
 
 Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowshp. 
 It seemeth to me the best. 
 
 I once had a little brother. 
 
 With eyes that were dark and deep; 
 In the lap of that old dim forest 
 
 He lieth in peace asleep: 
 Light as the down of the thistle, 
 
 Free as the winds that blow, 
 We roved there the beautiful summers, 
 
 The summers of long ago; 
 But his feet on the hills grew weary, 
 
 And, one of the autumn eves, 
 I made for my little brother 
 
 A bed of the yellow leaves. 
 Sweetly his pale arms folded 
 
 My neck in a meek embrace. 
 As the light of immortal beauty 
 
 Silently covered his face; 
 And when the arrows of sunset 
 
 Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
 He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 
 
 Asleep by the gates of light. 
 Therefore, of all the pictures 
 
 That hang on Memory's wall, 
 The one of the dim old forest 
 
 Seemeth the best of all. 
 
 [661 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 NEARER HOME 
 
 BY PHCEBE GARY 
 
 One sweetly solemn thought 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er; 
 
 I'm nearer my home to-day 
 Than I ever have been before; 
 
 Nearer my Father's house, 
 Where the many mansions be; 
 
 Nearer the great white throne, 
 Nearer the crystal sea ; 
 
 Nearer the bound of life. 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down 
 Nearer leaving the cross, 
 
 Nearer gaining the crown! 
 
 But the waves of that silent sea 
 Roll dark before my sight 
 
 That brightly the other side 
 Break on a shore of light. 
 
 0, if my mortal feet 
 
 Have almost gained the brink; 
 If it be I am nearer home 
 
 Even to-day than I think, — 
 
 Father, perfect my trust! 
 
 Let my spirit feel, in death, 
 That her feet are firmly set 
 
 On the Rock of a living faith! 
 [67] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE MUSINGS OF ARROYO AL 
 
 BY ARTHUR CHAPMAN 
 
 It seems to me this life we lead 
 Is jest like that in Cattle Land; 
 
 A few wild critters will stampede 
 A quiet and contented band; 
 
 And find out what the trouble was! — 
 
 And can't, because there ain't no cause. 
 
 One bawlin' critter in the herd 
 Kin do much damage on a drive; 
 
 His locoed doin's is absurd. 
 
 And at the market — man alive! — 
 
 That critter that has scairt the bunch 
 
 Don't fetch enough to buy a lunch. 
 
 They has to be, it seems to me. 
 
 These locoed steers and locoed men. 
 
 But think how easy life'd be 
 
 If, when they bawl and bawl again, 
 
 The herd'd stand there, as it shud. 
 
 And jest take fresh holt on its cud! 
 
 SUNSET THOUGHTS 
 
 BY MINNIE CONWAY 
 
 To-night, as I sat by my window. 
 
 As the west was all agleam 
 With that strange and wonderful splendor 
 
 That is fleeting as a dream, 
 [68] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I thought that the hands of angels 
 Had swung heaven's gateway wide, 
 
 And I caught some glimpse of the glory 
 From the hills on the other side. 
 
 Is it not a beautiful fancy, 
 
 This sunset thought of mine, 
 That the gates of heaven are always 
 
 Swung open at day's decline 
 That those whose day is ended 
 
 Of earthly woes and ills 
 May pass to the morning of gladness 
 
 That dwells on the heavenly hills? 
 
 Perhaps while I sat there dreaming 
 
 Of the gateway in the west, 
 Some poor soul went through the portals 
 
 To a long and endless rest. 
 Went in through the sunset gateway 
 
 To the city paved with gold, 
 Passed in to the new life's gladness, 
 
 To be no longer old. 
 
 When for me the sunset gateway 
 
 Shall at day's decline unclose. 
 And I enter through its portals 
 
 To a long and sweet repose, 
 I know I shall remember 
 
 In that land so fair and far 
 My strange and beautiful fancy 
 
 Of the sunset gates ajar. 
 
 [69] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE OLD ARM-CHAIR 
 
 BY ELIZA COOK 
 
 I love it, I love it! and who shall dare 
 
 To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? 
 
 I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
 
 I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with 
 
 sighs. 
 'T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart; 
 Not a tie will break, not a link will start; 
 Would you know the spell? — a mother sat there! 
 And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 
 
 In childhood's hour I lingered near 
 The hallowed seat with Hstening ear; 
 And gentle words that mother would give 
 To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 
 She told me that shame would never betide 
 With Truth for my creed, and God for mj' guide; 
 She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 
 As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 
 
 I sat, and watched her many a day. 
 
 When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; 
 
 And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, 
 
 And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 
 
 Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — 
 
 My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled! 
 
 I learnt how much the heart can bear. 
 
 When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. 
 
 [70] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 'T is past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now, 
 With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 
 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 
 And memory flows with lava tide. 
 Say it is folly, and deem me weak. 
 Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek; 
 But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear 
 My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. 
 
 ROSES UNDERNEATH THE SNOW 
 
 BY GEORGE COOPER 
 
 Summer groves may lose their gladness, 
 
 Wintry winds may wander by; 
 Cares may come and weary sadness, 
 
 Must we then forever sigh? 
 Brave the storm with firm endeavor, 
 
 Let your vain repinings go ! 
 Hopeful hearts will find forever 
 
 Roses underneath the snow. 
 
 One by one the links that bind us 
 
 May be severed here on earth; 
 But the sun will surely find us. 
 
 Through the winter's gloomy dearth! 
 Cheerful hearts around us beating, 
 
 Wearing ever summer's glow, 
 Ah ! we know you're always meeting 
 
 Roses underneath the snow. 
 
 Never joy that earth can send us, 
 Can forever leave us here; 
 
 [71] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Every flower that spring can lend us 
 
 Bloom again another year. 
 Cares may come, but never mind them; 
 
 Joys may come and joys may go; 
 Look around and you will find them, 
 
 Roses underneath the snow. 
 
 Brave the storm with firm endeavor, 
 
 Let your vain repining go; 
 Hopeful hearts will find forever 
 
 Roses underneath the snow. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK 
 DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISL.\ND OP 
 JUAN FERNANDEZ. 
 
 BY WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey; 
 
 My right there is none to dispute; 
 From the centre all round to the sea 
 
 I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 
 
 Solitude! where are the charms 
 That sages have seen in thy face? 
 
 Better dwell in the midst of alarms 
 Than reign in this horrible place. 
 
 1 am out of humanity's reach; 
 
 I must finish my journey alone; 
 Never hear the sweet music of speech — 
 I start at the sound of my own. 
 
 [721 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The beasts that roam over the plain, 
 My form with indifference see; 
 
 They are so unacquainted with man, 
 Their tameness is shocking to me. 
 
 Society, Friendship, and Love, 
 
 Divinely bestow' d upon man. 
 Oh, had I the wings of a dove. 
 
 How soon would I taste you again! 
 My sorrows I then might assuage 
 
 In the ways of religion and truth. 
 Might learn from the wisdom of age, 
 
 And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. 
 
 Religion! what treasure untold 
 
 Resides in that heavenly word! 
 More precious than silver and gold. 
 
 Or all that this earth can afford. 
 But the sound of the church-going bell 
 
 These valleys and rocks never heard; 
 Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, 
 
 Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd. 
 
 Ye winds that have made me your sport, 
 
 Convey to this desolate shore 
 Some cordial endearing report 
 
 Of a land I shall visit no more : 
 My friends, do they now and then send 
 
 A wish or a thought after me? 
 Oh, tell me I yet have a friend, 
 
 Though a friend I am never to see. 
 
 [73] 
 
POETICAL FA^-ORITES 
 
 How fleet is the glance of the mind! 
 
 Compared with the speed of its flight, 
 The tempest itself lags behind, 
 
 And the swift-wingfed arrows of light. 
 When I think of my own native land. 
 
 In a moment I seem to be there; 
 But, alas! recollection at hand 
 
 Soon hm-ries me back to despair. 
 
 But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, 
 
 The beast is laid down in his lair; 
 Even here is a season of rest. 
 
 And I to my cabin repair. 
 There's mercy in every place, 
 
 And mercy — encouraging thought! - 
 Gives even affliction a grace, 
 
 And reconciles man to his lot. 
 
 THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN 
 
 SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED 
 AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. 
 
 BY WILLIAM COWPER 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 
 
 Of credit and renown; 
 A trainband captain eke was he 
 
 Of famous London town. 
 
 John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear — 
 " Tho' wedded we have been 
 
 [74] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
 No holiday have seen. 
 
 " To-morrow is our wedding-day, 
 
 And we will then repair 
 Unto the Bell at Edmonton 
 
 All in a chaise and pair. 
 
 " My sister and my sister's child, 
 
 Myself and children three. 
 Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 
 
 On horseback after we." 
 
 He soon replied, " I do admire 
 
 Of womankind but one. 
 And you are she, my dearest dear: 
 
 Therefore it shall be done. 
 
 " I am a linendraper bold. 
 As all the world doth know; 
 
 And my good friend, the calender, 
 Will lend his horse to go." 
 
 Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, " That's well said; 
 
 And, for that wine is dear, 
 We will be furnish'd with our own, 
 
 Which is both bright and clear." 
 
 John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; 
 
 O'erjoyed was he to find 
 That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
 
 She had a frugal mind. 
 
 [751 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The morning came, the chaise was brought, 
 
 But yet was not allow'd 
 To drive up to the door, lest all 
 
 Should say that she was proud. 
 
 So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, 
 
 Where they did all get in — 
 Six precious souls, and all agog 
 
 To dash through thick and thin. 
 
 Smack went the whip, round went the wheel 
 
 Were never folks so glad; 
 The stones did rattle underneath, 
 
 As if Cheapside were mad. 
 
 John Gilpin at his horse's side 
 
 Seized fast the flowing mane, 
 And up he got, in haste to ride — 
 
 But soon came down again: 
 
 For saddletree scarce reach'd had he, 
 
 His journey to begin, 
 When, turning round his head, he saw 
 
 Three customers come in. 
 
 So down he came: for loss of time. 
 
 Although it grieved him sore. 
 Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
 
 Would trouble him much more. 
 
 'Twas long before the customers 
 Were suited to their mind; 
 
 [76] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 When Betty, screaming, came down stairs — 
 " The wine is left behind! " 
 
 " Good lack! " quoth he — " yet bring it me, 
 
 My leathern belt likewise. 
 In which I bear my trusty sword 
 
 When I do exercise." 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 
 
 Had two stone bottles found, 
 To hold the hquor that she loved, 
 
 And keep it safe and sound. 
 
 Each bottle had a curling ear, 
 Through which the belt he drew, 
 
 And hung a bottle on each side. 
 To make his balance true. 
 
 Then over all, that he might be 
 
 Equipp'd from top to toe, 
 His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, 
 
 He manfully did throw. 
 
 Now see him mounted once again 
 
 Upon his nimble steed. 
 Full slowly pacing o'er the stones. 
 
 With caution and good heed. 
 
 But finding soon a smoother road 
 
 Beneath his well-shod feet, 
 The snorting beast began to trot. 
 
 Which gall'd him in his seat. 
 
 [77] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 So, " Fair and softly," John he cried, 
 
 But John he cried in vain; 
 That trot became a gallop soon, 
 
 In spite of curb and rein. 
 
 So stooping doAvn, as needs he must 
 
 Who cannot sit upright, 
 He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, 
 
 And eke with all his might. 
 
 His horse, who never in that sort 
 
 Had handled been before, 
 What thing upon his back had got 
 
 Did wonder more and more. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; 
 
 Away went hat and wig; 
 He little dreamt, when he set out. 
 
 Of running such a rig. 
 
 The wind did blow — the cloak did fly, 
 
 Like streamer long and gay; 
 Till, loop and button failing both. 
 
 At last it flew away. 
 
 Then might all people well discern 
 
 The bottles he had slung — 
 A bottle swinging at each side. 
 
 As hath been said or sung. 
 
 The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, 
 Up flew the windows all; 
 
 [78] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And every soul cried out, " Well done! " 
 As loud as he could bawl . 
 
 Away went Gilpin — who but he? 
 
 His fame soon spread around — 
 " He carries weight! he rides a race! 
 
 'Tis for a thousand pound! " 
 
 And still as fast as he drew near, 
 
 'Twas wonderful to view 
 How in a trice the turnpike men 
 
 Their gates wide open threw. 
 
 And now, as he went bowing down 
 
 His reeking head full low. 
 The bottles twain behind his back 
 
 Were shatter'd at a blow. 
 
 Down ran the wine into the road, 
 
 Most piteous to be seen. 
 Which made his horse's flanks to smoke 
 
 As they had basted been. 
 
 But still he seem'd to carry weight, 
 With leathern girdle braced; 
 
 For all might see the bottle-necks 
 Still dangling at his waist. 
 
 Thus all through merry Islington 
 
 These gambols he did play. 
 Until he came unto the Wash 
 
 Of Edmonton so gay; 
 
 [791 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And there he threw the wash about 
 
 On both sides of the way, 
 Just like unto a trundling mop, 
 
 Or a wild goose at play. 
 
 At Edmonton his loving wife 
 
 From the balcony spied 
 Her tender husband, wondering much 
 
 To see how he did ride. 
 
 " Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house," 
 
 They all at once did cry; 
 " The dirmer waits, and we are tired: " 
 
 Said Gilpin — " So am I! " 
 
 But yet his horse was not a whit 
 
 IncHned to tarry there; 
 For why? — his owner had a house 
 
 Full ten miles off, at Ware. 
 
 So like an arrow swift he flew. 
 
 Shot by an archer strong; . 
 So did he fly — which brings me to 
 
 The middle of my song. 
 
 Away went Gilpin out of breath, 
 
 And sore against his will, 
 Till at his friend's the calender's 
 
 His horse at last stood still. 
 
 The calender, amazed to see 
 His neighbor in such trim, 
 
 [80] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
 And thus accosted him: 
 
 " What news? what news? your tidings tell; 
 
 Tell me you must and shall — 
 Say why bareheaded you are come, 
 
 Or why you come at all ? " 
 
 Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 
 
 And loved a timely joke; 
 And thus unto the calender 
 
 In merry guise he spoke: 
 
 " I came because your horse .would come; 
 
 And, if I well forbode. 
 My hat and wig will soon be here, 
 
 They are upon the road." 
 
 The calender, right glad to find 
 
 His friend in merry pin, 
 Return'd him not a single word, 
 
 But to the house went in; 
 
 Whence straight he came with hat and wig, 
 
 A wig that flow'd behind, 
 A hat not much the worse for wear — 
 
 Each comely in its kind. 
 
 He held them up, and in his turn 
 
 Thus show'd his ready wit — 
 " My head is twice as big as yours. 
 
 They therefore needs must fit. 
 
 [81] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " But let me scrape the dirt away 
 That hangs upon your face; 
 
 And stop and eat, for well you may 
 Be in a hungry case." 
 
 Said John, " It is my wedding-day, 
 And all the world would stare 
 
 If wife should dine at Edmonton, 
 And I should dine at Ware." 
 
 So turning to his horse, he said, 
 
 " I am in haste to dine; 
 'Twas for your pleasure you came here 
 
 You shall go back for mine." 
 
 Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast, 
 For which he paid full dear! 
 
 For, while he spake, a braying ass 
 Did sing most loud and clear; 
 
 Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
 
 Had heard a lion roar. 
 And gallop 'd off with all his might, 
 
 As he had done before. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 Went Gilpin's hat and wig: 
 
 He lost them sooner than at first, 
 For why? — they were too big. 
 
 Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
 Her husband posting down 
 
 [821 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Into the country far away, 
 She puU'd out half a crown; 
 
 And thus unto the youth she said 
 
 That drove them to the Bell, 
 " This shall be yours when you bring back 
 
 My husband safe and well." 
 
 The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
 
 John coming back amain — 
 Whom in a trice he tried to stop, 
 
 By catching at his rein; 
 
 But not performing what he meant. 
 
 And gladly would have done, 
 The frighted steed he frighted more, 
 
 And made him faster run. 
 
 Away went Gilpin, and away 
 
 Went post-boy at his heels, 
 The post-boy's horse right glad to miss 
 
 The lumbering of the wheels. 
 
 Six gentlemen upon the road. 
 
 Thus seeing Gilpin fly. 
 With post-boy scampering in the rear, 
 
 They raised the hue and cry: 
 
 " Stop thief! stop thief — a highwayman! " 
 
 Not one of them was mute; 
 And all and each that pass'd that way 
 
 Did join in the pursuit. 
 
 [831 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And now the turnpike-gates again 
 
 Flew open in short space: 
 The toll-men thinking as before, 
 
 That Gilpin rode a race. 
 
 And so he did, and won it too, 
 
 For he got first to town; 
 Nor stopp'd till where he had got up 
 
 He did again get down. 
 
 Now let us sing, Long hve the king! 
 
 And Gilpin, long Hve he; 
 And when he next doth ride abroad. 
 
 May I be there to see! 
 
 AN EXPERIENCE AND A MORAL 
 
 BY FREDERICK SWARTWOUT COZZENS 
 
 I lent my love a book one day; 
 
 She brought it back; I laid it by: 
 'T was little either had to say, — 
 
 She was so strange, and I so shy. 
 
 But yet we loved indifferent things, — 
 The sprouting buds, the birds in tune, — 
 
 And Time stood still and wreathed his wings 
 With rosy links from June to June. 
 
 For her, what task to dare or do? 
 
 What peril tempt? what hardship bear? 
 But with her — ah! she never knew 
 
 My heart, and what was hidden there! 
 [84] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And she, with me, so cold and coy, 
 Seemed a Httle maid bereft of sense; 
 
 But in the crowd, all life and joy, 
 And full of blushful impudence. 
 
 She married, — well, — a woman needs 
 A mate, her life and love to share, — 
 
 And little cares sprang up like weeds 
 And played around her elbow-chair. 
 
 And years rolled by, — but I, content. 
 
 Trimmed my own lamp, and kept it bright, 
 
 Till age's touch my hair besprent 
 With rays and gleams of silver light. 
 
 And then it chanced I took the book 
 Which she perused in days gone by; 
 
 And as I read, such passion shook 
 
 My soul, — I needs must curse or cry. 
 
 For, here and there, her love was writ, 
 
 In old, half-faded pencil-signs. 
 As if she yielded — bit by bit — 
 
 Her heart in dots and underlines. 
 
 Ah, silvered fool, too late you look! 
 
 I know it; let me here record 
 This maxim: Lend no girl a book 
 
 Unless you read it afterward! 
 
 [85 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LEETLA JOE 
 
 BY T. A. DALY 
 
 Leetla Joe he always say: 
 
 " Wen I am beeg man som' day, 
 
 Eef so be I gona grow 
 Strong an' fat so like my Pop, 
 I weell go for be a cop, 
 
 Mebbe so." 
 Soocha talk for four-year-old! 
 Dough he brag so beeg an' bold 
 Een wan handa you could hold 
 
 Leetla Joe. 
 
 Leetla Joe he lay hees cheek 
 On my breast w'en he ees seeck. 
 
 Squeeze my arm an' tal me: "Oh! 
 Pretta soon I gona gat 
 Granda muscle lika dat. 
 
 W'en I grow 
 Like my Pop how proud I be! 
 Justa wait an' you weell see." 
 Ah! so sweet to hug to me 
 
 Leetla Joe! 
 
 But, bay cause I'm 'fraid dat he 
 Wan day would be 'shame' of me, — 
 
 'Shame' for call me " Pop " an' know, 
 W'en he's fina 'Merican, 
 I'm so poor old Dagoman — 
 
 W'en I go 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Where hees grave ees on da heell, 
 Dere ees joy for me to feel 
 Dat my heart can keep heem steell 
 Leetla Joe. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE THRUSH 
 
 BY T. A. DALY 
 
 Ah! the May was grand this mornin'! 
 Sure, how could I feel forlorn in 
 Such a land, when tree and flower tossed their kisses 
 to the breeze? 
 Could an Irish heart be quiet 
 While the Spring was runnin' riot. 
 An' the birds of free America were singin' in the 
 trees? 
 
 In the songs that they were singin' 
 No familiar note was ringin', 
 But I strove to imitate them an' I whistled Uke a 
 lad. 
 0! my heart was warm to love them 
 For the very newness of them — 
 For the ould songs that they helped me to forget — 
 an' I was glad. 
 
 So I mocked the feathered choir 
 To my hungry heart's desire. 
 An' I gloried in the comradeship that made their joy 
 my own, 
 Till a new note sounded, stillin' 
 [871 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 All the rest. A thrush was trillin'! 
 Ah! the thrush I left behind me in the fields about 
 Athlone! 
 
 Where, upon the whitethorn swayin', 
 He was minstrel of the Mayin', 
 In my days of love an' laughter that the years have 
 laid at rest; 
 Here again his notes were ringin' ! 
 But I'd lost the heart for singin' — 
 Ah! the song I could not answer was the one I knew 
 the best. 
 
 BURIED TREASURE 
 
 BY EVA DEAN 
 
 God buried in a woman's soul 
 A treasure rare 
 
 For His safekeeping, till the day 
 That he to whom it was bequeathed 
 Should, by some look, or whisper breathed, 
 
 Beseech his birthright hid away. 
 
 She kept it long, for safety locked 
 Deep in her heart, 
 
 And there it grew more fair, more bright; 
 But no one brought the magic key 
 That claimed the treasure held in fee : 
 
 So, de'eper still, she buried it from sight. 
 
 [88] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 At last the donor spoke and said : 
 " Give lavishly 
 
 To all you meet from out your store; 
 A heart of love, like purse of gold, 
 Unspent, but curses those who hold." 
 
 Yet as she gave, the hoard but grew the more! 
 
 THE IVY GREEN 
 
 BY CHARLES DICKENS 
 
 0, a dainty plant is the ivy green. 
 
 That creepeth o'er ruins old! 
 Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 
 
 In his cell so lone and cold. 
 The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, 
 
 To pleasure his dainty whim; 
 And the mouldering dust that years have made. 
 
 Is a merry meal for him. 
 
 Creeping where no life is seen, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 Fast he steal eth on, though he wears no wings. 
 
 And a staunch old heart has he! 
 How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 
 
 To his friend, the huge oak-tree! 
 And slyly he traileth along the ground. 
 
 And his leaves he gently waves. 
 And he joyously twines and hugs around 
 
 The rich mould of dead men's graves. 
 Creeping where grim death has been, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 [89] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, 
 
 And nations have scattered been; 
 But the stout old ivy shall never fade 
 
 From its hale and hearty green. 
 The brave old plant in its lonely days 
 
 Shall fatten upon the past; 
 For the stateliest building man can raise 
 
 Is the ivy's food at last. 
 
 Creeping on where Time has been, 
 A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER 
 
 BY JULIA C. R. DORR 
 
 Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber 
 
 wrought; 
 Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his 
 
 thought; 
 Till at last the work was ended, and no organ voice 
 
 so grand 
 Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic 
 
 hand. 
 
 Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom or 
 
 bride 
 Who in God's sight were well-pleasing in the church 
 
 stood side by side, 
 Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to 
 
 play, 
 And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom 
 
 seemed to stray. 
 
 [90] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He was young, the Organ-Builder, and o'er all the 
 land his fame 
 
 Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly- 
 rushing flame. 
 
 All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens 
 blushed and smiled, 
 
 By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great 
 renown beguiled. 
 
 So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding 
 
 day was set : 
 Happy day — the brightest jewel in the glad year's 
 
 coronet! 
 But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely 
 
 bride — 
 Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled 
 
 high with pride. 
 
 " Ah! " thought he, " how great a master am I! When 
 
 the organ plays. 
 How the vast cathedral arches wiU re-echo with my 
 
 praise ! 
 Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar 
 
 shone afar. 
 With its every candle gleaming through soft shadows 
 
 like a star. 
 
 But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought 
 
 of love or prayer. 
 For the swelling notes of triumph from the organ 
 
 standing there. 
 
 [911 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's 
 
 low monotone, 
 And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of 
 
 fretted stone. 
 
 Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was 
 pleased with him 
 
 Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple 
 vast and dim? 
 
 Whose the fault, then? Hers — the maiden stand- 
 ing meekly at his side ! 
 
 Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false 
 to him — his bride. 
 
 Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence 
 
 and truth; 
 On that very night he left her to her anguish and 
 
 her ruth. 
 
 Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew 
 
 his name. 
 For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his 
 
 wrath and shame. 
 
 Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought 
 
 by night and day 
 Of the bride he had deserted till he hardly dared to 
 
 pray — 
 
 Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful 
 and good; 
 
 [921 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Thought of his relentless anger that had cursed her 
 womanhood ; 
 
 Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all 
 
 complete, 
 And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down 
 
 at her feet. 
 
 Ah! how throbbed his heart when, after many a weary 
 
 day and night. 
 Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset 
 
 glow alight! 
 
 Through the gates into the city on he pressed with 
 
 eager tread; 
 There he met a long procession — mourners following 
 
 the dead. 
 
 " Now why weep ye so, good people? and whom bury 
 
 ye to-day? 
 Why do yonder sorrowing maidens scatter flowers 
 
 along the way? 
 
 " Has some saint gone up to Heaven? " " Yes," 
 
 they answered, weeping sore : 
 " For the Organ-Builder's saintly wife our eyes shall 
 
 see no more; 
 
 " And because her days were given to the service of 
 God's poor, 
 
 [93] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 From His church we mean to bury her. See! yonder 
 is the door." 
 
 No one knew him; no one wondered when he cried 
 
 out, white with pain; 
 No one questioned when, with paUid hps, he poured 
 
 his tears like rain. 
 
 " 'Tis some one whom she has comforted who mourns 
 
 with us," they said, 
 As he made his way unchallenged, and bore the coffin's 
 
 head. 
 
 Bore it through the open portal, bore it up the echoing 
 
 aisle, 
 Set it down before the altar, where the lights burned 
 
 clear the while: 
 
 When, oh, hark! the wondrous organ of itself began 
 
 to play. 
 Strains of rare, unearthly sweetness never heard until 
 
 that day! 
 
 All the vaulted arches rang with the music sweet and 
 
 clear; 
 All the air was filled with glory, as of angels hovering 
 
 near; 
 
 And ere yet the strain was ended, he who bore the 
 coffin's head, 
 
 [94] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 With the smile of one forgiven, gently sank beside 
 it — dead. 
 
 They who raised the body knew him, and they laid 
 
 him by his bride; 
 Down the aisle and o'er the threshold they were 
 
 carried side by side; 
 
 While the organ played a dirge that no man ever 
 
 heard before. 
 And then softly sank to silence — silence kept for 
 
 evermore. 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE 
 
 BY WILLIAM DOUGLAS 
 
 Maxwelton banks are bonnie, 
 
 Where early fa's the dew; 
 Where me and Annie Laurie 
 
 Made up the promise true; 
 Made up the promise true, 
 
 And never forget will I; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I'll lay me down and die. 
 
 She's backit like the peacock. 
 
 She's breistit like the swan. 
 She's jimp about the middle, 
 
 Her waist ye weel micht span; 
 Her waist ye weel micht span. 
 
 And she has a rolling eye; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I'll lay me down and die. 
 
 [951 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE OLD STORY 
 
 BY FANNY DOWNING 
 
 It chanced that once a Persian maid 
 
 Into a sacred forest strayed, 
 
 And roving on in restless mood, 
 
 Half frightened at the solitude, 
 
 Within the greenwood's depths profound, 
 
 Awestruck, a marble idol found. 
 
 So well the chiselled stone was wrought, 
 So truly Nature's features caught, 
 That, as the girl in wonder gazed, 
 In glorious majesty it blazed, 
 And grandly glistened on the sod, — 
 No image, but an actual god. 
 
 Bold by degrees, she faltering stepped, 
 Close and more closely still up crept. 
 And as one sees in Eastern land. 
 An instant into bloom expand 
 The buds by tropic sunshine nursed. 
 So in her heart love full blown burst. 
 
 She tears the clinging vines away 
 That hide her treasure from the day. 
 Of lotos flowers and campac leaves, 
 With jasmine buds rich garlands weaves, 
 And makes their dewy splendors climb 
 About the brow she calls sublime. 
 
 [96] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Her snowy arms around it pressed, 
 With glowing cheeks and heaving breast, 
 To warm the marble into life 
 And wake it up to passion's strife 
 By every artless art she strove, 
 TiU it should give her love for love. 
 
 But strove in vain ! No answering tone 
 Sends back an echo to her own, 
 Until at last with footsteps slow 
 And tear-blind eyes and voice of woe. 
 The young life chilled with bitter pain, 
 She hastens to her home again. 
 
 'Tis thus with women! We enshrine 
 
 A human love we deem divine, 
 
 To it in admiration cling, 
 
 Round it our heart's best treasures fling, 
 
 Exalt our idol on its throne, 
 
 And find it but a senseless stone. 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG 
 
 BY JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 
 
 When Freedom, from her mountain height, 
 Unfurled her standard to the air. 
 
 She tore the azure robe of night, 
 And set the stars of glory there! 
 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 
 The milky baldric of the skies, 
 [971 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And striped its pure, celestial white 
 With streakings of the morning light; 
 Then, from his mansion in the sun, 
 She called her eagle-bearer down. 
 And gave. into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land ! 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud! 
 
 Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, 
 To hear the tempest trumping loud, 
 And see the lightning lances driven. 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder-drum of heaven, — 
 Child of the Sun! to thee 't is given 
 
 To guard the banner of the free. 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke. 
 To ward away the battle-stroke. 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory! 
 
 Flag of the brave! thy folds shall fly. 
 The sign of hope and triumph high! 
 When speaks the signal-trumpet tone. 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, 
 Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn, 
 And, as his springing steps advance. 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 
 [98] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow. 
 
 And cowering foes shall shrink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave; 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail. 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack. 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 By angel hands to valor given ! 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before us. 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! 
 
 99 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT 
 
 BY HELEN SELINA SHERIDAN, LADY DUFFERIN 
 
 I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, 
 
 Where we sat side by side 
 On a bright May mornin' long ago, 
 
 When first you were my bride; 
 The corn was springin' fresh and green, 
 
 And the lark sang loud and high; 
 And the red was on your lip, Mary, 
 
 And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary; 
 
 The day is bright as then; 
 The lark's loud song is in my ear. 
 
 And the corn is green again; 
 But I miss the soft clasp of your hand. 
 
 And your breath, warm on my cheek; 
 And I still keep list'nin' for the words 
 
 You nevermore will speak. 
 
 'Tis but a step down yonder lane. 
 
 And the little church stands near, — 
 The church where we were wed, Mary; 
 
 I see the spire from here. 
 But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 
 
 And my step might break your rest, — 
 For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, 
 
 With your baby on your breast. 
 
 [100] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I'm very lonely now, Mary, 
 
 For the poor make no new friends; 
 But, O, they love the better still 
 
 The few our Father sends! 
 And you were all I had, Mary, — 
 
 My blessin' and my pride; 
 There's nothing left to care for now, 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, 
 
 That still kept hoping on. 
 When the trust in God had left my soul, 
 
 And my arm's young strength was gone; 
 There was comfort ever on your lip, 
 
 And the kind look on your brow, — 
 I bless you, Mary, for that same, 
 
 Though you cannot hear me now. 
 
 I thank you for the patient smile 
 
 When your heart was fit to break, — 
 When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there. 
 
 And you hid it for my sake; 
 I bless you for the pleasant word, 
 
 When your heart was sad and sore, — 
 0, Fm thankful you are gone, Mary, 
 
 Where grief can't reach you more! 
 
 Fm biddin' you a long farewell, 
 
 My Mary — kind and true! 
 But FU not forget you, darling, 
 
 In the land I'm goin' to; 
 
 [1011 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Thoy say tlioro's bread and work for all, 
 And the sun shines always there, — 
 
 But I'll not forget old Ireland, 
 Were it fifty times as fair! 
 
 And often in those grand old woods 
 
 I'll sit, and shut my eyes, 
 And my heart will travel baek again 
 
 To the place where INIary lies; 
 And I'll think I see the little stile 
 
 Where we sat side by side, 
 And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn. 
 
 When first you were my bride. 
 
 TRUE REST 
 
 BY JOHN SULLIVAN DWIGHT 
 
 Sweet is the pleasure 
 Itself cannot spoil! 
 
 Is not true leisure 
 One with true toil? 
 
 Thou that wouldst taste it. 
 
 Still do thy best; 
 Use it, not waste it, ^- 
 
 Else 't is no rest. 
 
 Wouldst behold beauty 
 Near thee? all round? 
 
 Only hath duty 
 Such a sight found. 
 [102] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Rest is not quitting 
 
 The busy career; 
 Rest is the fitting 
 
 Of self to its sphere. 
 
 'T is the brook's motion, 
 
 Clear without strife, 
 Fleeing to ocean 
 
 After its life. 
 
 Deeper devotion 
 
 Nowhere hath knelt; 
 Fuller emotion 
 
 Heart never felt. 
 
 'T is loving and serving 
 The highest and best; 
 
 'T is onwards! unswerving, — 
 And that is true rest. 
 
 0, MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE! 
 
 BY GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 0, may I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence; live 
 
 In pulses stirred to generosity, 
 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 
 Of miserable aims that end with self, 
 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 
 
 And with their mild persistence urge men's minds 
 
 [1031 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven: 
 To make undying music in the world, 
 Breathing a beauteous order, that controls 
 With growing sway the growing life of man. 
 So we inherit that sweet purity 
 For which we struggled, failed, and agonized 
 With widening retrospect that bred despair. 
 Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child. 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; 
 Its discords quenched by meeting harmonies, 
 Die in the large and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
 That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
 That watched to ease the burden of the world. 
 Laboriously tracing what must be. 
 And what may yet be better, — saw within 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
 And shaped it forth before the multitude, 
 Divinely human, raising worship so 
 To higher reverence more mixed with love, 
 That better self shall live till human Time 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
 Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, 
 Unread forever. 
 
 This is life to come, 
 Which martyred men have made more glorious 
 For us, who strive to follow. 
 
 May I reach 
 That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
 
 [104 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The cup of strength in some great agony, 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty. 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
 And in diffusion ever more intense ! 
 So shall I join the choir invisible. 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
 
 TO THE HUMBLEBEE 
 
 BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 
 Burly, dozing humblebee! 
 Where thou art is clime for me; 
 Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
 Far-off heats through seas to seek, 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 Thou animated torrid zone! 
 Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer. 
 Let me chase thy waving lines; 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer. 
 Singing over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Insect lover of the sun, 
 Joy of thy dominion! 
 Sailor of the atmosphere ; 
 Swimmer through the waves of air, 
 Voyager of light and noon. 
 Epicurean of June! 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 Within earshot of thy hum, — 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 
 [105] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 When the south-wind, in May days, 
 With a net of shining haze 
 Silvers the horizon wall; 
 And, with softness touching all, 
 Tints the human countenance 
 With the color of romance; 
 And infusing subtle heats 
 Turns the sod to violets, — 
 Thou in sunny solitudes, 
 Rover of the underwoods. 
 The green silence dost displace 
 With thy mellow breezy bass. 
 
 Hot midsummer's petted crone. 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
 Tells of countless sunny hours, 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, 
 In Indian wildernesses found; 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. 
 Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure. 
 
 Aught unsavory or unclean 
 Hath my insect never seen; 
 But violets, and bilberry bells. 
 Maple sap, and daffodels, 
 Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
 Succory to match the sky. 
 Columbine with horn of honey. 
 Scented fern, and agrimony. 
 Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, 
 [106] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And brier-roses, dwelt among: 
 All beside was unknown waste, 
 All was picture as he passed. 
 Wiser far than human seer. 
 Yellow-breeched philosopher. 
 Seeing only what is fair, 
 
 Sipping only what is sweet, 
 Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
 
 Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
 When the fierce northwestern blast 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast, — 
 Thou already slumberest deep; 
 Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
 Want and woe, which torture us, 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
 
 ODE 
 
 BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 
 [Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857] 
 
 tenderly the haughty day 
 
 Fills his blue urn with fire; 
 One morn is in the mighty heaven, 
 
 And one in our desire. 
 
 The cannon booms from town to town. 
 
 Our pulses beat not less, 
 The joy-bells chime their tidings down, 
 
 Which children's voices bless. 
 
 107 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 For He that flung the broad blue fold 
 
 O'er-mantUng land and sea, 
 One-third part of the sky unrolled 
 
 For the banner of the free. 
 
 The men are ripe of Saxon kind 
 
 To buUd an equal state, — 
 To take the statute from the mind 
 
 And make of duty fate. 
 
 United States! the ages plead, — 
 Present and Past in under-song, — 
 
 Go put your creed into your deed, 
 Nor speak with double tongue. 
 
 For sea and land don't understand 
 
 Nor skies without a frown 
 See rights for which the one hand fights 
 
 By the other cloven down. 
 
 Be just at home; then write j'our scroll 
 
 Of honor o'er the sea, 
 And bid the broad Atlantic roll 
 
 A ferry of the free. 
 
 And henceforth there shall be no chain, 
 
 Save underneath the sea 
 The wires shall murmur through the main 
 
 Sweet songs of liberty. 
 
 The conscious stars accord above, 
 The waters wild below, 
 
 [108] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And under, through the cable wove, 
 Her fiery errands go. 
 
 For He that worketh high and wise, 
 
 Nor pauses in his plan, 
 Will take the sun out of the skies 
 
 Ere freedom out of man. 
 
 PEACE 
 
 BY CORA FABRI 
 
 God spoke to her, and so she fell asleep, 
 
 I laid a white fair lily on her heart, 
 And when I saw her face I could not weep. 
 
 It had the peace Death only understands; 
 
 And when I knew she would not wake on earth 
 I laid my heart between her folded hands. 
 
 God spoke to her so softly, saying " Rest! " 
 
 And when she wakes in Heaven she will find 
 My lily and my heart upon her breast. 
 
 THE LAST HYMN 
 
 BY MARIANNE FARNINGHAM 
 
 The Sabbath day was ending, in a' village by the sea, 
 The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly, 
 And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, lighted 
 
 west. 
 And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed 
 
 boon of rest. 
 
 f 1091 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But they looked across the waters, and a storm was 
 raging there : 
 
 A fierce spirit moved above them — the wild spirit 
 of the air — 
 
 And it lashed, and shook, and tore them, till they 
 thundered, groaned, and boomed. 
 
 And, alas! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs en- 
 tombed. 
 
 Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of 
 
 Wales 
 Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be tcUing 
 
 awful tales. 
 When the sea had spent its passion, and should cast 
 
 upon the shore 
 Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done 
 
 heretofore. 
 
 With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave 
 
 woman strained her eyes. 
 And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and 
 
 rise. 
 Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end 
 
 must be. 
 For no ship could ride in safety near that shore on 
 
 such a sfea. 
 
 Then the pitying people hurried from their homes and 
 thronged the beach. 
 
 Oh! for the power to cross the waters and the perish- 
 ing to reach! 
 
 fiioi 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Helpless hands were wrung for sorrow, tender hearts 
 grew cold with dread, 
 
 And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock- 
 shore sped. 
 
 " She has parted in the middle! Oh! the half of her 
 
 goes down! 
 God have mercy! Is His heaven far to seek for those 
 
 who drowTi? " 
 Lo, when next the white, shocked faces looked with 
 
 terror on the sea, 
 Only one last clinging figure on the spar was seen to be. 
 
 Nearer the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed 
 by the wave, 
 
 And the man still clung and floated, though no power 
 on earth could save. 
 
 " Could we send him a short message? Here's a trum- 
 pet. Shout away! " 
 
 'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he won- 
 dered what to say. 
 
 Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? 
 
 Ah, no! 
 There was but one thing to utter in the awful hour of 
 
 woe; 
 So he shouted through the trumpet, " Look to Jesus! 
 
 Can you hear? " 
 And " Ay, ay, sir! " rang the answer o'er the waters 
 
 loud and clear. 
 
 [Ill] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Then they hstened. He is singing! "Jesus, lover of 
 
 my soul"; 
 And the winds brought back the echo, " while the 
 
 nearer waters roll"; 
 Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, " till the storm of 
 
 life is past," 
 Singing bravely from the waters, " Oh, receive my 
 
 soul at last." 
 
 He could have no other refuge! " Hangs my helpless 
 
 soul on Thee; 
 Leave, oh, leave me not." — The singer dropped at 
 
 last into the sea. 
 And the watchers, looking homeward, through their 
 
 eyes with tears made dim, 
 Said, " He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of 
 
 the hymn." 
 
 FIDDLE-DEE-DEE 
 
 BY EUGENE FIELD 
 
 There once was a bird that lived up in a tree 
 And all he could whistle was Fiddle-dee-dee — 
 A very provoking, unmusical song 
 For one to be whistling the Summer day long! 
 Yet always contented and busy was he 
 With that vocal recurrence of Fiddle-dee-dee! 
 
 Hard by lived a brave little soldier of four. 
 That weird iteration repented him sore; 
 
 [1121 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " I pri'thee, Dear-Mother-Mine! fetch me my gun, 
 For, by our St. Didy, the deed must be done 
 That shall presently rid all creation and me 
 Of that ominous bird and his Fiddle-dee-dee! " 
 
 Then out came Dear-Mother-Mine, bringing her son 
 
 His awfully truculent little red gun. 
 
 The stock was of pine and the barrel of tin. 
 
 The " bang " it came out where the bullet went in — 
 
 The right kind of weapon, I think you'll agree, 
 
 For slaying all fowl that go Fiddle-dee-dee! 
 
 The brave little soldier quoth never a word, 
 
 But he up and he drew a straight bead on that bird; 
 
 And, while that vain creature provokingly sang, 
 
 The gun went off with a terrible bang! 
 
 Then loud laughed the youth — "By my Bottle," 
 
 cried he, 
 " Fve put a quietus on Fiddle-dee-dee! " 
 
 Out then came Dear-Mother-Mine, saying: " My son, 
 Right well have you wrought with your little red 
 
 gun! 
 Hereafter no evil at all need I fear, 
 With such a brave soldier as You-My-Love here! " 
 She kissed the dear boy. (The bird in the tree 
 Continued to whistle his Fiddle-dee-dee! ) 
 
 113] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 JES' FORE CHRISTMAS 
 
 BY EUGENE FIELD 
 
 Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, 
 Mother calls me Willie — but the fellers call me Bill! 
 Mighty glad I ain't a girl — ruther be a boy 
 Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn 
 
 by Fauntleroy! 
 Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the 
 
 - lake — 
 Hate to take the castor-oil they give f'r stomach-ache! 
 Most all the time the hull year roun' there ain't no 
 
 flies on me. 
 But jes' fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin.be! 
 
 Got a yaller dog named Sport — sick 'im on the cat; 
 Fust thing she knows she doesn't know where she's at! 
 Got a clipper-sled, an' when us boys goes out to slide 
 'Long comes the grocery cart, an' we all hook a ride! 
 But, sometimes, when the grocery man is worrited an' 
 
 cross, 
 He reaches at me with his whip an' larrups up his 
 
 hoss; 
 An' then I laff an' hoUer: " Oh, you never teched 
 
 me! " 
 But jes' 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! 
 
 Gran'ma says she hopes that when I git to be a man 
 I'll be a missionerer like her oldes' brother Dan 
 As wuz et up by the cannib'ls that hves in Ceylon's 
 isle! 
 
 [114] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Where ev'ry prospeck pleases an' only man is vile. 
 But gran'ma she had never been to see a Wild West 
 
 show, 
 Or read the life uv Daniel Boone, or else I guess she'd 
 
 know 
 That Buffalo Bill an' cowboys is good enough f'r 
 
 me — 
 Excep' jes' 'fore Christmas, when I'm good as I kin be! 
 
 Then ol' Sport, he hangs around, so sollum-like an' 
 
 still — 
 His eyes they seem a-sayin' : " What's the matter, 
 
 little Bill? " 
 The cat she sneaks down off her perch, a-wonderin' 
 
 what's become 
 Uv them two enemies uv hern that uster make things 
 
 hum! 
 But I am so perlite an' stick so earnest-hke to biz 
 That mother says to father: " How improved our 
 
 Willie is! " 
 But father, havin' been a boy hisself, suspicions me 
 When, jes' 'fore Christmas, I'm as good as I kin be! 
 
 For Cliristmas, with its lots and lots uv candies, cakes, 
 
 an' toys, 
 Wuz made, they say, f'r proper kids, an' not f'r naughty 
 
 boys! 
 So wash yer face, an' bresh yer hair, an' mind yer p's 
 
 and q's. 
 An' don't bust out yer pantaloons, an' don't wear out 
 
 yer shoes; 
 
 [115] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Say " yessum " to the ladies, an' " yessir " to the 
 
 men, 
 An' when they's company don't pass yer plate f'r pie 
 
 again; 
 But, thinkin' uv the things you'd like to see upon that 
 
 tree, 
 Jes' 'fore Christmas be as good as you kin be! 
 
 LITTLE BOY BLUE 
 
 BY EUGENE FIELD 
 
 The little toy dog is covered with dust, 
 
 But sturdy and stanch he stands; 
 And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 
 
 And his musket moulds in his hands. 
 Time was when the little toy dog was new. 
 
 And the soldier was passing fair; 
 And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
 
 Kissed them and put them there. 
 
 " Now, don't you go till I come," he said, 
 
 " And don't you make any noise! " 
 So, toddling off to his trundle-bed. 
 
 He dreamt of his pretty toys; 
 And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 
 
 Awakened our Little Boy Blue — 
 Oh! the years are many, the years are long, 
 
 But the little toy friends are true! 
 
 Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand. 
 Each in the same old place — 
 
 [1161 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 
 
 The smile of a little face; 
 And they wonder, as waiting the long years through 
 
 In the dust of that little chair, 
 What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 
 
 Since he kissed them and put them there. 
 
 WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 
 
 BY EUGENE FIELD 
 
 Wynken, Blynkcn, and Nod, one night, 
 
 Sailed off in a wooden shoe. 
 Sailed on a river of misty light 
 
 Into a sea of dew; 
 " Where are you going and what do you wish? " 
 
 The old man asked the three. 
 " We have come to fish for the herring fish. 
 
 That live in this beautiful sea; 
 
 Nets of gold and silver have we," 
 
 Said Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. 
 
 The old man laughed and sung a song, 
 
 As they rock'd in the wooden shoe, 
 The wind that sped them all night along 
 
 Ruffled the waves of dew; 
 The little stars were the herring fish 
 
 That lived in the beautiful sea. 
 " Now cast your nets where' ver you wish, 
 
 But never af eared are we"; 
 
 So cried the stars to the fishermen tliree, 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. 
 
 [1171 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 All night long their nets they threw, 
 
 For the fish in the twinkling foam; 
 Down from the sky came the wooden shoe, 
 
 Bringing the fishermen home. 
 'T was all so pretty; a sail, it seemed 
 
 As if it could not be; 
 And some folks tho't 't was a dream they dream'd. 
 
 Of sailing that beautiful sea; 
 
 But I shall name you the fishermen three, 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. 
 
 Wynken and Blynken are two eyes. 
 
 And Nod is a little head, 
 The wooden shoe that sail'd the skies 
 
 Is a wee one's trundle bed; 
 So shut your eyes while mother sings 
 
 Of wonderful sights that be; 
 And you shall see the beautiful things, 
 
 As you rock on the misty sea. 
 
 Where the old shoe rock'd the fishermen three, 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. 
 
 THE TEMPEST 
 
 BY JAMES THOMAS FIELDS 
 
 We were crowded in the cabin. 
 Not a soul would dare to sleep, — 
 
 It was midnight on the waters 
 And a storm was on the deep. 
 
 'T is a fearful thing in winter 
 To be shattered by the blast, 
 
 [1181 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And to hear the ratthng trumpet 
 Thunder, " Cut away the mast! " 
 
 So we shuddered there in silence, — 
 For the stoutest held his breath, 
 
 While the hungry sea was roaring, 
 And the breakers talked with Death 
 
 As thus we sat in darkness, 
 Each one busy in his prayers, 
 
 " We are lost! " the captain shouted 
 As he staggered down the stairs. 
 
 But his little daughter whispered. 
 
 As she took his icy hand, 
 " Is n't God upon the ocean 
 
 Just the same as on the land? " 
 
 Then we kissed the little maiden. 
 And we spoke in better cheer. 
 
 And we anchored safe in harbor 
 When the morn was shining clear. 
 
 119 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 
 
 BY FRANCIS MILES FINCH 
 
 [Written in honor of women of Columbus, Mississippi, who, in 
 1867, when decorating soldiers' graves, strewed flowers " alike for the 
 friend and the foe." Northern soldiers' graves were as lovingly dec- 
 orated as were Southern soldiers' graves — blossoms bloomed for all.] 
 
 By the flow of the inland river, 
 
 Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead: — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Under the one, the Blue, 
 Under the other, the Gray, 
 
 These in the robings of glory. 
 
 Those in the gloom of defeat, 
 All with the battle-blood gory. 
 In the dusk of eternity meet: — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Under the laurel, the Blue, 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours. 
 
 The desolate mourners go. 
 Lovingly laden with flowers. 
 
 Alike for the friend and the foe : — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Under the roses, the Blue, 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 [1201 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 So, with an equal splendor, 
 
 The morning sun-rays fall, 
 With a touch impartially tender, 
 On the blossoms blooming for all; — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 
 
 So, when the summer calleth 
 On forest and field of grain. 
 With equal murmur falleth 
 
 The cooling drip of the rain : — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding, 
 The generous deed was done; 
 In the storm of the years that are fading, ' 
 No braver battle was won : — 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 No more shall the war-cry sever. 
 
 Or the winding rivers be red; 
 They banish our anger forever 
 
 When they laurel the graves of our dead : 
 fl211 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 Waiting the judgment-day; 
 
 Love and tears for the Blue, 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 THE CALF-PATH 
 
 BY SAM WALTER FOSS 
 
 One day through the primeval wood 
 
 A calf walked home as good calves should, 
 
 But made a trail all bent askew, 
 A crooked trail as all calves do. 
 
 Since then two hundred years have fled. 
 And, I infer, the calf is dead. 
 
 But still he left behind his trail. 
 And thereby hangs my moral tale. 
 
 The trail was taken up next day 
 By a lone dog that passed that way; 
 
 And then a wise bell-wether sheep 
 Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep. 
 
 And drew the flock behind him, too, 
 As good bell-wethers always do. 
 f 122 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And from that day o'er hill and glade 
 Through those old woods a path was made, 
 
 III 
 
 And many men wound in and out, 
 And dodged and turned and bent about, 
 
 And uttered words of righteous wrath 
 Because 'twas such a crooked path; 
 
 But still they followed — do not laugh — 
 The first migrations of that calf, 
 
 And through this winding w^ood-way stalked 
 Because he wobbled when he walked. 
 
 IV 
 
 This forest path became a lane 
 
 That bent and turned and turned again: 
 
 This crooked lane became a road 
 Where many a poor horse with his load, 
 
 Toiled on beneath the burning sun, 
 And travelled some three miles in one. 
 
 And thus a century and a half 
 They trod the footsteps of that calf. 
 
 V 
 
 The years passed on in swiftness fleet, 
 The road became a village street, 
 [123 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And this, before men were aware, 
 A city's crowded thoroughfare. 
 
 And soon the central street was this 
 Of a renowned metropolis; 
 
 And men two centuries and a half 
 Trod in the footsteps of that calf. 
 
 VI 
 
 Each day a hundred thousand rout 
 Followed this zigzag calf about; 
 
 And o'er his crooked journey went 
 The traffic of a continent. 
 
 A hundred thousand men were led 
 By one calf near three centuries dead. 
 
 They followed still his crooked way 
 And lost one hundred years a day. 
 
 For thus such reverence is lent 
 To well-established precedent. 
 
 VII 
 A moral lesson this might teach 
 Were I ordained and called to preach. 
 
 For men are prone to go it blind 
 Along the calf paths of the mind; 
 
 [124] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And work away from sun to sun 
 To do what other men have done. 
 
 They follow in the beaten track, 
 And out and in, and forth and back, 
 
 And still their devious course pursue 
 To keep the path that others do. 
 
 They keep the path a sacred groove 
 Along which all their lives they move; 
 
 But how the wise old wood-gods laugh, 
 Who saw the first primeval calf. 
 
 Ah, many things this tale might teach — 
 But I am not ordained to preach. 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 
 
 BY SAM WALTER FOSS 
 
 The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth 
 
 and uv silk, 
 An' satins rich as cream thet grows on our ol' brindle's 
 
 milk ; 
 Shined boots, biled shirts, stiff dickeys, an' stovepipe 
 
 hats were there, 
 An' doods 'ith trouserloons so tight they couldn't 
 
 kneel down in prayer. 
 The elder in his poolpit high said, as he slowly riz: 
 " Our organist is kep' to hum, laid up 'ith roomatiz, 
 
 [125] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 An' as we hev no substitoot, as Brother Moore ain' 
 here, 
 
 Will some 'un in the congregation be so kind's to volun- 
 teer? " 
 
 An' then a red-nosed, drunken tramp of low-toned 
 
 rowdy style 
 Give an interductory hiccup, an' then staggered up 
 
 the aisle; 
 ^ Then thro' thet holy atmosphere there crep' a sense 
 
 er sin. 
 An' thro' thet air of sanctity the odor uv ol' gin. 
 
 Then Deacon Purington he yelled, his teeth all sot on 
 
 edge: 
 " This man purfancs the house of God! Wy, this is 
 
 sacrilege! " 
 The tramp didn' hear a word he said, but slouched 'ith 
 
 stumblin' feet, 
 An' sprawled an' staggered up the steps, an' gained 
 
 the organ seat. 
 
 He then went pawin' through the keys, an' soon there 
 
 rose a strain 
 Thet seemed to jest bulge out the heart, an' 'lectrify 
 
 the brain; 
 An' then he slapped down on the thing 'ith hands an' 
 
 head an' knees. 
 He slam-dashed his hull body down 'kerflop upon the 
 
 keys. 
 The organ roared, the music flood went sweepin' high 
 
 and dry, 
 
 [1261 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 It swelled into the rafters and bulged out into the sky. 
 The ol' church shook an' staggered, an' seemed to reel 
 
 an' sway, 
 An' the elder shouted " Glory! " an' I yelled out 
 
 " Hooray! " 
 
 An' then he tried a tender strain that melted in our 
 
 ears, 
 Thet brought up blessed memories an' drenched 'em 
 
 down 'ith tears; 
 An' we dreamed of ol' time kitchens, 'ith Tabby on 
 
 the mat, 
 Uv home an' luv an' baby days, an' mother an' all 
 
 that! 
 
 An' then he struck a streak uv hope — a song from 
 
 souls forgiven — 
 Thet burst from prison bars uv sin, an' stormed the 
 
 gates of heaven; 
 The mornin' stars they sung together — no soul was 
 
 left alone — 
 We felt the universe wuz safe, an' God wuz on his 
 
 throne ! 
 
 An' then a wail uv deep despair an' darkness come 
 
 again. 
 An' long black crape hung on the doors uv all the 
 
 homes uv men; 
 No luv, no light, no joy, no hope, no songs uv glad 
 
 delight. 
 An' then — the tramp he staggered down an' reeled 
 
 into the night! 
 
 [1271 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But we knew he'd tol' his story, tho' he never spoke a 
 
 word 
 An' it wuz the saddest story thet our ears had ever 
 
 heard ! 
 He hed tol' his own hfe history, an' no eye \vuz dry 
 
 thet day, 
 Wen the elder rose and simply said: " My brethren, 
 
 let us pray." 
 
 MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME 
 
 STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER 
 
 The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home; 
 
 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; 
 The corn top's ripe and the meadows in the bloom, 
 
 While the birds make music all the day; 
 The young folks roll on the little cabin floor. 
 
 All merry, all happy, all bright; 
 By'm by hard times comes a-knockin' at the door, — 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good-night! 
 Weep no more, my lady; 0, weep no more to-day! 
 We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
 
 For our old Kentucky home far away. 
 
 They hunt no more for the possum and the coon 
 On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; 
 
 They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon 
 On the bench by the old cabin door; 
 
 The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, 
 With sorrow where all was delight; 
 
 The time has come when the darkeys have to part, 
 
 [128] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Then my old Kentucky home, good-night! 
 Weep no more, my lady; 0, weep no more to-day! 
 We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
 
 For our old Kentucky home far away. 
 
 The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, 
 
 Wherever the darkey may go; 
 A few more days, and the troubles all will end, 
 
 In the field where the sugar-canes grow; 
 A few more days to tote the weary load. 
 
 No matter, it will never be light; 
 A few more days till we totter on the road, 
 
 Then, my old Kentucky home, good-night! 
 Weep no more my lady; 0, weep no more to-day! 
 We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, 
 
 For our old Kentucky home far away. 
 
 PALMETTO AND PINE 
 
 BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 
 
 After reading the debate on amnesty in the United States Con- 
 gress, an accomplished Tennessee lady, Mrs. L. Virginia French, 
 wrote this poem for the Nashville American. It is an impassioned 
 plea for peace, and more than peace, for affectionate brotherhood 
 and the revival of friendly memories older than the late civil strife. 
 
 They planted them together — our gallant sires of 
 old — 
 
 Though one was crowned with crystal snow, and one 
 with solar gold; 
 
 They planted them together — on the world's ma- 
 jestic height, 
 
 [1291 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 At Saratoga's deathless charge, at Eutaw's stubborn 
 fight. 
 
 At midnight on the dark redoubt, 'mid plunging shot 
 and shell — 
 
 At noontide gasping in the crush of battle's bloody- 
 swell — 
 
 With gory hands and reeking brows, amid the mighty 
 fray, 
 
 Which surged and swelled around them on that mem- 
 orable day, 
 
 When they planted Independence, as a s3Txibol and 
 a sign. 
 
 They struck deep soil and planted the Palmetto and 
 the Pine! 
 
 They planted them together — by the river of the 
 
 Years — 
 Watered with our fathers' hearts' blood, watered with 
 
 our mothers' tears; 
 In the strong, rich soil of Freedom, with a bounteous 
 
 benison 
 From their Prophet, Priest, and Pioneer — our Father, 
 
 Washington! 
 Above them floated echoes of the ruin and the 
 
 wreck. 
 Like " drums that beat at Louisburg and thundered 
 
 at Quebec; " 
 But the old lights sank in darkness as the new stars 
 
 rose to shine 
 O'er those emblems of the sections — the Palmetto 
 
 and the Pine. 
 
 [1301 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And we'll plant them still together — for 'tis yet the 
 selfsame soil 
 
 Our fathers' valor won for us by victory and toil; 
 
 In Florida's fair everglades, by bold Ontario's flood, 
 
 And thro' them send electric life as leaps the kindred 
 blood! 
 
 For thus it is they taught us, who for Freedom lived 
 and died, 
 
 The Eternal law of justice must and shall be justi- 
 fied — 
 
 That God has joined together by a fiat all divine 
 
 The destinies of dwellers 'neath the Palm tree and the 
 Pine. 
 
 A5'e ! we'll plant them yet together — though the 
 cloud is on their brows. 
 
 And winds antagonistic writhe and wrench the stal- 
 wart boughs; 
 
 Driving winds that drift the nations into gaping gulfs 
 of gloom. 
 
 Sweeping ages, cycles, systems, into vortices of doom; 
 
 Though the waves of faction rolling in triumphant 
 to the shore, 
 
 Are breaking down our bulwarks with their sullen 
 rage and roar; 
 
 Serried armaments of ocean filing in line after line. 
 
 Washing up the deep foundations of Palmetto and of 
 Pine. 
 
 Shall this, the soil of Freedom, from their roots be 
 washed away 
 
 [131] 
 
POETICAL F A N' O K I T E S 
 
 By tlio chnnciing oi (ho billows aiul (ho broakinj;- of 
 
 the spray? 
 No! the llaiul whioh rules the vortex whioh is surging 
 
 now before us, 
 Above its *' hell of waters " sots the bow of promise 
 
 o'er us — 
 And the time will oonie when Disoord shall bo buried 
 
 in the past. 
 The oritlanuno of Love shall wave above the breaoh 
 
 at last, 
 \\\d beneath that starry banner — type of unity 
 
 divine — 
 Shall stand those stately signals — the Pahnotto and 
 
 the Tine. 
 
 Shall the old vietorious Eagle from their boughs be 
 wrenehed away 
 
 By the double-headed \'ulture of Disunion ami De- 
 cay? 
 
 Forbid it, Heaven! Columbia, guanl (liino emblems 
 gathered here, 
 
 To grace the brilliant dawning of (his grand Cen- 
 tennial year, 
 
 And bear them as thou marohost on with gonfalons 
 unfurled. 
 
 With thy foot upon the fetter, for (he freeing of the 
 world ! 
 
 And guard thy Holy SepuK'hre — ?iIount \'ernon's 
 sacred shrine — 
 
 For this is Fi-eedom's Holy Land — her promised 
 Palestine. 
 
 [1321 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Oh! thou voice of (jod outflowing from the lips of 
 
 holy Peace, 
 Soothe the turmoil and the tumult — bid this strife 
 
 and sorrow cease! 
 O'er savannahs steeped in sunshine, over mountains 
 
 dark with rain, 
 Send the glad and thrilling tidings in thy sweetly 
 
 solemn strain — 
 Let snowy North and sunny South send up the shout, 
 
 "All's well!" 
 And the music of thy coming strike our heartstrings 
 
 with its swell, 
 (As to Jessie Brown at Lucknow struck the air of 
 
 " Auld Lang Sync," 
 From the Highland pipes of Havelock) — Save the 
 
 Palm and save the Pine! 
 
 God plant them still together! let them flourish side 
 
 by side. 
 In the halls of our Centennial — mailed in more than 
 
 marble pride; 
 With kindly deeds and noble names we'll grave them 
 
 o'er and o'er, 
 With brave historic legends of the glorious days of 
 
 yore; 
 While the clear, exultant chorus, rising from united 
 
 bands. 
 The echo of our triumph peals to earth's remotest 
 
 lands — 
 While " Faith, Fraternity and Love " shall joyfully 
 
 entwine 
 
 [1331 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Around our chosen Emblems — the Pahnetto and the 
 Pine. 
 
 " Together! " shouts Niagara his thunder-toned de- 
 cree — 
 
 " Together! " echo back the waves upon the Mexic 
 Sea — 
 
 " Together! " sing the sylvan hills where old Atlantic 
 roars — 
 
 " Together! " boom the breakers on the wild Pacific 
 shores — 
 
 " Together! " cry the People and " together " it 
 shall be, 
 
 An everlasting charter-bond forever for the free; 
 
 Of Liberty the signet-seal — the one eternal sign 
 
 Be those united emblems — the Palmetto and the 
 Pine! 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG 
 
 BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 Good people all, of every sort. 
 
 Give ear unto my song; 
 And if you find it wondrous short, 
 
 It cannot hold you long. 
 
 In Islington there was a man 
 Of whom the world might say, 
 
 That still a godly race he ran — 
 
 Whene'er he went to pray. 
 
 [1341 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 A kind and gentle heart he had, 
 
 To comfort friends and foes: 
 The naked every day he clad — 
 
 When he put on his clothes. 
 
 And in that town a dog was found, 
 
 As many dogs there be, 
 Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
 
 And curs of low degree. 
 
 This dog and man at first were friends; 
 
 But when a pique began, 
 The dog, to gain his private ends. 
 
 Went mad, and bit the man. 
 
 Around from all the neighboring streets 
 The wondering neighbors ran. 
 
 And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
 To bite so good a man! 
 
 The wound it seemed both sore and sad 
 
 To every Christian eye: 
 And while they swore the dog was mad, 
 
 They swore the man would die. 
 
 But soon a wonder came to light, 
 That showed the rogues they lied : — 
 
 The man recovered of the bite. 
 The dog it was that died! 
 
 135 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE 
 
 BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 Good people all, with one accord, 
 Lament for Madam Blaize; 
 
 Who never wanted a good word — 
 From those who spoke her praise. 
 
 The needy seldom passed her door, 
 And always found her kind; 
 
 She freely lent to all the poor — 
 Who left a pledge behind. 
 
 She strove the neighborhood to please, 
 With manner wondrous winning; 
 
 She never followed wicked ways — 
 Unless when she was sinning. 
 
 At church, in silk and satins new. 
 With hoop of monstrous size, 
 
 She never slumbered in her pew — 
 But when she shut her eyes. 
 
 Her love was sought, I do aver. 
 By twenty beaux, or more ; 
 
 The king himself has followed her — 
 When she has walked before. 
 
 But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
 Her hangers-on cut short all, 
 
 [136] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Her doctors found, when she was dead — 
 Her last disorder mortal. 
 
 Let us lament, in sorrow sore; 
 
 For Kent Street well may say, 
 That, had she lived a twelvemonth more — 
 
 She had not died to-day. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHIC BEGGAR 
 
 BY BLAKENEY GRAY 
 
 In a city stamped with plenty, 
 
 Full of dolce far niente, 
 I observed a beggarman upon the way; 
 
 And, by Jove, the chap was smiling 
 
 In a fashion most beguiling. 
 And he seemed the happiest man I'd seen that day. 
 
 I had little time for chinning, 
 
 But I asked him: " Why this grinning? 
 
 Are j^our rags and tatters then a merry joke? 
 Is this hunger you've been vaunting. 
 And these'pennies you've been wanting. 
 
 Just a sort of passing whim that ends in smoke? " 
 
 " Not a bit! " he said, instanter. 
 
 " My hard luck is far from banter; 
 But the thought has just now flashed across my mind 
 
 That I really should not hanker 
 
 For to be a worried banker 
 Who must find the cash he gives his womenkind. 
 
 [137] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " I don't have to buy rich sables, 
 
 Motor-cars, and pearls in cables, 
 For to keep my wife a-smiling all the while; 
 
 And I do not have to worry, 
 
 Nor to hurry, or to scurry, 
 For the cash to dress my daughters up in style. 
 
 " I can win a smiling dimple 
 With a present that is simple. 
 
 And a dollar's all I need to meet the call, 
 So I think upon the whole, sir — 
 Yes, I do, upon my soul, sir — 
 
 That I'm better off than others, after all! " 
 
 And that is how it came to be 
 He got a dollar out of me ! 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 
 BY THOMAS GRAY 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. 
 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 
 
 [138] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care : 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
 Their forrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
 
 How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil. 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
 [139] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Await alike th' inevitable hour: — 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise. 
 
 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
 
 Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 
 
 Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
 The little t>Tant of his fields withstood. 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 
 [1401 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land 
 And read their history in a nation's eyes. 
 
 Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
 
 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
 Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
 
 Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
 
 The place of fame and elegy supply: 
 And many a holy text around she strews 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. 
 This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 
 
 [141] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 
 
 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
 E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
 
 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, — 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; 
 
 "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch. 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 
 
 Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 
 Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 
 
 "One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 
 
 Another came, nor yet beside the rill. 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 
 
 [1421 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 "The next with dirges due in sad array • 
 
 Slow through the church way path we saw him borne; 
 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth 
 A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown; 
 
 Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, 
 And Melancholy mark'd him for her o^n. 
 
 Large was liis bounty, and his soul sincere; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
 He gave to Misery all he had, — a tear. 
 
 He gain'd from Heaven — 'twas all he wish'd — a 
 friend. 
 
 No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET 
 
 BY ALBERT G. GREENE 
 
 O'er a low couch the setting sun 
 Had thrown its latest ray. 
 
 Where in his last strong agony 
 A dying warrior lay, — 
 
 [1431 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The stern old Baron Rudiger, 
 Whose frame had ne'er been bent 
 
 By wasting pain, till time and toil 
 Its iron strength had spent. 
 
 " They come around me here, and say 
 
 My days of life are o'er, 
 That I shall mount my noble steed 
 
 And lead my band no more; 
 They come, and to my beard they dare 
 
 To tell me now, that I, 
 Their own liege lord and master born, — 
 
 That I — ha! ha! — must die. 
 
 " And what is Death? I've dared him oft 
 
 Before the Paynim spear, — 
 Think ye he's entered at my gate, 
 
 Has come to seek me here? 
 I've met him, faced him, scorned him, 
 
 When the fight was raging hot, — 
 I'll try his might — I'll brave his power; 
 
 Defy, and fear him not. 
 
 " Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, — 
 
 And fire the culverin, — 
 Bid each retainer arm with speed, — 
 
 Call every vassal in; 
 Up with my banner on the wall, — 
 
 The banquet-board prepare, — 
 Throw wide the portal of my hall, 
 
 And bring my armor there! " 
 
 [144 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 A hundred hands were busy then, — 
 
 The banquet forth was spread, — 
 And rung the heavy oaken floor 
 
 With many a martial tread, 
 While from the rich, dark tracery 
 
 Along the vaulted wall, 
 Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, 
 
 O'er the proud old Gothic hall. 
 
 Fast hurrying through the outer gate, 
 
 The mailed retainers poured. 
 On through the portal's frowning arch, 
 
 And thronged around the board. 
 While at its head, within his dark, 
 
 Carved oaken chair of state, 
 Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, 
 
 With girded falchion, sate. 
 
 " Fill every beaker up, my men. 
 
 Pour forth the cheering wine; 
 There's life and strength in every drop, — 
 
 Thanksgiving to the vine! 
 Are ye all there, my vassals true? — 
 
 Mine eyes are waxing dim ; — 
 Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, 
 
 Each goblet to the brim. 
 
 " Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. 
 
 Draw forth each trusty sword, — 
 And let me hear your faithful steel 
 
 Clash once around my board: 
 
 [1451 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I hear it faintly : — Louder yet ! — 
 What clogs my heavy breath? 
 
 Up, all, — and shout for Rudiger, 
 'Defiance unto Death! ' " 
 
 Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, 
 
 And rose a deafening cry 
 That made the torches flare around, 
 
 And shook the flags on high : — 
 ''Ho! cravens, do ye fear him? — 
 
 Slaves, traitors! have ye flown? 
 Ho! cowards, have ye left me 
 
 To meet him here alone? 
 
 " But? defy him: — let him come! " 
 
 Down rang the massy cup. 
 While from its sheath the ready blade 
 
 Came flashing half-way up; 
 And, with the black and heavy plumes 
 
 Scarce trembling on his head. 
 There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, 
 
 Old Rudiger sat, dead. 
 
 OLD GRIMES 
 
 BY ALBERT G. GREENE 
 
 Old Grimes is dead, that good old man. 
 We ne'er shall see him more; 
 
 He used to wear a long black coat, 
 All buttoned down before. 
 
 [1461 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 His heart was open as the day, 
 
 His feehngs all were true; 
 His hair was some inclined to gray, — 
 
 He wore it in a queue. 
 
 Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, 
 His breast with pity burned; 
 
 The large round head upon his cane 
 From ivory was turned. 
 
 Kind words he ever had for all; 
 
 He knew no base design; 
 His eyes were dark and rather small, 
 
 His nose was aquihne. 
 
 He lived at peace with all mankind, 
 
 In friendship he was true; 
 His coat had pocket-holes behind. 
 
 His pantaloons were blue. 
 
 Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes 
 
 He passed securely o'er, — 
 And never wore a pair of boots 
 
 For thirty years or more. 
 
 But good Old Grimes is now at rest. 
 Nor fears misfortune's frown; 
 
 He wore a double-breasted vest, — 
 The stripes ran up and down. 
 
 He modest merit sought to find. 
 And pay it its desert; 
 
 [1471 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He had no malice in his mind, 
 No ruffles on his shirt. 
 
 His neighbors he did not abuse, — 
 
 Was sociable and gay; 
 He wore large buckles on his shoes. 
 
 And changed them every day. 
 
 His knowledge, hid from public gaze 
 
 He did not bring to view, 
 Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, 
 
 As many people do. 
 
 His worldly goods he never threw 
 In trust to fortune's chances, 
 
 But lived (as all his brothers do) 
 In easy circumstances. 
 
 Thus undisturbed by anxious cares 
 His peaceful moments ran; 
 
 And everybody said he was 
 A fine old gentleman. 
 
 THE KINGS 
 
 BY LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 
 
 A man said unto his Angel : 
 " My spirits are fallen low. 
 
 And I cannot carry this battle: 
 brother! where might I go? 
 
 [148] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " The terrible Kings are on me 
 With spears that are deadly bright, 
 
 Against me so from the cradle 
 Do fate and my fathers fight." 
 
 Then said to the man his Angel : 
 " Thou wavering, witless soul, 
 
 Back to the ranks! What matter 
 To win or to lose the whole, 
 
 " As judged by the little judges 
 Who hearken not well, nor see? 
 
 Not thus, by the outer issue. 
 The Wise shall interpret thee. 
 
 " Thy will is the sovereign measure 
 
 And only event of things : 
 The puniest heart, defying. 
 
 Were stronger than all these Kings. 
 
 " Though out of the past they gather, 
 Mind's Doubt, and Bodily Pain, 
 
 And pallid Thirst of the Spirit 
 That is kin to the other twain; 
 
 " And Grief, in a cloud of banners, 
 And ringletted Vain Desires, 
 
 And Vice, with spoils upon him 
 Of thee and thy beaten sires, — 
 
 " While Kings of eternal evil 
 Yet darken the hills about, 
 
 [149] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Thy part is with broken sabre 
 To rise on the last redoubt; 
 
 " To fear not sensible failure, 
 Nor covet the game at all, 
 
 But fighting, fighting, fighting, 
 Die, driven against the wall." 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE 
 
 DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 1820 
 BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 
 
 Green be the turf above thee. 
 
 Friend of my better days! 
 None knew thee but to love thee, 
 
 Nor named thee but to praise. 
 
 Tears fell, when thou wert dying, 
 From eyes unused to weep. 
 
 And long, where thou art lying. 
 Will tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was proven, 
 Like thine, are laid in earth. 
 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 To tell the world their worth; 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 
 11501 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Who shared thy joy and sorrow, 
 Whose weal and woe were thine, 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 Around thy faded brow. 
 
 But I've in vain essayed it. 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 While memory bids me weep thee. 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free, 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
 MARCO BOZZARIS 
 
 BY FITZ-GREENE HALLECK 
 
 Marco Bozzaris, the Epaminondas of modern Greece, fell in a 
 night attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient 
 Platsea, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His 
 last words were: "To die for liberty is a pleasure, and not a pain." 
 
 At midnight, in his guarded tent, 
 
 The Turk was dreaming of the hour 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 
 Should tremble at his power. 
 In dreams, through camp and court, he bore 
 The trophies of a conqueror; 
 
 In dreams his song of triumph heard; 
 Then wore his monarch's signet-ring, 
 Then pressed that monarch's throne — a king; 
 As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, 
 
 As Eden's garden bird. 
 
 [1511 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 At midnight, in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozzaris ranged his SuHote band, — 
 True as the steel of their tried blades, 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 Tiiere had the Persian's thousands stood, 
 There had the glad earth drunk their blood, 
 
 On old Plataea's day; 
 And now there breathed that haunted air 
 The sons of sires who conquered there, 
 With arm to strike, and soul to dare, 
 
 As quick, as far, as tliey. 
 
 An hour passed on, the Turk awoke: 
 
 That bright dream was his last; 
 He woke — to hear his sentries shriek, 
 
 "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek! " 
 He woke — to die midst flame, and smoke, 
 And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke. 
 
 And death-shots falling thick and fast 
 As hghtnings from the mountain-cloud; 
 And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, 
 
 Bozzaris cheer his band: 
 " Strike — till the last armed foe expires; 
 Strike — for your altars and your fires; 
 Strike — for the green graves of your sires, 
 
 God, and your native land! " 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well; 
 
 They piled that ground with Moslem slain: 
 They conquered — but Bozzaris fell, 
 
 Bleeding at every vein. 
 
 [152] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 His few surviving comrades saw 
 
 His smile when rang their proud hurrah, 
 
 And the red field was won; 
 Then saw in death his eyelids close 
 Calmly, as to a night's repose, 
 
 Like flowers at set of sun. 
 
 Come to the bridal chamber, Death, 
 
 Come to the mother, when she feels, 
 For the first time, her first-born's breath; 
 
 Come when the blessed seals 
 That close the pestilence are broke. 
 And crowded cities wail its stroke; 
 Come in consumption's ghastly form, 
 The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; 
 Come when the heart beats high and warm, 
 
 With banquet song and dance and wine,- 
 And thou art terrible; the tear. 
 The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier. 
 And all we know, or dream, or fear 
 
 Of agony, are thine. 
 
 But to the hero, when his sword 
 Has won the battle for the free. 
 
 Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, 
 
 And in its hollow tones are heard 
 The thanks of millions yet to be. 
 
 Come when his task of fame is wrought; 
 
 Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought; 
 Come in her crowning hour, — and then 
 
 Thy sunken eye's unearthly light 
 
 [153] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 To him is welcome as the sight 
 Of sky and stars to prisoned men; 
 
 Thy grasp is welcome as the hand 
 
 Of brother in a foreign land; 
 
 Thy summons welcome as the cry 
 
 That told the Indian isles were nigh 
 To the world-seeking Genoese, 
 
 When the land-wind, from woods of palm, 
 
 And orange-groves, and fields of balm, 
 Blew o'er the Haytian seas. 
 
 Bozzaris! with the storied brave 
 
 Greece nurtured in her glory's time, 
 Rest thee; there is no prouder grave, 
 
 Even in her own proud clime. 
 She wore no funeral weeds for thee, 
 
 Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, 
 Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, 
 In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, 
 
 The heartless luxury of the tomb. 
 But she remembers thee as one 
 Long loved, and for a season gone. 
 For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed. 
 Her marble wrought, her music breathed; 
 For thee she rings the birthday bells; 
 Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; 
 For thine her evening prayer is said 
 At palace couch and cottage bed. 
 Her soldier, closing with the foe. 
 Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; 
 His plighted maiden, when she fears 
 
 [154] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 For him, the joy of her young years, 
 Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears. 
 
 And she, the mother of thy boys, 
 Though in her eye and faded cheek 
 Is read the grief she will not speak, 
 
 The memory of her bm'ied joys, — 
 And even she who gave thee birth, — 
 Will, by her pilgrim-circled hearth. 
 
 Talk of thy doom without a sigh; 
 For thou art freedom's now, and fame's, 
 One of the few, the immortal names 
 
 That were not born to die. 
 
 PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 
 
 POPULARLY KNOWN AS " THE HEATHEN CHINEE " 
 BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 Which I wish to remark — 
 
 And my language is plain — 
 That for ways that are dark 
 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar: 
 
 Which the same I would rise to explain. 
 
 Ah Sin was his name; 
 
 And I shall not deny 
 In regard to the same 
 
 What that name might imply; 
 But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 
 
 As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 
 [1551 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 It was August the third, 
 
 And quite soft was the skies, 
 Which it might be inferred 
 
 That Ah Sin was Ukewise; 
 Yet he played it that day upon William 
 
 And me in a way I despise. 
 
 Which we had a small game, 
 
 And Ah Sin took a hand : 
 It was euchre. The same 
 
 He did not understand, 
 But he smiled, as he sat bj'^ the table. 
 
 With the smile that was cliildlike and bland. 
 
 Yet the cards they were stocked 
 
 In a way that I grieve. 
 And my feelings were shocked 
 
 At the state of Nye's sleeve. 
 Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 
 
 And the same with intent to deceive. 
 
 But the hands that were played 
 
 By that heathen Chinee, 
 And the points that he made. 
 
 Were quite frightful to see, — 
 Till at last he put down a right bower. 
 
 Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 
 
 Then I looked up at Nye, 
 And he gazed upon me; 
 And he rose with a sigh, 
 
 [156] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And said, " Can this be? 
 We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," — 
 And he went for that heathen Chinee. 
 
 In the scene that ensued 
 
 I did not take a hand, 
 But the floor it was strewed, 
 
 Like the leaves on the strand, 
 With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding 
 
 In the game " he did not understand." 
 
 In his sleeves, which were long. 
 
 He had twenty-four jacks, — 
 Which was coining it strong, 
 
 Yet I state but the facts. 
 And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
 
 What is frequent in tapers, — that's wax. 
 
 Which is why I remark. 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for ways that are dark, 
 
 And for tricks that are vain. 
 The heathen Chinee is peculiar, — 
 
 Which the same I am free to maintain. 
 
 157 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG WITH 
 HER ELDER SISTER'S BEAU 
 
 BY FRANCIS BRET HARTE 
 
 " My sister'U be down in a minute, and says for you 
 to wait if you i)lease. 
 And says I might stay till she came, if I'd promise 
 never to tease, 
 Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that's 
 nonsense; for how would you know 
 What she told me to say if I didn't? Don't you 
 really and truly think so? 
 
 " And then you'd feel strange here alone. And you 
 wouldn't know where to sit, 
 For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never 
 use it a bit. 
 We keep it to match with the sofa; but Jack says 
 it would be like you 
 To flop yourself right down on it and knock out 
 the very last screw. 
 
 Suppose you try? I won't tell. You're afraid to! 
 Oh! you're afraid they would think^it was mean. 
 Well, then, there's the album; that's pretty, if 
 you're sure that your fingers are clean. 
 For sister says, sometimes I daub it; but she only 
 says that when she's cross. 
 There's her picture, you know it? It's like her; 
 but she ain't as good looking, of course. 
 
 [158] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " This is ME. It's the best of 'cm all. Now, tell me 
 you'd never have thought 
 That once I was little as that. It's the only one 
 that could be bought; 
 For that was the message to pa from the photograph 
 man where I sat — 
 That he wouldn't print off any more till he first 
 got the money for that. 
 
 " What? Maybe you're tired of waiting. Why, often 
 she's longer than this. 
 There's all her back hair to do up, and all her front 
 curls to friz. 
 But it's nice to be sitting here and talking like grown 
 people, just you and me! 
 Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, 
 do! But don't come hke Tom Lee. — 
 
 " Tom Lee's her last beau. Why, my gracious he 
 used to be here day and night, 
 Till the folks thought he'd be her husband; and 
 Jack says that gave him a fright. 
 You won't run away then as he did; for you're not 
 a rich man they say. 
 Pa says you're poor as a church mouse. Now are 
 you? And how poor are they? 
 
 " Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am, for 
 I know now your hair isn't red. 
 But what there is left of it's mousy, and not what 
 that naughty Jack said. 
 
 [1591 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But there, I must go; sister's coming; But I wish 
 I could wait, just to see 
 If she ran up to you, and kissed you in the way 
 she used to kiss Tom Lee! "' 
 
 THE ENCHANTED SHIRT 
 
 BY JOHN HAY 
 
 The king was sick. His cheek was red. 
 
 And his eye was clear and bright; 
 He ate and drank with a kingly zest, 
 
 And peacefully snored at night. 
 
 But he said he was sick — and a king should know; 
 
 And doctors came by the score; 
 They did not cure him. He cut off their heads, 
 
 And sent to the schools for more. 
 
 At last two famous doctors came, 
 
 And one was poor as a rat ; 
 He had passed liis life in studious toil 
 
 And never found time to grow fat. 
 
 The other had never looked in a book; 
 
 His patients gave liim no trouble; 
 If they recovered, they paid liim well, 
 
 If they died, their heirs paid double. 
 
 Together they looked at the royal tongue. 
 
 As the king on his couch reclined ; 
 In succession they thimiped his august chest, 
 
 But no trace^of disease could find. 
 
 [1601 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The old sage said, " You're as sound as a nut." 
 " Hang him up! " roared the king, in a gale, 
 
 In a ten-knot gale of royal rage; 
 The other grew a shadow pale; 
 
 But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose. 
 
 And thus his prescription ran: 
 " The king will be well if he sleeps one night 
 
 In the shirt of a happy man." 
 
 Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode, 
 
 And fast their horses ran, 
 And many they saw, and to many they spake. 
 
 But they found no happy man. 
 
 They found poor men who would fain be rich 
 And rich who thought they were poor; 
 
 And men who twisted their waists in stays 
 And women that short hose wore. 
 
 They saw two men by the roadside sit. 
 
 And both bemoaned their lot; 
 For one had buried his wife he said. 
 
 And the other one had not. 
 
 At last they came to a village gate; 
 
 A beggar lay whistling there; 
 He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolled 
 
 On the grass in the soft June air. 
 
 The weary couriers paused and looked 
 At the scamp so blithe and gay, 
 
 [161] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And one of them said, " Heaven save you, friend, 
 You seem to be happy to-day." 
 
 " Oh yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed, 
 
 And his voice rang free and glad; 
 " An idle man has so much to do 
 
 That he never has time to be sad." 
 
 " This is our man," the courier said, 
 
 " Our luck has led us aright. 
 I will give you a hundred ducats, friend, 
 
 For the loan of your shirt to-night." 
 
 The merry blackguard lay back on the grass 
 
 And laughed till his face was black; 
 " I would do it, God wot," and he roared with fun, 
 
 " But I haven't a shirt to my back." 
 
 Each day to the king the reports came in 
 
 Of his unsuccessful spies. 
 And the sad panorama of human woes 
 
 Passed daily under his eyes. 
 
 And he grew ashamed of his useless life. 
 
 And his maladies hatched in gloom; 
 He opened the windows, and let in the air 
 
 Of the free heaven into his room; 
 
 And out he went in the world, and toiled 
 
 In his own appointed way, 
 And the people blessed him, the land was glad, 
 
 And the king was well and gay. 
 [1621 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 INVOCATION 
 
 BY JOHN HAY 
 
 Lord, from far several climes we come, 
 To meet at last in Thee, our home. 
 
 Thou who hast been our guide and guard. 
 Be still our hope, our rich reward. 
 
 Defend us, Lord, from every ill. 
 
 Strengthen our hearts to do Thy will, 
 
 In all we plan, and all we do. 
 Still keep us to Thy service true. 
 
 let us hear the inspiring word 
 Which they of old at Horeb heard; 
 
 Breathe to our hearts the high command, 
 " Go onward and possess the land! " 
 
 Thou who art light, shine on each soul, 
 Thou who art truth, each mind control. 
 
 Open our eyes, and make us see 
 The path which leads to Heaven and Thee. 
 
 JIM BLUDSO 
 
 BY JOHN HAY 
 
 Wall, no, I can't tell whar he lives, 
 Because he don't live, you see; 
 
 Leastways, he's got out of the habit 
 Of livin' like you and me. 
 
 [163] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Whar have you been for the last three year, 
 That you haven't heard folks tell 
 
 How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks 
 The night of the Prairie Belle f 
 
 He weren't no saint — them engineers 
 
 Is all pretty much alike — 
 One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, 
 
 And another one here in Pike. 
 A keerless man in his talk was Jim, 
 
 And an awkward hand in a row; 
 But he never flunked and he never lied — 
 
 I reckon he never knowed how. 
 
 And this was all the religion he had — 
 
 To treat his engine well; 
 Never be passed on the river; 
 
 To mind the pilot's bell; 
 And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire — 
 
 A thousand times he swore 
 He'd hold her nozzle ag'in' the bank 
 
 Till the last soul got ashore. 
 
 All boats has their day on the Mississip', 
 
 And her day come at last. 
 The Movastar was a better boat, 
 
 But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. 
 And so she came tearin' along that night — 
 
 The oldest craft on the line — 
 With a nigger squat on her safety-valve. 
 
 And her furnace crammed — rosin and pine. 
 [164] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The fire burst out as she cl'ared the bar, 
 
 And burnt a hole in the night, 
 And, quick as a flash, she turned and made 
 
 For that wilier bank on the right. 
 There was runnin' and cussin', but Jim yelled out, 
 
 Over all the infernal roar: 
 I'll hold the nozzle ag'in the bank 
 
 Till the last galoot's ashore! " 
 
 Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat 
 
 Jim Bludso's voice was heard, 
 And they all had trust in his cussedness, 
 
 And knowed he would keep his word. 
 And, sure's you're born, they all got off 
 
 Afore the smoke-stack fell; 
 And Bludso's ghost went up alone 
 
 In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. 
 
 He weren't no saint, but at Jedgment 
 
 I'd run my chance with Jim 
 'Longside of some pious gentlemen 
 
 That wouldn't shook hands with him. 
 He seen his duty — a dead sure thing — 
 
 And went for it thar and then; 
 And Christ ain't a-goin' to be too hard 
 
 On a man that died for men. 
 
 165 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS 
 IN NEW ENGLAND 
 
 BY FELICIA HEMANS 
 
 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 conquerer 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 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 tree, 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam, 
 
 [1661 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 THE BOYS 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? 
 If there has, take him out, without making a noise. 
 Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! 
 Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night! 
 
 [167] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? 
 He's tipsy, — young jackanapes! — show him the 
 
 door! 
 "Gray temples at twenty?" — Yes! white, if we 
 
 please; 
 Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing 
 
 can freeze! 
 
 Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! 
 Look close, — you will see not a sign of a flake! 
 We want some new garlands for those we have shed, — 
 And these are white roses in place of the red. 
 
 We've a trick, we young fellows, j^ou may have been 
 
 told. 
 Of talking (in public) as if we were old: 
 That boy we call " Doctor," and this we call 
 
 "Judge;" — 
 It's a neat little fiction, — of course it's all fudge. 
 
 That fellow's the " Speaker," — the one on the right; 
 " Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? 
 That's our " Member of Congress," we say when we 
 
 chaff; 
 There's the " Reverend " What's his name? — don't 
 
 make me laugh! 
 
 That boy with the grave mathematical look 
 Made believe he had written a wonderful book. 
 And the Royal Society thought it was true ! 
 So they chose him right in, — a good joke it was too! 
 [1681 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, 
 That could harness a team with a logical chain; 
 When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire. 
 We called him " The Justice," but now he's " The 
 Squire." 
 
 And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith, — 
 Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith, 
 But he shouted a song for the brave and the free, — 
 Just read on his medal, " My country," " of thee! " 
 
 You hear that boy laughing? — You think he's all 
 
 fun; 
 But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; 
 The children laugh loud as they troop to his call. 
 And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of 
 
 aU! 
 
 Yes, we're boys, — always playing with tongue or 
 
 with pen ; 
 And I sometimes have asked. Shall we ever be men? 
 Shall we always be j^outhful, and laughing, and gay, 
 Till the last dear companion drop smiling away? 
 
 Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! 
 The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! 
 And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, 
 Dear Father, take care of thy children, The Boys. 
 
 169 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 "OLD IRONSIDES" 
 
 [Written with reference to the proposed breaking up of 
 famous U. S. frigate " Constitution."] 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 
 
 Long has it waved on high, 
 And many an eye has danced to see 
 
 That banner in the sky; 
 Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 
 
 And burst the cannon's roar: 
 The meteor of the ocean air 
 
 Shall sweep the clouds no more! 
 
 Her deck, once red with heroes' blood. 
 
 Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
 When winds were hurrying o'er the flood 
 
 And waves were white below. 
 No more shall feel the victor's tread, 
 
 Or know the conquered knee : 
 The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
 
 The eagle of the sea! 
 
 O better that her shattered hulk 
 
 Should sink beneath the wave! 
 Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
 
 And there should be her grave: 
 Nail to the mast her holy flag. 
 
 Set every threadbare sail. 
 And give her to the god of storms, 
 
 The lightning and the gale! 
 
 [170] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 I wrote some lines once on a time 
 
 In wondrous merry mood, 
 And thought, as usual, men would say 
 
 They were exceeding good. 
 
 They were so queer, so very queer, 
 
 I laughed as I would die; 
 Albeit, in the general way, 
 
 A sober man am I. 
 
 I called my servant, and he came; 
 
 How kind it was of him. 
 To mind a slender man like me, 
 
 He of the mighty limb! 
 
 " These to the printer," I exclaimed, 
 
 And, in my humorous way, 
 I added (as a trifling jest), 
 
 " There'll be the devil to pay." 
 
 He took the paper, and I watched, 
 
 And saw him peep within; 
 At the first hne he read, his face 
 
 Was all upon the grin. 
 
 He read the next; the grin grew broad, 
 
 And shot from ear to ear; 
 He read the third; a chuckling noise 
 
 I now began to hear. 
 
 [1711 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The fourth; he broke into a roar; 
 
 The fifth; his waistband spUt; 
 The sixth; he burst five buttons off, 
 
 And tumbled in a fit. 
 
 Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, 
 I watched that wi-etched man, 
 
 And since, I never dare to write 
 As funny as I can. 
 
 THE LAST LEAF 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 I saw him once before, 
 As he passed by the door; 
 
 And again 
 The pavement-stones resound 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say that in his prime, 
 Ere the pruning-knife of time 
 
 Cut him down, 
 Not a better man was found 
 By the crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 But now he walks the streets. 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 « So forlorn; 
 
 [172] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And he shakes his feeble head, 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 " They are gone." 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 On the lips that he has pressed 
 
 In their bloom; 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 My grandmamma has said — 
 Poor old lady! she is dead 
 
 Long ago — 
 That he had a Roman nose, 
 And his cheek was like a rose 
 
 In the snow. 
 
 But now his nose is thin, 
 And it rests upon his chin 
 
 Like a staff; 
 And a crook is in his back, 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 In his laugh. 
 
 I know it is a sin 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here, 
 But the old three-cornered hat, 
 And the breeches, — and all that. 
 
 Are so queer! 
 
 [173] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And if I should live to be 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 
 In the spring, 
 Let them smile, as I do now, 
 At the old forsaken bough 
 
 Where I cling. 
 
 THE VOICELESS 
 
 BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 We count the broken lyres that rest 
 
 Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, 
 But o'er their silent sister's breast 
 
 The wild-flowers who %vill stoop to number? 
 A few can touch the magic string, 
 
 And noisy Fame is proud to win them: — 
 Alas for those that never sing. 
 
 But die with all their music in them! 
 
 Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 
 
 Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,— 
 Weep for the voiceless, who have known 
 
 The cross without the crown of glory! 
 Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 
 
 O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
 But where the glistening night-dews weep 
 
 On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 
 
 hearts that break and give no sign 
 Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
 
 Till Death pours out his cordial wine 
 Slow-dropp'd from Misery's crushing presses, 
 
 - [174] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 If singing breath or echoing chord 
 To every hidden pang were given, 
 
 What endless melodies were pour'd, 
 As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 
 
 BY THOMAS HOOD 
 "Drowned! Drowned!" — Hamlet. 
 
 One more unfortunate, 
 Weary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate. 
 Gone to her death! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care! 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing; 
 Take her up instantly. 
 Loving, not loathing! 
 
 Touch her not scornfully! 
 Think of her mournfully, 
 Gently and humanly, — 
 Not of the stains of her; 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly. 
 [175] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny, 
 Rash and undutiful; 
 Past all dishonor, 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, — 
 One of Eve's family, — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers, 
 Oozing so clammily. 
 Loop up her tresses 
 Escaped from the comb, — 
 Her fair auburn tresses, — 
 Whilst wonderment guesses 
 Where was her home? 
 
 Who was her father? 
 Who was her mother? 
 Had she a sister? 
 Had she a brother? 
 Or was there a dearer one 
 Still, and a nearer one 
 Yet, than all other? 
 
 Alas! for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun! 
 0, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full, 
 Home she had none. 
 
 fl761 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly 
 Feelings had changed, — 
 Love, by harsh evidence. 
 Thrown from its eminence; 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 So far in the river. 
 
 With many a light 
 
 From window and casement, 
 
 From garret to basement. 
 
 She stood, with amazement. 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver; 
 But not the dark arch, 
 Or the black flowing river; 
 Mad from life's history. 
 Glad to death's mystery, 
 Swift to be hurled — 
 Anywhere, anywhere 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly, — 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran — 
 Over the brink of it! 
 Picture it — think of it, 
 Dissolute man! 
 
 [177] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITE 
 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 Then, if you can! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, 
 Lift her with care! 
 Fashioned so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair! 
 
 Ere her limbs, frigidly. 
 Stiffen too rigidly. 
 Decently, kindly, 
 Smooth and compose them! 
 And her eyes, close them. 
 Staring so blindly! 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 Fixed on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily. 
 Spurred by contumely. 
 Cold inhumanity. 
 Burning insanity. 
 Into her rest! 
 Cross her hands humbly. 
 As if praying dumbly, 
 Over her breast! 
 
 Owing her weakness. 
 Her evil behavior. 
 And leaving, with meekness. 
 Her sins to her Saviour! 
 [1781 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY 
 
 A PATHETIC BALLAD 
 BY THOMAS HOOD 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold, 
 And used to war's alarms; 
 
 But a cannon-ball took off his legs, 
 So he laid down his arms. 
 
 Now as they bore him off the field, 
 Said he, " Let others shoot; 
 
 For here I leave my second leg, 
 And the Forty-second Foot." 
 
 The army-surgeons made him limbs: 
 Said he, " They're only pegs; 
 
 But there's as wooden members quite. 
 As represent my legs." 
 
 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, — 
 Her name was Nellie Gray; 
 
 So he went to pay her his devours, 
 When he devoured his pay. 
 
 But when he called on Nelly Gray, 
 She made him quite a scoff; 
 
 And when she saw his wooden legs. 
 Began to take them off. 
 
 " Nelly Gray! Nelly Gray! 
 Is this your love so warm? 
 
 [179] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The love that loves a scarlet coat 
 Should be more uniform." 
 
 Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
 
 For he was blithe and brave; 
 But I will never have a man 
 
 With both legs in the grave. 
 
 " Before you had those timber toes 
 
 Your love I did allow; 
 But then, you know, you stand upon 
 
 Another footing now." 
 
 " NeUy Gray! O Nelly Gray! 
 
 For all your jeering speeches, 
 At duty's call I left my legs 
 
 In Badajos's breaches." 
 
 " Why, then," said she, " you've lost the feet 
 
 Of legs in war's alarms. 
 And now you cannot wear your shoes 
 
 Upon your feats of arms! " 
 
 "0 false and fickle Nelly Gray! 
 
 I know why you refuse: 
 Though Fve no feet, some other man 
 
 Is standing in my shoes. 
 
 " I wish I ne'er had seen your face; 
 
 But, now, a long farewell! 
 For you will be my death; — alas! 
 
 You will not be my Nell! " 
 
 [180] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Now when he went from Nelly Gray 
 
 His heart so heavy got, 
 And life was such a burden grown, 
 
 It made him take a knot. 
 
 So round his melancholy neck 
 
 A rope he did entwine, 
 And, for his second time in life, 
 
 Enlisted in the Line. 
 
 One end he tied around a beam. 
 
 And then removed his pegs; 
 And, as his legs were off, — of course 
 
 He soon was off his legs. 
 
 And there he hung till he was dead 
 
 As any nail in town ; 
 For, though distress had cut him up, 
 
 It could not cut him down. 
 
 A dozen men sat on his corpse, 
 
 To find out why he died, — 
 And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, 
 
 With a stake in his inside. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER 
 
 BY THOMAS HOOD 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 The house where I was born. 
 
 The little window where the sun 
 
 Came peeping in at morn. 
 
 [1811 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He never came a wink too soon, 
 Nor brought too long a day; 
 
 But now I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The roses, red and white. 
 The violets, and the lily-cups, — 
 
 Those flowers made of light! 
 The lilacs where the robin built, 
 
 And where my brother set 
 The laburnum on his birthday, — 
 
 The tree is living yet! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 And thought the air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing; 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 The fir-trees dark and high; 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky. 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 't is little joy 
 To know I'm farther off from heaven 
 
 Than when I was a boy. 
 
 fl82] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT 
 
 BY THOMAS HOOD 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyeUds heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
 She sang the " Song of the Shirt"! 
 
 "Work! work! work 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof! 
 And work — work — work 
 
 Till the stars shine through the roof. 
 It's, 0, to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, 
 
 If this is Christian work! 
 
 " Work — work — work 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
 Seam, and gusset, and band, 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, — 
 Till over the buttons I fall asleep. 
 
 And sew them on in a dream! 
 [183] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 "0 men with sisters dear! 
 
 O men with mothers and wives! 
 It is not linen you're wearing out, 
 
 But human creatures' Uves! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch, 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt, — 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A shroud as well as a shirt! 
 
 "But why do I talk of death,- — 
 
 That phantom of grisly bone? 
 I hardly fear his terrible shape. 
 
 It seems so like my own, — 
 It seems so lilve my own 
 
 Because of the fasts I keep; 
 O God! that bread should be so dear, 
 
 And flesh and blood so cheap! 
 
 " Work — work — work! 
 
 My labor never flags; 
 And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread — and rags, 
 That shattered roof — and this naked floor 
 
 A table — a broken chair — 
 And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 
 
 For sometimes falling there! 
 
 " Work — work — work 
 
 From weary chime to chime! 
 Work — work — work 
 
 As prisoners work for crime! 
 [184] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam, 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band, — 
 Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, 
 
 As well as the weary hand. 
 
 " Work — work — work 
 
 In the dull December light! 
 And work • — work — work 
 
 When the weather is warm and bright! 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows cling. 
 As if to show me their sunny backs, 
 
 And twit me with the Spring. 
 
 " 0, but to breathe the breath 
 
 Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, — 
 With the sky above my head, 
 
 And the grass beneath my feet! 
 For only one short hour 
 
 To feel as I used to feel. 
 Before I knew the woes of want 
 
 And the walk that costs a meal! 
 
 "O, but for one short hour, — 
 
 A respite, however brief! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope, 
 
 But only time for grief! 
 A little weeping would ease my heart; 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop, for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread! " 
 
 [1851 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty, hunger, and dirt; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
 Would that its tone could reach the rich! — 
 
 She sang this " Song of the Shirt! " 
 
 HOME, WOODBARROW FARM 
 
 ■ When all the world is young, lad, and all the trees 
 
 are green, 
 And ev'ry goose a swan, lad, and ev'ry lass a queen; 
 Then hey for boot and horse, lad, and ride the world 
 
 away. 
 Young blood must have its course, lad, and ev'ry 
 
 dog his day. 
 
 When all the world is old, lad, and all the trees are 
 
 brown, 
 And all the sport is stale, lad, and all the wheels 
 
 run down; 
 Creep home, and take thy place there, thy early 
 
 friends among, 
 God grant you find one face there, you loved when 
 
 all was young." 
 
 186 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 
 
 BY JULIA WARD HOWE 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 
 
 Lord: 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of 
 
 wrath are stored; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible 
 
 swift sword. 
 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling 
 
 camps; 
 They have builded him an altar in the evening dews 
 
 and damps; 
 I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring 
 
 lamps. 
 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of 
 
 steel : 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my 
 
 grace shall deal; 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with 
 
 his heel. 
 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never 
 
 call retreat; 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment 
 
 seat: 
 
 [187] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 0, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilantmy 
 feet! 
 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the 
 
 sea, 
 With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and 
 
 me; 
 As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men 
 
 free, 
 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM 
 
 BY LEIGH HUNT 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
 And saw within the moonlight in his room. 
 Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
 An angel writing in a book of gold : 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. 
 And to the presence in the room he said, 
 " What writest thou? " The vision raised its head. 
 And, with a look made of all sweet accord. 
 Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." 
 " And is mine one? " said Abou. " Nay, not so," 
 Rephed the angel. Abou spoke more low. 
 But cheerly still; and said, " I pray thee, then, 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 
 [188] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night 
 It came again, with a great wakening hght. 
 And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, 
 And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! 
 
 OUR FAME 
 
 BY JOHN A. JOYCE 
 
 A thousand years of glory- 
 Shall immortalize our fame — 
 With a tale in song and story 
 
 To keep green the hallowed name, 
 Of the victor and the vanquished 
 
 On the land and on the sea, 
 A band of noble brothers 
 
 Led by gallant Grant and Lee. 
 And the tears of beaming beauty 
 
 Shall freshen every flower — 
 In the May-time of our duty, 
 
 Through the sunlit, fleeting hour. 
 Then we'll strew the rarest roses 
 
 O'er the graves we bless to-day. 
 And we'll pluck the purest posies 
 
 To enwreath the " Blue " and " Gray," 
 And down the circling ages. 
 
 From the father to the son. 
 We'll tell on golden pages 
 
 How the field was lost and won; 
 And how a band of brothers 
 
 Fought each other hard and true 
 To bind the Union arches 
 
 [ 189 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 O'er the " Gray " and o'er the " Blue," 
 And rearing a lasting temple 
 
 So complete in every plan, 
 To justice, truth, and mercy 
 
 And the hberty of man! 
 
 FANCY 
 
 BY JOHN KEATS 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam. 
 
 Pleasure never is at home: 
 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 
 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 
 
 Then let winged Fancy wander 
 
 Through the thought still spread beyond her: 
 
 Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
 
 She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
 
 sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
 Summer's joys are spoilt by use. 
 And the enjoying of the Spring 
 Fades as does its blossoming. 
 Autumn's red-lipped fruitage too, 
 Blushing through the mist and dew, 
 Cloys with tasting. What do then? 
 Sit thee by the ingle, when 
 The sear fagot blazes bright, 
 Spirit of a winter's night; 
 When the soundless earth is muffled, 
 And the caked snow is shuffled 
 From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 
 
 [190] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 When the Night doth meet the Noon 
 
 In a dark conspiracy 
 
 To banish Even from her sky. 
 
 — Sit thee there, and send abroad 
 
 With a mind self-overawed 
 
 Fancy, high-commissioned: — send her I 
 
 She has vassals to attend her; 
 
 She wiU bring, in spite of frost, 
 
 Beauties that the earth hath lost; 
 
 She will bring thee, all together, 
 
 All delights of smnmer weather; 
 
 All the buds and bells of May 
 
 From dewy sward or thorny spray; 
 
 All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 
 
 With a still, mysterious stealth; 
 
 She will mix these pleasures up 
 
 Like three fit wines in a cup. 
 
 And thou shalt quaff it; — thou shalt heai 
 
 Distant harvest-carols clear; 
 
 Rustle of the reaped corn; 
 
 Sweet birds antheming the morn; 
 
 And in the same moment — hark! 
 
 'T is the early April lark. 
 
 Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
 
 Foraging for sticks and straw. 
 
 Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 
 
 The daisy and the marigold; 
 
 White-plumed lilies, and the first 
 
 Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 
 
 Shaded hyacinth, alway 
 
 fl911 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Sappliire queen of the mid-^Iay; 
 And every leaf, and eA'ery flower 
 Pearled with the self-same shower. 
 Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 
 Meagre from its celled sleep; 
 And the snake all winter-tliin 
 Cast on sunny bank its skin; 
 Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 
 Hatcliing in the hawthorn tree, 
 When the hen-bu'd's whig doth rest 
 Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
 Then the hurry and alarm 
 "VMien the bee-hive casts its swarm; 
 Acorns ripe down-pattering 
 While the autumn breezes sing. 
 
 O sweet Fancy! let her loose; 
 Even,i:hing is spoilt by use : 
 "\\Tiere's the cheek that doth not fade, 
 Too much gazed at? Where's the maid 
 Wliose lip mature is ever new? 
 Where's the eye, however blue. 
 Doth not weary? Where's the face 
 One would meet in every place? 
 Where's the voice, however soft, 
 One would hear so very oft? 
 At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
 Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
 Let then winged Fancy find 
 Thee a mistress to th^^ mind: 
 Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
 
 [1921 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Ere the god of torment taught her 
 
 How to frown and how to chide; 
 
 With a waist and with a side 
 
 White as Hebe's, when her zone 
 
 Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
 
 Fell her kirtle to her feet 
 
 While she held the goblet sweet. 
 
 And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
 
 Of the Fancy's silken leash; 
 
 Quickly break her prison-string, 
 
 And such joys as these she'll bring: 
 
 — Let the winged Fancy roam, 
 
 Pleasui'e never is at home. 
 
 ON DEATH 
 
 BY JOHN KEATS 
 
 Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, 
 And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? 
 The transient pleasures as a vision seem, 
 And yet we think the greatest pain's to die. 
 
 How strange it is that man on earth should roam, 
 And lead a life of woe, but not forsake 
 His rugged path; nor dare he view alone 
 His future doom, which is but to awake. 
 
 193 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER 
 
 BY FRANCIS SCOTT KEY 
 
 say, can you see by the dawn's early light 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleam- 
 ing? - 
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thi-ough the 
 
 perilous fight 
 O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly 
 
 streaming! 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air. 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still 
 
 there; 
 say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? 
 
 On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the 
 
 deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
 Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
 In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream; 
 'T is the star-spangled banner! 0, long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 
 
 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
 A home and a country should leave us no more? 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' 
 pollution. 
 
 [194] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave; 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave! 
 
 O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! 
 
 Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the Heaven-rescued 
 
 land 
 Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us 
 
 a nation. 
 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust"; 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 RECESSIONAL 
 
 BY RUDYARD KIPLING 
 
 God of our fathers, known of old, 
 Lord of our far-flung battle line — 
 Beneath whose awful hand we hold 
 Dominion over palm and pine — 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget! 
 
 The tumult and the shouting dies — 
 The Captains and the Kings depart — 
 Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice. 
 An humble and a contrite heart. 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget! 
 [1951 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Far-called our navies melt away — 
 On dune and headland sinks the fire — 
 Lo, all our pomp of yesterday 
 Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! 
 Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget! 
 
 If, drunk with sight of power, we loose 
 Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe ■ 
 Such boasting as the Gentiles use, 
 Or lesser breeds without the Law — 
 Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, 
 Lest we forget — lest we forget! 
 
 For heathen heart that puts her trust 
 In reeking tube and iron shard — 
 All valiant dust that builds on dust, 
 And guarding calls not Thee to guard. 
 For frantic boast and foolish word, 
 Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! 
 
 AMEN. 
 
 196 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 0, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL 
 BE PROUD? 
 
 BY WILLIAM KNOX 
 
 The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lin- 
 coln. It was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, 
 and afterwards he cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. 
 He said to a friend, "I would give a great deal to know who wrote 
 it, but have never been able to ascertain." He did afterwards learn 
 the name of the author. 
 
 0, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-fljdng cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
 He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
 Be scattered around, and together be laid; 
 As the young and the old, the low and the high, 
 Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie. 
 
 The infant a mother attended and loved. 
 The mother that infant's affection who proved. 
 The father that mother and infant who blest, — 
 Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest. 
 
 The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose 
 
 eye, 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by; 
 And alike from the minds of the living erased 
 Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised. 
 
 The head of the king, that the sceptre hath borne; 
 The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn; 
 [197] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, — 
 Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 
 
 The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap; 
 
 The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the 
 
 steep; 
 The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread, — 
 Have faded away like the grass that we tread. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed, 
 That withers away to let others succeed; 
 So the multitude comes, even those we behold. 
 To repeat every tale that has often been told. 
 
 For we are the same our fathers have been; 
 We see the same sights our fathers have seen; 
 We drink the same stream, we see the same sun, 
 And run the same course our fathers have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think; 
 From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink; 
 To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling. 
 But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing. 
 
 They loved, — but the story we cannot unfold; 
 They scorned, — but the heart of the haughty is cold; 
 They grieved, — but no wail from their slumbers will 
 
 come; 
 They joyed, — but the tongue of their gladness is 
 
 dumb. 
 
 [198] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 They died, — ah! they died; — we, things that are 
 
 now, 
 That walk on the turf that Hes over their brow, 
 And make in their dwelUng a transient abode, 
 Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage 
 
 road. 
 
 Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. 
 
 Are mingled together in sunshine and rain : 
 
 And the smile and the tear, and the song and the 
 
 dirge. 
 Still follow each other like surge upon surge. 
 
 'T is the wink of an eye; 't is the draught of a breath 
 From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
 From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud; 
 0, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 
 
 BY CHARLES LAMB 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have been laughing, I have been carousing. 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
 AE, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I loved a Love once, fairest among women: 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her, — 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 [1991 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
 Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. 
 Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces. 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
 And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 THE ARROW AND THE SONG 
 
 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air. 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
 For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
 Could not follow it in its flight. 
 
 I breathed a song into the air, 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
 For who has sight so keen and strong. 
 That it can follow the flight of song? 
 
 Long, long afterward, in an oak 
 I found the arrow, still unbroke; 
 And the song, from beginning to end, 
 I found again in the heart of a friend. 
 [200] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S HOUR 
 
 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Between the dark and the dayhght, 
 When night is beginning to lower, 
 
 Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
 That is known as the children's hour. 
 
 I hear in the chamber above me 
 
 The patter of little feet, 
 The sound of a door that is opened, 
 
 And voices soft and sweet. 
 
 From my study I see in the lamplight, 
 Descending the broad hall stair, 
 
 Grave Alice and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair. 
 
 A whisper and then a silence. 
 Yet I know by their merry eyes 
 
 They are plotting and planning together 
 To take me by surprise. 
 
 A sudden rush from the stairway, 
 A sudden raid from the hall, 
 
 By three doors left unguarded. 
 They enter my castle wall. 
 
 They climb up into my turret, 
 
 O'er the arms and back of my chair; 
 
 If I try to escape, they surround me: 
 They seem to be everywhere. 
 [201] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 They almost devour me with kisses, 
 Their arms about me intwine, 
 
 Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
 In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. 
 
 Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
 Because you have scaled the wall. 
 
 Such an old mustache as I am 
 Is not a match for you all ? 
 
 I have you fast in my fortress. 
 
 And will not let you depart, 
 But put you into the dungeon 
 
 In the round-tower of my heart. 
 
 And there wiU I keep you forever, 
 
 Yes, forever and a day, 
 Till the walls shall crumble to ruin. 
 
 And moulder in dust away. 
 
 GOD'S-ACRE 
 
 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls 
 The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; 
 
 It consecrates each grave within its walls. 
 And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 
 
 God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
 Comfort to those who in the grave have sown 
 
 The seed that they had garnered in their hearts. 
 Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. 
 
 [202] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 
 
 In the sure faith that we shall rise again 
 
 At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast 
 Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 
 
 Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom. 
 In the fair gardens of that second birth; 
 
 And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 
 
 With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth, 
 
 With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod. 
 And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; 
 
 This is the field and Acre of our God, 
 
 This is the place where human harvests grow ! 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE 
 
 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 
 
 Life is but an empty dream! 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
 
 And things are not what they seem. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal; 
 Dust thou art, to dust returnest. 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 [2031 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 Funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, 
 
 In the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead! 
 Act, — act in the living Present! 
 
 Heart within, and Godo'erhead! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime. 
 
 And, departing, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time; — 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another, 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 
 With a heart for any fate; 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 204 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 RESIGNATION 
 
 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 
 But one dead lamb is there! 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But has one vacant chair! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying. 
 
 And mournings for the dead; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children crying. 
 
 Will not be comforted! 
 
 Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 
 
 Not from the ground arise. 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no Death! What seems so is transition: 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — 
 
 But gone into that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
 [2051 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion. 
 
 By guardian angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 
 
 She lives whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air; 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing. 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her; 
 
 For when with raptures wild 
 In our embraces we again enfold her. 
 
 She will not be a child : 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion. 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though, at times, impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed. 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way. 
 [2061 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH 
 
 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Under a spreading chestnut-tree 
 
 The village smithy stands; 
 The smith, a mighty man is he, 
 
 With large and sinewy hands; 
 And the muscles of his brawny arms 
 
 Are strong as iron bands. 
 
 His hair is crisp and black and long; 
 
 His face is like the tan; 
 His brow is wet with honest sweat, — 
 
 He earns whate'er he can. 
 And looks the whole world in the face, 
 
 For he owes not any man. 
 
 Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
 You can hear his bellows blow; 
 
 You can hear him swing his heav}^ sledge 
 With measured beat and slow. 
 
 Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
 When the evening sun is low. 
 
 And children coming home from school, 
 
 Look in at the open door; 
 They love to see the flaming forge. 
 
 And hear the bellows roar. 
 And catch the burning sparks that fly 
 
 Like chaff from the threshing-floor. 
 [2071 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He goes on Sunday to the church, 
 
 And sits among his boj^s; 
 He hears the parson pray and preach; 
 
 He hears his daughter's voice, 
 Singing in the village choir, 
 
 And it makes his heart rejoice. 
 
 It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
 
 Singing in Paradise! 
 He needs must think of her once more. 
 
 How in the grave she lies; 
 And with his hard, rough hand he wipes 
 
 A tear out of his eyes. 
 
 Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing. 
 
 Onward through life he goes; 
 Each morning sees some task begun, 
 
 Each evening sees it close; 
 Something attempted, something done, 
 
 Has earned a night's repose. 
 
 Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 For the lesson thou hast taught! 
 
 Thus at the flaming forge of Life 
 Our fortunes must be wrought, 
 
 Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
 Each burning deed and thought. 
 
 208 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 SUSPIRIA 
 
 BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 Take them, Death! and bear away 
 Whatever thou canst call thine own! 
 
 Thine image, stamped upon this clay, 
 Doth give thee that, but that alone! 
 
 Take them, Grave! and let them lie 
 Folded upon thy narrow shelves, 
 
 As garments by the soul laid by. 
 And precious only to ourselves! 
 
 Take them, great Eternity! 
 
 Our little life is but a gust 
 That bends the branches of thj-^ tree, 
 
 And trails its blossoms in the dust! 
 
 FREEDOM 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Are we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be 
 
 That thou. North wind, that from thy mountains 
 
 bringest 
 Their spirit to our plains, and thou, blue sea, 
 Who on our rocks thy wreaths of freedom flingest, 
 As on an altar, — can it be that ye 
 Have wasted inspiration on dead ears, 
 Dulled with the too familiar clank of chains? 
 The people's heart is like a harp for years 
 Hung where some petrifying torrent rains 
 
 [2091 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Its slow-incrusting spray: the stiffened chords 
 Faint and more faint ma^e answer to the tears 
 That drip upon them: idle are all words; 
 Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone 
 Deep buried 'neath that ever-thickening stone. 
 
 We are not free: Freedom doth not consist 
 
 In musing with our faces toward the Past, 
 
 WhUe petty cares and crawling interests twist 
 
 Their spider-tlu-eads about us, which at last 
 
 Grow strong as iron chains to cramp and bind 
 
 In formal narrowness heart, soul, and mind. 
 
 Freedom is recreated year by year. 
 
 In hearts wide open on the Godward side. 
 
 In souls calm-cadenced as the whirling sphere, 
 
 In minds that sway thy future Uke a tide. 
 
 No broadest creeds can hold her, and no codes; 
 
 She chooses men for her august abodes. 
 
 Building them fair and fronting to the dawn; 
 
 Yet, when we seek her, we but find a few 
 
 Light footprints, leading morn- ward through the dew; 
 
 Before the day had risen, she was gone. 
 
 And we must follow: swiftly runs she on. 
 
 And, if our steps should slacken in despair. 
 
 Half turns her face, half smiles through golden hair. 
 
 Forever yielding, never wholly won: 
 
 That is not love which pauses in the race 
 
 Two close-linked names on fleeting sand to trace; 
 
 Freedom gained yesterday is no more ours; 
 
 Men gather but dry seeds of last year's flowers: 
 
 [2101 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Still there's a charm ungranted, still a grace, 
 Still rosy Hope, the free, the unattained. 
 Makes us Possession's languid hand let fall; 
 'T is but a fragment of ourselves is gained, — 
 The Future brings us more, but never all. 
 
 And, as the finder of some unknown realm, 
 Mounting a summit whence he thinks to see 
 On either side of him the imprisoning sea. 
 Beholds, above the clouds that overwhelm 
 The valley-land, peak after snowy peak 
 Stretch out of sight, each like a silver helm 
 Beneath its plume of smoke, sublime and bleak. 
 And what he thought an island finds to be 
 A continent to him first oped, — so we 
 Can from our height of Freedom look along 
 A boundless future, ours if we be strong; 
 Or if we shrink, better remount our ships 
 And, fleeing God's express design, trace back 
 The hero-freighted Mayflower's prophet-track 
 To Europe, entering her blood-red eclipse. 
 
 THE HERITAGE 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands. 
 
 And piles of brick, and stone, and gold; 
 
 And he inherits soft white hands. 
 And tender flesh, that fears the cold. 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 [211] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares: 
 
 The bank may break, the factory burn, 
 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
 And soft white hands could hardly earn 
 A living that would serve his turn; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits wants. 
 His stomach craves for dainty fare; 
 
 With sated heart he hears the pants 
 Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, 
 And wearies in his easy-chair; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
 
 Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 
 A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 
 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 
 In every useful toil and art; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
 Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, 
 
 A rank adjudged with toil- won merit. 
 Content that from emplojonent springs, 
 A heart that in his labor sings; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 [212] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit? 
 A patience learn'd of being poor, 
 
 Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
 A fellow-feeling that is sure 
 To make the outcast bless his door; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 rich man's son! there is a toil 
 That with all others level stands: 
 
 Large charity doth never soil, 
 
 But only whiten, soft white hands,— 
 This is the best crop from thy lands; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
 poor man's son! scorn not thy state; 
 There is worse weariness than thine — 
 
 In merely being rich and great : 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine. 
 And makes rest fragrant and benign, - 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
 Are equal in the earth at last: 
 
 Both, children of the same dear God, 
 Prove title to your heirship vast 
 By record of a well-fill'd past; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 Well worth a life to hold in fee. 
 [213] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 God! do not let my loved one die, 
 
 But rather wait until the time 
 That I am grown in purity 
 
 Enough to enter thy pure clime; 
 Then take me, I will gladly go. 
 So that my love remain below! 
 
 0, let her stay! She is by birth 
 
 What I through death must learn to be, 
 
 We need her more on our poor earth, 
 
 Than thou canst need in heaven with thee : 
 
 She hath her wings already, I 
 
 Must burst this earth-shell ere I fly. 
 
 Then, God, take me! We shall be near. 
 More near than ever, each to each : 
 
 Her angel ears will find more clear 
 My heavenly than my earthly speech; 
 
 And still, as I draw nigh to thee. 
 
 Her soul and mine shall closer be. 
 
 A REQUIEM 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 Ay, pale and silent maiden, 
 
 Cold as thou liest there. 
 Thine was the sunniest nature 
 
 That ever drew the air, 
 [2141 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The wildest and most wayward, 
 
 And yet so gently kind, 
 Thou seemedst but to body 
 
 A breath of summer wind. 
 
 Into the eternal shadow 
 
 That girds our life around, 
 Into the infinite silence 
 
 Wherewith Death's shore is bound. 
 Thou hast gone forth, beloved! 
 
 And I were mean to weep. 
 That thou hast left Life's shallows, 
 
 And dost possess the Deep. 
 
 Thou liest low and silent, 
 
 Thy heart is cold and still. 
 Thine eyes are shut forever. 
 
 And Death hath had his will; 
 He loved and would have taken, 
 
 I loved and would have kept. 
 We strove, — and he was stronger. 
 
 And I have never wept. 
 
 Let him possess thy body, 
 
 Thy soul is still with me. 
 More sunny and more gladsome 
 
 Than it was wont to be: 
 Thy body was a fetter 
 
 That bound me to the flesh. 
 Thank God that it is broken, 
 
 And now I live afresh! 
 [2151 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Now I can see thee clearly; 
 
 The dusky cloud of clay, 
 That hid thy starry spirit, 
 
 Is rent and blown away: 
 To earth I give thy body, 
 
 Thy spirit to the sky, 
 I saw its bright wings growing, 
 
 And knew that thou must fly. 
 
 Now I can love thee truly, 
 
 For nothing comes between 
 The senses and the spirit. 
 
 The seen and the unseen; 
 Lifts the eternal shadow. 
 
 The silence bursts apart. 
 And the soul's boundless future 
 
 Is present in my heart. 
 
 THE PRESENT CRISIS 
 
 BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 
 
 When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad 
 
 earth's aching breast 
 Runs a thrUl of joy prophetic, trembling on from east 
 
 to west. 
 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within 
 
 him climb 
 To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
 Of a century bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem 
 
 of Time. 
 
 F2161 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Through the walls of hut and palace shoots the instan- 
 taneous throe, 
 
 When the travail of the Ages wrings earth's systems to 
 and fro; 
 
 At the birth of each new Era, with a recognizing start, 
 
 Nation wildly looks at nation, standing with mute lips 
 apart. 
 
 And glad Truth's yet mightier inan-child leaps beneath 
 the Future's heart. 
 
 So the Evil's triumph sendeth, with a terror and a 
 
 chill. 
 Under continent to continent, the sense of coming 
 
 ill. 
 And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels his sympathies 
 
 with God, 
 In hot tear-drops ebbing earthward, to be drunk up by 
 
 the sod, 
 Till a corpse crawls round unburied, delving in the 
 
 nobler clod. 
 
 For mankind are one in spirit, and an instinct bears 
 
 along. 
 Round the earth's electric circle, the swift flush of 
 
 right or wrong; 
 Whether conscious or unconscious, yet Humanity's 
 
 vast frame 
 Through its ocean-sundered fibres feels the gush of 
 
 joy or shame; — 
 In the gain or loss of one race all the rest have equal 
 
 claim, 
 
 [2171 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Once to every man and nation comes the moment to 
 
 decide, 
 In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or 
 
 evil side; 
 Some great causes, God's new Messiah, offering each 
 
 the bloom or blight. 
 Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon 
 
 the right. 
 And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness 
 
 and that light. 
 
 Hast thou chosen, my people, on whose party thou 
 
 shalt stand. 
 Ere the Doom from its worn sandals shakes the dust 
 
 against our land? 
 Though the cause of Evil prosper, yet 'tis Truth alone 
 
 is strong. 
 And, albeit she wander outcast now, I see around her 
 
 throng 
 Troops of beautiful, tall angels, to enshield her from all 
 
 wrong. 
 
 Backward look across the ages and the beacon-moments 
 
 see, 
 That, like peaks of some sunk continent, jut through 
 
 Oblivion's sea; 
 Not an ear in court or market for the low foreboding 
 
 cry 
 Of those Crises, God's stern winnowers, from whose 
 
 feet earth's chaff must fly; 
 Never shows the choice momentous till the judgment 
 
 hath passed by. 
 
 [2181 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but 
 
 record 
 One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old system 
 
 and the Word; 
 Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the 
 
 throne — 
 Yet that scaffold sways the Future, and, behind the 
 
 dim unknown, 
 Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above 
 
 his own. 
 
 We see dimly in the Present what is smaU and what is 
 
 great. 
 Slow of faith, how weak an arm may turn the iron helm 
 
 of fate. 
 But the soul is still oracular; amid the market's din, 
 List the ominous stern whisper from the Delphic cave 
 
 within,— 
 "They enslave their children's children who make 
 
 compromise with sin." 
 
 Slavery, the earthborn Cyclops, fellest of the giant 
 brood. 
 
 Sons of brutish Force and Darkness, who have drenched 
 the earth with blood. 
 
 Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our 
 purer day. 
 
 Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable 
 prey; — 
 
 Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless chil- 
 dren play? 
 
 [219] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her 
 wretched crust, 
 
 Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 't is prosper- 
 ous to be just; 
 
 Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward 
 stands aside. 
 
 Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, 
 
 And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had 
 denied. 
 
 Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, — they were 
 souls that stood alone. 
 
 While the men they agonized for hurled the contume- 
 lious stone. 
 
 Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden 
 beam incline 
 
 To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith 
 divine, 
 
 By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's 
 supreme design. 
 
 By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet 
 I track, 
 
 Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns 
 not back. 
 
 And these mounts of anguish number how each genera- 
 tion learned 
 
 One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet- 
 hearts hath burned 
 
 Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face 
 to heaven upturned. 
 
 [220] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the 
 
 martyr stands, 
 On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his 
 
 hands; 
 Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling 
 
 fagots burn, 
 While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe 
 
 return 
 To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden 
 
 urn. 
 
 'T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves 
 
 Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' 
 
 graves, 
 Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light 
 
 a crime; — 
 Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by 
 
 men behind their time? 
 Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make 
 
 Plymouth rock sublime? 
 
 They were men of present valor, stalwart old icono- 
 clasts, 
 
 Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the 
 Past's; 
 
 But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that 
 hath made us free, 
 
 Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender 
 spirits flee 
 
 The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove 
 them across the sea. 
 
 [221] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 They have rights who dare maintain them; we are 
 
 traitors to our sires, 
 Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-Ht 
 
 altar-fires ; 
 Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in 
 
 our haste to slay, 
 From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral 
 
 lamps away 
 To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of 
 
 to-day? 
 
 New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient 
 good uncouth; 
 
 They must upward still, and onward, who would keep 
 abreast of Truth; 
 
 Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must 
 Pilgrims be, 
 
 Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the 
 desperate winter sea. 
 
 Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood- 
 rusted key. 
 
 TOO LATE 
 
 BY FITZ HUGH LUDLOW 
 
 There sat an old man on a rock. 
 
 And unceasing bewailed him of Fate — 
 That concern where we all must take stock. 
 Though our vote has no bearing or weight; 
 And the old man sang him an old, old song, 
 Never sang voice so clear and strong 
 That could drown the old man's song, 
 
 For he sang the song, "Too late! too late." 
 
 [222] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 When we want, we have for our pains 
 
 The promise that if we but wait 
 Till the want has burned out of our brains, 
 Every means shall be present to sate; 
 
 While we send for the napkin the soup grows cold, 
 While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old. 
 When we've matched our buttons the pattern is 
 sold. 
 And everything comes too late — too late. 
 
 When strawberries seemed like red heavens, 
 
 Terrapin stew a wild dream. 
 When my brain was at sixes and sevens, 
 If my mother had "foUvs" and ice cream, 
 Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger 
 At the restaurant man and fruit monger, 
 But, 0, how I wished I were younger 
 When the goodies all came in a stream — in a 
 stream. 
 
 I've a splendid blood-horse, and a liver 
 
 That it jars into torture to trot; 
 
 My row-boat's the gem of the river — 
 
 Gout made every knuckle a knot! 
 
 I can buy boundless credits in Paris and Rome, 
 But no palate for menus, no eyes for a dome — 
 Those belong to the youth who must tarry at home, 
 When no home but an attic he'd got — he'd got. 
 
 How I longed, in that lonest of garrets. 
 Where the tiles baked 1113^ brain all July, 
 [ 223 ] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 For the ground to grow two pecks of carrots, 
 Two pigs of my own in a sty, 
 
 A rosebush — a little thatched cottage — 
 Two spoons — love — a basin of pottage! 
 Now in freestone I sit — and my dotage — 
 With a woman's chair empty close by — close 
 by! 
 
 Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, 
 
 I have shared one seat with the great; 
 I have sat — knowing naught of the clock — 
 On Love's high throne of state; 
 
 But the lips that kissed and the arms that caressed. 
 To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed, 
 And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed 
 Had they only not come too late — too late. 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA 
 
 BY WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE 
 
 I am dying, Egypt, dying. 
 
 Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, 
 And the dark Plutonian shadows 
 
 Gather on the evening blast; 
 Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, 
 
 Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; 
 Listen to the great heart-secrets, 
 
 Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 
 
 Though my scarr'd and veteran legions 
 
 Bear their eagles high no more. 
 And my wreck'd and scatter'd galleys 
 [ 224 ] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, 
 Though no glittering guards surround me, 
 
 Prompt to do their master's will, 
 I must perish like a Roman, 
 
 Die the great Triumvir still. 
 
 Let not Caesar's servile minions 
 
 Mock the lion thus laid low; 
 'Twas no foeman's arm that fell'd him, 
 
 'Twas his own that struck the blow; 
 His who, pillow'd on thy bosom, 
 
 Turn'd aside from glory's ray. 
 His who, drunk with thy caresses, 
 
 Madly threw a world away. 
 
 Should the base plebeian rabble 
 
 Dare assail my name at Rome, 
 Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 
 
 Weeps within her widow'd home, 
 Seek her; say the gods bear witness — 
 
 Altars, augurs, circling wings — 
 That her blood, with mine commingled, 
 
 Yet shall mount the throne of kings. 
 
 As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian, 
 
 Glorious sorceress of the Nile, 
 Light the path to Stygian horrors 
 
 With the splendors of thy smile. 
 Give the Caesar crowns and arches. 
 
 Let his brow the laurel twine; 
 I can scorn the Senate's triumphs. 
 
 Triumphing in love like thine. 
 [2251 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I am dying, Egypt, dying; 
 
 Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. 
 They are coming! quick, my falchion, 
 
 Let me front them ere I die. 
 Ah! no more amid the battle 
 
 Shall my heart exulting swell; 
 Isis and Osiris guard thee ! 
 
 Cleopatra, Rome, farewell! 
 
 THE WATER MILL 
 
 BY DANIEL CRAIG MC CALLUM 
 
 In a copy of thia poem presented to the editor, the author inserted 
 the word "again" in the last line of each verse, and in the third 
 verse substituted "thy kindness sow broadcast" for "true love 
 alone will last." 
 
 Oh! listen to the Water-Mill, through all the livelong 
 
 day. 
 As the clicking of the wheel wears hour by hour 
 
 away; 
 How languidly the Autumn wind doth stir the withered 
 
 leaves. 
 As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the 
 
 sheaves. 
 A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is 
 
 cast, 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is 
 
 past." 
 
 Soft summer winds revive no more, leaves strewn o'er 
 earth and main, 
 
 [226] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow-garnered 
 
 grain; 
 The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep 
 
 and still. 
 But never glideth back again, to busy Water-Mill. 
 The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep 
 
 and vast. 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is 
 
 past." 
 
 Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart 
 
 and true, 
 For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing 
 
 too. 
 Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy 
 
 day, 
 For time will ne'er return sweet joys, neglected, thrown 
 
 away. 
 Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow 
 
 broadcast, 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is 
 
 past." 
 
 Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted 
 
 by; 
 Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without 
 
 a sigh; 
 Love that we might once have saved, by a single kindly 
 
 word, 
 Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing 
 
 unpenned, unheard. 
 
 [227 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is 
 past." 
 
 Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of 
 
 strength and will, 
 The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking 
 
 water-mill; 
 Nor wait until to-morrow's light, beams brightly on 
 
 thy way, 
 For all that thou can'st call thine own, lies in the 
 
 phrase to-day. 
 Possessions, power, and blooming health must all be 
 
 lost at last, 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is 
 
 past." 
 
 Oh! love thy God and fellow men, thyself consider last. 
 For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of 
 
 the past. 
 Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede 
 
 from view, 
 And Heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and 
 
 true. 
 Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still, the proverb 
 
 deep and vast, 
 " The mill will never grind again with water that is 
 
 past." 
 
 228 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 WHOM GOD HATH JOINED 
 
 BY T. G. MCCLAUGHRY 
 
 We have sipped the cup of sorrow, 
 
 Thou and I; 
 We have waited a to-morrow, 
 
 Thou and I; 
 We have watched beside a bed. 
 Bending o'er a Uttle head. 
 Crushed beneath a weight of dread, 
 
 Thou and I. 
 
 We have owned our helplessness. 
 
 Thou and I; 
 We have sought God in distress. 
 
 Thou and I; 
 We have shed a common tear 
 When no other help was near, 
 Prayed together in our fear. 
 
 Thou and I. 
 
 Shall we break the ties that bind us. 
 
 Thou and I? 
 Shall we put those days behind us. 
 
 Thou and I? 
 God has wed with grief and pain. 
 Shall we prove that union vain. 
 Shall we go our ways again, 
 
 Thou and I? 
 
 229 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 OPPORTUNITY 
 
 BY WALTER MALONE 
 
 They do me wrong who say I come no more 
 
 When once I knock and fail to find you in; 
 
 For every day I stand outside your door, 
 
 And bid you wake and rise to fight and win. 
 
 Wail not for precious chances passed away, 
 
 Weep not for golden ages on the wane; 
 
 Each night I burn the records of the day, 
 
 At sunrise every soul is born again. 
 
 Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, 
 
 To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; 
 
 My judgments seal the dead past with its dead. 
 
 But never bind a moment yet to come. 
 
 Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep, 
 
 I lend my arm to all who say: " I can; " 
 
 No shamefaced outcast ever sank so deep 
 
 But he might rise and be again a man. 
 
 LINCOLN, THE MAN OF THE PEOPLE 
 
 BY EDWIN MARKHAM 
 
 When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour 
 Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, 
 She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down 
 To make a man to meet the mortal need. 
 She took the tried clay of the common road — 
 Clay warm yet with the ancient heat of Earth, 
 Dashed tlirough it all a strain of prophecy; 
 
 [230] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears; 
 Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. 
 Into the shape she breathed a flame to light 
 That tender, tragic, ever-changing face. 
 Here was a man to hold against the world, 
 A man to match the mountains and the sea. 
 
 The color of the ground was in him, the red earth; 
 
 The smack and tang of elemental things: 
 
 The rectitude and patience of the cliff; 
 
 The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves; 
 
 The friendly welcome of the wayside well; 
 
 The courage of the bird that dares the sea; 
 
 The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; 
 
 The mercy of the snow that hides aU scars; 
 
 The secrecy of streams that make their way 
 
 Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock ; 
 
 The undelaying justice of the light 
 
 That gives as freely to the shrinking flower 
 
 As to the great oak flaring to the wind — 
 
 To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn 
 
 That shoulders out the sky. 
 
 Sprung from the West, 
 The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, 
 The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. 
 Up from log cabin to the Capitol, 
 One fire was on his spirit, one resolve — 
 To send the keen axe to the root of wrong, 
 Clearing a free way for the feet of God. 
 And evermore he burned to do his deed 
 [2311 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 With the fine stroke and gesture of a king: 
 He built the rail-pile as he built the State, 
 Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, 
 The conscience of him testing every stroke. 
 To make his deed the measure of a man. 
 
 So came the Captain with the thinking heart; 
 And when the judgment thunders split the house, 
 Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest. 
 He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again 
 The rafters of the Home. He held his place — 
 Held the long purpose like a growing tree — 
 Held on through blame and faltered not at praise. 
 And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down 
 As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs, 
 Goes down with a great shout upon the hills, 
 And leaves a lonesome place against the sky. 
 
 0, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR 
 
 BY GERALD MASSEY 
 
 0, lay thy hand in mine, dear! 
 
 We're growing old; 
 But Time hath brought no sign, dear. 
 
 That hearts grow cold. 
 'T is long, long since our new love 
 
 Made life divine; 
 But age enricheth true love. 
 
 Like noble wine. 
 
 [232] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, 
 
 And take thy rest; 
 Mine arms around thee twine, dear, 
 
 And make thy nest. 
 A many cares are pressing 
 
 On this dear head; 
 But Sorrow's hands in blessing 
 
 Are surely laid. 
 
 0, lean thy life on mine, dear! 
 
 'T will shelter thee. 
 Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, 
 
 On my young tree: 
 And so, till boughs are leafless, 
 
 And songbirds flown, 
 We'll twine, then lay us, griefless, 
 
 Together down. 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS 
 
 BY JOHN MILTON 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide. 
 And that one talent, which is death to hide. 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest he returning chide; 
 " Doth God exact day-labor, light denied? " 
 I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies, " God doth not need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts; who best 
 
 [233] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best : his state 
 Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS 
 
 BY CLEMENT C. MOORE 
 
 'T was the night before Christmas, when all through 
 
 the house 
 Not a creature was stirring, not even a moiise; 
 The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, 
 In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; 
 The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
 While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; 
 And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, 
 Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, — 
 When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
 I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 
 Away to the window I flew like a flash. 
 Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
 The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow 
 Gave a lustre of midday to objects below; 
 When what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
 But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer. 
 With a little old driver, so lively and quick 
 I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
 More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, 
 And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name : 
 " Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and 
 
 Vixen! 
 
 [2341 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 On, Comet! on, Cupid! on. Bonder and Blitzen! 
 To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! 
 Now dash away, dash away, dash away all! " 
 As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly. 
 When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. 
 So up to the house-top the coursers they flew. 
 With the sleigh full of toys, — and St. Nicholas too. 
 And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
 The prancing and pawing of each httle hoof. 
 As I drew in mj^ head, and was turning around, 
 DoTVTi the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. 
 He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot. 
 And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; 
 A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
 And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. 
 His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! 
 His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; 
 His droll little mouth was drawTi up like a bow. 
 And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow. 
 The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 
 And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 
 He had a broad face and a httle round belly 
 That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. 
 He was chubby and plump, — a right jolly old elf; 
 And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself. 
 A -wdnk of his eye and a twist of his head 
 Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread. 
 He spoke not a w-ord, but went straight to his work. 
 And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk. 
 And Ia>dng his finger aside of his nose. 
 And gi^'ing a nod, up the chimney he rose. 
 
 [235] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 
 And away they all flew like the down of a thistle; 
 But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 
 " Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night! " 
 
 COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, 
 Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still 
 
 here; 
 Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, 
 And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. 
 
 Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same 
 Through joy and through torment, through glory and 
 
 shame? 
 I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, 
 I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. 
 
 Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss. 
 And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this, 
 Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pur- 
 sue, 
 And shield thee, and save thee, — or perish there too! 
 
 FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE 
 
 Farewell ! — but whenever you welcome the horn- 
 That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, 
 Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, ' 
 And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. 
 
 [236] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 His griefs may return — not a hope may remain 
 Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain — 
 But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw 
 Its enchantment around him while Ungering with you! 
 
 And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up 
 
 To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, 
 
 Where'er my path hes, be it gloomy or bright, 
 
 My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night; 
 
 Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 
 
 And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles — 
 
 Too blest if it tell me that, mid the gay cheer. 
 
 Some kind voice has murmured, " I wish he were here! " 
 
 Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. 
 Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; 
 Which come, m the night-time of sorrow and care, 
 And bring back the features which joy used to wear. 
 Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! 
 Like the vase in wliich roses have once been distilled — 
 You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will. 
 But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 
 
 GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE 
 
 Go where glory waits thee. 
 But, while fame elates thee, 
 
 0, still remember me! 
 When the praise thou meetest 
 To thine ear is sweetest, 
 
 [2371 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 0, then remember me! 
 Other arms may press thee, 
 Dearer friends caress thee, 
 All the joys that bless thee, 
 
 Sweeter far may be ; 
 But when friends are nearest. 
 And when joys are dearest, 
 
 0, then remember me! 
 
 When at eve thou rovest 
 By the star thou lovest, 
 
 0, then remember me ! 
 Think, when home returning, 
 Bright we've seen it burning, 
 
 0, thus remember me! 
 Oft as summer closes. 
 On its lingering roses. 
 
 Once so loved by thee, 
 Think of her who wove them. 
 Her who made thee love them, 
 
 0, then remember me! 
 
 When, around thee dying, 
 Autumn leaves are lying, 
 
 O, then remember me! 
 And, at night, when gazing 
 On the gay hearth blazing, 
 
 0, still remember me! 
 Then should music, stealing 
 All the soul of feeling, 
 To thy heart appealing, 
 
 [238] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Draw one tear from thee; 
 Then let memory bring thee 
 Strains I used to sing thee, — 
 
 O, then remember me! 
 
 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE 
 
 Oft in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Fond Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me : 
 The smiles, the tears. 
 Of boyhood's years. 
 The words of love then spoken; 
 The eyes that shone. 
 Now dimmed and gone, 
 The cheerful hearts now broken. 
 Thus in the stilly night. 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 When I remember all 
 
 The friends so linked together 
 I've seen around me fall. 
 Like leaves in wintry weather, 
 I feel like one 
 Who. treads alone 
 Some banquet-hall deserted, 
 Whose lights are fled, 
 
 f 239 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Whose garlands dead, 
 
 And all but he departed. 
 Thus in the stilly night, 
 
 Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
 Sad Memory brings the light 
 
 Of other days around me. 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS 
 
 BY THOMAS MOORE 
 
 Those evening bells! those evening bells! 
 How many a tale their music tells 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime! 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away; 
 And many a heart that then was gay 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells. 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
 And so 't will be when I am gone, — 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on; 
 While other bards shall walk these dells. 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S BIBLE 
 
 BY GEORGE P. MORRIS 
 
 This book is all that's left me now! 
 
 Tears will unbidden start, — 
 With faltering lip and throbbing brow 
 
 I press it to my heart. 
 
 [2401 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 For many generations past, 
 
 Here is our family tree: 
 My mother's hand this Bible clasped; 
 
 She, dying, gave it me. 
 
 Ah! well do I remember those 
 
 Whose names these records bear, 
 Who round the hearthstone used to close 
 
 After the evening prayer. 
 And speak of what these pages said, 
 
 In tones my heart would thrill! 
 Though they are with the silent dead, 
 
 Here are they living still! 
 
 My father read this holy book 
 
 To brothers, sisters, dear; 
 How calm was my poor mother's look, 
 
 Who leaned God's word to hear. 
 Her angel-face — I see it yet! 
 
 What thronging memories come! 
 Again that little group is met 
 
 Within the halls of home! 
 
 Thou truest friend man ever knew, 
 
 Thy constancy I've tried; 
 Where all were false I found thee true, 
 
 My counsellor and guide. 
 The mines of earth no treasure give 
 
 That could this volume buy: 
 In teaching me the way to live. 
 
 It taught me how to die. 
 
 [2411 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE 
 
 BY GEORGE P. MORRIS 
 
 " One day I was driving in the vicinity of New York with George 
 Morris, the American poet," says Henry Russell, the English musi- 
 cal composer. "We turned into Bloomfield Road, then a woodland 
 lane of great natural beauty, to view a stately old tree which had 
 been planted by the poet's grandfather. As we neared the homely 
 cottage that had once housed the Morris family, we saw an old man, 
 evidently the occupant of the cottage, sharpening an axe. "What 
 are you going to do ? ' asked the poet, with a tremor of apprehen- 
 sion; 'you surely do not intend to cut down that tree?' 'Yes, 
 sirree,' was the blunt reply of the old man; 'I need it for firewood!' 
 Morris paid him ten dollars to buy firewood, and the daughter of 
 the woodman pledged her word that the tree should stand as long as 
 she lived. On my suggestion Morris wrote the now well-known 
 poem, ' Oh, Woodman, Spare that Tree,' which I immediately set to 
 music." 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree! 
 
 Touch not a single bough! 
 In youth it sheltered me, 
 
 And I'll protect it now. 
 'T was my forefather's hand 
 
 That placed it near his cot; 
 There, woodman, let it stand, 
 
 Thy axe shall harm it not! 
 
 That old familiar tree. 
 
 Whose glory and renown 
 Are spread o'er land and sea. 
 
 And wouldst thou hew it down? 
 Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! 
 
 Cut not its earth-bound ties; 
 O, spare that aged oak, 
 
 Now towering to the skies! 
 
 [2421 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 When but an idle boy 
 
 I sought its grateful shade; 
 In all their gushing joy 
 
 Here too my sisters played. 
 My mother kissed me here; 
 
 My father pressed my hand — 
 Forgive this foolish tear, 
 
 But let that old oak stand! 
 
 My heart-strings round thee cling, 
 
 Close as thy bark, old friend! 
 Here shall the wild-bird sing, 
 
 And still thy branches bend. 
 Old tree! the storm still brave! 
 
 And, woodman, leave the spot; 
 While I've a hand to save. 
 
 Thy axe shall hurt it not. 
 
 NEAR THE LAKE 
 
 BY GEORGE P. MORRIS 
 
 Near the lake where drooped the willow, 
 
 Long time ago! — 
 Where the rock threw back the billow, 
 
 Brighter than snow — 
 Dwelt a maid, beloved and cherished 
 
 By high and low ; 
 But wath autumn's leaf she perished, 
 
 Long time ago ! 
 
 [243] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Rock and tree and flowing water, 
 
 Long time ago! — 
 Bee and bird and blossom taught her 
 
 Love's spell to know! 
 While to my fond words she listened, 
 
 Murmuring low, 
 Tenderly her dove-eyes glistened, 
 
 Long time ago! 
 
 Mingled were our hearts for ever, 
 
 Long time ago! 
 Can I now forget her? — Never! 
 
 No — lost one — no! 
 To her grave these tears are given, 
 
 Ever to flow : 
 She's the star I missed from heaven. 
 
 Long time ago! 
 
 THE LAND 0' THE LEAL 
 
 BY CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE 
 
 I'm wearing awa', Jean, 
 
 Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean; 
 
 I'm wearing awa' 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 There's nae sorrow there, Jean, 
 There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is aye fair 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 [244] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Ye were aye leal and true, Jean; 
 Your task's ended noo, Jean, 
 And I'll welcome you 
 
 To the land o' the leal. 
 Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean, 
 She was baith guid and fair, Jean: 
 0, we grudged her right sair 
 
 To the land o' the leal! 
 
 Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean, 
 And angels wait on me 
 
 To the land o' the leal! 
 Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, 
 This warld's care is vain, Jean; 
 We'll meet and aye be fain 
 
 In the land o' the leal. 
 
 BINGEN ON THE RHINE 
 
 BY MRS. CAROLINE E. S. NORTON 
 
 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, 
 
 There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth 
 
 of woman's tears; 
 But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood 
 
 ebbed away. 
 And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might 
 
 say. 
 The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's 
 
 hand. 
 
 245] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And he said, " I nevermore shall see my own, my 
 
 native land; 
 Take a message and a token to some distant friends 
 
 of mine. 
 For I was born at Bingen, — at Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 " Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet 
 
 and crowd around, 
 To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard 
 
 ground. 
 That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day 
 
 was done. 
 Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting 
 
 sun; 
 And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old 
 
 in wars, — 
 The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last 
 
 of many scars; 
 And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's 
 
 morn decline, — 
 And one had come from Bingen, — fair Bingen on 
 
 the Rhine. 
 
 " Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort 
 
 her old age; 
 For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a 
 
 cage. 
 For my father was a soldier, and even as a child 
 My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles 
 
 fierce and wild; 
 And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty 
 
 hoard, 
 
 [2461 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I let them take whate'er they would, — but kept my 
 
 father's sword; 
 And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light 
 
 used to shine, 
 On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm Bingen on the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 " Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with 
 drooping head, 
 
 When the troops come marching home again with 
 glad and gallant tread. 
 
 But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and stead- 
 fast eye. 
 
 For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to 
 die; 
 
 And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name 
 
 To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, 
 
 And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's 
 sword and mine) 
 
 For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the 
 Rhine. 
 
 " There's another, — not a sister; in the happy days 
 gone by 
 
 You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled 
 in her eye; 
 
 Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond for idle scorn- 
 ing, — 
 
 O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes 
 heaviest mourning! 
 
 Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon 
 be risen, 
 
 [2471 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), — 
 I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun- 
 light shine 
 On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, — fair Bingen on the 
 Rhine. 
 
 " I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, — I heard, or 
 
 seemed to hear. 
 The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet 
 
 and clear; 
 And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting 
 
 hill. 
 The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening 
 
 calm and still; 
 And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with 
 
 friendly talk, 
 Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remem- 
 bered walk! 
 And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — 
 But we'll meet no more at Bingen, — loved Bingen 
 
 on the Rhine." 
 
 His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, — his 
 
 grasp was childish weak, — 
 His eyes put on a dying look, — he sighed and ceased 
 
 to speak; 
 His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life 
 
 had fled, — 
 The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! 
 And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she 
 
 looked down 
 
 [ 248 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses 
 
 strewn; 
 Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light 
 
 seemed to shine. 
 As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair Bingen on the 
 
 Rhine. 
 
 THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD 
 
 BY THEODORE o'hARA 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat 
 
 The soldier's last tattoo; 
 No more on life's parade shall meet 
 
 That brave and fallen few. 
 On Fame's eternal camping-ground 
 
 Their silent tents are spread. 
 And glory guards with solemn sound 
 
 The bivouac of the dead. 
 No rumor of the foe's advance 
 
 Now swells upon the wind, 
 No troubled thought at midnight haunts 
 
 Of loved ones left behind; 
 No vision of the tnorrow's strife 
 
 The warrior's dream alarms, 
 No braying horn or screaming fife 
 
 At dawn shall call to arms. 
 Their shivered swords are red with rust. 
 
 Their plumed heads are bowed, 
 Their haughty banner trailed in dust 
 
 Is now their martial shroud — 
 And plenteous funeral tears have washed 
 [2491 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The red stains from each brow, 
 And the proud forms by battle gashed 
 
 Are free from anguish now. 
 The neighing troop, the flashing blade, 
 
 The bugle's stirring blast. 
 The charge, the dreadful cannonade, 
 
 The din and shout are passed — 
 Nor war's wild note, nor glorj^'s peal. 
 
 Shall thrill with fierce delight 
 Those breasts that never more may feel 
 
 The rapture of the fight. 
 Like the fierce northern hurricane 
 
 That sweeps his great plateau. 
 Flushed with the triumph yet to gain 
 
 Came down the serried foe — 
 Who heard the thunder of the fray 
 
 Break o'er the field beneath, 
 Knew well the watchword of that day 
 
 Was \actor3'^ or death. 
 Full many a mother's breath hath swept 
 
 O'er Angostura's plain. 
 And long the pitying sky has wept 
 
 Above its moulder'd slain. 
 The raven's scream or eagle's flight. 
 
 Or shepherd's pensive lay, 
 Alone now wake each solemn height 
 
 That frowned o'er that dread fray. 
 Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, 
 
 Ye must not slumber there. 
 Where stranger steps and tongues resound 
 
 Along the heedless air! 
 
 [250] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Your own proud land's heroic soil 
 
 Shall be your fitter grave; 
 She claims from war its richest spoil — 
 
 The ashes of her brave. 
 Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, 
 
 Far from the gory field, 
 Borne to a Spartan mother's breast 
 
 On many a bloody shield. 
 The sunshine of their native sky 
 
 Shines sadly on them here, 
 And kindred eyes and hearts watch by 
 
 The heroes' sepulchre. 
 Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! 
 
 Dead as the blood ye gave; 
 No impious footsteps here shall tread 
 
 The herbage of your grave! 
 Nor shall your glory be forgot 
 
 While Fame her record keeps. 
 Or Honor points the hallowed spot 
 
 Where Valor proudly sleeps. 
 Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone 
 
 In deathless song shall tell, 
 When many a vanished year hath flowTi, 
 
 The story how ye fell ; 
 Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight. 
 
 Nor time's remorseless doom. 
 Can dim one ray of holy light 
 
 That gilds your glorious tomb. 
 
 251] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME 
 
 FROM THE OPERA OF " CLARI, THE MAID OF MILAN." 
 BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 Be it ever so humble there's no place like home! 
 A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 
 Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with else- 
 where. 
 
 Home! home! sweet, sweet home! 
 
 There's no place like home! 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain: 
 0, give me my lowly thatched cottage again! 
 The birds singing gayly that came at my call; — 
 Give me them, — and the peace of mind dearer than 
 aU! 
 
 Home! home! sweet, sweet home! 
 
 There's no place like home! 
 
 WARREN'S ADDRESS 
 
 BY JOHN PIERPONT 
 
 Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! 
 Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
 Will ye look for greener graves ? 
 
 Hope ye mercy still ? 
 What's the mercy despots feel ? 
 Hear it in that battle-peal! 
 Read it on yon bristling steel! 
 
 Ask it, — ye who will. 
 [252] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
 Will ye to your homes retire ? 
 Look behind you ! — they're afire ! 
 
 And, before you, see 
 Who have done it ! From the vale 
 On they come! — and will ye quail? 
 Leaden rain and iron hail 
 
 Let their welcome be! 
 
 In the God of battles trust! 
 
 Die we may, — and die we must : 
 
 But, 0, where can dust to dust 
 
 Be consigned so well, 
 As where heaven its dews shall shed 
 On the martyred patriot's bed. 
 And the rocks shall raise their head, 
 
 Of his deeds to tell ? 
 
 THE BELLS 
 
 BY EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells — 
 Silver bells! 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens seem to twinkle 
 With a crystalline delight, — 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 [2531 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 BcUs, bells, beUs, — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells — 
 Golden beUs! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! 
 Through the balm}' air of night 
 How they ring out their delight! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune. 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon! 
 0, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! 
 How it swells! 
 How it dwells 
 On the Future! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bcils, bells, beUs, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the rh^-ming and the chiming of the bells. 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 Brazen bells! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 
 [254] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 How they scream out their affright! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune. 
 In the clamorous appeahng to the mercy of the fire. 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor. 
 Now — now to sit, or never. 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon . 
 the bells, bells, bells, 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 Iron bells! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! 
 In the silence of the night, 
 How we shiver with affright 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people — ah, the people — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 
 All alone. 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling. 
 
 In that muffled monotone. 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone, — 
 They are neither man nor woman, — 
 They are neither brute nor human, — 
 
 [255] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 They are ghouls: 
 And their king it is who tolls; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 RoUs, 
 
 A paean from the bells! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells! 
 And he dances and he yells; 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the psean of the bells, — 
 Of the bells: 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme. 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells, — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, — 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells. 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the rolling of the bells, — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, — 
 
 To the tolling of the bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells — 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 256 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE RAVEN 
 
 BY EDGAR ALLEN POE 
 
 In the Evening Mirror, January 29, 1845, "The Raven" was 
 pubUshed with a highly commendatory card from N. P. Willis, the 
 editor, and a few days later The American Whig Review for Febru- 
 ary, from the advance sheets of which this poem had been copied, 
 was the prey of editorial scissors throughout the country. In the 
 magazine the author was masked under the pseudonym " Quarles," 
 but in this journal he had been named as E. A. Poe. No great 
 poem ever established itself so immediately, so widely, and so imper- 
 ishably in men's minds. " The Raven " became in some sort a 
 national bird, and its author the most notorious American of the 
 hour. — George E. Woodbury. 
 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak 
 
 and weary, 
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten 
 
 lore, — 
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came 
 
 a tapping. 
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber 
 
 door. 
 " 'T is some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my 
 
 chamber door; 
 Only this, and nothing more." 
 
 Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak Decem- 
 ber, 
 
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost 
 upon the floor. 
 
 Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought 
 to borrow 
 
 [257] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 From my books surcease of sorrow, — sorrow for the 
 
 lost Lenore, — 
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels 
 
 named Lenore, — 
 Nameless here forevermore. 
 
 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple 
 
 curtain 
 Thrilled me, — filled me with fantastic terrors never 
 
 felt before; 
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood 
 
 repeating, 
 " 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 
 door, — 
 Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber 
 
 door; 
 That it is, and nothing more." 
 
 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no 
 longer, 
 
 " Sir," said I, " or madam, truly your forgiveness I 
 implore; 
 
 But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came 
 rapping, 
 
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham- 
 ber door, 
 
 That I scarce was sure I heard you " — Here I opened 
 wide the door; 
 Darkness there, and nothing more. 
 
 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, 
 wondering, fearing, 
 
 [258] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to 
 
 dream before; 
 But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave 
 
 no token, 
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered 
 
 word " Lenore! " 
 This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the 
 
 word " Lenore! " 
 Merely this, and nothing more. 
 
 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me 
 
 burning, 
 Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than 
 
 before : 
 " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my 
 
 window-lattice; 
 Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery 
 
 explore, — 
 Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery 
 
 explore; — 
 'T is the wind, and nothing more." 
 
 Open then I flung the shutter, when, with many a 
 
 flirt and flutter. 
 In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days 
 
 of yore. 
 Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant 
 
 stopped or stayed he; 
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my 
 
 chamber door, — 
 
 f 259 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber 
 door, — 
 Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into 
 smiling. 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance 
 it wore, 
 
 " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
 " art sure no craven; 
 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the 
 nightly shore. 
 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plu- 
 tonian shore? " 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore! " 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse 
 so plainly, 
 
 Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; 
 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human 
 being 
 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his cham- 
 ber door. 
 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his 
 chamber door. 
 With such name as " Nevermore! " 
 
 But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke 
 
 only 
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did 
 
 outpour. 
 
 [2601 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Nothing further then he uttered, — not a feather 
 
 then he fluttered, — 
 Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends 
 
 have flown before, — 
 On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have 
 
 flown before." 
 Then the bird said, " Nevermore! " 
 
 Startled at the stillness, broken by reply so aptly 
 
 spoken, 
 " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock 
 
 and store. 
 Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful 
 
 disaster 
 Followed fast and followed faster, till his song one 
 
 burden bore. 
 Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden 
 
 bore, — 
 Of ' Nevermore, — nevermore!'" 
 
 But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into 
 
 smiling. 
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird 
 
 and bust and door. 
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to 
 
 linking 
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird 
 
 of yore — 
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous 
 
 bird of yore — 
 Meant in croaking " Nevermore! " 
 
 [2611 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable ex- 
 pressing 
 
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my 
 bosom's core; 
 
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease 
 reclining 
 
 On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight 
 gloated o'er, 
 
 But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight 
 gloating o'er, 
 She shall press — ah! nevermore! 
 
 Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from 
 
 an unseen censer, 
 Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the 
 
 tufted floor. 
 " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee, — by 
 
 these angels he hath sent thee 
 Respite, — respite and nepenthe from the memories 
 
 of Lenore! 
 Quaff, 0, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this 
 
 lost Lenore! " 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore! " 
 
 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, 
 if bird or devil! 
 
 Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee 
 here ashore. 
 
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- 
 chanted, — 
 
 On this home by horror haunted, — tell me truly, I 
 implore, — 
 
 [262] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me, — tell 
 me, I implore! " 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore! " 
 
 "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, 
 
 if bird or devil! 
 By that heaven that bends above us, — by that God 
 
 we both adore. 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant 
 
 Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels 
 
 name Lenore, 
 Clasp a fair and radiant maiden, whom the angels 
 
 name Lenore! " 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore! " 
 
 "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" 
 
 I shrieked, upstarting, — 
 " Get thee back into the tempest and the night's 
 
 Plutonian shore! 
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul 
 
 hath spoken! 
 Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above 
 
 my door! 
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
 
 from off my door! " 
 Quoth the raven, " Nevermore! " 
 
 And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 
 
 sitting 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber 
 
 door; 
 
 [2631 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is 
 
 dreaming, 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his 
 
 shadow on the floor; 
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating 
 
 on the floor 
 Shall be lifted — nevermore ! 
 
 OVER THE RIVER 
 
 BY NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me, 
 
 Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, 
 The gleam of their snowy robes I see. 
 
 But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. 
 There's one with ringlets of sunny gold. 
 
 And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; 
 He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, 
 
 And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. 
 We saw not the angels who met him there, 
 
 The gates of the city we could not see: 
 Over the river, over the river, 
 
 My brother stands waiting to welcome me. 
 
 Over the river the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, the household pet; 
 Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, 
 
 Darling Minnie! I see her yet. 
 She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, 
 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; 
 We felt it glide from the silver sands, 
 [2641 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; 
 We know she is safe on the farther side, 
 
 Where all the ransomed and angels be : 
 Over the river, the mystic river. 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores. 
 
 Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; 
 We hear the dip of the golden oars. 
 
 And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; 
 And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts, 
 
 They cross the stream and are gone for aye. 
 We may not sunder the veil apart 
 
 That hides from our vision the gates of day; 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 
 May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; 
 Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore. 
 
 They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 
 
 And I sit and tliink, when the sunset's gold 
 
 Is flusliing river and hill and shore, 
 I shall one day stand by the water cold, 
 
 And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; 
 I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, 
 
 I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, 
 I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale. 
 
 To the better shore of the spirit land. 
 
 I shall know the loved who have gone before, 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
 
 When over the river, the peaceful river, 
 The angel of death shall carry me. 
 
 [265] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 A LOST CHORD 
 
 BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 
 
 Seated one day at the organ, 
 I was weary and ill at ease, 
 
 And my fingers wandered idly 
 Over the noisy keys. 
 
 I do not know what I was playing, 
 Or what I was dreaming then, 
 
 But I struck one chord of music. 
 Like the sound of a great Amen. 
 
 It flooded the crimson twilight, 
 Like the close of an angel's psalm, 
 
 And it lay on my fevered spirit. 
 With a touch of infinite calm. 
 
 It quieted pain and sorrow, 
 Like love overcoming strife; 
 
 It seemed the harmonious echo 
 From our discordant life. 
 
 It finked aU perplexed meanings 
 
 Into one perfect peace. 
 And trembled away into silence, 
 
 As if it were loath to cease. 
 
 I have sought, but I seek it vainly. 
 That one lost chord divine, 
 
 That came from the soul of the organ, 
 And entered into mine. 
 
 [266] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 It may be that Death's bright angel 
 Will speak in that chord again; 
 
 It may be that only in heaven 
 I shall hear that grand Amen. 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTION 
 
 BY ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee, 
 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 Before I let thy future give 
 
 Color and form to mine, 
 Before I peril all for thee, 
 Question thy soul to-night for me. 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
 
 A shadow of regret: 
 Is there one link within the past 
 
 That holds thy spirit yet? 
 Or is thy faith as clear and free 
 As that which I can pledge to thee? 
 
 Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
 
 A possible future shine, 
 Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe. 
 
 Untouched, unshared by mine? 
 If so, at any pain or cost, 
 O, tell me before all is lost! 
 
 Look deeper still : if thou canst feel. 
 Within thy inmost soul, 
 
 [2671 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 That thou hast kept a portion back, 
 
 While I have staked the whole, 
 Let no false pity spare the blow, 
 But in true mercy tell me so. 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine cannot fulfil? 
 One chord that any other hand 
 
 Could better wake or still? 
 Speak now, lest at some future day 
 My whole life wither and decay. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature hid 
 
 The demon-spirit, change, 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 
 On all things new and strange ? 
 It may not be thy fault alone, — 
 But shield my heart against thine own. 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
 
 And answer to my claim, 
 That fate, and that to-day's mistake, — 
 
 Not thou, — had been to blame ? 
 Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou 
 Wilt surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Ay, answer not, — I dare not hear; 
 
 The words would come too late; 
 Yet I would spare thee all remorse, 
 
 So comfort thee, my fate : 
 Whatever on my heart may fall, 
 Remember, I would risk it all! 
 
 [268] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 IN THE OLD CHURCH CHOIR 
 
 BY LOWELL OTUS REESE 
 
 The world was young in those days of ours. 
 
 The world was so young and new, 
 All builded of birds and of sweet spring flowers, 
 
 And to-morrow fresh wonders grew; 
 But the world rolled back and love reigned instead 
 
 And smote on a magic lyre — 
 For Someone sat in the seat ahead 
 
 When we sang in the old church choir. 
 
 Someone with eyes of the downcast brown. 
 
 And lips that were wondrous rare; 
 Dark waves of glory that tumbled down 
 
 From the crimson " tam " set there 
 At a rakish slant. Oh, that pure delight! 
 
 Life! grant me but one desire — 
 To see and feel as I felt that night 
 
 When we sang in the old church choir! 
 
 The Preacher prayed with a will. And when 
 
 He prayed for " those near and dear," 
 The deacons shouted a loud " Amen! " 
 
 And I felt that the Lord was near. 
 The Preacher preached of the bleeding Lamb, 
 
 And his words were as words of fire; 
 But I worshipped the girl with the crimson tam 
 
 When we sang in the old church choir. 
 
 The church is gone, and the Preacher long 
 In the land that he loved so well. 
 
 [269] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Hark! out of the new church, deep and strong, 
 
 Hear the great pipes joyous swell! 
 I sit and dream and contented am, 
 
 For Someone is by my fire, 
 Sweet as in the days of the crimson tam. 
 
 When we sang in the old church choir. 
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 
 
 BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still 
 
 and deep 
 Looked like a bab^'^-river that was lying half asleep, 
 And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below 
 Sounded like the laugh of sometliing we onc't ust to 
 
 know 
 Before we could remember anything but the eyes 
 Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; 
 But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, 
 And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'- 
 hole. 
 
 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore. 
 When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, 
 Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide 
 That gazed back at me so gay and glorified. 
 It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress 
 My shadder smilin' up at me 'wnth sich tenderness. 
 But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck 
 
 his toll 
 From the old man come back to the old swimmin'- 
 hole. 
 
 [270] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Oh! the old SAvimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days 
 When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a- 
 
 ways, 
 How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, 
 Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so 
 
 piano 
 You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole 
 They was lots o' fun on hand at the old swimmin'- 
 
 hole. 
 But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll 
 Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'- 
 
 hole. 
 
 Thare the bulrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, 
 And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; 
 And it mottled the worter with amber and gold 
 Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled; 
 And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by 
 Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky. 
 Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle 
 As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'- 
 hole. 
 
 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place. 
 The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; 
 The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot 
 Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. 
 And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to 
 
 be — 
 But never again will theyr shade shelter me! 
 And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul. 
 And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole. 
 [2711 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE 
 
 BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, 
 An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs 
 
 away, 
 An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, 
 
 an' sweep, 
 An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her 
 
 board-an'-keep; 
 An' all us other children, when the supper things is done. 
 We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun 
 A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, 
 An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 Onc't they was a Uttle boy wouldn't say his prayers, — 
 
 So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, 
 
 His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd 
 him bawl, 
 
 An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't 
 there at all! 
 
 An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby- 
 hole, an' press. 
 
 An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, 
 I guess; 
 
 But all they ever found was thist his pants an' rounda- 
 bout: — 
 
 [272] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 An' the Gobble-uns'U git you 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 An' one time a little girl 'ud alius laugh an' grin, 
 An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin; 
 An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks 
 
 was there, 
 She mocked'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! 
 An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' 
 
 hide. 
 They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by 
 
 her side. 
 An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she 
 
 knowed what she's about! 
 An' the Gobble-uns'U git you 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 An' little Orphant Annie says when the blaze is blue, 
 An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! 
 An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray. 
 An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away, — 
 You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' 
 
 dear. 
 An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's 
 
 tear, 
 
 [ 273 ] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about, 
 Er the Gobble-uns'U git you 
 Ef you 
 Don't 
 Watch 
 Out! 
 
 AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE 
 
 BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone, 
 And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, 
 So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, 
 I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. 
 
 The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes. 
 
 And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to 
 yoke 
 
 Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke. 
 
 'Tis a fragrant retrospection — for the loving thoughts 
 that start 
 
 Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the 
 heart; 
 
 And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine — 
 
 When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweet- 
 heart of mine. 
 
 Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of 
 wings, 
 
 [274] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings, 
 I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme 
 When Care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a 
 dream. 
 
 In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm 
 To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm — 
 For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine 
 That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart 
 of mine. 
 
 A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace. 
 Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; 
 And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes 
 As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. 
 
 I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered 
 
 dress 
 She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the 
 
 caress 
 With the written declaration that "as surely as the 
 
 vine 
 Grew round the stump " she loved me — that old 
 
 sweetheart of mine. 
 
 And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand 
 As we used to talk together of the future we had 
 
 planned — • 
 When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do 
 But write the tender verses that she set the music to: 
 [275] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 When we should live together in a cozy little cot 
 Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, 
 Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather 
 
 ever fine. 
 And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart 
 
 of mine: 
 
 When I should be her lover forever and a day, 
 
 And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was 
 
 gray; 
 And we should be so happy that when cither's lips 
 
 were dumb 
 They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss 
 
 had come. 
 
 But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the 
 stair, 
 
 And the door is softly opened, and — my wife is stand- 
 ing there; 
 
 Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign 
 
 To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart 
 of mine. 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED ROSES 
 
 BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 They ain't no style about 'em, 
 And the're sort o' pale and faded; 
 
 Yit the doorway here, without 'em, 
 Would be lonesomer, and shaded 
 
 [2761 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 With a good deal blacker shadder 
 Than the mornin '-glories makes, 
 
 And the sunshine would look sadder 
 For their good old-fashioned sakes. 
 
 I like 'em 'cause they kind o' 
 
 Sort o' make a feller like 'em; 
 And I tell you, when you find a 
 
 Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, 
 It alius sets me thinkin' 
 
 0' the ones 'at used to grow. 
 And peek in thro' the chinkin' 
 
 0' the cabin, don't you know. 
 
 And then I think o' mother. 
 
 And how she used to love 'em. 
 When they wuzn't any other, 
 
 'Less she found 'em up above 'em, 
 And her eyes, afore she shut 'em. 
 
 Whispered with a smile, and said. 
 We must pluck a bunch and put 'em 
 
 In her hand when she wuz dead. 
 
 But, as I wuz a-sayin'. 
 
 They ain't no style about 'em 
 Very gaudy or displayin', 
 
 But I wouldn't be without 'em, 
 'Cause I'm happier in these posies 
 
 And the hoUyhawks and sich 
 Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses 
 
 In the roses of the rich. 
 
 [2771 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE 
 
 BY JAMES WHITCOMB KILEY 
 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 
 
 The man on the coal cart jerked his lines, 
 And smutted the lid of either eye, 
 
 And turned and stared at the business signs; 
 And the street-car driver stopped and beat 
 His hands on his shoulders and gazed up street 
 Till his eye on the long track reached the sky — 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 
 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 
 
 A stranger petted a ragged child 
 In the crowded walk, and she knew not why. 
 
 But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled; 
 And a bootblack thrilled with a pleasure strange 
 As a customer put back his change 
 With a kindly hand and a grateful sigh — 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 
 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 
 
 A man looked out of a window dim. 
 And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry — 
 
 For a dead child even were dear to him! 
 And he thought of his empty life and said: 
 " Loveless alive and loveless dead. 
 Nor wife nor child in earth or sky! " — 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 
 
 278 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 GINEVRA 
 
 BY SAMUEL ROGERS 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance 
 To Modena, where still religiously 
 Among her ancient trophies is preserved 
 Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs 
 Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), 
 Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate, 
 Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. 
 Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, 
 And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses. 
 Will long detain thee; through their arched walks. 
 Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse 
 Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, 
 And lovers, such as in heroic song, 
 Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight. 
 That in the spring-time, as alone they sat, 
 Venturing together on a tale of love. 
 Read only part that day. — A summer sun 
 Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go. 
 Enter the house — prythee, forget it not — 
 And look awhile upon a picture there. 
 
 'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, 
 The last of that illustrious race; 
 Done by Zampieri — but I care not whom. 
 He who observes it, ere he passes on, 
 Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again. 
 That he may call it up when far away. 
 
 [2791 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 She sits inclining forward as to speak, 
 Her lips half open, and her finger up. 
 As though she said " Beware! " her vest of gold 
 Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, 
 An emerald stone in every golden clasp; 
 And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, 
 A coronet of pearls. But then her face. 
 So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth. 
 The overflowings of an innocent heart, — 
 It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, 
 Like some wild melody! 
 
 Alone it hangs 
 Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion, 
 An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm. 
 But richly carved by Antony of Trent 
 With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; 
 A chest that came from Venice, and had held 
 The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, 
 That, by the way — it may be true or false — 
 But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not 
 When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. # 
 
 She was an only child; from infancy 
 The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire; 
 Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, 
 That precious gift, what else remained to him? 
 The young Ginevra was his all in life. 
 Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; 
 And in her fifteenth year became a bride. 
 Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, 
 Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. 
 
 f 280 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, 
 She was all gentleness, all gayety, 
 Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. 
 But now the day was come, the day, the hour; 
 Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, 
 The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; 
 And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave 
 Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. 
 
 Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast, 
 When all sate down, the bride was wanting there. 
 Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, 
 " 'T is but to make a trial of our love! " 
 And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, 
 And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 
 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, 
 Laughing and looking back, and flying still. 
 Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. 
 But now, alas, she was not to be found; 
 Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, 
 But that she was not! 
 
 Weary of his life, 
 Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith. 
 Flung it away in battle with the Turk. 
 Orsini lived, — and long mightst thou have seen 
 An old man wandering as in quest of something. 
 Something he could not find, he knew not what. 
 When he was gone, the house remained awhile 
 Silent and tenantless, — then went to strangers. 
 
 Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, 
 When, on an idle day, a day of search 
 
 [2811 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, 
 
 That mouldering chest was noticed; and 't was said 
 
 By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, 
 
 " Why not remove it from its lurking-place? " 
 
 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way 
 
 It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton. 
 
 With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, 
 
 A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! 
 
 All else had perished, — save a nuptial-ring, 
 
 And a small seal, her mother's legacy, 
 
 Engraven with a name, the name of both, 
 
 " Ginevra." 
 
 There then had she found a grave! 
 Within that chest had she concealed herself. 
 Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; 
 When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, 
 Fastened her down for ever! 
 
 SONG OF THE MYSTIC 
 
 BY FATHER ABRAM JOSEPH RYAN 
 
 I walk down the Valley of Silence — 
 Down the dim, voiceless valley — alone! 
 
 And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
 Around me, save God's and my own; 
 
 And the hush of my heart is as holy 
 As hovers where angels have flown ! 
 
 Long ago was I weary of voices 
 
 Whose music my heart could not win; 
 Long ago was I weary of noises 
 
 [2821 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 That fretted my soul with their din; 
 Long ago was I weary of places 
 
 Where I met but the human — and sin. 
 
 I walked in the world with the worldly; 
 
 I craved what the world never gave; 
 And I said: " In the world each Ideal, 
 
 That shines like a star on life's wave, 
 Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, 
 
 And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 
 
 And still did I pine for the Perfect, 
 
 And still found the False with the True; 
 
 I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, 
 But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue. 
 
 And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal 
 Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 
 
 And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human; 
 
 And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men; 
 Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar 
 
 And I heard a voice call me : — since then 
 I walk down the Valley of Silence 
 
 That lies far beyond mortal ken. 
 
 Do you ask what I found in the Valley? 
 
 'T is my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
 And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 
 
 And above me a voice said: " Be mine." 
 And there arose from the depths of my spirit 
 
 An echo — " My heart shall be thine." 
 
 [283] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Do you ask how I live in the Valley? 
 
 I weep — and I dream — and I pray. 
 But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 
 
 That fall on the roses in May; 
 And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, 
 
 Ascendeth to God night and day. 
 
 In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
 I dream all the songs that I sing; 
 
 And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
 Till each finds a word for a wing, 
 
 That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
 A message of Peace they may bring. 
 
 But far on the deep there are billows 
 That never shall break on the beach; 
 
 And I have heard songs in the Silence, 
 That never shall float into speech; 
 
 And I have had dreams in the Valley, 
 Too lofty for language to reach. 
 
 And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley — 
 Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred! 
 
 And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
 Their footsteps can scarcely be heard : 
 
 They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 
 Too pure for the touch of a word! 
 
 Do you ask me the place of the Valley? 
 Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? 
 It lieth afar between mountains, 
 
 [284] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And God and His angels are there: 
 And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 
 And one the bright mountain of Prayer! 
 
 ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? 
 
 BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER 
 
 Each day, when the glow of sunset 
 
 Fades in the western sky. 
 And the wee ones, tired of playing, 
 
 Go tripping lightly by, 
 I steal away from my husband, 
 
 Asleep in his easy-chair. 
 And watch from the open doorway 
 
 Their faces fresh and fair. 
 
 Alone in the dear old homestead 
 
 That once was full of life, 
 Ringing with girlish laughter, 
 
 Echoing boyish strife. 
 We two are waiting together; 
 
 And oft, as the shadows come. 
 With tremulous voice he calls me, 
 
 " It is night! are the children home? " 
 
 " Yes, love! " I answer him gently, 
 " They're all home long ago "; 
 
 And I sing, in my quivering treble, 
 A song so soft and low, 
 
 Till the old man drops to slumber, 
 With his head upon his hand, 
 [285] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And I tell to myself the number 
 At home in the better land. 
 
 At home, where never a sorrow 
 
 Shall dim their eyes with tears! 
 Where the smile of God is on them ' 
 
 Through all the summer years! 
 I know, — yet my arms are empty, 
 
 That fondly folded seven. 
 And the mother heart within me 
 
 Is almost starved for heaven. 
 
 Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, 
 
 I only shut my eyes, 
 And the children are all about me, 
 
 A vision from the skies : 
 The babes whose dimpled fingers 
 
 Lost the way to my breast. 
 And the beautiful ones, the angels, 
 
 Passed to the world of the blest. 
 
 With never a cloud upon them, 
 
 I see their radiant brows; 
 My boys that I gave to freedom, — 
 
 The red sword sealed their vows! 
 In a tangled Southern forest. 
 
 Twin brothers bold and brave. 
 They fell ; and the flag they died for, 
 
 Thank God! floats over their grave. 
 
 A breath, and the vision is lifted 
 Away on wings of Ught, 
 
 [2861 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And again we two are together, 
 
 All alone in the night. 
 They tell me his mind is failing, 
 
 But I smile at idle fears; 
 He is only back with the children. 
 
 In the dear and peaceful years. 
 
 And still, as the summer sunset 
 
 Fades away in the west, 
 And the wee ones, tired of playing, 
 
 Go trooping home to rest, 
 My husband calls from his corner, 
 
 " Say, love, have the children come? 
 And I answer, with eyes uplifted, 
 
 " Yes, dear, they are all at home." 
 
 IRENE 
 
 BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER 
 [Written on the death of a young friend.] 
 
 In sweetest blush of maiden bloom, 
 A flower so rare in tint and line. 
 The Gardener lifts thee to illume 
 Some chosen place in realms divine. 
 
 And deep must be the shadow here, 
 Where thy fair presence ever made 
 (So gentle wert thou, and so dear) 
 A sunshine in the darkest shade. 
 
 No memory of thy life is sad, 
 We think of thee, with pure delight, 
 [2871 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 As alway making others glad, 
 And ever speaking for the right. 
 
 Like music set to tender words, 
 Thy duties moved through quiet days. 
 And still thy voice, like morning birds. 
 Was only heard in tones of praise. 
 
 While yet the dew was on the leaf, 
 Thy heart was given to Christ the King; 
 We dreamed not then that all too brief 
 Would seem thy life, who saw- thee bring 
 
 Sweet gifts, the gold of sacrifice. 
 The myrrh of never doubting love. 
 And all thou hadst of worth or price 
 To offer to the Lord above. 
 
 Our fair Irene! Our child of peace. 
 Our hearts are rent with grief and pain. 
 But thou of pain hast now surcease. 
 Thou shalt not taste its draught again. 
 
 Thy bitterness is over now, 
 The Cross no more on thee shall press. 
 No fear shall ever veil thy brow. 
 Or sorrow give thy soul distress. 
 
 Thou art with Him who loved thee more 
 Than earthly friends, than nearest kin; 
 We wait like watchers on the shore. 
 But thou, to port, hath entered in. 
 
 [2881 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And there, beyond the storm and strife, 
 Beyond these tides with ebb and flow. 
 Serene, in heaven's immortal hfe. 
 Thy place is safe till we shall go. 
 
 As one by one, we all must cross 
 The stream so deep and dark and cold, 
 Which leads us, far from mortal loss, 
 To dwell within the gates of gold. 
 
 0! mourning ones! through tears and dread 
 Of lonely days, this comfort glean. 
 Your darling sleeps. She is not dead. 
 With Clirist she lives! your blessed Irene. 
 
 OUR OWN 
 
 BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER 
 
 If I had known, in the morning. 
 
 How wearily all the day 
 The words unkind would trouble my mind 
 
 That I said when you went away, 
 I had been more careful, darling. 
 
 Nor given you needless pain; 
 But — we vex our own with look and tone 
 
 We might never take back again. 
 
 For though in the quiet evening 
 You may give me the kiss of peace. 
 
 Yet it well might be that never for me 
 The pain of the heart should cease; 
 [2891 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 How many go forth at morning 
 
 Who never come home at night, 
 And hearts have broken for harsh words spoke 
 
 That sorrow can ne'er set right. 
 
 We have careful thought for the stranger, 
 
 And smiles for the sometime guest, 
 But oft for our own the bitter tone, 
 
 Though we love our own the best. 
 Ah, lip with the curve impatient. 
 
 Ah, brow with the shade of scorn, 
 'T were a cruel fate were the night too late 
 
 To undo the work of morn. 
 
 A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE 
 
 BY EPES SARGENT 
 
 A life on the ocean wave, 
 
 A home on the rolling deep; 
 Where the scatter'd waters rave. 
 
 And the winds their revels keep! 
 Like an eagle caged I pine 
 
 On this dull, unchanging shore: 
 Oh, give me the flashing brine. 
 
 The spray and the tempest's roar! 
 
 Once more on the deck I stand. 
 Of my o^Ti swift-gliding craft: 
 
 Set sail! farewell to the land; 
 The gale follows fair abaft. 
 
 [2901 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 We shoot through the sparkUng foam, 
 Like an ocean-bird set free, — 
 
 Like the ocean-bird, our home 
 We'll find far out on the sea. 
 
 The land is no longer in view, 
 
 The clouds have begun to frown; 
 But with a stout vessel and crew, 
 
 We'll say, Let the storm come down! 
 And the song of our hearts shall be, 
 
 While the winds and the waters rave, 
 A home on the rolling sea! 
 
 A life on the ocean wave! 
 
 TREASURE IN HEAVEN 
 
 BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO GEORGE PEABODY, ESQ. 
 
 " What I spent, I had; what I left, 
 I lost; what I gave, I have! " 
 
 OLD EPITAPH 
 
 Every coin of earthly treasure 
 
 We have lavished, upon earth. 
 For our simple worldly pleasure, 
 
 May be reckoned something worth; 
 For the spending was not losing, 
 
 Though the purchase were but small; 
 It has perished with the using: 
 
 We have had it, — that is all! 
 
 [2911 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 All the gold we leave behind us 
 
 When we turn to dust again 
 (Though our avarice may blind us), 
 
 We have gathered quite in vain; 
 Since we neither can direct it, 
 
 B3' the winds of fortune tossed, 
 Nor in other worlds expect it: 
 
 What we hoarded, we have lost. 
 
 But each mercifid oblation — 
 
 (Seed of pity wisely sown). 
 What we gave in self-negation, 
 
 We may safely call our own; 
 For the treasiu-e freely given 
 
 Is the treasure that we hoard, 
 Since the angels keep in Heaven 
 
 What is lent unto the Lord! 
 
 THE OLD MAN'S MOTTO 
 
 BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE 
 
 "Give me a motto!" said a j'outh 
 To one whom years had rendered wise; 
 
 "Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth. 
 That briefest syllables comprise; 
 
 Some word of warning or of cheer 
 
 To grave upon my signet here. 
 
 "And, reverend father," said the boy, 
 "Since life, thej^ say, is ever made 
 A mingled web of grief and joy; 
 [292] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Since cares may come and pleasures fade, 
 Pray, let the motto have a range 
 Of meaning matching every change." 
 
 "Sooth!" said the sire, "methinks you ask 
 
 A labor something over-nice. 
 That well a finer brain might task. 
 
 What think you, lad, of this device 
 (Older than I, though I am gray), 
 'T is simple, — ' This will pass away ' ? 
 
 "When wafted on by Fortune's breeze. 
 In endless peace thou seem'st to glide. 
 
 Prepare betimes for rougher seas. 
 And check the boast of foolish pride; 
 
 Though smiling joy is thine to-day. 
 
 Remember, 'This will pass away!' 
 
 "When all the sky is draped in black, 
 And, beaten by tempestuous gales. 
 
 Thy shuddering ship seems all a-wrack, 
 Then trim again thy tattered sails; 
 
 To grim Despair be not a prey; 
 
 Bethink thee, 'This will pass away!' 
 
 "Thus, my son, be not o'er-proud. 
 Nor yet cast down; judge thou aright; 
 
 When skies are clear, expect the cloud; 
 In darkness, wait the coming light; 
 
 Whatever be thy fate to-day. 
 
 Remember, 'This will pass away!'" 
 
 [293] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN 
 
 BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE 
 
 "It is ascertained by inspection of the registers of many countries, 
 that the uniform proportion of male to female births is as 21 to 20: 
 accordingly, in respect to marriage, every 21st man is natuially 
 superfluous." — Treatise on Population. 
 
 I long have been puzzled to guess, 
 
 And so I have frequently said, 
 What the reason could really be 
 
 That I never have happened to wed; 
 But now it is perfectly clear, 
 
 I am under a natural ban; 
 The girls are already assigned, — 
 
 And I'm a superfluous man! 
 
 Those clever statistical chaps 
 
 Declare the numerical run 
 Of women and men in the world. 
 
 Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one; 
 And hence in the pairing, you see. 
 
 Since wooing and wedding began. 
 For every connubial score, 
 
 They've got a superfluous man! 
 
 By twenties and twenties thej' go. 
 
 And giddily rush to their fate, 
 For none of the number, of course, 
 
 Can fail of a conjugal mate; 
 But while they are yielding in scores 
 
 To Nature's inflexible plan. 
 There's never a woman for me, — 
 
 For I'm a superfluous man! 
 [294] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 It is n't that I am a churl, 
 
 To solitude over-inclined; 
 It isn't that I am at fault 
 
 In morals or manner or mind; 
 Then what is the reason, you ask, 
 
 I'm still with the bachelor-clan? 
 I merely was numbered amiss, — 
 
 And I'm a superfluous man! 
 
 It isn't that I am in want 
 
 Of personal beauty or grace, 
 For many a man with a wife 
 
 Is uglier far in the face; 
 Indeed, among elegant men 
 
 I fancy myself in the van; 
 But what is the value of that, 
 
 When I'm a superfluous man? 
 
 Although I am fond of the girls, 
 
 For aught I could ever discern 
 The tender emotion I feel 
 
 Is one that they never return; 
 'T is idle to quarrel with fate. 
 
 For, struggle as hard as I can. 
 They're mated already, you know, — 
 
 And I'm a superfluous man! 
 
 No wonder I grumble at times. 
 With women so pretty and plent}', 
 
 To know that I never was born 
 To figure as one of the Twenty; 
 [2951 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But yet, when the average lot 
 With critical vision I scan, 
 
 I think it may be for the best 
 That I'm a superfluous man! 
 
 BREATHES THERE THE MAN 
 
 BY SIR WALTER SCOTT 
 [From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," Canto VI.] 
 
 Breathes there the man with soul so dead 
 Who never to himself hath said, 
 
 This is my own, my native land! 
 Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, 
 As home his footsteps he hath turned 
 
 From wandering on a foreign strand ? 
 If such there breathe, go, mark him well; 
 For him no minstrel raptures swell; 
 High though his titles, proud his name, 
 Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, 
 Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
 The wretch, concentred aU in self, 
 Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
 And, doubly dying, shall go down 
 To the vile dust from whence he sprung, 
 Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 
 
 [296 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE FOOL'S PRAYER 
 
 BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 
 
 The royal feast was done; the king 
 Sought some new sport to banish care, 
 
 And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, 
 
 Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!" 
 
 The jester doffed his cap and bells, 
 And stood the mocking court before: 
 
 They could not see the bitter smile 
 Behind the painted grin he wore. 
 
 He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
 Upon the monarch's silken stool; 
 
 His pleading voice arose, "0 Lord, 
 Be merciful to me, a fool! 
 
 " No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
 From red with wrong to white as wool; 
 
 The rod must heal the sin; but. Lord, 
 Be merciful to me, a fool! 
 
 " 'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep 
 Of truth and right, Lord, we stay; 
 
 'Tis by our follies that so long 
 We hold the earth from heaven away. 
 
 "These clumsy feet still in the mire, 
 Go crushing blossoms without end; 
 
 These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
 Among the heartstrings of a friend. 
 [297] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " The ill-timed truth we might have kept, — 
 Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung ? 
 
 The word we had not sense to say, — 
 Who knows how grandly it had rung ? 
 
 "Our faults no tenderness should ask. 
 The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; 
 
 But for our blunders, — oh, in shame 
 Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 
 
 "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; 
 
 Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
 That did his will; but Thou, Lord, 
 
 Be merciful to me, a fool! " 
 
 The room was hushed; in silence rose 
 The king, and sought his gardens cool, 
 
 And walked apart, and murmured low: 
 " Be merciful to me, a fool! " 
 
 IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT 
 
 BY ARABELLE E. SMITH 
 
 If I should die to-night, 
 My friends would look upon my quiet face 
 Before they laid it in its resting-place. 
 And deem that death had left it almost fair; 
 And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair, 
 Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness. 
 And fold my hands with lingering caress, — 
 Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night! 
 [298] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 If I should die to-night, 
 My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, 
 Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought; 
 Some gentle word the frozen lips had said; 
 Errands on which the willing feet had sped; 
 The memory of my selfishness and pride, 
 My hasty words, would all be put aside, 
 And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. 
 
 If I should die to-night, 
 Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, 
 Recalling other days remorsefully; 
 The eyes that chill me with averted glance 
 Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, 
 And soften, in the old familiar way; 
 For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay! 
 So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. 
 
 Oh, friends, I pray to-night. 
 Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow — 
 The way is lonely, let me feel them now. 
 Think gently of me; I am travel- worn; 
 My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. 
 Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead! 
 When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need 
 The tenderness for which I long to-night. 
 
 299 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 AMERICA 
 
 BY SAMUEL F. SMITH 
 
 My country, 't is of thee, 
 Sweet land of liberty, 
 
 Of thee I sing; 
 Land where my fathers died, 
 Land of the pilgrims' pride, 
 From every mountain-side 
 
 Let freedom ring. 
 
 My native country, thee — 
 Land of the noble, free — 
 
 Thy name I love; 
 I love thy rocks and rills. 
 Thy woods and templed hills; 
 My heart with rapture thrills 
 
 Like that above. 
 
 Let music swell the breeze. 
 And ring from all the trees 
 
 Sweet freedom's song: 
 Let mortal tongues awake; 
 Let all that breathe partake; 
 Let rocks their silence break, — 
 
 The sound prolong. 
 
 Our fathers' God, to Thee, 
 Author of liberty. 
 
 To Thee we sing; 
 Long may our land be bright 
 With freedom's holy light; 
 Protect us by Thy might, 
 
 Great God, our King. 
 [3001 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED 
 
 BY CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY 
 
 Tread softly, — bow the head, — 
 In reverent silence bow, — 
 
 No passing-bell doth toll, 
 
 Yet an immortal soul 
 Is passing now. 
 
 Stranger! however great. 
 
 With lowly reverence bow; 
 There's one in that poor shed — 
 One by that paltry bed — 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 Beneath that beggar's roof, 
 Lo! Death doth keep his state. 
 
 Enter, no crowds attend; 
 
 Enter, no guards defend 
 This palace gate. 
 
 That pavement, damp and cold, 
 
 No smihng courtiers tread; 
 One silent woman stands, 
 Lifting with meagre hands 
 A dying head. 
 
 No mingling voices sound, — 
 
 An infant wail alone; 
 A sob suppressed, — again 
 That short deep gasp, and then — 
 
 The parting groan. 
 
 [301] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 change! wondrous change! 
 
 Burst are the prison bars, — 
 This moment, there, so low, 
 So agonized, and now, — 
 
 Beyond the stars. 
 
 change! stupendous change! 
 
 There hes the soulless clod; 
 The sun eternal breaks. 
 The new immortal wakes, — 
 
 Wakes with his God! 
 
 THE BOYS THAT RUN THE FURROW 
 
 BY FRANK L. STANTON 
 
 You can write it down as gospel. 
 With the flags of peace unfurled. 
 
 The boys that run the furrow 
 Are the boys that rule the world! 
 
 It is written on the hilltops, 
 In the fields where blossoms blend: 
 
 Prosperity is ending 
 
 Where the furrow has an end! 
 
 The glory of the battle. 
 
 Of clashing swords blood-red, 
 
 Is nothing to the warfare 
 Of the battle-hosts of bread! 
 
 The waving banners of the fields 
 O'er the broad land unfurled — 
 
 The boys that run the furrow 
 Are the boys that rule the world! 
 [302] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 A LITTLE HAND 
 
 BY FRANK L. STANTON 
 
 Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
 Somewhere in tills sun-bright land; 
 
 But I thank the Lord for His blessing, 
 And the clasp of a little hand. 
 
 A Uttle hand that softly stole 
 
 Into my own that day. 
 When I needed the touch that I loved so much, 
 
 To strengthen me on the way. 
 
 Softer it seemed than the softest down 
 On the breast of the gentlest dove; 
 
 But its timid press and its faint caress 
 Were strong in the strength of love! 
 
 It seemed to say in a strange, sweet way, 
 
 " I love you and understand," 
 And calmed my fears as my hot heart tears 
 
 Fell over that little hand. 
 
 Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
 Somewhere in this sun-bright land; 
 
 But I thank the Lord for His blessing, 
 And the clasp of a little hand. 
 
 303 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE DOORSTEP 
 
 BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN 
 
 The conference-meeting through at last, 
 We boys around the vestry waited 
 
 To see the girls come tripping past 
 Like snowbirds willing to be mated. 
 
 Not braver he that leaps the wall 
 
 By level musket-flashes litten, 
 Than I, who stepped before them all, 
 
 Who longed to see me get the mitten. 
 
 But no; she blushed and took my arm! 
 
 We let the old folks have the highway, 
 And started towards the Maple Farm 
 
 Along a kind of lovers' by-way. 
 
 I can't remember what we said, 
 
 'Twas nothing worth a song or story; 
 
 Yet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seemed all transformed and in a glory. 
 
 The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
 
 The moon was full, the fields were gleaming; 
 
 By hood and tippet sheltered sweet. 
 Her face with youth and health was beaming. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff — 
 sculptor, if you could but mould it! 
 
 So lightly touched my jacket-cuff. 
 To keep it warm I had to hold it. 
 
 [3041 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 To have her with me there alone, — 
 
 'T was love and fear and triumph blended. 
 
 At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
 Where that delicious journey ended. 
 
 The old folks, too, were almost home; 
 
 Her dimpled hand the latches fingered; 
 We heard the voices nearer come, 
 
 Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 
 
 She took her ringlets from her hood. 
 And with a " Thank you, Ned," dissembled; 
 
 But yet I knew she understood 
 
 With what a daring wish I trembled. 
 
 A cloud past kindly overhead. 
 
 The moon was slyly peeping through it, 
 Yet hid its face, as if it said, 
 
 " Come, now or never! do it! do it! " 
 
 My lips till then had only known 
 
 The kiss of mother and of sister. 
 But somehow full upon her own 
 
 Sweet, rosy, darhng mouth — I kissed her! 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, 
 
 O, listless woman! weary lover! 
 To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill 
 
 I'd give — but who can live youth over? 
 
 305 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 CHRISTMAS AT SEA 
 
 BY EGBERT LOUTS STEVENSON 
 
 The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked 
 
 hand; 
 The decks were hke a sUde, where a seaman scarce 
 
 could stand; 
 The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the 
 
 sea; 
 And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things 
 
 a-lee. 
 
 They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of 
 
 day; 
 But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill 
 
 we lay. 
 We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a 
 
 shout, 
 And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go 
 
 about. 
 
 All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head 
 
 and the North ; 
 All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further 
 
 forth; 
 All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread. 
 For very life and nature we tacked from head to head. 
 
 We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide- 
 race roared; 
 
 But every tack we made we brought the North Head 
 close aboard: 
 
 [3061 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers 
 
 running high, 
 And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against 
 
 his eye. 
 
 The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean 
 foam; 
 
 The good red fires were burning bright in every 'long- 
 shore home; 
 
 The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed 
 out; 
 
 And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went 
 about. 
 
 The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty 
 
 jovial cheer; 
 For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days 
 
 in the year) 
 This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas 
 
 morn, 
 And the house above the coastguard's was the house 
 
 where I was born. 
 
 well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, 
 My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair; 
 And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely 
 
 elves, 
 Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the 
 
 shelves. 
 
 » 
 
 And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was 
 of me, 
 
 [307] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Of the shadow on the household and the son that went 
 
 to sea; 
 And the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, 
 To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christ- 
 mas Day. 
 
 They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. 
 
 "All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the cap- 
 tain call. 
 
 "By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, 
 Jackson, cried. 
 
 "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied. 
 
 She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new 
 
 and good. 
 And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she 
 
 understood. 
 As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the 
 
 night. 
 We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the 
 
 light. 
 
 And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board 
 
 but me. 
 As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to 
 
 sea; 
 But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the 
 
 cold, 
 Was just that I was leaving home a*id my folks were 
 
 growing old. 
 
 [308] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE DEPARTED FRIEND 
 
 BY EGBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 
 
 Though he that ever kind and true 
 Kept stoutly step by step with you, 
 Your whole long, gusty lifetime through, 
 Be gone a while before — 
 Be now a moment gone before. 
 Yet doubt not; anon the seasons shall restore 
 Your friend to you. 
 
 He has but turned a corner — still 
 He pushes on with right good will 
 Through mire and marsh, by heugh and hill, 
 
 That self-same arduous way — 
 That self-same upland hopeful way 
 That you and he through many a doubtful day 
 
 Attempted still. 
 
 He is not dead, this friend — not dead, 
 But in the path we mortals tread 
 Got some few, trifling steps ahead 
 
 And nearer to the end. 
 So that you, too, once past the bend, 
 Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend 
 
 You fancy dead. 
 
 Push gayly on, strong heart; the while 
 You travel forward mile by mile, 
 He loiters with a backward smile 
 
 Till you can overtake, 
 And strains his eyes to search his wake. 
 Or, whistling, as he sees you through the brake, 
 
 Waits on a stile. 
 
 [3091 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF YEARS 
 
 BY ALGEKNON CHARLES SWINBURNE 
 
 Before the beginning of years 
 
 There came to the making of man 
 Time, with a gift of tears; 
 
 Grief, with a glass that ran; 
 Pleasure, with pain for leaven; 
 
 Summer, with flowers that fell; 
 Remembrance, fallen from heaven; 
 
 And madness risen from hell; 
 Strength, without hands to smite; 
 
 Love, that endures for a breath; 
 Night, the shadow of light. 
 
 And life, the shadow of death. 
 
 And the high gods took in hand 
 
 Fire, and the falling of tears. 
 And a measure of sliding sand 
 
 From under the feet of the years; 
 And froth and drift of the sea; 
 
 And dust of the laboring earth; 
 And bodies of things to be 
 
 In the houses of death and of birth; 
 And wrought with weeping and laughter, 
 
 And fashion'd with loathing and love. 
 With life before and after. 
 
 And death beneath and above. 
 For a day and a night and a morrow. 
 
 That his strength might endure for a span 
 With travail and heavy sorrow, 
 
 The holy spirit of man. 
 [3101 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 From the winds of the north and the south 
 
 They gather'd as unto strife; 
 They breathed upon his mouth, 
 
 They fill'd his body with life; 
 Eyesight and speech they ^Tought 
 
 For the veils of the soul therein, 
 A time for labor and thought, 
 
 A time to serve and to sin; 
 They gave him light m his ways, 
 
 And love, and a space for delight. 
 And beauty and length of days, 
 
 And night, and sleep in the night. 
 His speech is a burning fire; 
 
 With his lips he travaileth; 
 In his heart is a blind desire. 
 
 In his eyes foreknowledge of death; 
 He weaves, and is clothed with derision; 
 
 Sows, and he shall not reap; 
 His life is a watch or a vision 
 
 Between a sleep and a sleep. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CAMP 
 
 BY BAYARD TAYLOR 
 
 " Give us a song! " the soldiers cried. 
 
 The outer trenches guarding. 
 When the heated guns of the camps aUied 
 
 Grew weary of bombarding. 
 
 The dark Redan, in silent scoff. 
 Lay grim and threatening under; 
 [311] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
 No longer belch'd its thunder. 
 
 There was a pause. A guardsman said : 
 " We storm the forts to-morrow; 
 
 Sing while we may, another day 
 Will bring enough of sorrow." 
 
 They lay along the battery's side, 
 
 Below the smoking cannon: 
 Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde, 
 
 And from the banks of Shannon. 
 
 They sang of love, and not of fame; 
 
 Forgot was Britain's glory: 
 Each heart recaU'd a different name, 
 
 But aU sang " Annie Laurie." 
 
 Voice after voice caught up the song. 
 
 Until its tender passion 
 Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
 
 Their battle-eve confession. 
 
 Dear girl, her name he dared not speak. 
 
 But as the song grew louder. 
 Something upon the soldier's cheek 
 
 Wash'd off the stains of powder. 
 
 Beyond the darkening ocean burn'd 
 
 The bloody sunset's embers. 
 While the Crimean valleys learn'd 
 
 How English love remembers. 
 
 [312] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And once again a fire of hell 
 Rain'd on the Russian quarters, 
 
 With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
 And bellowing of the mortars! 
 
 And Irish Nora's eyes are dim; 
 
 For a singer dumb and gory; 
 And English Mary mourns for him 
 
 Who sang of " Annie Laurie." 
 
 Sleep, soldiers! still in honor 'd rest 
 Your truth and valor wearing: 
 
 The bravest are the tenderest, — 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, sea! 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 well for the fisherman's boy 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play! 
 well for the sailor lad 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay! 
 
 And the stately ships go on. 
 To the haven under the hill; 
 [313] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But for the touch of a vanished hand, 
 And the sound of a voice that is still! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, sea! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 THE BUGLE 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 [From " The Princess."] 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 
 
 And snowy summits old in story: 
 The long hght shakes across the lakes, 
 And the wild cataract leaps in glory. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O hark! hear! how thin and clear. 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
 sweet and far, from cliff and scar. 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: 
 Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. 
 
 O love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 
 They faint on hill or field or river; 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul. 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. 
 And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. 
 [314] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 Half a league, half a league. 
 
 Half a league onward, 
 All in the vaUey of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade! 
 Charge for the guns! " he said; 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the sLx hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade! " 
 Was there a man dismayed ? 
 Not though the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blundered: 
 Theirs not to make reply, 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do and die: 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them. 
 Cannon in front of them 
 
 Volleyed and thundered; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well; 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell, 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 [315] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Flashed all their sabres bare, 
 Flashed as they turned in air, 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wondered: 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke. 
 Right through the line they broke: 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reeled from the sabre-stroke, 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back, but not — 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 Cannon to left of them. 
 Cannon behind them 
 
 Volleyed and thundered: 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 While horse and hero fell. 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came through the jaws of Death 
 Back from the mouth of Hell, — 
 All that was left of them. 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 When can their glory fade? 
 the wild charge they made! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made! 
 Honor the Light Brigade, 
 
 Noble six hundred! 
 
 [3161 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 CROSSING THE BAR 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 Sunset and evening star, 
 
 And one clear call for me! 
 And may there be no moaning of the bar 
 
 When I put out to sea, 
 
 But such a tide as moving seems asleep, 
 
 Too full for sound and foam, 
 When that which drew from out the boundless deep 
 
 Turns again home. 
 
 Twilight and evening bell, 
 
 And after that the dark! 
 And may there be no sadness of farewell 
 
 When I embark; 
 
 For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place 
 
 The flood may bear me far, 
 I hope to see my Pilot face to face 
 
 When I have crost the bar. 
 
 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 Of me you shall not win renown; 
 
 You thought to break a country heart 
 For pastime, ere you went to town. 
 
 [3171 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 
 
 I saw the snare, and I retired: 
 The daughter of a hundred Earls, 
 
 You are not one to be desired. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 I know you proud to bear your name ; 
 Your pride is yet no mate for mine, 
 
 Too proud to care from whence I came. 
 Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
 
 A heart that dotes on truer charms. 
 A simple maiden in her flower 
 
 Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Some meeker pupil you must find, 
 For were you queen of all that is, 
 
 I could not stoop to such a mind. 
 You sought to prove how I could love, 
 
 And my disdain is my reply. 
 The lion on your old stone gates 
 
 Is not more cold to you than I. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 You put strange memories in my head. 
 Not thrice your branching limes have blown 
 
 Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
 your sweet eyes, your low replies: 
 
 A great enchantress you may be; 
 But there was that across his throat 
 
 Which you had hardly cared to see. 
 
 [3181 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 When thus he met his mother's view, 
 She had the passions of her kind, 
 
 She spake some certain truths of you. 
 Indeed I heard one bitter word 
 
 That scarce is fit for you to hear; 
 Her manners had not that repose 
 
 Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 There stands a spectre in your hall : 
 The guilt of blood is at your door: 
 
 You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
 You held your course without remorse. 
 
 To make him trust his modest worth, 
 And, last, you fixed a vacant stare. 
 
 And slew him with your noble birth. 
 
 Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 From yon blue heavens above us bent 
 The grand old gardener and his wife 
 
 Smile at the claims of long descent. 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
 
 'T is only noble to be good. 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets, 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. 
 
 I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : 
 You pine among your halls and towers: 
 
 The languid light of your proud eyes 
 Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
 
 [319] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 In glowing health, with boundless wealth. 
 But sickening of a vague disease, 
 
 You know so ill to deal with time, 
 
 You needs must play such pranks as these. 
 
 Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 If Time be heavy on your hands, 
 Are there no beggars at your gate. 
 
 Nor any poor about your lands ? 
 Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, 
 
 Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
 Pray Heaven for a human heart. 
 
 And let the foolish yeoman go. 
 
 LADY CLARE 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 It was the time when lilies blow, 
 And clouds are highest up in air. 
 
 Lord Ronald brought a hly-white doe 
 To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 
 
 I trow they did not part in scorn: 
 Lovers long betroth 'd were they: 
 
 They two wiU wed the morrow morn: 
 God's blessing on the day! 
 
 " He does not love me for my birth, 
 Nor for my lands so broad and fair; 
 
 He loves me for my own true worth, 
 And that is well," said Lady Clare. 
 
 [3201 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 In there came old Alice the nurse, 
 
 Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " 
 " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
 
 " To-morrow he weds with me." 
 
 " Oh, God be thank'd! " said Alice the nurse, 
 " That all comes round so just and fair: 
 
 Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
 And you are not the Lady Clare." 
 
 " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? ' 
 Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild?" 
 
 " As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
 " I speak the truth: you are my child. 
 
 The old earl's daughter died at my breast; 
 
 I speak the truth, as I live by bread! 
 I buried her like my own sweet child, 
 
 And put my child m her stead." 
 
 " Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
 mother," she said, " if this be true, 
 
 To keep the best man under the sun 
 So many years from his due." 
 
 " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
 
 " But keep the secret for your life. 
 And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
 
 When you are man and wife." 
 
 " If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
 " I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 
 [3211 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, 
 And fling the diamond necklace by." 
 
 " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
 " But keep the secret all ye can." 
 
 She said, " Not so: but I will know 
 If there be any faith in man." 
 
 " Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse, 
 " The man will cleave unto his right." 
 
 " And he shall have it," the lady rephed, 
 " Though I should die to-night." 
 
 " Yet give one kiss to your mother, dear! ' 
 Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
 
 " mother, mother, mother," she said, 
 " So strange it seems to me! 
 
 " Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
 
 My mother dear, if this be so, 
 And lay your hand upon my head, 
 
 And bless me, mother, ere I go." 
 
 She clad herself in a russet gown. 
 
 She was no longer Lady Clare: 
 She went by dale, and she went by down, 
 
 With a single rose in her hair. 
 
 The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 
 
 Leapt up from where she lay, 
 Dropp'd her head in the maiden's hand. 
 
 And foUow'd her all the way. 
 
 [322] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Down stepp'd Lord Ronald from his tower: 
 " Lady Clare, you shame your worth! 
 
 Why come you dress'd like a village maid, 
 That are the flower of the earth ? " 
 
 " If I come dress'd like a village maid, 
 
 I am but as my fortunes arc : 
 I am a beggar born," she said, 
 
 " And not the Lady Clare." 
 
 " Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
 " For I am yours in word and in deed. 
 
 Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
 " Your riddle is hard to read." 
 
 Oh, and proudly stood she up! 
 
 Her heart within her did not fail: 
 She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes. 
 
 And told him all her nurse's tale. 
 
 He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn: 
 
 He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: 
 
 " If you are not the heiress born, 
 And I," said he, " the next in blood — 
 
 " If you are not the heiress born. 
 And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 
 
 We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
 And you shall still be Lady Clare." 
 
 323 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE MAY QUEEN 
 
 BY ALFRED TENNYSON 
 
 You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
 mother dear; 
 
 To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad 
 new-year, — 
 
 Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merri- 
 est day; 
 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none 
 so bright as mine; 
 
 There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caro- 
 line; 
 
 But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say: 
 
 So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never 
 
 wake, 
 If you do not call me loud when the day begins to 
 
 break; 
 But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and 
 
 garlands gay; 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see 
 But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- 
 tree? 
 
 [3241 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 
 
 yesterday, — 
 But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 
 
 white ; 
 And I ran by him without speaking, hke a flash of 
 
 light. 
 They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they 
 
 say, 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 They say he's dying all for love, — but that can never 
 
 be; 
 They say his heart is breaking, mother, — what is 
 
 that to me ? 
 There's many a bolder lad '11 woo me any summer 
 
 day; 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green. 
 And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the 
 
 Queen; 
 For the shepherd lads on every side '11 come from far 
 
 away; 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 [ 325 ] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy- 
 bowers, 
 
 And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet 
 cuckoo-flowers; 
 
 And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps 
 and hollows gray; 
 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the 
 meadow-grass, 
 
 And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as 
 they pass; 
 
 There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the live- 
 long day; 
 
 And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 All the vaUey, mother, '11 be fresh and green and 
 
 stiU, 
 And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the 
 
 hill, 
 And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'U merrily glance 
 
 and play, 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 So you must wake and caU me early, call me early, 
 
 mother dear; 
 To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad 
 new-year; 
 
 [326] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 To-morrow '11 be of all the year the maddest, merriest 
 
 day, 
 For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be 
 
 Queen o' the May. 
 
 new-year's eve 
 
 If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother 
 
 dear, 
 For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year. 
 It is the last new-year that I shall ever see, — 
 Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no 
 
 more of me. 
 
 To-night I saw the sun set, — he set and left behind 
 The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace 
 
 of mind; 
 And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall 
 
 never see 
 The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 
 
 Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry 
 
 day, — 
 Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 
 
 Queen of May; 
 And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel 
 
 copse. 
 Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall wliite 
 
 chimney-tops. 
 
 There's not a flower on all the hiUs, — the frost is on 
 
 the pane; 
 I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again. 
 
 [327] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on 
 
 high, — 
 I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 
 
 The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm-tree, 
 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
 
 And the swallow '11 come back again with sunamer 
 
 o'er the wave, 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering 
 
 grave. 
 
 Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of 
 
 mine. 
 In the early, early morning the summer sun '11 shine 
 Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the 
 
 hiU,— 
 When you are warm-asleep mother, and all the world 
 
 is still. 
 
 When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 
 
 waning light 
 You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at 
 
 night; 
 When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow 
 
 cool 
 On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush 
 
 in the pool. 
 
 You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn 
 
 shade, 
 And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am 
 
 lowly laid. 
 
 [328] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when 
 
 you pass, 
 With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant 
 
 I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me 
 
 now; 
 You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and 
 
 brow; 
 Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be 
 
 wild; 
 You should not fret for me, mother — you have 
 
 another child. 
 
 If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting- 
 place; 
 
 Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon 
 your face; 
 
 Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what 
 you say. 
 
 And be often, often with you when you think I'm far 
 away. 
 
 Good night! good night! when I have said good 
 
 night forevermore, 
 And you see me carried out from the threshold of the 
 
 door, 
 Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing 
 
 green, — 
 She'll be a better child to you then ever I have 
 
 been. 
 
 [329] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor. 
 Let her take 'em — they are hers; I shall never garden 
 
 more. 
 But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that 
 
 I set 
 About the parlor window and the box of mignonette. 
 
 Good night, sweet mother! Call me before the day 
 is born. 
 
 All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; 
 
 But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new- 
 year, — 
 
 So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother 
 dear. 
 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; 
 And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the 
 
 lamb. 
 How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the j^ar! 
 To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's 
 
 here. 
 
 0, sweet is the new \\o\e\, that comes beneath the 
 
 skies; 
 And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 
 
 camiot rise; 
 And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers 
 
 that blow; 
 And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to 
 
 go. 
 
 [330] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed 
 
 sun, 
 And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will 
 
 be done! 
 But still I think it can't be long before I find release; 
 And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words 
 
 of peace. 
 
 O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! 
 And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 
 
 me there ! 
 0, blessings on his kindly heart and on liis silver 
 
 head! 
 A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my 
 
 bed. 
 
 He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the 
 
 sin; 
 Now, though my lamp was hghted late, there's One 
 
 will let me in. 
 Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could 
 
 be; 
 For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 
 
 I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 
 watch beat, — 
 
 There came a sweeter token when the night and morn- 
 ing meet; 
 
 But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in 
 mine, 
 
 And EflBe on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 
 
 [3311 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels 
 
 call, — 
 It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was 
 
 over all; 
 The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to 
 
 roll, 
 And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my 
 
 soul. 
 
 For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie 
 
 dear; 
 I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; 
 With all my strength I prayed for both, — and so I 
 
 felt resigned, 
 And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 
 
 I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed; 
 And then did something speak to me, — I know not 
 
 what was said; 
 For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my 
 
 mind. 
 And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 
 
 But you were sleeping; and I said, " It's not for them, 
 — it's mine"; 
 
 And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for 
 a sign. 
 
 And once again it came, and close beside the window- 
 bars; 
 
 Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among 
 the stars. 
 
 [3321 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know 
 The blessed music went that way my soul will have to 
 
 go. 
 And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day; 
 But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. 
 
 And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to 
 
 fret; 
 There's many a worthier than I, would make him 
 
 happy yet. 
 If I had lived — I cannot tell — I might have been 
 
 his wife; 
 But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire 
 
 of life. 
 
 O, look ! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a 
 
 glow; 
 He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I 
 
 know. 
 And there I move no longer now, and there his light 
 
 may shine, — 
 Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 
 
 O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this 
 
 day is done 
 The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the 
 
 sun, — 
 
 Forever and forever with those just souls and true, — 
 And what is life, that we should moan? why make 
 we such ado ? 
 
 [3331 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Forever and forever, all in a blessed home, 
 
 And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come, — 
 
 To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 
 
 breast, — 
 And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 
 are at rest. 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 BY ALFKED TENNYSON 
 
 Her that yer Honor was spakin' to ? Whin, yer Honor ? 
 
 last year — 
 Standin' here be the bridge, whin last yer Honor was 
 
 here; 
 An', yer Honor, ye gev her the top o' the mornin'; 
 
 " To-morra," says she. 
 What did they call her, yer Honor? They call'd her 
 
 Molly Magee. 
 An' yer Honor's the thrue ould blood that always 
 
 manes to be kind, 
 But there's rason in all things, yer Honor, for Molly 
 
 was out o' her mind. 
 
 Shure, an' meself remimbers wan night comin' down be 
 
 the sthrame, 
 An' it seems to me now like a bit o' yistherday in a 
 
 dhrame — 
 Here where yer Honor seen her — there was but a 
 
 slip of a moon. 
 But I hard thim — Molly Magee wid her batchelor, 
 
 Danny O'Roon — 
 
 [334] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " You've been takin' a dhrop o' the crathur," and 
 
 Danny says, " Troth, an' I been 
 Dhrinkin' yer health wid Shamus O'Shea at Katty's 
 
 shebeen; * 
 
 But I must be lavin' ye soon." " Ochone, are ye goin' 
 away ? " 
 
 " Goin' to cut the Sassenach whate," he says, " over 
 the say " — 
 
 " An' whin will ye meet me agin? " An' I hard him, 
 " Molly asthore, 
 
 " I'll meet ye agin to-morra," says he, " be the chapel- 
 door." 
 
 " And whin' are ye goin' to lave me ? " " Oh, Mon- 
 day mornin'," says he; 
 
 "An' shure, thin, ye'll meet me to-morra?" "To- 
 morra, to-morra, machree! " 
 
 Thin Molly's ould mother, yer Honor, that had no 
 
 likin' for Dan, 
 Call'd from her cabin an' tould her to come away from 
 
 the man ; 
 An' Molly Magee kem flyin' acrass me, as light as a 
 
 lark. 
 An' Dan stood there for a minute, an' thin wint into 
 
 the dark. 
 But wirrah ! the storm that night — the tundher, and 
 
 rain that fell. 
 An* the sthrames runnin' dovvoi at the back o' the glin 
 
 'ud 'a' dhrownded hell. 
 
 * Grog-shop. 
 
 [335] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But airth was at pace nixt mornin', an' hivin in its 
 
 glory smiled, 
 As the Holy Mother o' Glory that smiles at her sleepin' 
 
 child — 
 Ethen — she stept an the chapel-green, an' she turn'd 
 
 herself roun', 
 Wid a diamond dhrop in her eye, for Danny was not 
 
 to be foun' ; 
 An' many's the time that I watch'd her at mass, 
 
 lettin' down the tear, 
 For the divil a Danny was there, yer Honor, for forty 
 
 year. 
 
 Och, Molly Magee, wid the red o' the rose an' the 
 
 white o' the May, 
 An' yer hair as black as the night, an' yer eyes as bright 
 
 as the day! 
 Achora, yer laste little whishioer was sweet as the lilt 
 
 of a bird! 
 Acuslila, ye set me heart batin' to music wid ivery 
 
 word! 
 An' sorra the queen wid her sceptre in sich an illigant 
 
 han', 
 An' the fall o' yer foot in the dance was as light as 
 
 snow an the Ian'. 
 
 An' the sun kem out of a cloud whiniver ye walkt in 
 
 the shtreet. 
 An' Shamus O'Shea was yer shadda, an' laid himself 
 
 undher yer feet; 
 
 [3361 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 An' I loved ye meself wid a heart an' a half, me darlin', 
 
 an' he 
 'Ud 'a' shot his own soul for a kiss o' ye, Molly Magee. 
 
 But shure we wor betther frinds whin I cracked his 
 
 skull for her sake. 
 An' he ped me back wid the best he could give at ould 
 
 Donovan's wake — 
 For the boys wor about her agin, whin Dan didn't 
 
 come to the fore, 
 An' Shamus along wid the rest, but she put thim all 
 
 to the door. 
 An', afther, I thried her meself, av the bird 'ud come 
 
 to me call. 
 But MoUy, begorrah, 'ud listen to naither at all, at all. 
 
 An' her nabours an' frinds 'ud consowl an' condowl 
 
 wid her, airly an' late. 
 " Your Danny," they says, " niver crasst over say to 
 
 the Sassenach whate ; 
 He's gone to the States, aroon, an' he's married another 
 
 wife. 
 An' ye'U niver set eyes on the face of the thraithur agin 
 
 in life! 
 An' to dhrame of a married man, death alive, is a 
 
 mortial sin." 
 But MoUy says, " I'd his hand-promise, an' shure 
 
 he'll meet me agin." 
 
 An' afther her parints had inter'd glory, an' both in 
 wan day, 
 
 [3371 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 She began to spake to herself, the crathur, an' whish- 
 
 per, an' say, 
 " To-morra, to-morra! " An' Father Molowny he 
 
 tuk her in han', 
 " Molly, ye're manin'," he says, " me dear, av I und- 
 
 herstan', 
 Then ye'U meet yer parints agin an' yer Danny O'Roon 
 
 afore God, 
 Wid His blessed marthyrs an' saints"; an' she gev him 
 
 a frindly nod, 
 " To-morra, to-morra," she says, an' she didn't intind 
 
 to desave. 
 But her wits wor dead, an' her hair was as white as 
 
 the snow an a grave. 
 
 Arrah, now, here last month they wor diggin' the bog, 
 
 an' they foun', 
 Dhrownded in black bog-wather, a corp' lyin' un- 
 
 dher groun'. 
 Arrah, thin, they laid this body they foun' an the grass 
 Be the chapel-door, an' the people 'ud see it that wint 
 
 into mass — 
 But a frish gineration had riz, an' most o' the ould 
 
 was few. 
 An' I didn't know him meself, an' none o' the parish 
 
 knew. 
 
 But Molly kem limpin' up wid her stick — she was 
 
 lamed iv a knee. 
 Thin a slip of a gossoon call'd, " Div ye know him, 
 
 Molly Magee ? " 
 
 [338] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 An' she stood up straight as the queen o' the world, — 
 
 she hfted her head — 
 " He said he would meet me to-morra! " an' dhropt 
 
 down dead an the dead. 
 
 Och, Molly, we thought, machree, ye would start 
 
 back agin into life. 
 Whin we laid 5^62 aich be aich, at yer wake, like hus- 
 
 ban' an' wife. 
 Sorra the dhry eye thin but was wet for the frinds that 
 
 was gone! 
 Sorra the silent tliroat but we hard it cryin' " Ochone! " 
 An' Shamus O'Shea, that has now ten childer, han'- 
 
 some an' tall. 
 Him an' his childer wor keenin' as if he had lost thim 
 
 all. 
 
 Thin his Riverence buried thim both in wan grave be 
 
 the elder-tree. 
 The young man, Danny O'Roon, wid his ould woman, 
 
 Molly Magee. 
 
 May all the flowers o' Jeroosilim blossom an' spring 
 
 from the grass, 
 Imbrashin' an' kissin' aich other — as ye did — over 
 
 yer Crass ! 
 An' the lark fly out o' the flowers wid his song to the 
 
 sun an' the moon, 
 An' tell thim in hivin about Molly Magee an' her 
 
 Danny O'Roon, 
 Till holy St. Pether gets up wid his kays an' opens the 
 
 339 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 An' shure, be the Crass, that's betther nor cuttin' the 
 
 Sassenach whate, 
 To be there wid the Blessed Mother, an' samts an' 
 
 marthyrs galore, 
 An' singin' yer " aves " an' " pathers " foriver an' 
 
 ivermore. 
 
 LITTLE BILLEE 
 
 BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 There were three sailors of Bristol City 
 
 Who took a boat and went to sea. 
 But first with beef and captain's biscuits 
 
 And pickled pork they loaded she. 
 
 There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, 
 And the youngest he was little Billee; 
 
 Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, 
 They'd nothing left but one split pea. 
 
 Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 
 " I am extremely hungaree." 
 To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 
 
 " We've nothing left, us must eat we." 
 
 Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
 " With one another we shouldn't agree! 
 
 Ther's little Bill, he's young and tender, 
 We're old and tough, so let's eat he." 
 
 " Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, 
 So undo the button of your chemie." 
 
 [340] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 When Bill received this information, 
 He used his pocket-handkerchie. 
 
 " First let me say my catechism 
 Which my poor mother taught to me." 
 
 " Make haste! make haste! " says guzzling Jimmy, 
 While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. 
 
 Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, 
 And down he fell on his bended knee, 
 
 He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment 
 When up he jumps — " There's land I see! 
 
 " Jerusalem and Madagascar 
 
 And North and South Amerikee, 
 There's the British flag a riding at anchor, 
 
 With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." 
 
 So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, 
 He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, 
 
 But as for little Bill he made him 
 The Captain of a Seventy-tliree. 
 
 THE MAHOGANY-TREE 
 
 BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Christmas is here; 
 Winds whistle shrill, 
 Icy and chill. 
 Little care we; 
 [3411 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Little we fear 
 Weather without, 
 Sheltered about 
 The mahogany-tree. 
 
 Once on the boughs 
 Birds of rare plume 
 Sang, in its bloom; 
 Night-birds are we; 
 Here we carouse, 
 Singing, like them, 
 Perched round the stem 
 Of the jolly old tree. 
 
 Here let us sport. 
 Boys, as we sit, — 
 Laughter and wit 
 Flashing so free. 
 Life is but short, — 
 When we are gone, 
 Let them sing on, 
 Round the old tree. 
 
 Evenings we knew, 
 Happy as this; 
 Faces we miss. 
 Pleasant to see. 
 Kind hearts and true. 
 Gentle and just, 
 Peace to your dust! 
 We sing round the tree. 
 
 [342] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Care, like a dun, 
 Lurks at the gate: 
 Let the dog wait; 
 Happy we'll be! 
 Drink, every one; 
 Pile up the coals; 
 Fill the red bowls. 
 Round the old tree! 
 
 Drain we the cup. — 
 Friend, art afraid? 
 Spirits are laid 
 In the Red Sea. 
 Mantle it up; 
 Empty it yet; 
 Let us forget, 
 Round the old tree! 
 
 Sorrows, begone! 
 Life and its ills, 
 Duns and their bills. 
 Bid we to flee. 
 Come with the dawn, 
 Blue-devil sprite; 
 Leave us to-night. 
 Round the old tree! 
 
 343 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE VANISHING ARMY — G. A. R. 
 
 BY ARTHUR LEWIS TUBBS 
 
 From the wave-washed strand of the Golden Land 
 
 To the shores of the Eastern sea; 
 From the mountains that fringe the frozen North 
 
 To the Soutliland's flowery lea, 
 Comes the tramp of feet to the drummer's beat, 
 
 And the fife with its martial lay, 
 For the soldier boys are marching again, 
 
 To keep Memorial Day. 
 
 They were heroes all when the trumpet's call 
 
 Was heard in the days gone by; 
 For their hearts were brave and their hearts were true, 
 
 When they heard their country's cry. 
 But now, as they come to the fife and drum, 
 
 'Tis a loving tribute to pay. 
 And a path of flowers for these heroes of ours 
 
 Is spread on Memorial Day. 
 
 For the Stripes and Stars and the gleaming bars 
 
 To a nation of peace belong, 
 And a friendly cheer is all they hear, 
 
 Or the children's voices in song. 
 The weapons are rusted and silent now 
 
 That once they used in the fray; 
 They have only to bear the flowers fair, 
 
 As they march on Memorial Day. 
 
 The ranks grow thinner, the marchers fev/, 
 And to-day the grasses grow 
 
 [3441 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 On many a mound that was not found 
 
 But one short year ago. 
 Whether they sleep the dreamless sleep, 
 
 Or a little longer stay, 
 We'll never forget the boundless debt 
 
 The nation can never pay. 
 
 Let Northern blossoms and Southern blooms 
 
 Their tendrils intertwine: 
 A token of peace that years increase 
 
 And love hath made divine. 
 And whether the heroes wore the blue. 
 
 Or whether they wore the gray, 
 We own them ours and scatter the flowers 
 
 For all, on Memorial Day. 
 
 WHEN BABY LAUGHS 
 
 BY A. J. WATERHOUSE 
 
 I wonder what she's dreaming 'bout, 
 
 'Long some time in the night. 
 When of a sudden she laughs out 
 
 In infantile delight. 
 I guess some angel from above, 
 
 Swift winging to and fro, 
 Doth pause to whisper to my love 
 
 Such words as babies know. 
 
 And when she laughs I guess he flies 
 Straight where God's hosts rejoice. 
 
 And bears beyond the bending skies 
 The music of her voice. 
 [345] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Then, through the mighty anthem's swell 
 
 Her laughter striketh clear, 
 Sweeter than tone of any bell, 
 
 And angels pause to hear. 
 
 For what hath Heaven compared with this; 
 
 The laughter of a child, 
 Who still the note of pain doth miss, 
 
 By dreams of night beguiled ? 
 There beat so many voices here 
 
 Of anguish and despair. 
 What wonder if they hold it dear, 
 
 The laugh that hides no care ? 
 
 So when my baby's laugh rings out, 
 
 I watch her fleeting smile. 
 And say, " Some angel is about," 
 
 And listen for a while 
 To try to catch the whisper, too, 
 
 In vain, in vain I try; 
 For angels heed what babies do. 
 
 But pass their elders by. 
 
 THE HOLY CITY 
 
 BY F. E. WEATHERLY 
 
 Last night I lay a sleeping, 
 There came a dream so fair, 
 I stood in old Jerusalem 
 Beside the temple there. 
 I heard the children singing, 
 
 [346] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And ever as they sang, 
 Methought the voice of Angels 
 From Heav'n in answer rang; 
 Methought the voice of Angels 
 From Heav'n in answer rang. 
 Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
 Lift up your gates and sing, 
 Hosanna in the highest! 
 Hosanna to your King! 
 
 And then methought my dream was chang'd, 
 
 The streets no longer rang, 
 
 Hush'd were the glad Hosannas 
 
 The little children sang. 
 
 The sun grew dark with mystery, 
 
 The morn was cold and chiU 
 
 As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill. 
 
 As the shadow of a cross arose upon a lonely hill. 
 
 Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
 
 Hark ! how the Angels sing, 
 
 Hosanna in the highest, 
 
 Hosanna to your King. 
 
 And once again the scene was chang'd, 
 
 New earth there seem'd to be, 
 
 I saw the Holy City 
 
 Beside the tideless sea; 
 
 The light of God was on its streets, 
 
 The gates were open wide, 
 
 And aU who would might enter, 
 
 And no one was denied. 
 
 [3471 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 No need of moon or stars by night, 
 Or sun to shine by day, 
 It was the new Jerusalem 
 That would not pass away, 
 It was the new Jerusalem 
 That would not pass away. 
 Jerusalem! Jerusalem! 
 Sing for the night is o'er! 
 Hosanna in the highest, 
 Hosanna for evermore! 
 Hosanna in the highest, 
 Hosanna for evermore! 
 
 THE QUESTIONER 
 
 BY CARL WERNER 
 
 I called the boy to my knee one day, 
 
 And I said: "You're just past four; 
 Will you laugh in that same light-hearted way 
 
 When you're turned, say, thirty more?" 
 Then I thought of a past I'd fain erase — 
 
 More clouded skies than blue — 
 And I anxiously peered in his upturned face 
 For it seemed to say: 
 "Did you?" 
 
 I touched my lips to his tiny own 
 And I said to the boy : "Heigh, ho! 
 
 Those lips are as sweet as the hay, new-mown ; 
 Will you keep them always so ?" 
 
 Then back from those years came a rakish song 
 
 [3481 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 With a ribald jest or two — 
 And I gazed at the child who knew no wrong, 
 And I thought he asked: 
 "Did you?" 
 
 I looked in his eyes, big, brown and clear, 
 
 And I cried: "Oh, boy of mine! 
 Will you keep them true in the after-year ? 
 
 Will you leave no heart to pine?" 
 Then out of the past came another's eyes — 
 
 Sad eyes of tear-dimmed blue — 
 Did he know they were not his mother's eyes ? 
 For he answered me: 
 "Did you?" 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF HIS SON CHARLES 
 
 BY DANIEL WEBSTER 
 
 My son, thou wast my heart's delight, 
 Thy morn of life was gay and cheery; 
 That morn has rushed to sudden night, 
 Thy father's house is sad and dreary. 
 
 I held thee on my knee, my son! 
 
 And kissed thee laughing, kissed thee weeping. 
 
 But ah! thy little day is done, 
 
 Thou'rt with thy angel sister sleeping. 
 
 The staff, on which my years should lean, 
 Is broken, ere those years come o'er me; 
 My funeral rites thou shouldst have seen, 
 But thou art in the tomb before me. 
 
 [349] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Thou rear'st to me no filial stone, 
 
 No parent's grave with tears beholdest; 
 
 Thou art my ancestor, my son! 
 
 And stand in Heaven's account the oldest. 
 
 On earth my lot was soonest cast, 
 Thy generation after mine. 
 Thou hast thy predecessors past; 
 Earlier eternity is thine. 
 
 I should have set before thine eyes 
 The road to Heaven, and showed it clear; 
 But thou untaught spring'st to the skies, 
 And leav'st thy teacher lingering here. 
 
 Sweet Seraph, I would learn of thee, 
 And hasten to partake thy bliss! 
 And oh! to thy world welcome me. 
 As first I welcomed thee to this. 
 
 Dear Angel, thou art safe in Heaven; 
 No prayers for thee need more be made; 
 Oh! let thy prayers for those be given 
 Who oft have blessed thy infant head. 
 
 My Father! I beheld thee born 
 And led thy tottering steps with care; 
 Before me risen to Heaven's bright morn, 
 My son! My Father! guide me there. 
 
 350 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far 
 
 away, 
 O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican 
 
 array, 
 Who is losing? who is ^vinning? are they far or come 
 
 they near ? 
 Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the 
 
 storm we hear. 
 
 "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle 
 roUs; 
 
 Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy 
 on their souls!" 
 
 Who is losing? who is winning? — "Over hill and 
 over plain, 
 
 I see but smoke of cannon clouding tlirough the moun- 
 tain rain." 
 
 Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, 
 
 look once more. 
 "Still I see the fearful whirlwind roUing darkly as 
 
 before. 
 Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, 
 
 foot and horse. 
 Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down 
 
 its mountain-course." 
 
 351 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke 
 
 has roll'd away; 
 And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the 
 
 ranks of gray. 
 Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop 
 
 of Minon wheels; 
 There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon 
 
 at their heels. 
 
 "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now 
 
 advance! 
 Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's 
 
 charging lance! 
 Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot 
 
 together fall : 
 Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs 
 
 the Northern ball." 
 
 Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and 
 
 frightful on: 
 Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and 
 
 who has won ? 
 "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together 
 
 fall. 
 O'er the dying rush the living; pray, my sisters, for 
 
 them all! 
 
 "Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, 
 
 save my brain! 
 I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps 
 
 of slain. 
 
 [352] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, 
 
 and strive to rise; 
 Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die 
 
 before our eyes! 
 
 "0 my heart's love! my dear one! lay thy poor 
 
 head on my knee: 
 Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst thou 
 
 hear me ? canst thou see ? 
 my husband, brave and gentle! my Bernal, 
 
 look once more 
 On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! 
 
 all is o'er!" 
 
 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one 
 
 down to rest; 
 Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon 
 
 his breast; 
 Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses 
 
 said; 
 To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy 
 
 aid. 
 
 Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a 
 soldier lay. 
 
 Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow 
 his life away; 
 
 But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt. 
 
 She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol- 
 belt. 
 
 [3531 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 With a stifled cry of horror straight she turn'd away 
 
 her head; 
 With a sad and bitter feeling look'd she back upon 
 
 her dead; 
 But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his 
 
 struggling breath of pain, 
 And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips 
 
 again. 
 
 Whispered low the dying soldier, press'd her hand and 
 faintly smiled : 
 
 Was that pitying face Iiis mother's ? did she watch 
 beside her child ? 
 
 All his stranger words with meaning her woman's 
 heart supplied; 
 
 With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" mur- 
 mured he and died! 
 
 "A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee 
 
 forth. 
 From some gentle sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, 
 
 in the North!" 
 Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him 
 
 with her dead. 
 And turn'd to soothe the living, and bind the wounds 
 
 which bled. 
 
 Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before 
 
 the wind 
 Rolls the battle down the mountain, leaving blood 
 
 and death behind; 
 
 [3541 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the 
 
 wounded strive; 
 Hide your faces, holy angels! thou Christ of God, 
 
 forgive!" 
 
 Sink, night, among thy mountains! let the cool 
 
 gray shadows fall; 
 Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain 
 
 over all! 
 Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart 
 
 the battle roU'd, 
 In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips 
 
 grew cold. 
 
 But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pur- 
 sued. 
 
 Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and 
 faint and lacking food; 
 
 Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care 
 they hung. 
 
 And the dying foeman bless'd them in a strange and 
 Northern tongue. 
 
 Not wholly lost, Father! is this evil world of ours; 
 Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh 
 
 the Eden flowers; 
 From its smoking hell of battle. Love and Pity send 
 
 their prayer. 
 And still thy white-wing'd angels hover dimly in our 
 
 355] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 THE BAREFOOT BOY 
 
 BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Blessings on thee, little man, 
 Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 
 With thy turned-up pantaloons. 
 And thy merry whistled tunes; 
 With thy red lip, redder still 
 Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
 With the sunshine on thy face, 
 Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; 
 From my heart I give thee joy, — 
 I was once a barefoot boy! 
 Prince thou art, — the grown-up man 
 Only is republican. 
 Let the million-dollared ride ! 
 Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
 Thou hast more than he can buy 
 In the reach of ear and eye, — 
 Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
 Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 
 
 for boyhood's painless play, 
 Sleep that wakes in laughing day. 
 Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
 Knowledge never learned of schools. 
 Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
 Of the wild-flower's time and place, 
 Fhght of fowl and habitude 
 Of the tenants of the wood ; 
 How the tortoise bears his shell, 
 
 [3561 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
 And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
 How the robin feeds her young, 
 How the oriole's nest is hung; 
 Where the whitest lilies blow, 
 Where the freshest berries grow, 
 Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
 Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; 
 Of the black wasp's cunning way. 
 Mason of his walls of clay, 
 And the architectural plans 
 Of gray hornet artisans! — 
 For, eschewing books and tasks, 
 Nature answers all he asks; 
 Hand in hand with her he walks, 
 Face to face with her he talks, 
 Part and parcel of her joy, — 
 Blessings on the barefoot boy! 
 
 for boyhood's time of June, 
 Crowding years in one brief moon. 
 When all things I heard or saw, 
 Me, their master, waited for. 
 I was rich in flowers and trees. 
 Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
 For my sport the squirrel played, 
 Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
 For my taste the blackberry cone 
 Purpled over hedge and stone; 
 Laughed the brook for my delight 
 Through the day and through the night 
 [3571 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Whispering at the garden wall, 
 Talked with me from fall to fall; 
 Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
 Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
 Mine, on bending orchard trees. 
 Apples of Hesperides! 
 Still as my horizon grew, 
 Larger grew my riches too; 
 All the world I saw or knew 
 Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
 Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 
 
 for festal dainties spread. 
 Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
 Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
 On the door-stone, gray and rude! 
 O'er me, like a regal tent. 
 Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent. 
 Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
 Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
 While for music came the play 
 Of the pied frogs' orchestra; 
 And, to light the noisy choir, 
 Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
 I was monarch: pomp and joy 
 Waited on the barefoot boy! 
 
 Cheerly, then, my little man. 
 Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 
 Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
 Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
 
 [358] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Every morn shall lead thee through 
 Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
 Every evening from thy feet 
 Shall the cool wind kiss the heat. 
 All too soon these feet must hide 
 In the prison cells of pride, 
 Lose the freedom of the sod, 
 Like a colt's for work be shod, 
 Made to tread the mills of toil, 
 Up and down in ceaseless moil: 
 Happy if their track be found 
 Never on forbidden ground; 
 Happy if they sink not in 
 Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
 Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy. 
 Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 
 
 IN SCHOOL-DAYS 
 
 BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Still sits the school-house by the road, 
 
 A ragged beggar smining; 
 Around it still the sumachs grow, 
 
 And blackberry-vines are running. 
 
 Within, the master's desk is seen, 
 Deep scarred by raps official; 
 
 The warping floor, the battered seats, 
 The jack-knife's carved initial; 
 
 The charcoal frescos on its wall; 
 Its door's worn sill, betraying 
 [359] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
 Went storming out to pla3dng! 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 
 Shone over it at setting; 
 Lit up its western window-panes, 
 
 And low eaves' icy fretting. 
 
 It touched the tangled golden curls, 
 And brown eyes full of grieving, 
 
 Of one who still her steps delayed 
 When all the school were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little boy 
 
 Her childish favor singled; 
 His cap pulled low upon a face 
 
 Where pride and shame were mingled. 
 
 Pushing with restless feet the snow 
 To right and left, he hngered; — 
 
 As restlessly her tiny hands 
 The blue-checked apron fingered. 
 
 He saw her lift her eyes; he felt 
 The soft hand's light caressing, 
 
 And heard the tremble of her voice, 
 As if a fault confessing. 
 
 I'm sorry that I spelt the word: 
 
 I hate to go above you, 
 Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — 
 
 " Because, you see, I love you! " 
 [360] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Still memory to a gray-haired man 
 That sweet child-face is showing. 
 
 Dear girl! the grasses on her grave 
 Have forty years been growing! 
 
 He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
 How few who pass above him 
 
 Lament their triumph and his loss. 
 Like her, — because they love him. 
 
 MAUD MULLER 
 
 BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day. 
 Raked the meadow sweet with hay. 
 
 Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth 
 Of simple beauty and rustic health. 
 
 Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee 
 The mock-bird echoed from his tree. 
 
 But, when she glanced to the far-off town, 
 White from its hill-slope looking down. 
 
 The sweet song died, and a vague unrest 
 And a nameless longing filled her breast, — 
 
 A wish, that she hardly dared to own. 
 For something better than she had known. 
 
 [361] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 The Judge rode slowly down the lane, 
 Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. 
 
 He drew his bridle in the shade 
 
 Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. 
 
 And ask a draught from the spring that flowed 
 Through the meadow, across the road. 
 
 She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, 
 And filled for him her small tin cup, 
 
 And blushed as she gave it, looking down 
 On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. 
 
 Thanks! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught 
 From a fairer hand was never quaffed." 
 
 He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. 
 Of the singing birds and the humming bees; 
 
 Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether 
 The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. 
 
 And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, 
 And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, 
 
 And listened, while a pleased surprise 
 Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. 
 
 At last, hke one who for delay 
 Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. 
 [362] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Maud MuUer looked and sighed: " Ah me! 
 That I the Judge's bride might be! 
 
 " He would dress me up in silks so fine, 
 And praise and toast me at his wine. 
 
 " My father should wear a broadcloth coat, 
 My brother should sail a painted boat. 
 
 " I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, 
 And the baby should have a new toy each day. 
 
 " And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, 
 And all should bless me who left our door." 
 
 The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, 
 And saw Maud Muller standing still : 
 
 " A form more fair, a face more sweet. 
 Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. 
 
 " And her modest answer and graceful air 
 Show her wise and good as she is fair. 
 
 " Would she were mine, and I to-day. 
 Like her, a harvester of hay. 
 
 " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, 
 Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, 
 
 " But low of cattle, and song of birds, 
 And health, and quiet, and loving words." 
 
 [363] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, 
 And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. 
 
 So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, 
 And Maud was left in the field alone. 
 
 But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. 
 When he hunmied in court an old love tune; 
 
 And the young girl mused beside the well, 
 Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 
 
 He wedded a wife of richest dower, 
 Who lived for fashion, as he for power. 
 
 Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, 
 He watched a picture come and go : 
 
 And sweet Maud MuUer's hazel eyes 
 Looked out in their innocent surprise. 
 
 Oft, when the wine in his glass was red. 
 He longed for the wayside well instead. 
 
 And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, 
 To dream of meadows and clover blooms; 
 
 And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, 
 " Ah, that I were free again! 
 
 " Free as when I rode that day 
 Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." 
 
 [364] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 She wedded a man unlearned and poor, 
 And many children played round her door. 
 
 But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. 
 Left their traces on heart and brain. 
 
 And oft, when the summer sun shone hot 
 On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, 
 
 And she heard the little spring brook fall 
 Over the roadside, tlirough the wall. 
 
 In the shade of the apple-tree again 
 She saw a rider draw his rein. 
 
 And, gazing down with a timid grace. 
 She felt his pleased eyes read her face. 
 
 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls 
 Stretched away into stately halls; 
 
 The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, 
 The tallow candle an astral burned; 
 
 And for him who sat by the chimney lug, 
 Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, 
 
 A manly form at her side she saw, 
 And joy was duty and love was law. 
 
 Then she took up her burden of life again, 
 Saying only, " It might have been." 
 
 [365] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Alas for maiden, alas for judge, 
 
 For rich repiner and household drudge! 
 
 God pity them both! and pity us all, 
 Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; 
 
 For of all sad words of tongue or pen. 
 
 The saddest are these: " It might have been! 
 
 Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies 
 Deeply buried from human eyes; 
 
 And, in the hereafter, angels may 
 Roll the stone from its grave away! 
 
 THE SHEPHERD'S RESOLUTION 
 
 BY GEORGE WITHER 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair. 
 
 Die because a woman's fair ? 
 
 Or make pale my cheeks with care 
 
 'Cause another's rosy are ? 
 
 Be she fairer than the day. 
 
 Or the flowery meads in May, — 
 If she be not so to me. 
 What care I how fair she be ? 
 
 Shall my foolish heart be pined 
 'Cause I see a woman kind ? 
 Or a well-disposed nature 
 Joined with a lovely feature ? 
 
 [3661 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Be she meeker, kinder than 
 The turtle-dove or pehcan, — 
 If she be not so to me, 
 What care I how kind she be ? 
 
 Shall a woman's virtues move 
 Me to perish for her love ? 
 Or, her well deservings known, 
 Make me quite forget mine own ? 
 Be she with that goodness blest 
 Which may merit name of best, — 
 If she be not such to me, 
 What care I how good she be ? 
 
 'Cause her fortune seems too high, 
 Shall I play the fool and die ? 
 Those that bear a noble mind 
 Where they want of riches find, 
 Think what with them they would do 
 That without them dare to woo: 
 And unless that mind I see. 
 What care I how great she be ? 
 
 Great, or good, or kind, or fair, 
 I will ne'er the more despair: 
 If she love me, this believe, — 
 I will die ere she shall grieve. 
 If she slight me when I woo, 
 I can scorn and let her go ; — 
 For if she be not for me. 
 What care I for whom she be ? 
 
 [367] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE 
 
 BY CHARLES WOLFE 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the rampart we hurried; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly, at dead of night. 
 
 The sods with our bayonets turning; 
 By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 
 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 
 
 But he lay, like a warrior taking his rest. 
 With his martial cloak around him, 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said, 
 
 And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the face 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! 
 [368] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 When the clock struck the hour for retiring; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was suddenly firing. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory! 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST 
 HAVE DIED 
 
 BY CHARLES WOLFE 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
 
 I might not weep for thee; 
 But I forgot, when by thy side. 
 
 That thou couldst mortal be! 
 It never through my mind had passed. 
 
 The time would e'er be o'er, — 
 And I on thee should look my last, 
 
 And thou shouldst smile no more ! 
 
 And stiU upon that face I look, 
 
 And think 'twill smile again ; 
 And still the thought I will not brook 
 
 That I must look in vain! 
 But when I speak, thou dost not say 
 
 What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; 
 And now I feel, as well I may. 
 
 Sweet Mary! thou art dead! 
 
 [3691 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, 
 
 All cold and all serene, — 
 I still might press thy silent heart, 
 
 And where thy smiles have been! 
 While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, 
 
 Thou seemest still mine own; 
 But then I lay thee in thy grave, — 
 
 And I am now alone! 
 
 I do not think, where'er thou art, 
 
 Thou hast forgotten me; 
 And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart. 
 
 In thinking too of thee: 
 Yet there was round thee such a dawn 
 
 Of light ne'er seen before, — 
 As fancy never could have drawn, 
 
 And never can restore! 
 
 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET 
 
 BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 
 
 When fond recollection presents them to view! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. 
 
 And every loved spot which my infancy knew; 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood 
 by it. 
 
 The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 
 
 And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well, — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 
 
 [370] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 
 
 For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
 I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure. 
 
 The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! 
 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. 
 
 And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well, — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 
 
 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 
 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 
 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 
 
 Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved situation, 
 
 The tear of regret will intrusively swell. 
 As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 
 
 And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well, — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 
 
 WE ARE SEVEN 
 
 BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 A simple child. 
 That lightly draws its breath. 
 And feels its life in every limb. 
 What should it know of death? 
 
 I met a little cottage girl : 
 
 She was eight years old, she said; 
 [ 371 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Her hair was thick with many a curl 
 That clustered round her' head. 
 
 She had a rustic, woodland air, 
 
 And she was wildly clad; 
 Her eyes were fair, and very fair; — 
 
 Her beauty made me glad. 
 
 " Sisters and brothers, little maid, 
 
 How many may you be ? " 
 " How many? Seven in all," she said, 
 
 And wondering looked at me. 
 
 " And where are they ? I pray you tell. 
 
 She answered, " Seven are we; 
 And two of us at Conway dwell, 
 
 And two are gone to sea; 
 
 " Two of us in the churchyard lie, 
 
 My sister and my brother; 
 And, in the churchyard cottage, I 
 
 Dwell near them with my mother." 
 
 " You say that two at Conway dwell,. 
 
 And two are gone to sea, 
 Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell. 
 
 Sweet maid, how this may be." 
 
 Then did the little maid reply, 
 " Seven boys and girls are we; 
 
 Two of us in the churchyard lie 
 Beneath the churchyard tree." 
 
 [372] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " You run about, my little maid; 
 
 Your limbs they are alive; 
 If two are in the churchyard laid, 
 
 Then ye are only five." 
 
 " Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
 
 The little maid replied : 
 " Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, 
 
 And they are side by side. 
 
 " My stockings there I often knit, 
 
 My kerchief there I hem; 
 And there upon the ground I sit, 
 
 And sing a song to them. 
 
 " And often after sunset, sir, 
 
 When it is light and fair, 
 I take my little porringer 
 
 And eat my supper there. 
 
 " The first that died was Sister Jane; 
 
 In bed she moaning lay, 
 Till God released her of her pain; 
 
 And then she went away. 
 
 " So in the churchyard she was laid; 
 
 And, when the grass was dry. 
 Together round her grave we played. 
 
 My brother John and I. 
 
 " And when the ground was white with snow, 
 And I could run and slide, 
 
 [3731 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 My brother John was forced to go, 
 And he hes by her side." 
 
 " How many are you, then," said I, 
 
 " If they two are in heaven ? " 
 Quick was the Httle maid's reply! 
 
 " Master! we are seven." 
 
 " But they are dead; those two are dead! 
 
 Their spirits are in heaven! " 
 'T was throwing words away; for still 
 The little maid would have her will, 
 
 And said, " Nay, we are seven." 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL GATE 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 When mysterious whispers are floating about, 
 
 And voices that will not be still 
 Shall summon me hence from the slippery shore 
 
 To the waves that are silent and still; 
 When I look with changed eyes at the home of the 
 blest, 
 
 Far out of the reach of the sea, 
 Will any one stand at that beautiful gate 
 
 Waiting and watching for me ? 
 
 There are friendless and suffering strangers around, 
 There are tempted and poor I must meet; 
 
 There are dear ones at home I may bless with my love. 
 There are wretched ones pacing the street; 
 
 [374] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 There are many unthought of, whom, happy and blest, 
 
 In the land of the good I shall see: 
 Will any of these at the beautiful gate 
 
 Be waiting and watching for me ? 
 
 There are old and forsaken, who Unger awhile 
 
 In the homes which their dearest have left. 
 And an action of love and a few gentle words 
 
 Might cheer the sad spirit bereft; 
 But the reaper is near to the long-standing corn, 
 
 The weary shall soon be set free; 
 Will any of these at the beautiful gate 
 
 Be waiting and watching for me ? 
 
 There are little ones glancing about on my path 
 
 In need of a friend or a guide; 
 There are dim little eyes looking up into mine, 
 
 Whose tears could be easily dried; 
 But Jesus may beckon the children away 
 
 In the midst of their grief or their glee: 
 Win any of them at the beautiful gate 
 
 Be waiting and watching for me ? 
 
 I may be brought there by the manifold grace 
 
 Of the Saviour who loved to forgive, 
 Though I bless not the hungry ones near to my side. 
 
 Only pray for myself while I live; 
 But I think I should mourn o'er my selfish neglect, 
 
 If sorrow in heaven can be, 
 If no one should stand at that beautiful gate 
 
 Waiting and watching for me! 
 
 [3751 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 BLUE AND GRAY 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 " mother! what do they mean by blue? 
 
 And what do they mean by gray ? " 
 Was heard from the hps of a httle child, 
 
 As she bounded in from play. 
 The mother's eyes filled up with tears: 
 
 She turned to her darling fair, 
 And smoothed away from the sunny brow 
 
 Its treasures of golden hair. 
 
 " Why, mother's eyes are blue, my sweet, 
 
 And grandpa's hair is gray; 
 And the love we bear our darling child, 
 
 Grows stronger every day." 
 " But what did they mean? " persisted the child: 
 
 " For I saw two cripples to-day; 
 And one of them said he fought for the blue; 
 
 The other, he fought for the gray. 
 
 " Now, he of the blue had lost a leg; 
 
 The other had but one arm: 
 And both seemed worn and weary and sad; 
 
 Yet their greeting was kind and warm. 
 They told of battles in days gone by. 
 
 Till it made my young blood thrill : 
 The leg was lost in the Wilderness fight; 
 
 And the arm, on Malvern Hill. 
 
 " They sat on the stones by the farm-yard gate, 
 And talked for an hour or more, 
 
 [ 376 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Till their eyes grew bright, and their hearts seemed 
 warm, 
 
 With fighting their battles o'er. 
 And parting at last with a friendly grasp, 
 
 In a kindly, brotherly way, 
 Each called on God to speed the time 
 
 Uniting the blue and the gray." 
 
 Then the mother thought of other days, — 
 
 Two stalwart boys from her riven; 
 How they knelt at her side, and, lisping, prayed, — 
 
 " Our Father which art in heaven"; 
 How one wore the gray, and the other the blue; 
 
 How they passed away from sight. 
 And had gone to the land where gray and blue 
 
 Are merged in colors of light. 
 
 And she answered her darling with golden hair, — 
 
 While her heart was sadly \\Tung 
 With the thoughts awakened in that sad hour 
 
 By her innocent, prattling tongue, — 
 " The blue and the gray are the colors of God: 
 
 They are seen in the sky at even; 
 And many a noble, gallant soul 
 
 Has found them passports to heaven." 
 
 377 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES' 
 
 CONGRESSMAN JONES 
 
 BY AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR IN THE 
 CHICAGO RECORD-HERALD 
 
 When Jones left Badger's Corners he was racked by 
 
 doubt and fear, 
 And a weight was on his shoulders as he heard his 
 
 neighbors cheer; 
 He was going where great statesmen with majestic 
 
 brows would stand, 
 In the halls of marble, wisely making statutes for the 
 
 land. 
 
 In his heart Jones knew how little he excelled the 
 
 common ones, 
 Who were sending him to mingle with and challenge 
 
 the "big gims"; 
 In his fancy he could plainly see himseK unnoticed 
 
 there, 
 Where the splendid statesmen towered and with 
 
 wisdom filled the air. 
 
 Jones was awed when he beheld them and first heard 
 
 them called by name; 
 Still the glamour was upon them, he was dazzled by 
 
 their fame. 
 And he watched them, full of wonder, yet a httle sadly, 
 
 too. 
 For in searching out the giants he found very, very few. 
 
 Day by day he saw and heard them, day by day his 
 awe decreased; 
 
 [378] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 He had feared and he had doubted, but at length his 
 
 trembling ceased; 
 He had learned at last that greatness is but being 
 
 stationed where 
 Almost any one might dazzle if the fates had set him 
 
 there. 
 
 DO YE THINK OF THE DAYS THAT ARE 
 GONE? 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 " Do ye think of the days that are gone, Jeanie, 
 
 As ye sit by your fire at night ? 
 Do ye wish that the morn would bring back the time 
 
 When your heart and your step were so light ? " 
 " I think of the days that are gone, Robin,_ 
 
 And of all that I joyed in then; 
 But the brightest that ever rose on me 
 
 I have never wished back again! " 
 
 " Do ye think of the hopes that are gone, Jeanie, 
 
 As ye sit by your fire at night ? 
 Do ye gather them up as they faded fast. 
 
 Like buds with an early blight ? " 
 " I think of the hopes that are gone, Robin, 
 
 And I mourn not their stay was fleet; 
 For they fell as the leaves of the red rose fall, 
 
 And were even in falling sweet! " 
 
 " Do ye think of the friends that are gone, Jeanie, 
 
 As ye sit by your fire at night ? 
 Do ye wish they were round you again once more, 
 
 [379] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 By the hearth that they made so bright? " 
 " I think of the friends that are gone, Robin, 
 
 They are dear to my heart as then; 
 But the best and the dearest among them all 
 
 I have never wished back again! " 
 
 THE GOOD OLD WAY 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 John Mann had a wife who was kind and true, - 
 
 A wife who loved him well; 
 She cared for the house and their only child; 
 
 But if I the truth must tell. 
 She fretted and pined because John was poor 
 
 And his business was slow to pay; 
 But he only said, when she talked of change, 
 
 " We'll stick to the good old way! " 
 
 She saw her neighbors were growing rich 
 
 And dwelling in houses grand; 
 That she was living in poverty, 
 
 With wealth upon every hand; 
 And she urged her husband to speculate, 
 
 To risk his earnings at play; 
 But he only said, " My dearest wife. 
 
 We'll stick to the good old way." 
 
 For he knew that the money that's quickly got 
 
 Is the money that's quickly lost; 
 And the money that stays is the money earned 
 
 At honest endeavor's cost. 
 
 [3801 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 So he plodded along in his honest style, 
 
 And he bettered himself each day, 
 And he only said to his fretful wife, 
 
 " We'll stick to the good old way." 
 
 And at last there came a terrible crash. 
 
 When beggary, want, and shame 
 Came down on the homes of their wealthy friends, 
 
 While John's remained the same; 
 For he had no debts and he gave no trust, 
 
 " My motto is this," he'd say, — 
 " It's a charm against panics of every kind, — 
 
 'Tis stick to the good old way! " 
 
 And his wife looked round on the little house 
 
 That was every nail their own. 
 And she asked forgiveness of honest John 
 
 For the peevish mistrust she had shown; 
 But he only said, as her tearful face 
 
 Upon his shoulder lay, 
 " The good old way is the best way, wife; 
 
 We'll stick to the good old way." 
 
 THE INDIAN'S PRAYER 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 " Let me go to my home in the far distant west. 
 To the scenes of my childhood in innocence blest; 
 Where the tall cedars wave and the bright waters flow, 
 Where my fathers repose — let me go ! Let me go ! 
 [381] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " Let me go to the spot where the cataract plays, 
 Where oft I have sported in boyhood's bright days; 
 And greet my poor mother, whose heart will o'erflow 
 At the sight of her child — let me go! Let me go! 
 
 " Let me go to my sire, by whose battle-scarred side 
 I have sported so oft in the morn of my pride; 
 And exulted to conquer the insolent foe — 
 To my father, the chief, let me go! Let me go! 
 
 " And, oh! let me go to my flashing-eyed maid, 
 Who taught me to love 'neath the green willow's shade, 
 Whose heart, like the fawn's, leaps as pure as the snow 
 To the bosom it loves — let me go! Let me go! 
 
 " And oh! let me go to my wild forest home — 
 No more from its life-cheering pleasures to roam: 
 'Neath the groves of the glen let my ashes lie low — 
 To my home in the woods let me go! Let nje go! " 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 This poem was published in a Washington, D.C, paper in an 
 article on " The Nation's Song," without the name of the author and 
 without a title. 
 
 'T was Christmas night in Paris, 
 
 Rainy and dark and drear; 
 But within one gilded mansion 
 
 Was happy Christmas cheer. 
 [382] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Merrily in the perfumed air 
 
 The Christmas carols rung; 
 Then softly, slowly, sweetly, 
 
 Dear " Home, Sweet Home " was sung. 
 
 Without, against the window sill, 
 
 To shield him from the rain, 
 With streaming eyes and breaking heart, 
 
 Crouched lonely Howard Payne. 
 
 " My song," he cried in anguish deep, 
 
 " Is sung in every home. 
 While I, without a single friend, 
 
 A homeless wand'rer roam, 
 
 " Yes, it was on this self-same spot, 
 
 Without a crust of bread. 
 With not one place to call my own, 
 
 Nowhere to rest my head, 
 
 " I sat me down and wrote that song, 
 That o'er the world doth ring: 
 
 They little think who's hstening now — 
 Those happy ones that sing." 
 
 'Twas true; before that window once. 
 
 Friendless amid the throng, 
 And yearning for the joys of home, 
 
 He wrote his world-famed song. 
 
 383 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LAMENT FOR LAFAYETTE 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 All lonely and cold, in the sepulchre slumbers 
 
 The giant of freedom, the chosen of fame ! 
 Too high in the theme for my harp's lowly numbers; 
 
 Yet fain would I twine me a wreath for that name 
 Which proudly shines forth in the tablet of glory, 
 
 Unsullied by faction, untarnished by guile; 
 The loftiest theme for the bard's raptured story; 
 
 The name by which freemen met death with a smile. 
 
 Then arise, ye proud bards! give our hearts' mighty 
 sadness 
 
 A voice not unworthy a theme so sublime. 
 For him, the bright day-star of freedom and gladness, 
 
 Whose memory will glow through the far flight of 
 time! 
 He is gone, and forever! the pride of our nation. 
 
 That bright sun of freedom in glory hath set; 
 The heroes who bled for our country's salvation 
 
 Now joy in thy presence, O brave Lafayette! 
 
 Thou camest to our shore when the day-star of freedom 
 
 Was proudly dispelling dark tyranny's night, 
 When millions awoke to the rank she decreed them. 
 
 And the millions of despots were scattered in flight; 
 When the star-spangled banner waves sheen in the 
 morning 
 
 The heart of the freeman will bound at thy name; 
 Thou champion of freedom ! fell tyranny scorning. 
 
 One world was too small for the blaze of thy fame! 
 
 [3841 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Bright, bright is the path thou hast left of thy glory, 
 
 Amid the world's darkness, which ne'er shall decline. 
 For the light of thy fame on the ages before thee, 
 
 With splendor unsullied, forever will shine; 
 When freedom's bright fabric lay blackened in ruin. 
 
 While bloodthirsty tyrants usurped the dread sway 
 At the roots of the proud tree of liberty hewing. 
 
 All hopes for the land of thy love died away. 
 
 Thou art gone! thy pure soul on its voyage hath 
 started; 
 
 From its ashes the phcenix of freedom hath flown. 
 To join the bright phalanx of heroes departed, 
 
 Who dwell in the light of a fame like thine own. 
 Farewell, thou last star of that bright constellation 
 
 Of heroes whose glory can never depart; 
 Thy fame hath no limit of kindred or nation; 
 
 Thy name is enshrined in each patriot's heart. 
 
 With Washington's blended, for ever the glory 
 
 Shall form the proud theme of our bard's burning 
 lays. 
 While the banner of freedom shall proudly wave o'er 
 thee, 
 Thou mighty departed! thou light of our days; 
 But still! my wild harp, all in vain we lament him; 
 
 His praise must be sung by some loftier Ijo-e; 
 Let the soul-raptured bard use the gift heaven hath 
 lent him, 
 And weave for our hero a requiem of fire! 
 
 385 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF BABY 
 
 B. H. 
 
 One little bud the less, 
 In nature's garden grows. 
 
 One tiny voice more, liush'd 
 In death's deep calm repose. 
 
 Th' prattling birdie sleeps. 
 
 Sleeps quietly alone. 
 While o'er his form th' wind 
 
 A requiem low doth moan. 
 
 In Paradise will bloom 
 
 And beauteously grow 
 Th' bud cut short and chill'd 
 
 By piercing winds below. 
 
 Close in his Maker's arms 
 The httle one is press'd, 
 
 His playmates seraphim, 
 A cherub 'mong the bless'd. 
 
 LOOK AHEAD 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 Whatever you do in this wonderful world, 
 
 In business, in church, or at play; 
 Whatever of gain or of loss you have met 
 With the others who go your way, 
 Keep out of the past 
 From the first to the last, 
 
 [386] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 And away from its worries stay; 
 The present has wealth you would never suspect, 
 If prudent you are, and wisely elect 
 
 To live in the light of to-day. 
 
 The things that are past did very well once; 
 
 To-day they are rusty and stale. 
 That trouble you had with your fellow man — 
 
 Did you struggle in vain and fail ? 
 What of it, indeed ? 
 There is aU the more need 
 
 That you start on a different trail. 
 Don't take to the woods whatever you do, 
 Just look right ahead; there's a fortune for you 
 
 In keeping a weU-trimmed saU. 
 
 So cramped can we be in our mental states. 
 
 So burdened with might-have-beens, 
 That life will become a woful waste 
 
 For its many outs and ins. 
 But stop and reflect 
 You will never be wrecked 
 
 By your own or another's sins. 
 If the past you will keep in its proper place 
 And meet what is yours with a candid face — 
 
 'Tis the man of to-day who wins. 
 
 387 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 MOTHER'S FOOL 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 " 'Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife, 
 " These boys will make their mark in hfe; 
 They were never made to handle a hoe. 
 And at once to a college ought to go; 
 There's Fred, he's little better than a fool. 
 But John and Henry must go to school." 
 
 " Well, really, wife," quoth Farmer Brown, 
 As he sat his mug of cider down, 
 " Fred does more work in a day for me 
 Than both his brothers do in three. 
 Book larnin' will never plant one's corn, 
 Nor hoe potatoes, sure's you're born. 
 Nor mend a rod of broken fence — 
 For my part give me common sense." 
 
 But his wife was bound the roost to rule. 
 And John and Henry were sent to school. 
 While Fred, of course, was left behind 
 Because his mother said he had no mind. 
 
 Five years at school the students spent; 
 Then into business each one went. 
 John learned to play the flute and fiddle, 
 And parted his hair, of course, in the middle; 
 While his brother looked rather higher than he, 
 And hung out a sign, " H. Brown, M. D," 
 
 [3881 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Meanwhile, at home, their brother Fred 
 Had taken a notion into his head; 
 But he quietly trimmed his apple trees, 
 And weeded onions and planted peas. 
 While somehow or other, by hook or crook, 
 He managed to read full many a book. 
 Until at last his father said 
 He was getting " book larnin' " into his head; 
 " But for all that," added Farmer Brown, 
 " He's the smartest boy there is in town." 
 
 The war broke out and Captain Fred 
 
 A hundred men to battle led. 
 
 And when the rebel flag came down, 
 
 Went marching home as General Brown. 
 
 But he went to work on the farm again. 
 
 And planted corn and sowed his grain; 
 
 He shingled the barn and mended the fence. 
 
 Till people declared he had common sense. 
 
 Now, common sense was very rare. 
 And the State House needed a portion there; 
 And his brothers, who went to the city school. 
 Came home to live with " mother's fool." 
 
 389 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 [Found in the knapsack of a soldier of tlie Civil War after he had 
 been slain in battle.] 
 
 , Near the camp-fire's flickering light, 
 
 In my blanket bed I lie, 
 Gazing through the shades of night 
 
 And the twinkling stars on high; 
 O'er me spirits in the air 
 
 Silent vigils seem to keep, 
 As I breathe my childhood's prayer, 
 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep." 
 
 Sadly sings the whip-poor-will 
 
 In the boughs of yonder tree; 
 Laughingly the dancing rill 
 
 Swells the midnight melody. 
 Foemen may be lurking near, 
 
 In the canon dark and deep; 
 Low I breathe in Jesus' ear: 
 
 " I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep." 
 
 'Mid those stars one face I see — 
 
 One the Saviour turned away — 
 Mother, who in infancy 
 
 Taught my baby lips to pray; 
 Her sweet spirit hovers near 
 
 In this lonely mountain-brake. 
 Take me to her Saviour dear 
 
 " If I should die before I wake." 
 
 [3901 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Fainter grows the flickering light, 
 
 As each ember slowly dies; 
 Plaintively the birds of night 
 
 Fill the air with sad'ning cries; 
 Over me they seem to cry : 
 
 " You may never more awake." 
 Low I lisp: " If I should die, 
 
 I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take." 
 
 Now I lay me dow^n to sleep; 
 
 I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to keep. 
 
 If I should die before I wake, 
 
 I pray Thee, Lord, my soul to take. 
 
 THE OLD SONGS 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 These ragtime songs they're singin' now may be the 
 
 proper thing. 
 But they don't hit me like the songs us youngsters 
 
 used to sing. 
 I never hear no ragtime songs, no matter where I roam. 
 Kin makes the heartstrings quiver like "My Old 
 
 Kentucky Home." 
 "Lorena" was another song that aU our heartstrings 
 
 wrung 
 Around at social gatherin's when us old folks was 
 
 young. 
 
 We'd "Wait Fer the Wagon," an' we'd tell of "Nellie 
 Gray," 
 
 [ 391 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 An' "Oh, Susannah" 'd get her turn, an' likewise 
 
 "Old Dog Tray"; 
 An' "Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground," we'd sing 
 
 that by the hour. 
 Then, feelin' sad, we'd finish with "A Little Faded 
 
 Flower." 
 Them were the songs that 'round our hearts the spell 
 
 o' music flung, 
 Them were the songs that people sang when us old 
 
 folks was young. 
 
 We knowed some operatic songs as well as these, b'gee! 
 "The Heart Bowed Down," likewise its mate, "Then 
 
 You'll Remember Me." 
 An' when we tired of opery and simpler things we'd try 
 An' make the rafters fairly ring with "Comin' Thro' 
 
 the Rye." 
 Oh, you kin have your ragtime songs; gimme the songs 
 
 they sung 
 Around at social gatherin's when us old folks was 
 
 young. 
 
 ROCK OF AGES 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, 
 
 Fell the words unconsciously 
 From her girlish, gleeful tongue; 
 
 Sang as little children sing; 
 Sang as sing the birds of June: 
 
 r 392 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Fell the words like light leaves down, 
 On the current of the tune — 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 
 'Twas a woman sung them now, 
 Pleadingly and prayerfully, 
 
 Every word her heart did know; 
 Rose the song as storm-tossed bird 
 
 Beats with weary wing the air, 
 Every note with sorrow stirred, 
 
 Every syllable a prayer — 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 
 Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
 Trustingly and tenderly. 
 
 Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim, 
 " Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 Trembling though the voice, and low, 
 Rose the sweet strain peacefully, 
 
 Like a river in its flow; 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 
 Who life's thorny path have passed; 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 
 Who behold the promised rest — 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me, 
 
 Let me hide m.yself in thee. " 
 
 [393] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " Rock of ages, cleft for me," 
 
 Sung above a coffin Ud; 
 I'^nderneath, all restfuUy, 
 
 All life's joys and sorrows hid. 
 Nevermore, oh storm-tossed soul, 
 
 Nevermore from wind or tide. 
 Never more from billow's roll 
 
 Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 
 Could the sightless, sunken eyes, 
 
 Closed beneath the soft gray hair, 
 Could the mute and stiffened lips 
 
 Move again in pleading prayer, 
 Still, aye still, the words would be — 
 " Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 "SING US A SONG" 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 " Come, sing us a song — a hot one, too! 
 
 (And fill each glass again,) 
 And, merry and bright, we'll pass the night 
 
 In the joys of manly men. 
 
 " What care we for a woman's tears, 
 Or childhood's frightened cry? 
 
 Come, tickle the harp! Let critics carp, 
 And long-haired cynics sigh." 
 
 The harper swept, with an airy touch, 
 
 Each true and trusted string. 
 And the bitter tears of other years 
 
 To his notes seemed answering: 
 
 [3941 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 " I romped in the meadows, 
 Made love in the shadows; 
 
 I waded the eddying streams, 
 I basked in the glory 
 Of youth's bright story 
 
 And sweet was the joy of my dreams — 
 Oh, 
 
 Sweet was the joy of my dreams. 
 
 " Song birds were singing, 
 Yoimg hope was springing — 
 
 But, sweetest of music to me, 
 Was that voice in the gloaming, 
 When, weary with roaming, 
 
 I knelt at my mother's knee — 
 Oh, 
 
 I knelt at my mother's knee " 
 
 " Ah, bosh on your sentimental drone! 
 
 (Fill the glasses up again!) 
 Away with the grave, but sing us a stave 
 
 For the laughter of merry men! " 
 
 But the harper tenderly swept the strings 
 And his soft voice fell once more 
 
 Like an elfin strain, borne o'er the plain. 
 Or a sigh from a distant shore: 
 
 Though loyalty fadeth, 
 Though envy upbraideth, 
 
 The years bring the solace to me — 
 
 [3951 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 There's a friendship unshaken, 
 A friend ne'er forsaken 
 
 I met at my mother's knee — 
 Oh, 
 
 I met at my mother's knee " 
 
 " Come, cheer our hearts with a hveher song 
 
 (No, boys, that wasn't a tear; 
 It was only the fleck of a tiny speck 
 
 From the top of the foaming beer). 
 
 " But the air seems close, and foul, and hot, 
 And the drinks have bitter grown — 
 
 And I feel the thought in my brain inwrought 
 Of a mother, at home — alone. 
 
 " So, harper, give us the song once more — 
 Those same sweet words again — 
 
 For it fills the air with a mother's pray'r, 
 And makes us holier men." 
 
 THE TEACHER'S DIADEM 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the 
 
 Sabbath's care; 
 Weary with the Sabbath's burdens, that she dearly 
 
 loves to bear; 
 For she sees a shining pathway, and she gladly presses 
 
 396 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 'Tis the first Great Teacher's footprints — it will lead 
 
 where He has gone; 
 With a hand that's never faltered, with a love that's 
 
 ne'er grown dim, 
 Long and faithfully she's labored, to His fold the lambs 
 
 to bring. 
 
 But to-night her soul grows heavy; through the closed 
 
 lids fall the tears. 
 As the children pass before her, that she's taught these 
 
 many years; 
 And she cries in bitter anguish: " Shall not one to me 
 
 be given. 
 To shine upon my coronet amid the hosts of heaven! 
 Hear my prayer to-night, my Saviour, in Thy glorious 
 
 home above; 
 Give to me some little token — some approval of Thy 
 
 love." 
 
 Ere the words were scarcely uttered, banishing the 
 
 evening gloom, 
 Came a soft and shining radiance, brightening all 
 
 within the room; 
 And an angel in white raiment, brighter than the morn-' 
 
 ing sun, 
 Stood before her, pointing upward, while he softly 
 
 whispered, " Come." 
 As he paused, she heard the rustle of his starry pinions 
 
 bright. 
 And she quickly rose and followed, out into the stilly 
 
 night; 
 
 [397] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Up above the dim blue ether; up above the silver 
 
 stars; 
 On, beyond the golden portals; through the open 
 
 pearly doors; 
 Far across the sea of crystal, to the shining sapphire 
 
 Tlirone, 
 Where she heard amid the chorus, " Welcome, child; 
 
 thy work's well done." 
 Surely 'tis her Saviour speaking; 'tis His hands, aye, 
 
 'tis His feet; 
 And she cries: " Enough! I've seen Him; all my joys 
 
 are now complete." 
 
 All forgot earth's care and sorrow; all forgot the 
 
 starry crown; 
 'Twas enough e'en to be near Him; to behold Him on 
 
 His Throne. 
 " Not enough," the Saviour answered; " thou wouldst 
 
 know through all these years. 
 If in vain has been thy teaching, all thy labor and thy 
 
 prayers; 
 That from thee the end was hidden, did thy faith in 
 
 me grow less ? 
 Thou hast asked some little token, I will grant thee 
 
 thy request." 
 
 From out a golden casket, inlaid with many a gem. 
 He took — glist'ning with countless jewels — a regal 
 
 diadem; 
 Bright a name shone in each jewel, names of many 
 
 scholars dear, 
 
 [398] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Who she thought had passed unheeded all her earnest 
 
 thought and care. 
 " But," she asked, " how came these names here — 
 
 names I never saw before ? " 
 And the Saviour smiling answered, " 'Tis the fruit 
 
 thy teachings bore; 
 
 " 'Tis the seed thy love hath planted, tended by my 
 
 faithful hand; 
 Though unseen by thee, it's budded, blossoming in 
 
 many lands. 
 Here are names from darkened Egypt, names from 
 
 Afric's desert sands; 
 Names from isles amid the ocean, names from India's 
 
 sunny strands; 
 Some from Greenland's frozen mountains, some from 
 
 burning tropic plains; 
 From where'er man's found a dwelling, here you'll 
 
 find some chosen name. 
 When thine eartlily mission's ended, that in love to 
 
 thee was given, 
 This is the crown of thy rejoicing, that awaits thee 
 
 here in heaven." 
 
 Suddenly the bright light faded; all was dark within 
 
 the room; 
 And she sat amid the shadows of the Sabbath evening 
 
 gloom; 
 But a peaceful, holy incense rested on her soul like 
 
 dew; 
 Though the end from her was hidden, to her Master 
 
 she'd be true; 
 
 [399] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Sowing seed at morn and even, pausing not to count 
 
 the gain; 
 If her bread was on the waters, God would give it 
 
 back again; 
 If the harvest she had toiled for other hands than hers 
 
 should reap, 
 He'd repay her for her labor, who had bade her, 
 
 " Feed my sheep." 
 
 ALTRUISM 
 
 AUTHOR UNKNOWN 
 
 This poem was discovered by Mr. George Morgan, of the bank- 
 ing firm of Morgan, Drexel & Co., in a country newspaper. He 
 carried it in his pocket for five years, occasionally reading it to hia 
 friends. Inquiries for copies of it were so frequent that he finally 
 had it printed for distribution. 
 
 If you have a friend worth loving, 
 Love him. Yes, and let him know 
 
 That you love him, ere life's evening 
 Tinge his brow with sunset glow. 
 
 Why should good words ne'er be said 
 
 Of a friend tUl he is dead ? 
 
 If you hear a song that thrills you, 
 
 Sung by any child of song. 
 Praise it. Do not let the singer 
 
 Wait deserved praises long. 
 Why should one who thrills your heart 
 Lack the joy you may impart ? 
 
 If you hear a prayer that moves you 
 By its humble, pleading tone, 
 
 [400] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Join it. Do not let the seeker 
 
 Bow before its God alone. 
 Why should not your brother share 
 The strength of " two or three " in prayer? 
 
 If you see the hot tears falling 
 From a brother's weeping eyes, 
 
 Share them. And by kindly sharing 
 Own our kinship in the skies. 
 
 Why should any one be glad 
 
 When a brother's heart is sad ? 
 
 If a silvery laugh goes rippling 
 Through the sunshine on his face, 
 
 Share it. 'Tis the wise man's saying — 
 For both grief and joy a place. 
 
 There's health and goodness in the mirth 
 
 In which an honest laugh has birth. 
 
 If your work is made more easy 
 
 By a friendly, helping hand. 
 Say so. Speak out brave and truly 
 
 Ere the darkness veil the land. 
 Should a brother workman dear 
 Falter for a word of cheer ? 
 
 Scatter thus your seeds of kindness 
 
 All enriching as you go — 
 Leave them. Trust the Harvest Giver; 
 
 He will make each seed to grow. 
 So, until the happy end. 
 Your life shall never lack a friend. 
 [4011 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 AN ANGRY ANARCHIST 
 
 BY AN UNKNOWN AUTHOR IN LONDON TIT-BITS 
 
 Oh, he preached it from the housetops and he whispered 
 
 it by stealth; 
 He wrote whole miles of stuff against the awful curse 
 
 of wealth. 
 He shouted for the poor man, and he called the rich 
 
 man down; 
 He roasted every king and queen who dared to wear 
 
 a crown. 
 He clamored for rebellion, and he said he'd lead a band 
 To exterminate the millionaires and sweep them from 
 
 the land. 
 He yelled against monopolists, their power he'd defy. 
 And swore he'd be an anarchist and blow them to the 
 
 sky. 
 He stormed, he fumed, and ranted, till he made the 
 
 rich men wince, 
 But an uncle left him money, and he hasn't shouted 
 
 since. 
 
 402 
 
A CONDENSED BIOGRAPHICAL 
 
 DICTIONARY OF AUTHORS 
 
 REPRESENTED 
 
A CONDENSED BIOGRAPHICAL DIC- 
 TIONARY OF AUTHORS REPRESENTED 
 
 ADAMS, CHARLES FOLLEN (1842). Born at Dor- 
 chester, Massachusetts. He was graduated from the 
 common schools into the stern curriculum of war, serv- 
 ing as a soldier in the 13th Massachusetts Infantry. In 
 1872 he began contributing to various periodicals humor- 
 ous poems in the German dialect. These poems he after- 
 ward collected and published in various books, the first 
 of which was Leedle Yawcob Strauss, and Other Poems. 
 
 ADAMS, JOHN QUINCY (1767-1848). Born at 
 Braintree, Massachusetts, the son of John Adams, second 
 President of the United States. He was graduated from 
 Harvard in 1787 and, after admission to the bar, entered 
 into Government service and after three years' incumbency 
 of a professorship at Harvard in rhetoric and belles- 
 lettres was appointed Minister to Russia, and then Min- 
 ister to Great Britain. Returning to America he became 
 Secretary of State under President Monroe, and succeeded 
 him in the Presidency. 
 
 AKERS, ELIZABETH ANN (1832). Born in 
 Strong, Maine. At the age of fifteen she began to con- 
 tribute articles to the press under the name of Florence 
 Percy. Later, her work appeared in the Atlantic Monthly; 
 in 1874 she became literary editor of the Daily Advertiser 
 of Portland, Maine. Her fame rests on the poem "Rock 
 Me to Sleep, Mother," which was first pubUshed in the 
 
 [405] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Saturday Evening Post of Philadelphia. It immediately 
 became popular, and there were many claimants to its 
 authorship. 
 
 ARNOLD, (SIR) EDWIN (1832-1904). Born at 
 Gravesend, Sussex, England. He received a most thor- 
 ough education at King's College, London, and at Oxford 
 University, where he won the Newdigate Prize for poetry. 
 In 1856 he was appointed Principal of the Government 
 Deccan College, Poona, India, where he came to know the 
 East, which was to form the subject of his later work. 
 In 1861 he returned to England and turned his attention 
 to journaUsm, in which he was very successful, becoming 
 the editor of the London Telegraph. His best known 
 works are The Light of Asia (1879), Pearls of the Faith 
 (1883), The Light of the World (1891), and The Tenth Muse 
 (1895). His work achieved immediate and widespread 
 popularity, securing him a permanent place among Eng- 
 Ush poets. 
 
 AYTON, SIR ROBERT (1570-1638). A Scottish 
 poet and courtier, knighted by James I. Dry den pro- 
 nounced his verses "some of the best of his age." 
 
 BABCOCK, MALTBIE DAVENPORT (1858-1901). 
 Born at Syracuse, New York. He was graduated from 
 Syracuse University with the highest honors. Entering 
 the Presbyterian ministry he quickly achieved a reputa- 
 tion for oratory. He wrote a number of fugitive poems, 
 of Emersonian quality, and several hymns of unusual 
 spiritual beauty. 
 
 BARBAULD, ANNA LETITIA AIKEN (1743-1825). 
 Born in Leicestershire, England. She wrote a number 
 
 [4061 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 of books in verse and prose, of which Poems, published in 
 1773, was the first, and her Hymns in Rhyme, pubUshed 
 long after her death, was the best. 
 
 BARR, AMELIA EDITH (HUDDLESTON) 
 
 (1831). Bom at Ulverston, Lancashire, England, and 
 educated at Glasgow High School. Upon her marriage 
 in 1850 to Robert Barr, she moved to Texas, where her 
 husband and three sons died of yellow fever in 1867. 
 In 1869 she gave her attention to fiction. She has written 
 more than thirty novels, the first being Jan Vedder's 
 Wife. She has also written a number of poems which 
 have achieved a popularity scarcely less than that of her 
 fiction, 
 
 BOKER, GEORGE HENRY (182.3-1890). Ameri- 
 can diplomat. Wrote several dramas and several volumes 
 of poems. His dramas combine poetic merit with adap- 
 tability for acting. 
 
 BROOKS, PHILLIPS (1835-1893). Born in Bos- 
 ton, Massachusetts. After graduating from Harvard he 
 entered the EpiscopaMan ministry. He was rector suc- 
 cessively of two churches in Philadelphia, and of Trinity 
 Church, Boston, where, until his death, he enjoyed the 
 reputation of being the most eloquent and influential 
 divine in his denomination. He wrote a number of books 
 fitted with the inspirational quality which distinguished 
 his sermons, and one poem, that which appears in this 
 volume, which is beloved by Christians of all denomina- 
 tions. 
 
 BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT (1806- 
 1861). Born at Coxhoe Hall, Durham. She received a 
 very thorough education at home, especially in the 
 
 [4071 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 classics, a deep love for which is very evident in her 
 poems. While still very young she received an injury to 
 her spine from which she never fully recovered. As early 
 as 1826 she began to publish poems, at first anonymously, 
 but later under her own name. In 1845 she met Robert 
 Browning, whom she later married, living in Italy for the 
 remaining years of her life. Her best poems are "The 
 Sonnets from the Portuguese," which are for the most 
 part a revelation of her own love story, and "Aurora 
 Leigh," a love romance in verse. Mrs. Bro^vning is gen- 
 erally considered the greatest of English poetesses, her 
 works being tender and delicate, yet strong and deep in 
 thought. 
 
 BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-1889). Born at 
 Camberwell, England. Both of his parents, being people 
 of education, encouraged their son from his earliest years 
 in intellectual pursuits. At the age of twelve he had 
 already written some poems, though these were not pub- 
 lished. His first real work was " Pauline," which appeared 
 anonymously in 1833. Recognition came but slowly 
 despite his many works, his subjects being too recondite 
 and his manner of treatment too intricate to interest 
 the great number of readers. He wrote several dramas, 
 none of which, excepting "A Blot on the 'Scutcheon" 
 (1843), ever enjoyed any success on the stage. Browning 
 is most generally known for a few of his shorter poems, as 
 "Evelyn Hope," "A Death in the Desert," and "The Pied 
 Piper of Hamelin." He received many distinctions dur- 
 ing his lifetime, and on his death was buried in West- 
 minster Abbey. 
 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN (1794-1878). 
 Born at Cummington, Massachusetts, of old Puritan stock. 
 He spent one year at Williams College. In 1817 his poem 
 
 [4081 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 "Thanatopsis," written at the age of nineteen, appeared 
 in the North American Review, and was greeted as the first 
 truly great American poem. He led a very active life, 
 being a successful lawyer, and later gained fame as a 
 journalist in New York, becoming the editor of the 
 Evening Post. Bryant's best known poems are "To a 
 Water Fowl," "The Rivulet," "The West Wind," and 
 "The Forest Hymn." His translations of the "Iliad" 
 and "Odyssey" into blank verse are considered among 
 the best renditions of Homer. 
 
 BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796). Born of Scotch 
 peasant stock near Ayr. His father was unfortunate in 
 all his business enterprises, and upon his death, the poet 
 experienced similar difficulties. When in desperation he 
 was on the point of leaving Scotland for the West Indies, 
 some friends dissuaded him, and suggested he publish his 
 poems. These appeared in 1786, but, although very suc- 
 cessful, the poet gained little from them financially. On 
 several occasions he was offered remunerative positions, 
 but refused as he did not wish to leave his native country- 
 side. Burns is to-day the most widely read of all British 
 and American poets. He excelled in short lyrical flights 
 of song, which ring so sincere as to touch every heart. 
 "Other poets," says Alfred Austin, "may be the favorites 
 of a class or clique; Bums is the favorite of the whole 
 world." The secret of this universal favor is to be found 
 in the fact that he was born in a lowly condition of life, 
 close to our mother earth, and gave utterance to the rudi- 
 mentary sentiments, the abiding sorrows, and the con- 
 stant yearnings of human nature. 
 
 BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, 6th LORD (1788- 
 1824) . Born in London. He received a thorough education, 
 
 [ 409 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 culminating with the Master of Arts degree received after 
 three years' study at Cambridge. He travelled exten- 
 sively for two years in the Mediterranean countries, and, 
 returning to London, wove the impressions of his tour into 
 an heroic poem called "Childe Harold." He married in 
 1815, and, a year later, after the birth of a daughter, was 
 separated from his wife. He lived much abroad, writing 
 voluminously: dramatic, narrative, descriptive, and lyrical 
 poems; notably, "Don Juan," "The Corsair," and 
 "Manfred." He espoused the cause of Greek liberty, 
 raising troops and leading them against the Turks. He 
 died of fever at Missolonghi, Greece. 
 
 CAMPBELL, THOMAS (1777-1844). Born at 
 Glasgow, Scotland, and educated at Glasgow University. 
 While still a student he published his first poem, "The 
 Pleasures of Hope," which achieved a great success. 
 Although he wrote several other longer poems his fame 
 does not rest on these, but on his patriotic and war lyrics, 
 such as "Ye Mariners of England," " Hohenlinden, " and 
 "The Battle of the Baltic." Campbell also gained fame 
 as a distinguished literary critic. 
 
 CAREY, HENRY (1685 or 1692-1743). Birthplace 
 unknown. He died in London. He is said to have been 
 the natural son of George Savile, Marquis of HaUfax. 
 He wrote many musical dramas and over one hundred 
 musical ballads which were popular in their time. Of the 
 ballads "Sally in our Alley" is the most famous. His 
 son George Savile Carey claimed that Henry Carey com- 
 posed "God Save the King," the national air of the 
 British Empire, but the melody is probably older than his 
 time. He probably arranged and altered it, singing it for 
 the first time in pubUc. 
 
 [410] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 CARSON, NORMA BRIGHT (1883). Born at 
 Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and educated in the public 
 schools of that city. Married Robert Carson in 1906. 
 Published The Dream Child and Other Poems and From 
 Irish Castles to French Chateaux. 
 
 CARY, ALICE (1820-1871). Born near Cincinnati, 
 Ohio. When quite young she began writing poems and 
 sketches for the press. In 1850 she and her sister Phoebe 
 published a volume of their poems. In 1852 the sisters 
 removed to New York City, where they lived the rest of 
 their lives. AUce also published a number of novels. 
 
 CARY, PHCEBE (1824-1871). Born in Cincinnati, 
 Ohio, and died in Newport, Rhode Island (see biography 
 of Alice Cary, her sister). 
 
 COOPER, GEORGE (1840). Born in New York 
 City and educated in its public schools. After prac- 
 tising law a brief time, he abandoned it for the pursuit 
 of literature, contributing to the leading magazines. 
 His poems, especially those for children, were widely 
 admired for their pure sentiment and felicitous expression. 
 He has written much verse for music. 
 
 COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800). Born at Great 
 Berkhampstead Rectory, England, the son of a clergyman. 
 Educated at Westminster School. He studied law and 
 was appointed Commissioner of Bankrupts. Weakly 
 from a child, he had in manhood periodical attacks of 
 insanity. He died and was buried in Dereham, Norfolk. 
 He wrote much verse, "The Task" being his longest poem. 
 He also translated the "lUad" and "Odyssey" of Homer. 
 
 COZZENS, FREDERICK SWARTWOUT (1818- 
 1869). Born in New York City, the son of a prosperous 
 
 [4111 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 merchant, who gave him an excellent education. He 
 adopted literature as a pastime and soon became noted as 
 a humorist, both in prose and verse. His sketches, pub- 
 lished in book form under the title of The Sparrowgrass 
 Papers, had an enormous circulation. He died suddenly 
 in Brooklyn. 
 
 DALY, THOMAS AUGUSTINE (1871). Born at 
 Philadelphia, educated at Villanova College and Fordham 
 University. Since 1908 General Manager Catholic Stand- 
 ard and Times. Has published two books of verse, Can- 
 zoni and Carmina. 
 
 DICKENS, CHARLES (1812-1870). Born at 
 Landport, Portsea, England. His father was unsuccess- 
 ful in business, being arrested for debt when Charles was 
 ten years of age, and the boy's education was sadly 
 neglected. He worked at small jobs, teaching himself 
 shorthand at night, and at the age of nineteen became 
 Parliamentary reporter for a newspaper. Two years later 
 he began contributing papers to various periodicals; 
 these attracted considerable attention and were collected 
 and published under the title of Sketches of Boz. Boz 
 being a family soubriquet derived from the pet name of 
 Mose or Moses. Pickwick Papers, his first extended 
 work, was published in 1837 and established his reputa- 
 tion as a writer of a new order of fiction, whose distinguish- 
 ing characteristic was delineation of unique characters. 
 In almost yearly succession until his death he produced 
 the novels which remain to-day the most popular works 
 of English fiction. He twice visited America, in 1842 and 
 in 1867, giving readings from his works, which were even 
 more popular here than at home. He also wrote a number 
 of successful plays, and founded two magazines of great 
 
 [4121 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 popularity — Household Words and All the Year Round. 
 He was buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 DORR, JULIA CAROLINE (RIPLEY) (1825). Born 
 at Charleston, South Carolina. Becoming motherless in 
 infancy, her father took her to Vermont, where she was 
 educated. She married Seneca M. Dorr of New York. 
 Subsequent to his death in 1884 she removed to Ver- 
 mont, where she now resides. She is the author of a 
 number of novels and books of verse. 
 
 DOWNING, FANNIE (MURDAUGH) (1835-1894). 
 In 1851 she married Charles W. Downing, secretary of the 
 State of Florida. She wrote several volumes of verse 
 under her own name and the pseudonyms of "Viola" and 
 Frank Dashmore. Her poems show power, combined 
 with scholarship. 
 
 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN (1795-1820). Born 
 at New York. He received a purely scientific education 
 and became a physician. He published one volume of 
 poems which was very popular, especially the poems "The 
 Culprit Fay" and "The American Flag." His early death 
 was caused by consumption. He was buried at Hunt's 
 Point, now in the Borough of the Bronx, New York City. 
 
 DUFFERIN, HELEN SELENA (SHERIDAN), 
 COUNTESS OF (1807-1867) . Granddaughter of Richard 
 Brinsley Sheridan. She shared the family talent and 
 wrote a good deal of verse, her best known piece being 
 perhaps "The Lament of the Irish Emigrant," which is 
 included in this volume. 
 
 DWIGHT, JOHN SULLIVAN (1813-1893). Born 
 in Boston, Massachusetts. He was educated at Harvard 
 University and prepared for the ministry at the Harvard 
 
 [413] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Divinitj' School. Leaving the ministry, he joined the 
 Brook Farm community. Here he edited the musical 
 department of the Harbinger, the organ of the community. 
 Upon the failure of the experiment, he continued his work 
 as musical critic in Boston. He wrote verse, as well as 
 composed music, with facility and grace. 
 
 ELIOT, GEORGE, pseudonym of Mrs. Mary Ann 
 (Evans) Cross (1819-1880). Born near Nuneaton, War- 
 wickshire, England, and lived quietly at home until her 
 father's death in 1849. She began her hterary career with 
 translations and various short articles in the Westminster 
 Review. She later became an assistant editor of this paper, in 
 which capacity she was thrown into the society of George 
 Henry Lewes, a prominent journahst and philosopher, with 
 whom she entered into an irregular connection because 
 by a legal technicality he was prohibited from divorcing 
 his wife, though she had eloped with another man. En- 
 couraged by Lewes she began to write fiction, and her first 
 novel, The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. Amos Barton, appeared 
 in 1857. Many others followed, of which the best known 
 are Adam Bede, Silas Marner, Middlemarch, and Daniel 
 Deronda. Her poetical works are "The Spanish Gipsy," 
 "Agatha," "The Legend of Jubal," and "Armgart." Mr. 
 Lewes died in 1878, and in 1880 George Eliot married John 
 Walter Cross. She died eight months afterward, in the 
 same year. George Ehot was more successful in fiction 
 than in verse. Edmund Clarence Stedman said: "A little 
 poem in blank verse, entitled 'O May I Join the Choir 
 Invisible ! ' and setting forth her conception of the religion 
 of humanity, is worth all the rest of her poetry, for it is the 
 outburst of an exalted soul foregoing personal immortality 
 and compensated by a vision of the growth and happiness 
 of the human race." 
 
 [4141 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO (1803-1882). Born at 
 Boston, Massachusetts. He entered Harvard University 
 in 1817 and, after passing through the usual course there, 
 studied for the ministry, to which he was ordained in 1827. 
 He resigned from the ministry in 1832 and visited Europe, 
 where he met many eminent men and formed a Ufe-Iong 
 friendship with Carlyle. On his return in 1834 he settled 
 at Concord and took up lecturing. He was regarded as 
 the leader of the transcendentalists and was one of the 
 chief contributors to their organ The Dial. In 1847 he 
 paid a second visit to England and dehvered a course of 
 lectures in England and Scotland on "Representative 
 Men" which he subsequently published. His works were 
 collected in eleven volumes and include Essays (two series). 
 Conduct of Life, Society and Solitude, Natural History of 
 Intellect, and Poems. He was a man of singular elevation 
 and purity of character. 
 
 FIELD, EUGENE (1850-1895). Born at St. Louis, 
 Missouri. After a varied experience as a journalist in the 
 Far West, he settled down to newspaper work in Chicago. 
 By his poems and tales in the press of that city, especially 
 those relating to children, he achieved national fame. 
 He was also very happy in his translations and travesties 
 of Horace. 
 
 Of him William Cranston Lawton says, in his Intro- 
 duction to the Study of American Literature: "Field utters 
 the very heart secrets of boyhood as not even Riley or 
 Stevenson can do. Wynken, Blynken and Nod became 
 long ago a kindergarten classic. His echoes of Horace 
 are not mere irreverent travesties, but seize the very 
 essence of the thought, and render it in the most start- 
 lingly up-to-date English, spiced both with current slang 
 and with Field's own invented idioms." 
 
 [415] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS (1816-1881). Born in 
 Portsmouth, New Hampshire. He became a pubUsher 
 and editor, being one of the founders of the firm of Osgood, 
 Ticknor, Fields and Company, and the editor of the 
 Atlantic Monthly. He published a number of volumes 
 of biography and criticism, and of original verse, and 
 edited, with Edwin P. Whipple, the critic The Family 
 Library of British Poetry. 
 
 FINCH, FRANCIS MILES (1827-1907). Born at 
 Ithaca, New York. He was graduated with honors from 
 Yale, where he had achieved a reputation as a writer of 
 college songs. He promoted the establishment of Cornell 
 University at Ithaca. His most noted poem is "The Blue 
 and the Gray," published in 1867 in the Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 FOSS, SAM WALTER (1858). Born at Candia, New 
 Hampshire. After his graduation from Brown University 
 he became an editor and a contributor to magazines, 
 chiefly of humorous verse, tinged with philosophy. 
 
 FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS (1826-1864). 
 Born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Educated at Cannons- 
 burg College, Pennsylvania. He taught himself music 
 and, at the age of seventeen, while in employment at 
 Louisville, Kentucky, began publishing songs, which 
 speedily became popular all over the country. In 1854 
 he married, and removed to New York City, where, in 
 rapid succession, he published the songs which made him 
 world famous; such as, "Old Kentucky Home," "Massa's 
 in the Cold, Cold Ground," and "Way Down upon the 
 Swanee River." Altogether he wrote about one hundred 
 and fifty songs, one-fourth of which were negro melodies. 
 In 1861 he wrote his last song, "Old Black Joe." 
 
 [416] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 FRENCH, L. VIRGINIA (SMITH) (1830-1881). 
 Born in Frederick County, Virginia. She received an ex- 
 cellent education, and established a school in Memphis, 
 Tennessee. Under the name of "L'Inconnue" [the un- 
 known] she contributed articles to various magazines, 
 which won for her a literary reputation. In 1852 she 
 became associate editor of the Southern Ladies^ Book of 
 New Orleans. In 1856 Mrs. French published her poems 
 under the title of Wind Whispers. She also wrote a series 
 of metrical Legends of the South, and a tragedy. Later 
 she became editor of The Crusader of Atlanta, Georgia. 
 
 GOLDSMITH, OLIVER (1728-1774). Born at 
 Pallasmore, Longford, Ireland. He received an excellent 
 education, and he studied for several professions, but 
 never followed any, being rejected as a clergyman, and 
 failing as a physician. He led a rather wild and vagrant 
 life, travelling extensively. In 1757, after a long trip 
 abroad on the continent, he went to London, where he 
 remained during the rest of his life. While here he 
 became associated with the famous circle of which Samuel 
 Johnson was the dictator. Goldsmith has treated every 
 field of literature, history, drama, fiction, essays, and verse. 
 The four great works for which he is famous are She Stoops 
 to Conquer, a comedy; The Vicar of Wakefield, a novel; 
 and The Traveller and The Deserted Village, poems. 
 
 GRAY, THOMAS (1716-1771). Born in London. 
 Educated at Eton and Cambridge, in which university 
 he spent his life as a Fellow-Commoner and Professor, 
 teaching history and the modern languages. He died at 
 Cambridge, and was buried at Stoke-Pogis in the grave- 
 yard which has therefore been identified with the "Coun- 
 try Churchyard" of his famous elegy. General Wolfe, 
 
 [4171 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 on the evening before the battle of Quebec, repeated the 
 poem to his ofRcers, and, as he concluded, said: "I would 
 prefer being the author of that poem to the glory of beat- 
 ing the French to-morrow." 
 
 GREENE, ALBERT GORTON (1802-1868). 
 Born in Providence, Rhode Island. Upon graduation 
 from Brown University, he studied law. He took a great 
 interest in hterature, in particular making a collection 
 of American poetry, which formed the nucleus of the 
 great collection on that subject now in Brown Univer- 
 sity. His own poems, of which he wrote a number and 
 which became popular selections for recitation, were never 
 pubUshed in collected form. 
 
 GUINEY, LOUISE IMOGEN (1861). Bom at Bos- 
 ton, Massachusetts. After receiving an excellent educa- 
 tion, she began contributing to various magazines. She 
 is the author of a number of volumes of verse and prose 
 and the editor of several critical works. She resides in 
 Oxford, England. 
 
 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE (1790-1867). Born at 
 Guilford, Connecticut. In collaboration with Joseph 
 Rodman Drake he wrote The Crocker Papers (1819). 
 A few years later he visited Europe, and the traces of 
 this visit are discernible in his subsequent poems. Hal- 
 leck's works were very popular during his lifetime, but 
 with a few exceptions are now little read. 
 
 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET (1839-1902). Born at 
 Albany, New York. While still a boy he went to Cali- 
 fornia, where he had a rather checkered career as a teacher, 
 miner, and journalist. Later he became a United States 
 consul, first at Crefeld, Germany, and then at Glasgow, 
 
 [4181 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Scotland. In 1885 he went to London, and supported 
 himself by his pen until his death. Harte is best known 
 for his realistic and striking stories of Western Ufe. His 
 poems have enjoyed great popularity because of their 
 rich vein of humor. Edmund Clarence Stedman, in his 
 Poets of America, said of Harte's verse: "Like the rhyming 
 of his master, Thackeray, it is the overflow of a rare 
 genius, whose work must be counted among the treasures 
 of the language. Mr. Harte may be termed the founder, 
 and thus far has been the most briUiant exemplar, of our 
 transcontinental school." 
 
 HAY, JOHN (1838-1905). Born at Salem, Indiana. 
 Graduated from Brown University. Shortly after his 
 admission to the bar he became private secretary to 
 President Lincoln, whose life he later wrote in conjunction 
 with John G. Nicolay, another secretary of the President. 
 He entered into the diplomatic service, becoming in time 
 Ambassador to England. He was Secretary of State 
 under President McKinley and President Roosevelt. 
 His most notable literary work is Pike County Ballads, 
 a Uttle book of Western dialect verse, all of which was 
 written within a week. 
 
 HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA (BROWNE) 
 (1793-1835). Born at Liverpool, England. She was 
 very precocious, pubUshing a volume of verse at the age 
 of fifteen. She married Captain Hemans in 1812, and, 
 after an unhappy union, was separated from him six years 
 later. She lived most of her life in Wales, removing 
 thence to Liverpool and Dublin. Her work was wholly 
 in verse, and very voluminous. 
 
 HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL (1809-1894). Born 
 at Cambridge, Massachusetts. He studied medicine 
 
 [419] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 and practised in his native town until appointed Pro- 
 fessor of Anatomy and Physiology at Dartmouth College. 
 Later he occupied a sirnilar chair at Harvard University. 
 Until 1857 he did little hterary work, but in that year 
 he became the principal contributor to the Atlantic 
 Monthly. In this magazine appeared his best known 
 works, The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, The Professor 
 at the Breakfast Table, and The Poet at the Breakfast Table. 
 The best of his poems are embodied in these books. 
 
 William Morton Payne, in his Little Leaders, says of 
 Holmes: "We have no other so expert in personal and 
 occasional verse, no other who could so distill the very 
 quintessence of Yankee humor, or of the other and finer 
 quahties of the New England intellect, into the most 
 limpid of song. And when he was entirely serious, how 
 exquisite was his touch, how pure his pathos, how clear 
 his ethical sense! Let ' The Voiceless,' ' Under tjje Violets,' 
 and 'The Chambered Nautilus' bear witness." 
 
 HOOD, THOMAS (1799-1845). Born at London, 
 England. His father being a bookseller Hood was from 
 the first interested in books and thrown in contact with 
 literary people. His first pubhcation, Odes and Addresses 
 to Great People, 1825, was a great success, and encouraged 
 he wrote several other works humorous and serious. 
 He is best known to-day for his serious, pathetic poems, of 
 which "The Song of the Shirt" and "The Bridge of Sighs" 
 are the best examples. 
 
 HOWE, JULIA (WARD) (1819-1910). Born in New 
 York City. She received an excellent education, becom- 
 ing proficient in ancient and modern languages and in 
 music. At the age of seventeen she began her literary 
 career with contributions to the New York Magazine. 
 
 [4201 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 At the age of twenty-four she married Samuel G. Howe, 
 the philanthropist; after a trip abroad they settled in 
 Boston, where their home became a centre of culture and 
 good works. She has written several volumes of verse. 
 Her most noted poem is "The Battle Hymn of the Repub- 
 lic," which was written in beleaguered Washington in the 
 dark days of 1861, and published in the Atlantic Monthly 
 in February, 1862, the air being the one to which the 
 Union soldiers had marched to the front — "John Brown's 
 Body," or, "Glory, Glory, Hallelujah!" 
 
 HUNT, JAMES HENRY LEIGH (1784-1859). 
 Born at Southgate, England. Educated at Christ's 
 Hospital School. He early became a contributor to the 
 magazines, and so slipped into the editorial profession. 
 He was one of the most voluminous writers of his times, 
 treating of a wide variety of subjects in Hght, discursive 
 style. It is, however, in his poems that he achieved his 
 most lasting success. 
 
 JOYCE, JOHN ALEXANDER (1842). Born at 
 Shraugh, Ireland. Reared and educated in Kentucky. 
 Served in Union army during the Civil War. After war 
 practised law. Author of a number of books in prose 
 and verse. 
 
 KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821). Born in London. He 
 was sent to school at Enfield, and having meantime become 
 an orphan was in 1810 apprenticed to a surgeon. In 1815 
 he went to London to walk the hospitals; he was not, how- 
 ever, at all enthusiastic in his profession, and having be- 
 come acquainted with Leigh Hunt, Hazhtt, Shelley, and 
 others he gave himself more and more to literature. His 
 first work — some sonnets — came out in 1817. Endy- 
 
 [421] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 mion appeared in 1818 and was savagely attacked by the 
 reviews. In 1820 he pubUshed Lamia and Other Poems. 
 His health had by this time completely given away and in 
 1821 he set out on a journey to Italy from which he never 
 returned. 
 
 KEY, FRANCIS SCOTT (1780-1843). Born in 
 Frederick County, Maryland. After his graduation from 
 St. John's College, he studied law. He began practice in 
 Fredericktown, Maryland, but soon removed to Washing- 
 ton, where he became District Attorney of the District of 
 Columbia. He was known among his friends as a grace- 
 ful and facile poet. During the War of 1812 he was a 
 spectator from a vessel of the bombardment of Fort 
 McHenry, one of the defences of Baltimore, by the British, 
 and he immediately drafted the song "The Star-Spangled 
 Banner." Sung to the tune of "Anacreon in Heaven" 
 it became popular at once, and has since become the rival 
 of "America" as the national hymn of the country, 
 
 KIPLING, R. (1865). Born in Bombay, India, and 
 educated in England. When but seventeen he returned 
 to India and took up rough and ready journalistic work. 
 He turned out a number of short stories and poems, Bar- 
 rack-Room Ballads, Departmental Ditties, Soldiers Three, 
 which were quickly caught up by the press, followed by 
 several novels, notably Captains Courageous (1897), and 
 two wonderful series of animal fables. The Jungle Books, 
 which placed him in the front rank of English novelists 
 and poets of the present day. 
 
 KNOX, WILLIAM (1789-1825). Born at Firth, 
 Roxburghshire, Scotland. Failing as a farmer, he went 
 to Edinburgh, and became a journalist. He wrote sev- 
 eral books of verse. 
 
 [ 422 ] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 LAMB, CHARLES (1775-1834). Born in London, 
 England, and educated there in Christ's Hospital School. 
 At the age of twenty-three he contributed to a volume of 
 verse by S. T. Coleridge, Charles Lloyd, and himself. In 
 1802 he published John Woodvil, a drama. It was as an 
 essayist, however, that he achieved his greatest fame, liis 
 Essays of Elia being one of the world's greatest works in 
 this form of Uterature. 
 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (1807- 
 1882). Born at Portland, Maine. Was educated at 
 Bowdoin College, where, upon graduation, he was ap- 
 pointed to the chair of modern languages. Later he 
 accepted a similar chair at Harvard. He travelled exten- 
 sively abroad, being received with honor after he had 
 gained recognition as a poet. Longfellow was essentially 
 American, choosing the legends and scenes of his native 
 country for the subjects of his poems. Besides his shorter 
 lyrical poems and sonnets he is known as the author of 
 The Golden Legend, Hiawatha, Evangeline, and The Court- 
 ship of Miles Standish. His work was greatly beloved in 
 England, where he was almost the only American poet 
 known to the common people. Yet he was essentially 
 American. As Prof. Brander Matthews says: "He had 
 acquired the culture of all lands, but he understood also 
 the message of his own country. He was a true American, 
 not only in his stalwart patriotism in the hour of trial, but 
 in his loving acceptance of the doctrine of human equality, 
 and in his belief and trust in his fellow man." 
 
 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL (1819-1891). Born at 
 Cambridge, Massachusetts. He was educated at Harvard, 
 and began active life as a lawyer, but soon abandoned 
 business and devoted himself to literature. In 1841 he 
 
 [423] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 published a volume of poems, A Year's Life, and in 1843 a 
 second book of verses appeared. Other volumes followed 
 and in 1855 he was appointed Professor of Modern Lan- 
 guages at Harvard. In 1877 he was appointed United 
 States Minister to Spain and held a similar appointment 
 in England in 1880-1885. 
 
 LUDLOW, FITZ-HUGH (1836-1870). Born in 
 New York and educated at Union College. Admitted 
 to the bar, he shortly returned to journalism, becoming 
 well known as a writer of short stories, poems, and dra- 
 matic, musical, and art criticism. He wrote several books, 
 the most noted being The Hasheesh Eater and The Opium 
 Habit. 
 
 LYTLE, W. H. (1826-1863). Born in Cincinnati, 
 Ohio. Studied law and began practice. He volunteered at 
 the beginning of the Mexican War and served through 
 the war. At the beginning of the Civil War he was com- 
 missioned colonel of the 10th Ohio Regiment. He served 
 with distinction, and was killed leading a charge of his 
 brigade at Chickamauga. General Lytle was a poet of 
 much merit, but no collection of his verses has been pub- 
 lished. 
 
 McCALLUM, DANIEL CRAIG (1815-1878). 
 Born in Johnstown, Renfrewshire, Scotland. His parents 
 settled in Rochester, New York, while he was young and 
 there he became architect and builder. In 1862 was 
 appointed military director and superintendent of rail- 
 roads in the United States, with the rank of colonel, and 
 "for faithful and meritorious service" was brevetted 
 brigadier-general and major-general of volunteers. 
 
 MALONE, WALTER (1866). Born in De Soto 
 County, Mississippi, and educated at the University of 
 
 [424] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Mississippi. After practising law for several years at 
 Memphis, Tennessee, he went to New York and engaged 
 in authorship, his work chiefly consisting of poetical con- 
 tributions to the magazines. Later he returned to his 
 law practice in Memphis. 
 
 MARKHAM, EDWIN (1852). Born at Oregon City, 
 Oregon. His parents removed, during his childhood, to 
 California. By working at farm labor, blacksmithing, 
 and herding, he earned his way through normal school 
 and Santa Rosa College, and prepared himself as a 
 teacher. He contributed poetry to the best Eastern 
 magazines, and finally, in 1898, received world-wide 
 recognition as a poet of the first order with his "The 
 Man with the Hoe." In 1899 he removed to New York 
 City and devoted himself to literature. 
 
 Mr. Markham's poem on "Lincoln" is thought by 
 some superior to his "The Man with the Hoe." It is 
 here presented, specially revised by the author. 
 
 MASSEY, GERALD (1828-1907). Born near Tring, 
 Herts, England. When he was fifteen he came to London, 
 where he was taken up by Maurice and Engsley. A 
 selection from his poems was published in 1889 under the 
 title "My Lyrical Life." Later he wrote and lectured on 
 spiritualism. 
 
 MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674). Born in London, 
 the son of a scrivener and teacher and composer of music, 
 who destined Milton from his youth to become a man of 
 letters, sending him to St. Paul's School, and afterward 
 to Cambridge. For six years after leaving the university 
 Milton devoted himself to study in his father's house, 
 and then travelled for fifteen months on the continent, 
 being everywhere received with honor for his scholarship 
 
 [4251 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 by noblemen and authors. Returning to London in 1639 
 he began teaching. He took active part in the ecclesiasti- 
 cal controversies of the time, supporting the Puritan side. 
 In 1643 he married Mary Powell; the union was unhappy, 
 and they separated, but became reconciled in 1645. In 
 1649 Milton was appointed Latin Secretary in Cromwell's 
 government. He became blind one year later. In 1652 
 his wife died; four years later he married Catherine Wood- 
 cock; she died in 1658, and in 1663 he married Elizabeth 
 Minshull, who survived him. During the Restoration 
 he was imprisoned for treasonable publications, but was 
 shortly released. He died in 1674 in London and was 
 buried in St. Giles's Churchyard. 
 
 Milton's fame rests on Paradise Lost, the greatest by 
 far of English epic poems. Nevertheless, had he not 
 written it, his sonnets and lyrics would entitle him to a 
 high place among poets. Said George WiUiam Curtis: 
 "While yet a youth he wrote those minor poems which 
 have the simple perfection of productions of nature; 
 and in the ripeness of his wisdom and power he turned 
 his blind eyes to heaven, and sang the lofty song which 
 has given him a twin glory with Shakespeare in English 
 
 MOORE, CLEMENT CLARKE (1779-1863). 
 Born in New York City. He prepared for the ministry, 
 but was never ordained, preferring to devote himself to 
 the study of Hebrew and the classics. The Hebrew- 
 English Lexicon (1809) gave him title to be considered 
 the pioneer American lexicographer. He wrote much on 
 religious subjects, and became Professor of Oriental and 
 Greek Literature in the General Theological Seminary of 
 New York. He published a volume of poems, of which 
 "A Visit from St. Nicholas" is the most famous. 
 
 [ 426 1 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 MOORE, THOMAS (1779-1852). Born in Dublin, 
 Ireland. Educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Law 
 student at Middle Temple, London. Appointed to a 
 government position in Bermuda, which he held for eight 
 months; then, leaving the office in charge of a deputy, 
 he travelled in the United States, after which he returned 
 to England and began contributing to the Edinburgh 
 Review. He wrote many books of verse, the ffrst under 
 the pseudonym of Thomas Little. He also wrote a His- 
 tory of Ireland, and translated and imitated Anacreon. 
 His songs were set to exquisite melodies, and this com- 
 bined with the intrinsic merit of his verse to render him 
 the favorite poet of his generation. In the height of his 
 fame he received the following encomium of Edgar A. Poe; 
 "A vivid fancy, an epigrammatic spirit, a fine taste, 
 vivacity, dexterity, and a musical ear have made him 
 what he is, the most popular poet now living, if not the 
 most popular that ever Hved." 
 
 MORRIS, GEORGE POPE (1802-1864). Born at 
 Philadelphia. Entering into journalism he established 
 with Samuel Woodworth the Neiv York Mirror in 1823, 
 and, on its discontinuance, with N. P. Willis the New 
 Mirror in 1843, this shortly afterwards taking the name 
 of the Evening Mirror. In 1845 he founded the Home 
 Journal, which he edited jointly with Willis till shortly 
 before his death. He wrote one novel, Briardiff, and 
 edited two collections of American verse. He is best 
 known by his two poems, "My Mother's Bible" and 
 "Woodman, Spare that Tree." 
 
 NAIRNE, BARONESS (CAROLINA OLIPHANT) 
 (1766-1845). Born at Cask, Perthshire, Scotland. Mar- 
 ried at the age of forty Major (subsequently Lord) Nairne. 
 
 [4271 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 They settled at Edinburgh. Upon her husband's death 
 Lady Nairne removed to Ireland, and afterwards to the 
 continent. Of her eighty-seven songs, four at least are 
 immortal: "The Land o' the Leal," "Caller Herrin," "The 
 Laird o' Cockpen," and "The Auld House." 
 
 NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH 
 (SHERIDAN), LADY STIRLING-MAXWELL (1808- 
 1877). Born in London, the daughter of Richard Brinsley 
 Sheridan, the dramatist. She displayed precocious Uter- 
 ary abiUty. She wrote books upon the position of women, 
 especially in relation to marriage, several novels, and a 
 number of volumes of verse. 
 
 O'HARA, THEODORE (1822-1867). Born at 
 Danville, Kentucky, of Irish parentage. Educated at St. 
 Joseph's College, Bardstown, Kentucky. He enlisted in 
 the army during the Mexican War, and was brevetted 
 major for gallant service. Subsequently he fought for 
 the liberation of Cuba, and went with Walker on his 
 filibustering expedition to Central America. Returning, 
 he embarked in journalism, becoming noted as one of the 
 most briUiant of Southern editors. At the outbreak of the 
 Civil War he joined the Confederacy and performed 
 efficient service as staff officer under Gen. A. S. Johnston 
 and Gen. John C. Breckinridge. He wrote very Httle; 
 however, his Bivouac of the Dead is sufficient to immortal- 
 ize his name. It was written to commemorate his com- 
 rades who fell in the Mexican War and who were buried in 
 a lot set apart for them in the Frankfort, Kentucky, ceme- 
 tery, where his own body now lies among them. 
 
 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD (1792-1852). Born at 
 New York. He appeared on the New York stage at the 
 
 [4281 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 age of seventeen and played abroad as well as through- 
 out America, being known as "The American Juvenile 
 Wonder." He retired from the stage in 1832 and devoted 
 himself to playwriting, being the author and adapter of 
 more than sixty plays and operas. He was American 
 Consul in Tunis from 1843 to 1845, and from 1851 to his 
 death in 1852. He lives in fame as the author of "Home, 
 Sweet Home," a song in his opera "Clari, the Maid of 
 Milan." The melody he adapted from the song of an 
 unknown Italian street singer. 
 
 PIERPONT, JOHN (1785-1866). Born in Litchfield, 
 Connecticut. Educated at Yale. After studying law 
 he went into business in Baltimore. Becoming bank- 
 rupt, he studied theology at Harvard and was ordained 
 as a Congregational pastor in Boston; later he became a 
 Unitarian. He wrote a volume of verse entitled Airs of 
 Palestine and a number of patriotic lyrics, which, says 
 James L. Onderdonk, in his History of American Verse, are 
 "among the best and most spirited in our literature." 
 
 POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-1849). Born at 
 Boston, of theatrical parentage. Being left an orphan 
 at an early age, he was adopted by a Mr. Allan of Vir- 
 ginia. He received a broken, unfinished education at the 
 University of Virginia and West Point. Poe is known as 
 a short-story writer, poet, and literary critic, his work 
 in each branch being memorable. His first volume of 
 poems appeared in 1829; others followed in 1831 and 
 1845. He had a morbid mind, prone to dwell on the 
 horrors of death and insanity. Afflicted with poverty, 
 and grieved by the death of his young wife (in Fordham, 
 near New York, 1847), he resorted in the last years of his 
 life to drink, and death came to him, as the result of a 
 
 [4291 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 debauch, in Baltimore, as he was returning to New York 
 from a visit to his old home in Richmond, Virginia. 
 
 PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE (1825-1864). 
 Born in London, the daughter of Bryan Waller Procter 
 (Barry Cornwall), the poet. As a young woman she 
 contributed poems to Charles Dickens' magazine. House- 
 hold Words, under the pseudonym of Mary Berwick. 
 She became a Roman Catholic and engaged in charitable 
 work, writing a volume, A Chaplet of Verses, for the benefit 
 of homeless women in London. Her best known poem, 
 "A Lost Chord," was set to music by Sir Arthur 
 Sullivan. 
 
 RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB (1853). Born at 
 Greenfield, Indiana, and educated in the common schools. 
 Since 1873 his work has been appearing, at first in maga- 
 zines, then in book form. He is popularly known as the 
 "Hoosier Poet," his verse being for the most part in that 
 dialect. Among his best known poems are "The Old 
 Swimmin' Hole," "An Old Sweetheart of Mine," and "Out 
 to Old Aunt Mary's." 
 
 ROGERS, SAMUEL (1763-1855). Born at Stoke- 
 Newington, England. He was educated there and at 
 Hackney. He entered his father's bank at the age of 
 twelve, and succeeding his father, continued in this busi- 
 ness until his death; travel, the pursuit of literature, 
 and the study of the fine arts being his recreations. He 
 wrote several volumes of verse, the chief being Pleasures 
 of Memory and a book of Recollections pubhshed after his 
 death. 
 
 RYAN, ABRAM JOSEPH (1839-1886). Born at 
 Norfolk, Virginia. A Roman Catholic, he entered the 
 
 [430] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 priesthood, and served as chaplain in the Confederate 
 army. Shortly after Lee's surrender he wrote a poem 
 entitled "The Conquered Banner," which was received 
 with praise in the North as well as in the South. He 
 published three volumes of verse. At the time of his 
 death, which took place in Louisville, Kentucky, he was 
 on a Lije oj Christ. 
 
 SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH (MUN- 
 SON) (1838). Born in New Rochelle, New York, and 
 educated privately in New York City. Soon after her 
 marriage to George Sangster in 1858, she began con- 
 tributing to the magazines. She has held a number of 
 editorial positions, and published quite an array of volumes 
 in both prose and verse. Her muse is religious and domes- 
 tic, causing her to be one of the most popular household 
 poets of the day in America. 
 
 SAXE, JOHN GODFREY (1816-1887). Bom in 
 Highgate, Vermont; educated at Wesleyan University 
 and Middlebury. He practised law with success, but his 
 fondness for literature led him into journaUsm and in 1850 
 he purchased the Burlington Sentinel. Settling in New 
 York he devoted himself to Uterature and lectured until 
 1872, when he moved to Albany and became editor of the 
 Evening Journal. He contributed to the leading magazines 
 of his day and achieved great reputation by his poetry, 
 numerous collections of which have been pubUshed. 
 
 SCOTT, SIR WALTER (1771-1832). Born in Edin- 
 burgh, Scotland; was connected through both parents 
 with several old border families. As a child he began to 
 follow the irresistible bent which ultimately led to such 
 brilliant results in a course of insatiable reading of ballads 
 
 [4311 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 and romances. He studied for the bar, to which he was 
 called in 1792. The year 1802 saw the publication of 
 Scott's first work of real importance, The Minstrelsy of the 
 Scottish Border. In 1805 he produced his first great 
 original work, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, which was 
 received with great favor, and decided that hterature was 
 thenceforth to be the main work of his life. The Waverley 
 Novels were pubUshed between 1814 and 1831, and on 
 these his chief fame rests. Scott was ruined by the fail- 
 ure of the Ballantynes in 1826 and devoted the rest of 
 his Hfe to clearing off his debt. Scott's overworked body 
 at last gave way and he died at Abbotsford in 1832. 
 
 SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND (1841-1887). Born 
 in Windsor, Connecticut. He was educated at Yale. He 
 studied for the ministry, but shortly abandoned his pur- 
 pose and engaged in teaching, marrying and setthng in 
 Brooklyn, New York. In 1871 he went to California and, 
 in 1874, became Professor of English Literature in the 
 University of California, doing much for the development 
 of original literature in that State. In 1883 he returned 
 East and devoted himself until his death exclusively to 
 writing. 
 
 SMITH, SAMUEL FRANCIS (1808-1905). Born 
 in Boston. He attended the Boston Latin School and was 
 graduated at Harvard and at Andover Theological Semi- 
 nary. He was ordained to the ministry of the Baptist 
 Church in 1834. 
 
 Dr. Smith has done a large amount of literary work, 
 mainly in the line of hymnology, his most noted poem 
 being the national hymn, wliich was written while he was 
 a theological student and first sung at a children's cele- 
 bration in the Park Street Church, Boston, July 4, 1832. 
 
 [4321 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 SOUTHEY, CAROLINE ANNE (BOWLES) (1787- 
 1854). Born in Hampshire, England, the daughter of a 
 retired officer. She remained at home till her literary 
 work, consisting of poems, tales, and sketches, published 
 in the magazines, brought her into pubhc notice. She 
 formed a warm personal friendship with Robert Southey, 
 the Poet Laureate, and married him two years after the 
 death of his wife. They wrote a number of poems in 
 collaboration. 
 
 STANTON, FRANK LEBBY (1857). Born in 
 Charleston, South CaroUna. Educated in the common 
 schools; he served an apprenticeship as a printer, thence 
 rising into the plane of journalism. He is now connected 
 with the Atlanta Constitution, in which his songs appear 
 almost daily, being quoted by the newspapers all over the 
 country. He has gathered the choicest of his verse into 
 several volumes. 
 
 STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE (1833-1908). 
 Born in Hartford, Connecticut. Educated at Yale, from 
 which he was dismissed for a boyish prank, although he 
 afterward received his degree from his Alma Mater, 
 proud of his reputation as a man of letters. He entered 
 journalism and, during the Civil War, served as war- 
 correspondent for the New York World. After the war 
 he became a Wall Street broker, holding a position upon 
 the exchange until 1900. He wrote a number of books 
 upon poetry and edited, with Ellen M. Hutchinson, a 
 large anthology of American literature. At the time of 
 his death he was regarded as the "Dean of American 
 Letters." 
 
 STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS (1850-1894). 
 Born at Edinburgh, coming from a distinguished family 
 
 [4331 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 of Scotch engineers. His delicate health made a thorough 
 education impossible. He read extensively and so fitted 
 himself for a hterary career. This he began in 1871 with 
 contributions to various magazines. He reached dis- 
 tinction as a short-story writer, novelist, essayist, and poet. 
 Among his works may be especially noted The Merry 
 Men — a collection of short stories, The Strange Case of 
 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Treasure Island, and Kidnapped. 
 His poetical works are A Child's Garden of Verse, 1885, 
 and Underwoods, 1887. He died in Samoa in the South 
 Seas, where he had settled in a vain attempt to regain his 
 health. 
 
 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837- 
 1909). Born in London, England. Received his early 
 education in France and was at Eton and Oxford, where he 
 attracted the attention of Jowett. In his earher days 
 Swinburne was closely associated with the Rossettis, Mere- 
 dith, and Burne-Jones. 
 
 His first two plays, The Queen Mother and Rosamund, 
 made no impression on the pubUc, but the appearance in 
 1865 of Atalanta in Calydon led to his immediate recogni- 
 tion as a poet of the first order. Poems and Ballads, pub- 
 lished in 1866, created a profound sensation alike among 
 the critics and the general body of readers by its daring 
 departure from recognized standards. As a master of 
 metre Swinburne's is hardly excelled by any of our poets. 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD (1825-1878). Born in Penn- 
 sylvania, of Quaker descent. He began to write by the time 
 he was twelve. He travelled extensively in Europe. After 
 his return joined the stafT of the New York Tribune and 
 published several books on travel and poetry, among 
 which are Views Afoot (1846). His translation of 
 
 [4341 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 Goethe's Faust is perhaps his best work. He was ap- 
 pointed to the German Embassy and died in BerUn in 
 1879. 
 
 TENNYSON, ALFRED BARON) TENNYSON OF 
 ALDWORTH) (1809-1892). Born at Somersby, Lin- 
 colnshire, England, the son of the rector of the parish. 
 His education, which was completed at Trinity College, 
 Cambridge, brought him in contact with many gifted men 
 whose influence was most valuable. Although his first 
 volume of poems had appeared in 1827, he received no 
 general recognition until 1842, when his fourth collection 
 of poems appeared. From this time on his fame grew 
 apace. His greatest poem is the elegy on the death of 
 his dear friend Arthur Hallam, In Memoriam, which 
 appeared in 1850. This same year, on the death of 
 Wordsworth, he succeeded to the Laureateship. Tenny- 
 son also turned his attention to the drama, achieving 
 some success, especially with Beckct, 1884. He was raised 
 to the peerage in that year. The poet's life, which had 
 been tranquil and uneventful, received a great shock at 
 the death of his younger son, and from this blow he 
 never recovered. He died in his eighty-fourth year, and 
 receiving a public funeral, was buried in Westminster 
 Abbey. 
 
 "Truly," said Sir Edwin Arnold, "the echoes of Lord 
 Tennyson's song will live forever and forever, and roll 
 from soul to soul. Beyond all dispute he is the repre- 
 sentative singer of the great reign of Victoria." 
 
 THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE (1811- 
 1863). Born at Calcutta, India. At the age of five, on 
 the death of his father, he came to London to receive his 
 education at Charterhouse School. He was intended for 
 
 [435] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 the law, but, having no hking for that profession, turned 
 his attention to journahsm, in which business he lost his 
 fortune. He studied art, but finding his talent limited, 
 turned to literature as a means of livelihood. Thackeray 
 is best known as a novelist, his greatest works being 
 Henry Esmond (1832) and Vanity Fair (1848). He also 
 achieved success as an essayist. He wrote but little 
 verse, and that largely in light and humorous vein. ^ 
 
 TUBES, ARTHUR LEWIS (1867). Born at Glens 
 Falls, New York, and educated there in the high school. 
 Studied music, entered into journalism. He is now the 
 dramatic and musical critic of the Philadelphia Evening 
 Bulletin. He has written a number of plays and many 
 poems and short stories. 
 
 WEBSTER, DANIEL (1782-1852). Born at Water- 
 ford, New Hampshire, of old New England stock. Studied 
 law and was a member of the United States Senate and 
 Secretary of State. He was one of the greatest orators 
 America has produced. His place in literature rests on 
 his published speeches. 
 
 WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF (1807-1892). 
 Born at Haverhill, Massachusetts, coming of Quaker 
 stock. His youth was passed on a farm; later he became 
 interested in journalism. He was active in local pohtics, 
 being a strong champion of the anti-slavery cause. In 
 1836 he began to publish his poems, many volumes appear- 
 ing in the following years. 
 
 Edmund Gosse, the English critic, said of Whittier: 
 "He is filled with moral enthusiasm as a trumpet is filled 
 with the breath of him who blows it. His Quaker quietism 
 concentrates itself until it breaks into a real passion- 
 
 r4361 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 storm of humanity, and when Whittier is roused he sings 
 with the thriUing sweetness of a woodthrush." 
 
 WITHER, GEORGE (1588-1667). Born at Bent- 
 worth, Hants, England. Entered Oxford, but left it after 
 three years, and studied law at Lincoln's Inn, London. 
 In the Civil War he served as a major-general on the 
 Parliamentary side. His writings are many, consisting 
 for the greater part of poems and political tracts. 
 
 WOLFE, CHARLES (1791-1823). Born in Dublin, 
 Ireland. Educated at Dublin University. He became an 
 Anglican clergyman. He suffered from ill-health during 
 his last years, and died at the age of thirty-two. His most 
 famous poem is The Burial oj Sir John Moore, which gave 
 title to his only volume of verse. 
 
 WOODWORTH, SAMUEL (1785-1842). Born 
 at Scituate, Massachusetts. He received a scant educa- 
 tion in the miserable common schools of the day and region, 
 but some juvenile verses that he wrote attracted the atten- 
 tion of the village clergyman, who taught him the classics. 
 In 1823 he and George P. Morris founded the New York 
 Mirror. He wrote operatic pieces and a number of 
 popular songs, of which "The Old Oaken Bucket" is by 
 far the best. 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850). Born 
 at Cockermouth, Cumberland, England. Educated at 
 Cambridge. He travelled abroad and then returned to 
 live with his sister. They resided in various parts of 
 England, finally settling at Grasmere, among the Cum- 
 berland lakes. Wordsworth was the centre of a group of 
 poets, including Coleridge and Southey, and called the 
 
 [437] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 "Lake Poets." Wordsworth succeeded Southey as Poet 
 Laureate. With the exception of a few books descriptive 
 of natural scenery, Wordsworth's works are poetical. 
 
 By some of the greatest minds of the age Wordsworth 
 is revered as the greatest English poet since Shakespeare 
 and Milton. John Burroughs, the naturalist, gives the 
 following reason for this worship : " He stands for a particu- 
 lar phase of human thought and experience and his ser- 
 vice to certain minds is like an initiation into a new order 
 of mysteries. He is not, and can never be, the world's 
 poet, but the poet of those who love solitude and solitary 
 communion with nature." 
 
 438 
 
INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem L. Hunt 188 
 
 Altruism Anon. 400 
 
 America W. C. Bnjant 35 
 
 America ; S. F. Smith 300 
 
 American Flag, The J. R. Drake 97 
 
 Angels of Buena Vista, The J. G. Whittier 351 
 
 Angry Anarcliist, An Anon. 402 
 
 Annie Laurie W. Douglas 95 
 
 An Old Sweetheart of Mine J.W. Riley 274 
 
 An Order for a Picture A. Cary 61 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra W. H. Lytle 224 
 
 Are the Children at Home ? M.E. Sangster 285 
 
 Arrow and the Song, The H.W. Longfellow 200 
 
 Auld Lang S3Tie R. Burns 43 
 
 Barefoot Boy, The J.G. Whittier 356 
 
 Baron's Last Banquet, The A. G. Greene 143 
 
 Battle-Hymn of the Republic J.W. Howe 187 
 
 Beautiful Gate, The Anon. 374 
 
 Before the Beginning of Years A. C. Swinburne 310 
 
 Bells, The E. A. Poe 253 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine C. E. S. Norton 245 
 
 Bivouac of the Dead, The T. O'Hara 249 
 
 Blue and Gray Anon. 376 
 
 Blue and the Gray, The F. M. Finch 120 
 
 Boys, The O.W. Holmes 167 
 
 Boys That Run the Furrow, The F. L. Stanton 302 
 
 Break, Break, Break A. Tennyson 313 
 
 Breathes There the Man W. Scott 296 
 
 [4391 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Bridge of Sighs, The T. Hood 175 
 
 Bugle, The A. Tennyson 314 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore C. Wolfe 368 
 
 Buried Treasure E. Dean 88 
 
 Calf Path, The S.W. Foss 122 
 
 Charge of the Light Brigade, The A. Tennyson 315 
 
 Children's Hour, The H. W. Longfellow 201 
 
 Christmas at Sea R. L. Stevenson 306 
 
 Come, Rest in This Bosom T. Moore 236 
 
 Congressman Jones Anon. 378 
 
 Court Lady, A E. B. Browning 24 
 
 Crossing the Bar A. Tennyson 317 
 
 Death of the Flowers, The W. C. Bryant 32 
 
 Departed Friend, The R. L. Stevenson 309 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier G.H. Boker 21 
 
 Diverting History of John Gilpin, The . . .W. Cowper 74 
 
 Doorstep, The E. C. Stedrnan 304 
 
 Do Ye Think of the Days That Are Gone ? . .Anon. 379 
 
 Elegy on Madam Blaize 0. Goldsmith 136 
 
 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. . . .0. Goldsmith 134 
 
 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard . . . .T. Gray 138 
 
 EUzabeth Barrett Browning N. B. Carson 59 
 
 Enchanted Shirt, The J. Hay 160 
 
 Evelyn Hope R. Browning 30 
 
 Experience and a Moral, An F. S. Cozzens 84 
 
 Eyes of the Christ, The N. B. Carson 60 
 
 Faithless Nelly Gray T. Hood 179 
 
 Fancy J. Keats 190 
 
 Fare Thee Well Byron 49 
 
 [ 440 ] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Farewell! But Whenever T. Moore 236 
 
 Fiddle-Dee-Dee E. Field 112 
 
 Fool's Prayer, The E.R. Sill 297 
 
 Freedom J. R. Lowell 209 
 
 Ginevra S. Rogers 279 
 
 God's- Acre H. W. Longfellow 202 
 
 Good Old Way, The Ano7i 380 
 
 Go Where Glory Waits Thee T. Moore 237 
 
 Height of the Ridiculous, The O.W. Holmes 171 
 
 Heritage, The J. R. Lowell 211 
 
 Highland Mary R. Burns 44 
 
 Holy City, The F. E. Weatherby 346 
 
 Home, Sweet Home J. H. Payne 252 
 
 Home, Woodbarrow Farm A. E. Housnian 186 
 
 Humblebee, To the R.W. Emerson 105 
 
 If I Had Thought Thou Couldst Have Died. C. Wolfe 369 
 
 If I Should Die To-night A.E. Smith 298 
 
 Indian's Prayer, The Anon. 381 
 
 In School-Days J.G. Whittier 359 
 
 In the Old Church Choir L. 0. Reese 269 
 
 Invocation J. Hay 163 
 
 I Remember, I Remember T. Hood 181 
 
 Irene M.E. Sangster 287 
 
 Ivy Green, The C. Dickens 89 
 
 Jes' Fore Christmas E. Field 114 
 
 Jim Bludso J- Hay 163 
 
 John Howard Payne Anon. 382 
 
 Joseph Rodman Drake F. G. Halleck 150 
 
 [441] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Kings, The L.I. Guiney 148 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere A. Tennyson 317 
 
 Lady Clare A. Tennyson 320 
 
 Lament for Lafayette Anon. 384 
 
 Lament of the Irish Emigrant Lady Dufferin 100 
 
 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The . . . .F. Hemans 166 
 
 Land o' the Leal, The C. Nairne 244 
 
 Last Hymn, The M. Farningham 109 
 
 Last Leaf, The O.W. Holmes 172 
 
 Leedle Yawcob Strauss C. F. Adams 2 
 
 Leetla Joe T. A. Daly 86 
 
 Legend of the Organ-Builder, The J.C.R. Dorr 90 
 
 Life A. L. Barbauld 17 
 
 Life on the Ocean Wave, A E. Sargent 290 
 
 Light F.W. Bourdillon 23 
 
 Lincoln, the Man of the People E. Markham 230 
 
 Line on the Death of a Baby Anon. 386 
 
 Lines on the Death of his Son Charles ...£). Webster 349 
 
 Little Billie W. M. Thackeray 340 
 
 Little Boy Blue E. Field 116 
 
 Little Hand, A F. L. Stanton 303 
 
 Little Orphant Annie J. W. Riley Til 
 
 Little White Hearse, The J. W. Riley 278 
 
 Look Ahead Anon. 386 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter T. Campbell 55 
 
 Lost Chord, A A. A. Procter 266 
 
 Mahogany Tree, The W. M. Thackeray 341 
 
 Man Was Made to Mourn R. Burns 46 
 
 Marco Bozzaris F. G. Halleck 151 
 
 Maud Muller J.G. Whittier 361 
 
 May Queen, The A. Tennyson 324 
 
 [4421 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Miss Edith Helps Things Along F. B. Harte 158 
 
 Mother's Doughnuts C. F. Adams 4 
 
 Mother's Fool Ayion. 388 
 
 Musings of Arroyo Al, The A. Chapman 68 
 
 My Mother's Bible G. P. Morris 240 
 
 My Old Kentucky Home *S. C. Foster 128 
 
 Nearer Home P. Gary 67 
 
 Near the Lake G.P. Morris 243 
 
 New Year Ledger, The A. E. Barr 18 
 
 Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep Anon. 390 
 
 Ode R.W. Emerson 107 
 
 Oft in the Stilly Night T. Moore 239 
 
 O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Dear! G. Massey 232 
 
 O Little Town of Bethlehem P. Brooks 23 
 
 O May I Join the Choir Invisible! G. Eliot 103 
 
 O Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud? 
 
 W. Knox 197 
 
 Old Arm-Chair, The E. Cook 70 
 
 Old Familiar Faces, The C. Lamb 199 
 
 Old-Fashioned Roses J.W. Riley 276 
 
 Old Grimes A.G. Greene 146 
 
 Old Ironsides O.W. Holmes 170 
 
 Old Man's Motto, The J. G. Saxe 292 
 
 Old Oaken Bucket, The S. Woodworth 370 
 
 Old Songs, The Anon. 391 
 
 Old Story, The F. Downing 96 
 
 Old Swimmin'-Hole, The J.W. Riley 270 
 
 On Death J. Keats 193 
 
 On His Blindness J. Milton 233 
 
 Opportunity W. Malone 230 
 
 Order for a Picture A. Gary 61 
 
 [4431 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Our Fame /. A. Joyce 189 
 
 Our Own M. E. Sangster 289 
 
 Outward W.J. Cameron 54 
 
 Over the River N.W. Priest 264 
 
 Palmetto and Pine L.V. French 129 
 
 Pauper's Death-Bed, The C.A.B. Southey 301 
 
 Peace C. Fabri 109 
 
 Philosophic Beggar, The B. Gray 137 
 
 Pictures of Memory A. Cary 65 
 
 Plain Language from Truthful James . . F. B. Harte 155 
 
 Planting of the Apple-Tree, The W.C. Bnjant 37 
 
 Prayer, A J. R. Lowell 214 
 
 Present Crisis, The J. R. Lowell 216 
 
 Psalm of Life, A H. W. Longfellow 203 
 
 Questioner, The C. Werner 348 
 
 Questions, The B. Beach 20 
 
 Raven, The E.A.Poe 257 
 
 Recessional R. Kipling 195 
 
 Recompense E. M. Abbott 1 
 
 Requiem J. R. Lowell 214 
 
 Resignation H.W. Longfellow 205 
 
 Rock of Ages Anon. 392 
 
 Rock Me to Sleep E.A. Ahers 8 
 
 Roses Underneath the Snow G. Cooper 71 
 
 Sally in Our Ally H. Carey 57 
 
 School Days M. D. Babcock 15 
 
 Secret of Death, The . .E. Arnold 10 
 
 Shepherd's Resolution, The .G. Wither 366 
 
 Sing Us a Song Anon. 394 
 
 [4441 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song of the Camp, The B. Taylor 311 
 
 Song of the Mj'stic A. J. Ryan 282 
 
 Song of the Shirt, The T. Hood 183 
 
 Song of the Thrush, The T. A. Daly 87 
 
 Star-Spangled Banner, The F. S. Key 194 
 
 Sunset Thoughts M. Conway 68 
 
 Superfluous Man, The J.G. Saxe 294 
 
 Suspiria H.W. Longfellow 209 
 
 Teacher's Diadem, The Anon. 396 
 
 Tear, The Byron 52 
 
 Tempest, The J.T. Field 118 
 
 Thanatopsis W. C. Brtjant 40 
 
 Those Evening Bells T. Moore 240 
 
 To the Humblebee R.W. Emerson 105 
 
 To-morrow A. Tennyson 334 
 
 Too Late F.H. Ludlow 222 
 
 Treasure in Heaven J.G. Saxe 291 
 
 True Rest /. S. Dwight 102 
 
 Vanishing Army, The A. L. Tubbs 344 
 
 Verses by Alexander Selkirk W. Cowper 72 
 
 Village Blacksmith, The H.W. Longfellow 207 
 
 Visit from St. Nicholas, A C. C. Moore 234 
 
 Voiceless, The 0. W. Holmes 174 
 
 Volunteer Organist, The S. W. Foss 125 
 
 Wants of Man, The J.Q. Adams 6 
 
 Warren's Address J. Pierpont 252 
 
 Washington's Birthday W. C. Bryant 43 
 
 Water Mill, The D.C. McCallum 226 
 
 We Are Seven W. Wordsworth 371 
 
 When Baby Laughs A. J. Waterhouse 345 
 
 [4451 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Whom God Hath Joined J. G. McClaughry 229 
 
 Woman's Answer, A E. B. Browning 29 
 
 Woman's Inconstancy R. Ayton 13 
 
 Woman's Question, A A. A. Procter 267 
 
 Woodman, Spare That Tree G.P. Morris 242 
 
 Wynken, Blynken and Nod E. Field 117 
 
 446] 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) . . . 188 
 
 A cWeftain, to the Highland bound 55 
 
 A life on the ocean wave 290 
 
 A man said unto his Angel 148 
 
 A simple child 371 
 
 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers . . . 245 
 
 A thousand years of glory 189 
 
 Ah, Life, what art thou 20 
 
 Ah! the May was grand this mornin'l .... 87 
 
 All lonely and cold, in the sepulchre slumber . . 384 
 
 Among the beautiful pictures 65 
 
 Are we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be ... 209 
 
 As one who cons at evening o'er an album all alone. 274 
 
 As the little white hearse went glimmering by . . 278 
 
 At midnight in his guarded tent 151 
 
 Ay, pale and silent maiden 214 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 170 
 
 Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight . 8 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 30 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee 267 
 
 Before the beginning of years 310 
 
 Ben Battle was a soldier bold 179 
 
 Between the dark and the daylight 201 
 
 Blessings on thee, httle man 356 
 
 Break, break, break 313 
 
 Breathes there the man with soul so dead . . . 296 
 
 [447] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Burly, dozing bumblebee! 105 
 
 By the flow of the inland river 120 
 
 Can death be sleep, when Ufe is but a dream . . 193 
 
 Christmas is here 341 
 
 Close his eyes; his work is done! 21 
 
 Come, let us plant the apple-tree 37 
 
 Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer . 236 
 
 Come, sing us a song — a hot one, too ! . . . . 394 
 
 Day by day the Organ-Builder in his lonely chamber 
 
 wrought 90 
 
 Do ye think of the days that are gone, Jeanie . . 379 
 
 Do you know you have asked for the costUest thing 29 
 
 Each day, when the glow of sunset 285 
 
 Ever let the Fancy roam 190 
 
 Every coin of earthly treasure 291 
 
 Fare thee well! and if for ever 49 
 
 Farewell! — but whenever you welcome the hour . 236 
 
 Father calls me William, sister calls me Will . . . 114 
 
 From the wave- washed strand of the Golden Land. 344 
 
 "Give me a motto!" said a youth 292 
 
 "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried .... 311 
 
 God buried in a woman's soul 88 
 
 God! do not let my loved one die 214 
 
 God of our fathers, known of old 195 
 
 God spoke to her, and so she fell asleep .... 109 
 
 Good people all, of every sort . 134 
 
 Good people all, with one accord 136 
 
 Go where glory waits thee 237 
 
 Green be the turf above thee 150 
 
 [4481 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Half a league, half a league 315 
 
 Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? . 167 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells 253 
 
 Her hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with purple 
 
 were dark 24 
 
 Her that yer Honor was spakin' to? Whin, yer 
 
 Honor? last year 334 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child- 
 hood 370 
 
 I am djang, Egypt, dying 224 
 
 I am monarch of all I survey 72 
 
 I called the boy to my knee one day 348 
 
 I haf got a leedle boy 2 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions . 199 
 
 I lent my love a book one day 84 
 
 I hke that ancient Saxon phrase which calls . . 202 
 
 I long have been puzzled to guess 294 
 
 I love it, I love it! and who shall dare .... 70 
 
 I loved thee once, I'll love no more 13 
 
 I remember, I remember 181 
 
 I said one year ago 18 
 
 I saw him once before 172 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air 200 
 
 I walk down the Valley of Silence 282 
 
 I wonder what she's dreaming 'bout 345 
 
 I wrote some lines once on a time 171 
 
 If I had known, in the morning 289 
 
 If I had thought thou couldst have died . . . 369 
 
 If I should die to-night . ■ 298 
 
 If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance . 279 
 
 If you have a friend worth loving 400 
 
 I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary 100 
 
 [4491 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I'm wearing awa', Jean 244 
 
 In a city stamped with plenty 137 
 
 In sweetest blush of maiden bloom 287 
 
 It chanced that once a Persian maid 96 
 
 It seems to me this Hfe we lead 68 
 
 It was the time when lilies blow 320 
 
 I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys ... 4 
 
 John Gilpin was a citizen 74 
 
 John Mann had a wife who was kind and true . . 380 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 317 
 
 Last night I lay a sleeping 346 
 
 Leetla Joe he always say 86 
 
 Let me go to my home in the far distant west . . 381 
 
 Life! I know not what thou art 17 
 
 Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay . 272 
 
 Lord, from far several climes we come .... 163 
 
 Lord, let me make this rule 15 
 
 Man wants but little here below 6 
 
 Maud Muller, on a summer's day 361 
 
 Maxwelton banks are bonnie 95 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam . 252 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the 
 
 Lord! 187 
 
 My Country, 'tis of thee 300 
 
 My sister'U be down in a minute, and says for you 
 
 to wait if you please 158 
 
 My son, thou wast my heart's delight .... 349 
 
 Near the camp-fire's flickering Ught 390 
 
 Near the lake where drooped the willow .... 243 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note . . . 368 
 
 [450] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 O, a dainty plant is the ivy green 89 
 
 O, lay thy hand in mine, dear! 232 
 
 O little town of Bethlehem 23 
 
 O, may I join the choir invisible 103 
 
 O mother of a mighty race 35 
 
 O mother! what do they mean by blue? . . 376 
 
 O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light . 194 
 
 O tenderly the haughty day 107 
 
 O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? . . 197 
 
 O'er a low couch the setting sun 143 
 
 Of all the girls that are so smart 57 
 
 Oft in the stilly night 239 
 
 Oh, good painter, tell me true 61 
 
 Oh, he preached it from the housetops and he whis- 
 pered it by stealth 402 
 
 Oh! listen to the Water-Mill, through all the livelong 
 
 day 226 
 
 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still 
 
 and deep 270 
 
 Old Grimes is dead, that good old man . . . 146 
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, 
 
 weak and weary 257 
 
 One day through the primeval wood . . . . 122 
 
 One little bud the less 386 
 
 One more unfortunate 175 
 
 One sweetly solemn thought 67 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me 264 
 
 Pause now and let a hghtsome world go by . . . 60 
 
 Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things . . . 303 
 
 "Rock of ages, cleft for me" 392 
 
 [451] 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Seated one day at the organ 266 
 
 Shall I, wasting in despair 366 
 
 "She is dead!" they said to him; "come away . 10 
 
 Should auld acquaintance be forgot 43 
 
 Sitting 'mid the gathering shadows, weary with the 
 
 Sabbath's care 396 
 
 Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far 
 
 away 351 
 
 Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! . . . 252 
 
 Still sits the school-house by the road 359 
 
 Summer groves may lose their gladness .... 71 
 
 Sunset and evening star 317 
 
 Sweet is the pleasure 102 
 
 Take them, O Death! and bear away .... 209 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers 203 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 166 
 
 The conference-meeting through at last .... 304 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day . . . 138 
 The gret big church wuz crowded full uv broadcloth 
 
 and uv silk . 125 
 
 The king was sick. His cheek was red .... 160 
 
 The little toy dog is covered with dust . . . . 116 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the 
 
 year 32 
 
 The muffled drum's sad roll has beat .... 249 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes 23 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands 211 
 
 The royal feast was done; the king 297 
 
 The Sabbath day was ending, in a village by the sea 109 
 The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked 
 
 hand 306 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 314 
 
 [4521 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home . 128 
 
 The sun's high and the moon's high 54 
 
 The world was young in those days of ours . . . 269 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended . . 205 
 
 There once was a bird that Uved up in a tree . . 112 
 
 There sat an old man on a rock 222 
 
 There were three sailors of Bristol City .... 340 
 These ragtime songs they're singin' now may be the 
 
 proper thing 391 
 
 They aint no style about 'em 276 
 
 They do me wrong who say I come no more . . 230 
 
 They planted them together — our gallant sires of old 129 
 
 This book is all that's left me now! 240 
 
 Those evening bells! those evening bells! . . . 240 
 Though frail of form, thou wert of spirit large and 
 
 free 59 
 
 Though he that ever kind and true 309 
 
 '"Tis plain to see," said a farmer's wife .... 388 
 
 To him who, in the love of Nature, holds ... 40 
 
 To-night, as I sat by my window 68 
 
 Tread softly, — bow the head 301 
 
 'Twas Christmas night in Paris 382 
 
 'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through 
 
 the house 234 
 
 Under a spreading chestnut-tree 207 
 
 Wall, no, I can't tell whar he lives 163 
 
 We count the broken lyres that rest 174 
 
 We have sipped the cup of sorrow 229 
 
 We were crowded in the cabin 118 
 
 What is the price of manhood? 1 
 
 Whatever you do in this wonderful world . . . 386 
 
 [4531 
 
POETICAL FAVORITES 
 
 PAGE 
 When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad 
 
 earth's aching breast 216 
 
 When all the world is young, lad, and all the trees are 
 
 green 186 
 
 When chill November's surly blast 46 
 
 When Freedom, from her mountain height ... 97 
 
 When Friendship or Love our sympathies move . 52 
 
 When I consider how my Ught is spent . . . 233 
 When Jones left Badger's Corners he was racked by 
 
 doubt and fear 378 
 
 When mysterious whispers are floating about . . 374 
 
 When the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour . 230 
 
 Which I wish to remark 155 
 
 With fingers weary and worn 183 
 
 Woodman, spare that tree! 242 
 
 Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, one night . . . . 117 
 
 Ye banks, and braes, and streams around ... 44 
 
 Yet has no month a prouder day 43 
 
 You can write it down as gospel 302 
 
 You must wake and call me early, call me early, 
 
 mother dear 324 
 
 454 
 
>-V £.f I^IV 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
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