THE POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. ' SELECTED AND EDITED ' EEV. EGBERT AEIS WILLMOTT, INCUMBENT OF BEAEWOOD. WITH ENGLISH AND AMERICAN ADDITIONS, ARRANGED BY EVERT A. DUYCKINCK, EDITOR OF THE CYCLOPEDIA OF AMERICAN LITERATURE. ILLUSTRATED WITH ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY - ONE ENGRAVINGS, DRAWN BY EMINENT ARTISTS. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1881. W/75 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by HARPER & BROTHERS, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, PREFACE. VKKY suggestive of musical and pleasant thoughts is the Picture- gallery which this Preface opens ; and among them is the recollection of the manner in which these choice Word-paintings have been con- tributed by the Authors, or their representatives; always with liberal promptness, and' sometimes with expressions of personal good-will, to be gratefully treasured. Nor can I forget the generous enterprise of the Publishers, and the tasteful skill of the Brothers Dalziel, by whom the grace and the beauty of the pencil have been translated into the popular language of their own Art. The Volume embraces a period of about eighty-five years, for the iirst Canto of the Minstrel appeared in 1771 ; Beattie survived Cowper only three years ; while Percy, exchanging the friendship of Goldsmith for that of Scott, lived into the eleventh year of this century. The dates of these poets might seem to exclude them from our calendar ; but, in truth, the fancy of the present age was largely inspired and moulded by the past ; and the sentiment of the Minstrel, the natural- ness of the Task, and the simplicity of the Reliques, very strikingly reappear in Campbell, Wordsworth, and Scott. Nor has the embel- lished landscape of Darwin been without imitators ; while the foot- prints of Rogers are easily traced in the trim garden-paths of Ilaylcy. One member of the classic band will be less familiar to general read- ers: I allude to Professor Crowe, whose descriptive poem is written with fine taste, and in choice numbers. The traveller, walking from Charmouth to Lyme, discovers Lewesdon Hill on the right band, and forming one of the boundaries to a rich vale chequered by enclosures. Our Poetry owes many beauties to womanly genius, and in the fol- lowing pages some specimens of it will be found. The "Psyche" of A* -TV* ii PREFACE. Mary Tighe yet lives in the memory of Taste; but Scotland furnishes a greater name: "If you wi>h to speak of a real port," Scott said to Ballantyne, "Joanna llaillie is now the highest genius of our country." He numbered the description (^' Orra's madness with the sublimest ever written, and compared the language to Shakspeare's. The I' Mrs. Ilemans afford a lively contrast. It was her misfortune that she wrote to live, instead of living to write. Her compositions, therefore, are unequal ; but in her best pieces the eye is delighted by the glow and colour, and the ear is soothed by the varied cadence often delicious, never harsh. The visionary tenderness and romance of Mr-. Kaddiile are breathed over the Address to Melancholy, and the Song of a Spirit. The quotation from Hannah More was chosen for the Hihject which it ottered to the Artist, who has so happily embodied it in his t/cnre sketches. The chaste elegance of Mrs. Barbauld is of a higher order; and very true poetic feeling and utterance are conspicu- ous in the local pictures and the tender Sonnets of Charlotte Smith, which Miss Seward, clever in her spite, called " everlasting duns upon pity." One name in the tuneful Sisterhood has a home interest for me. DU but yesterday that the shutters were shut in " Our Village." and Mary IJu.-sell Mil ford went from among us. AVhile turning over the leaves of this book, I have thought of the kindly welcome with which -he would have -reeled the illustration of her own " Rienzi," if I had taken it to her on one of thcM- soft autumn days which she loved so much, and when her familiar lanes and dingles wear their sweete.-t ci.li.ur-. She had compared her old abode' to a bird-cage that might be laid on a ,-helf. or hung upon a tree: and her latest dwelling VftU hardly leSfl odd. or dwarli-h. lint there, also, she had a cool re- treat ..ill .f doors, in the .-hade of her garden, and I see her sitting: in it now with table and book; constant to all her little here- .ding the interminable Richard-on every year, preferring ITOod-emben to the fain-t moonbeams that ever lighted lovers, and \ri-iii'_ r tin- ni-jhtii mpanied by the moan of the on. lint the r.roiherhood ha- name-. alfiO, In be remembered by me with i When I read the description of the dying 1'KFFAi ii, Adam by James Montgomery a pa. age exquisite in conception, im- agery, and language the author is lu'i'oiv me as I saw him in my early youth. Lisle Howies is another name to be marked with a white stone. .V delightful spot was Bivmhill indeed, i< .-till with the (juaint garden, and the swans, Snow-drop and Lily, sailing up to the parlour window to inquire after their dinner, and Peter the hawk, and the Vicar holding his watch to his car, to make sure that he had not grown deaf since breakfast. Southey visited the Parsonage when the lovcablc old man was in his seventy-third year, and presented to the eye of his friend the most entertaining mixture that could be of un- tidiness, simplicity, benevolence, timidity, and good-nature ; but nobody smiled at his oddities more heartily than the owner. The poetical merits of Bowles are great. Ilis sonnets delighted Coleridge, and even Byron acknowledged the excellence of The Missionary. Of all the elder poets of our time, my examples are less numerous than I had hoped to give. The lines of Wordsworth on Tintern Ab- bey are omitted from want of room ; and the most striking effort of Southey's imagination, the agony of Kailyal at her father's flight, was ill adapted for pictorial use. The fame of Coleridge, however, will not suffer loss by resting on Genevieve, who has caught a new grace from the hand of Millais. Among these earlier poems, the reader will be attracted by the Legend of Kilmeny, which, for a moment, lifts the Shepherd to the side of Burns ; by the sunshiny morals of Praed, who reminds me of an Ariosto brought up in England; and by the sea- views and the Dutch painting of Crabbe. If I could have turned my Preface into an illustrated catalogue, these poems would have furnished agreeable notes; for to many some little story is attached ; as in the case of Keats, whose Ode to the Nightingale was written in the spring of 1819, when the fatal disease- lay so heavy at his heart, that Coleridge, meeting him in a lane near Ilighgate, remarked "There is death in that hand." The stanzas beginning " The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill" become more affecting, when we are told that Scott composed them during the languor of sickness, and that they mark the very spot of their birth, now clothed by rich woodlands, the work of the Poet's hand. The Elm Tree might also claim a paragraph, to tell of the solemn Avenue which iv inspired it; and certainly I'mbrageous Ham" lias not been mused in by a more genial visitor, since the frequent feet of Thomson broke tin- shadows. Tlu- noble verses "Wine of Cyprus" should recall the memory of the Mind Scholar to whom they were addressed ; and the compositions of Frances Urown will lose a charm if the shadow on her eyes he forgotten. lint of living Poets I may not speak. They are here to speak for themselves in tones of harmony, grandeur, and pathos, to which lew ear.-. I suppose, will be deaf. The list might have been enlarged, but a great Constituency can only be represented by a lew Members. R. A. WlLLMOTT. ( 'ATHAKIXE'S, October 2. 1JB5G. AMERICAN PREFACE. Tin: volume of "Poets of the Nineteenth Century," edited by the Ke\. I{. A.Wn.i.Mo'iT, a most loving and judicious critic of English literature, is here piv>erv-d entire, with some important extensions. Tin- select iiix have been increased from four hundred to six hundred and -i -\ -nty-foiir jiaLres, and a proportional addition has been made t> the number of Engravings. The new material, in both instances, will be found indicated in the Table of Contents. The work of Mr. Willmott was confined to wrilrr> of his own country. In the piv-dit volume a liberal space has been ^iven t<> American authors, illustrated by American artists. Additional illus- 1 ration*; ,.(' Kn-'IMi j.oem- an- furnished from the pencils of painters of eminent merit, making the work a very comprehensive represen- tation of the art of the day as applied to literal HIT. N i -71. CONTENTS. A Star j>nftjccd to the Titles indicates matter added in the present American E>l TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 17 WILLIAM IIAYLEY. THE VISION OF SERENA 21 JAMES HURDIS. RURAL SOUNDS 24 CHARLOTTE SMITH. THE SWALLOW 26 SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING 29 SONNET , 30 SONNET ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHT- IN<;ALE ib. FROM "BEACIIY HEAD" 31 ANNA SEWARD. 35 ERASMUS DARWIX. MARCH <>F CAMP.YSES 36 THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS 38 TASTE 39 WILLIAM CROWE. LEWESDON HILL.. .. 41 THOMAS PERCY. THE FRIAR OF OUDI.KS <;I;\Y 47 GENTLE RIVER 51 GEORGE CRABBE. A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT 55 MARINE VIEWS 57 A GOOD VILLAGER 62 THE PARTING LOOK 65 MARY TIGIIE. PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD 66 ANN RADCLIFFE. TO MELANCHOLY 69 SONG OF A SPIRIT 71 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION 73 A PETITION 77 HANNAH MORE. FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND 78 W. LISLE BOWLES. RETURN TO OXFORD 88 ON THE RHINE ib. THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY 90 THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN 92 LANDING AT TYNKMOUTH 97 TIJK I5URIAL PLACE 98 SUNRISE ... 100 VI CONTENTS. SAMUEL ROGKIis. not OLD BOUBI \Q- MTllEIi AND < '1111.1) ll>4 mi. AMLLIA OPIE. X HOY'S TALK... 106 WILLIAM On HAMILTON 108 'win:, uiii.Dur.N, AND KRU:NI 109 LORD BYRON. THE PRISONER OK rilll.I.oN Ill 1111 DREAM 123 PERCY BYSSIIE SHELLEY. WRITTEN* IN DEJECTION NK \U N.U'LES 131 .111 133 .. 134 JOHN KEATS. ODE TO A 135 HI.L TAYLOR COLERIDGE. LOVE 139 WILLIAM WollD-WnllTIL I \TION 1 -}:; A CLOI i) IMI 11 T:K in 146 IV IDKNT AT BRUUES 150 A JEWISH K\M1I.Y l.Vj *A I'DlilUAll 154 IM M POSED UPON \v 156 CHAKI.IS LAMP, A RF.M KM BRANCH FOR AN ALBUM... BENRY KII:KI: WHITI: 158 169 160 WASHINGTON ALLSTOX. * AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN 162 * ROSALIE 163 A IKAC.ME.NT 164 RICHARD HENRY DANA. mi: nrsi;ANi's AND \vni;'s (;I:AVI; 165 *A CLUMP OF DAISIES 169 SAMUEL WOODWORTII. * THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET 171 WALTER SCOTT. THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW IHLL 172 MARMION DYING 174 THE BURNING OF ROKEBY 176 THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM 180 THE EXILE OF ERIN 181 DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH 183 i.o< mi.i.'s \VAKMM; 184 1 1 < 1 1 !: N L I N D E N 187 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 189 \l MARINERS OF ENGLAND 191 RICHARD IIKMIY WILDE. * STANZAS 194 -IAMKS MONTGOMERY. Till: DKA1II dl ADAM ... 195 -IOANXA r.AILLIK. mi: i-iir.i:N/.v <>i OKRA 198 .FAMKS CKAHAMK. \r.r.\in -jn-j RDTDA1 i" mi -mru r.i , M i> 204 .. 206 \ -\r.i: Mil u \i K KoL.I.RT liLOOMFIELI). I \MI:- \l : mi i \I:MI k'l M>1 IN mi: i ii i.i- 210 ii a CONTENTS. vii EBENEZER ELLIOTT. * i;ruN- 215 * A POET'S EPITAPH 2IC> ' sI'UlM: 217 THOMAS MOORE. _ THE LAMENT OK THE PERI FOR IIINDA.... 218 Not KMA1IA1 220 CHARLES WOLFE. Till: KUKIAL OF SIE JOHN MOORE 221 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. THI: POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG 223 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 225 SIDNEY WALKER. TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR 227 JAMES HOGG. THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY 229 CHARLES SPRAGUE. * THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS 236 * THE BROTHERS 237 FELICIA HEMANS. THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO 238 THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD 242 THE RETURN 243 MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER 245 SONG 248 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. * THE INDIAN SUMMER 249 ' THE HOLY DEAD '2.11 * TALK WITH THE SEA 252 REGINALD HEBER. THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 254 * LINES ADDRESSED TO MRS. HEBER 258 * LINES WRITTEN TO A MARCH... .. 260 ROBERT SOUTIIEY.^ Till: VISIT .| MA DOC. A SCENE AMONG Tin: wiasii HILLS i!i;i Till: \\IIKI.I. OF WOE TIIAI.AP.A IN THi: TENT OF MOATII 265 SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN Ii7 CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOITIIKY,. * SUNDAY EVENING 'J7 I JOHN LEYDEN. TO THE EVENING STAR 275 TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN 277 JOHN CLARE. * MARY LEE. 279 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. * SALMON RIVER 282 * THE BLACK FOX OF SALMON RIVER 284 EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. A HEALTH 286 *A PICTURE-SONG 287 CLEMENT C. MOORE. * A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.... 288 BERNARD BARTON. TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE 291 WILLIAM SOTHEBY. RHINEFIELD, A LODGE IN THE NEW FOR- EST 293 SKIRID, A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY 294 ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO BANGOR AT MIDNIGHT ib. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. * SONG OF MARION'S MEN * GREKN RIVER 298 * THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS 301 * THE LAND OF DREAMS 302 * THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES CONTEXTS. * THE GLADNESS OK NATURE * WILLIAM TIIl.I * AN INVITATION 1" TliK COUNTRY. PAGE 308 309 .losEIMI RODMAN DRAKE. BRONX 311 * SOSXKT 313 FIT/ c.REENK IIALLECK. * RED .lA.KI.T 314 318 illE DEUH OK Jo-El'H RODMAN DRAKE >>'J.l HORACE SMITH. * THE FIRST OF MARCH 323 GEORGE DARLEY. * HARVEST HOME 324 WIXTIIRop MACKWORTII I'RAED. rHILDIIooD AND HIS VI-ITo|:< THE VICAK KAI'E 330 THOMAS HOOD. THE ELM TKEE. A DIM. AM IN THE WOODS 332 TIIoMAS I'RINOLE. MAIL IN TI1K DE-EKT WALTER BAVAGE LAN DOR. THE WATER- NYMPH AITEAKP [QO \M> .11 I.I \N HENRY HART MILMAN. THE IIKI;I;I:\V WEDDIXC Till: i OMINt; OF THE JUDGE LEIGH HI/NT. AN ITALIAN GARDEN. ABOU BEN ADUEM.... 301 365 368 GEORGE CROLY. THE ALIIAMI'.RA ........................ 369 FLORA ........................................... 371 SAMUEL FERGUSON. * THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR ........... 372 JOHN MOULTRIE. THE THREE SONS ............................... 375 "FORGET THEE?" .............................. 378 TIIOMAS BABINGTOX MACAULAY. Till: :-l'AMSII ARMADA ........................ 379 WILLIAM MOTHKRWI-LL. S i K MORRIS* >N ........................... *THKVMI.! mi: MI. i:uv MMMI:U MONTHS 385 *A SOI.I:MN .NI i:rr ......................... 386 HENRY TAYLOR. AKTEVEI.DE IN DAVID MACI'.KTH MolR. * CASA Av\rrv 896 I'.LANCo WHITE. RICHARD < IIF.NLVIN TBENCH, SPILT ri \i:i I - RALPH WALDO EMERSON. KEHLE. THE I. II IE- H THE ITEI.D TIM'. .. 358 CHARLES FEXXO HoiTMAXN. BPABK1 ' n.in .... ... 408 CONTENTS. IX GEORGE r. MoRKIs. I1LNKY THEODORE TUCKKUMAN. * WOOUMAN, M'ARE THAT TK1T 10'.' * WEST 1'OINT 482 IKY 410 RALPH 1LOYT. * SNOW - A \\IMKU SKETUI ................ 411 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. * BLESSING- 416 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. * UNSEEN SPIRITS ............................. 419 * LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY ................... 420 I1KNUV ALFORD. HYMN TO THE SKA 423 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. * THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 426 * THE END OF THE PLAY 429 ALFRED TENNYSON. TIM: MAY (jUEEN 432 * MORTE D* ARTHUR 439 * EDWARD <;RAY 449 * THE GOOSE 451 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 454 PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. * FLORENCE VANCE.... * YOUNG ROSALIE LEE 456 457 OLIVER WENDELL IloLMES. * THE LAST LEAF * ON LENDING A ITN( II HOWL 1.SS JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. r * MAUD MULLER 459 * GONE 463 EDGAR ALLAN POE. * THE RAVEN 466 IIEXRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. * HYMN TO THE NIGHT 471 * RESIGNATION 473 * KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN 476 * EXCELSIOR ... 479 ALFRED B. STREET. A FOREST NOOK l''l ROBERT BROWNING. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA 494 EVELYN HOPE 1'.'7 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. \\INI: OF cYPiirs 499 CHARLES KINGSLEY. THE THREE FISHERS 505 THE SANDS OF DEE 506 * THE DAY OF THE LOUD 507 WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE AYTOUN. * THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE 508 THOMAS DAVIS. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE 514 EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. EVA 517 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. THE HISTORY OF A LIFE -V-0 WITHIN AND WITHOUT. EDWIN" ATHERSToNE. BATTLE SCENES 527- 530 MARY IIOWITT. THE BALLAD OF RICHARD BURNEI.I... MATTHEW ARNOLD. * TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE 547 CONTENTS. W. C. IIKNNKTL WILLIAM ALLKN BL 7 TLER. * BABY'S SIIOKS * NO I'll IM. TO \VKAH 599 * ;.IUA.N'> MM TAPII . . . .. 551 ISA YARD TAYLOR. ALKXANDKi; SMITH. * DAn.n n i: 01 KOYPT G10 rill. |-.ANK> 01 A 1MVEK .").")_' i in-. SI-;A ib. PICTURES .").') 1 * p.KDoriN SONG .' Gil rillLIP .1 AMI-IS BAILEY. W. D. HOWELLS. A sr.MMl.U Nl<;lIT ."..".7 - MNT ( HRISTOPHER . . .. 613 \voi;i 558 PORTRAIT OK A I.AHV 559 1IKNRY M. ALDEN. sIIKRIDAN KNOWLES. nil: APPEAL AND TIII-: REPROOF GERALD MASSEY. ot i: WEE \\lirn. I:OSK THAT MI.KKY. MKKKY MAY Till; ANCIENT "LADY OF SORI!O\v". WILLIAM ALLIXCIIAM. AI-Tt.MNAI. -oNM.T ................. CHARLES MACK AY. YOUTH AND SORROW .............. FRANCES BROWN. 560 564 566 568 570 -nn lion or mi. KI.-^I KI:I-:CTION M.I. THIN'.- HKW TIIoMAS WILLIAM I'AKSoNS. * -OKI - ' IAI9 i JAMES RUSSELL l.oWELL. 676 579 581 * Till-: BtHOOKJ LI Vf\ - \\ n i.i i>i 111 N ! ................. ................ M \i:i \ LOWELL * TIIK \l IMM -III I I- ............... M \- BUCHANAN READ. . 584 R. H. STODDARD. G15 618 * THE SEA * ON THE PIER if>. * THE SKY IS THICK UPON THE SEA 619 JULIA C. R. DORR. * THE DIUMMI.K-r.OY's EKNEKAl 620 DANTE G. ROSSETTI. * THE SKA-LI M ITS 623 CHRISTINA (JABRIELLA ROSSETTI. * A BIRTHDAY 624 * SIN<; NO SAD SON<;S KOI: ME ib. CHARLES A. SWINUfKNK. * r.KKolIK PARTING 626 K. ( . STKDMAN. * THE DOOK-STEP * DARKNESS \M> Tin. SHADOW 630 CHAL'l.r.s (i. HALI'INi: (MILKS O'RKILI " 1:1 9IONED .... 590 GEORGE KI.InT. D\T DYINC. * >i-i:iN; * IT \V \- iN I'lll PIMMI nn 'KIM.. LOW -,,,, KTIIKL LYNN I5KEKS. .V.lf, * A DO. .' |. \V I.NDI.D 631 (\:\\ ( ONTJ NTS xi I. I'CV I.AIICOM. HANNAH KINDINc. >. & (NAM. \ DIM \M 01 I AIIMI - ALICE CARY. TIIOI THAT I'KAWI 9T A-IIH. THK CUR- I ' \IN" ............................. 641 * "COME OUT TO THE SIDE OF THE SEA" 642 PHCEBE CARY. IMM-.A.MS AND Ul M.ITIKS ............... 643 JOHN HAY. M ^ ( A> 1 LE IN SPAIN .................. 645 * WOMAN'S LOVE ....................... 647 BRET HARTE. * CICELY ............................... 649 i <;i<;oi;<;i: n. * DIRGE FOR A sol. DM I: . * SONNKT . . < -^ WALT WHITMAN. * PROUD MUSIC OF TIM-: sroK.M . ANNIE C. KETCH I'M. MARK LEMON. * OLD TIME AND I 660 668 678 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. .1 Shu- j>r<'!t.r/ to the Titles indicates new Illustrations in the present American Edition. SUBJECT. AUTHOR. DRAWN DV PAOK THE POET IN YOUTH Bcattic B. J-oxfn- 1 A VALLEY AMONG Tin: HILL- Ditto 1 1". llun' RETIREMENT Ditto Ditto 8 YARIM.KY OAK Cowpcr Ditto 11 LINKS TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE Ditto J. Gilbert 17 Tin: VISION OF SERENA Hayley....; A.]InoN HILL Crowe B. Foster 41 THE THIRSTY LAMB Ditto Ditto 44. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY Percy /. Tcnnicl 47 GENTLE RIVER Ditto Ditto 53 A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT Crabbc B.Foster 55 MARINE VIEWS : CALM Ditto E. Duncan 59 STORM Ditto Ditto 61 A GOOD VILLAGER Ditto J. R. Clayton till To MELANCHOLY Ann Radcliffc...B. Foster r,< A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION A. L. Barbauld. Ditto 7:5 FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND: THE LOUNGE Hannah Mor< ...J. (lodirin 7^ THE OPERA Ditto Ditto ON THE RHINE Bowles ,/. D. HnnJ'niii 89 THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN Ditto II". Hurrfi/ '.:. LANDING AT TYNEMOUTII Ditto T. DahJd H7 SUNRISE Ditto W. Hri'<>i KH THE OLD HOUSE Rogers G. Dodgtoi 1":; THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE Amelia Opif ....T. Dalzicl 1"7 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON Byron F. M. Bron-:, 11 xiv LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. THE DREAM Ditto /. K. MillaiR, A.R.A .... 125 WKITTKN IN DIMUTIO.N M:\K .Y\ru:> Shelley W. L. Lcitch 131 ODE TO A NI<;HTIN<;ALE Keats B.Foster 135 THE STKKAM Ditto Ditto 138 LOVK Coleridge J. E. Millais.A.R.A 139 THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION Wordsworth B.Foster 143 INCIDENT AT Bur<;i:- Ditto J. R. Clayton 151 * THE llrsr.ANi.'s A \i. WIFE'S GRAVE Dana ,/. H. Hill 165 Tin; SIN UPOH TIII-: WF.IKDI. \\v HILL Scott B. Foster 172 MAR.MI..N I)YIN<; Ditto /. Tenniel 174 THE BruxiNG OF KOKI:BY Ditto Ditto 176 THE K.MI.I; OF KRIX Campbell T. Dalziel 182 II\r<,ini:u H. R. Mitford...J. Tenniel 246 * THE INDIAN Si MM F.I: Sigourney J. 11. J/ifl 249 Tin; \Vn OF MADOC Southcy ./. Gilbert 261 THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH Ditto W. llnrnii 2iif> To 11 STAR Leyden G. Dodgson 275 * A Vi-rr II:OM ST. NMIK.I.AS C. C. Moore F. 0. C. Darter 288 To -in PRIMROSE B. Barton Ditto 291 RniNF.FiF.i.h. \ I.OIM;I: IN TIN: Ni.\\ r..i:i.-r..W/*^// W. IIrr>;i 293 *SoNG OF MAI:I..N - - MFN Bryant F. 0. C. Darlnj -j'.if> vi;u li'.ttn /. //. Jtitt ^S * Tin: Hi NIL i: "i mi: PiiMiin.- Ditto F. O. C. Darlry 304 * Tin. QlJUnraM "i- N ATJ-KK IHttn 7. //. ///// ::n7 Dricker8gitt,A.n..\ Tin: l.n. n:s UK THE l'ii:i.i ....................... K:i>iNt. .......................... Milmnn ........... h'. II. < ',,,!, ,jlt Html ...... (. l)ni: IN GHENT ............................. Taylor ............ /. R. Clayton ......... ..... :; ( .iii Tin: Si-n.r PKAKI.S ................................. Trench ............ W. Harvey ................ Svi\\- A WINTER SKETCH .................... Hoyt .............. F. 0. C. Darley ........... 411 * BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN ........................ Simms ............ Ditto ......................... 416 II\M.N T> TIII. SKA ................................. Alford ............ E.Duncan ................. -liM NEW-YEAR'S EVE CONCLUSION Ditto Ditto Ditto Ditto 434 436 TAILPIECE * MORTE D'ARTHUR: * EXCAHBUR Ditto Ditto Ditto D. Maclise 438 439 * DEATH SCENE * EDW\RD GR\Y Ditto Ditto Ditto / E MillaiK 117 449 * THE GOOSE Ditto W Mul-rcady 451 * BREAK, BREAK, BRE VK Ditto C. Stanfield 454 * MAUD MULLER Whitticr.... p C Darley .. . 459 THE RAVEN HYMN TO THE \IGIIT ... Poe Lon (i fellow Ditto / Gilbert 466 471 * RESIGNATION Ditto Ditto .... 473 * KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN : *THE CAROUSE ............................... Ditto .............. Ditto ......................... 476 * MONK READING ............................ Ditto .............. Ditto ........................ 477 * EXCELSIOR ......................................... Ditto .............. F. 0. C. Darley ........... 47 ( J * WEST POINT ....................................... Tuckcrman ...... /. W. Casilear ............. 482 *THE LAST LEAF .................................. Holmes ........... F. 0. C. Darley ........... 485 * ON LENDING A PuNCH-Bowi ................... Ditto .............. Ditto ......................... 488 * A FOREST XOOK ................................. Street ............. J. II. Hill ................... 491 Two IN THE CAMI-AGNA .......................... R. Browning ....E. A. Goodall ............. 495 WI.NK OF CYPRUS .................................. E. B. Browning. J. R. Clayton .............. I'.' 1 .' THE THREE FISHERS ............................... Kingslcy ......... T. Dalziel ................... 506 THE SACK OF BALTIMORE ........................ Davis ............. Jam. Godimi ............. ">14 EVA: THE MAIDEN'S HOMI: .................... Bulwer LyW> ;/.../. (illhr.rt ................... r>17 THE STRANGER SUITOR ...................... Ditto .............. T. Dalzicl ................... .VJ" THE RETURN .................................. Ditto .............. Ditto ......................... ;Vj:; THE HISTORY OF A LIFE ......................... Procter ......... D. Edwards ................ "-' xvi LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. SUBJECT. AUTHOR. DRAWN BY PACK WITHIN AND Wmiorr l)\tio J rstn>- E. 11. Curl', aid 530 KKTIAKD BruxELL: Y'.iNi; I'.IKNKLL AND ALICE }fK AI.HT. Ditto Ditto 540 1.1. AND ALICE IN THE TEMPLE GARDENS Ditto Ditto 546 Tin; HANK> Ditto Ditto 555 A M-MMEU NIGHT Bailey Ditto 557 Tin: AITEAI. AND -1:11: REPROOF Knmrl \ /. Tmni'-l 560 OI:R WEE WHITE ROSE Masscy /. A'. Clayton 565 THAT MI:KKY. MI:IM:Y MAY Ditto D. Edwards 567 Arrr.MNAi. SONNET Alliinjham G. Dodgson r>7n Y"i-iH AND SORROW Mackay E, H. Coriouid 573 TIIK IIoi-K UK Tin: IvK-riini:- TioN ttnnnt Ditto 575 * Tin. SINGING LBATBB J. R. Lowell ./ H. Hill 584 * THE '\VAY>II.K SIMMXG Read Ditto 596 n i INC TO WEAR: * Tin-: LADY W. A. Butler... A. Tloppin 500 * Tin: I!I:I.I;AI: /Jittu Ditto GO!) ' IIKI^H,,. ,.;,: H'. I). //.,/// //.s- G13 * THE I H:r.M.Mi-:u-I JOY'S Ft NKUAI T. C. R. Dorr . . >W. i/tinr/e, Jr 020 ];, ,I,,M i, ('.(!. /ful/nne.. Ditto G31 * A !)..- l>\-> KxDKi): li.i.i ANI. I)I;I;AMIN; /.'. /.. 11, i-rs ... .Ditto <;:}ll /Jittn Ditto (5:5S * A DKI.AM oi I-'AII:II - : 1 \\ i i \ BlTTDTG "\ i HI. ( , i; \-> S. S. Conant . . . I >itt<> C>~>2 * A Tlior>ANi) MI.I:I:Y Si-i:iri.> hitlo Ditto DIM." BBS IN -1111,11: BOAI 1. ''. A"- t-/,'i:n.. Ch'irles Parsons GG8 I'm BTBAHDKD SHIP.,. ..Ditto l>itt< (>7'2 BEATTIE. THE POET IN YOUTH. Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine, 1 THE I'OKT IN YOUTH. And sees on high, amidst th' encircling groves. From clifr' to clitf the foaming torrents shine; While waters, woods, and winds in concert join, And Kcho >wells the chorus to tin- >k'n-s. Would Kdwin this maje.-tic shipwreck"d mariner on desert coast, And view tlf enormous waste of vapour, toss'd In billows, lengthening to th' hori/on round. Now scoopM in gulfs, with mountains now emboss' d ! And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound. Flock-, herd-, and waterfall-, along the hear profound '. In truth, he was a -t range and wayward wight. Fond of each gentle and each dreadful .-erne. In darkne-s and in storm he found delight ; Nor 1680, than when on ocean-wave -eivnc The .-outhern -mi dilfu-'d hi- dax/ling -been. i -ad \iei--iiudr amii-'d hi- >oul ; And if a -iuh would .-nmetime- intervene. And down hi- rhn-k a d :ir of pity roll. i he wi-h'd not to control. J BEATTIE. SIT, in the ivar oi' the warm sunny shower Tin- \i>ionary hoy iVoin shelter fly; For now tin- storm ol summer rain is o'er, Ami cool, and Iresli, and fragrant is the sky. And, lo! in tin- dark Fast, expanded high, Tin- rainhow brightens to the setting sun! Fond tool, that deem'st the streaming glory nih ; I low vain tin- chase thine ardour has begun! Tis fled afar, ere halt' thy purposed race he run. "SVhen the long-sounding curfew from afar Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale, Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star, Lingering and listening, wander' d down the vale. There would he dream of graves and corses pal'. And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng, Ami drag a length of clanking chain, and wail, Till silenc'd by the owl's terrific song, Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles aloiu Or, when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, To haunted streams, remote from man, he hied, Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep ; And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing car; then tapers bright, AVith instantaneous gleam, illum'd the vault of night. Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch Arose ; the trumpet bids the valves unfold ; And forth an host of little warriors march, Grasping the diamond lance and targe of gold. Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold, And green their helms, and green their silk attire ; And here and there, right venerably old. MOIJNIMi LANDSCAl'I-;. The long-roh'd minstivls wake the warbling wire. And some with mellow breath the martial pipe inspire. With inrrrimrnt. and song, and timbrels clear, A troop >-f dames from myrtle bowers advance; The little warriors doll' the targe and spear. And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance. They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance; To right, to left, they thrid the flying ma/.e ; Now bo;i!id aloft with vigorous spring, then glance Rapid along: with many-colour'd rays ( )f taper.-, gem-, and gold, the echoing forests blaze. MORNING LANDSCAPE. Prr who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side ; The lowing herd: the >lnvpfold's >imple bell : The pipe of earlv shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide. The clamoj-ou- horn along the cliffs above; Tin- hollow murmur of the ocean tide; Tin- hum of bee-, the linnet's lay of lo\e. And the full choir that wake^ the univer-al gro\e. Thr COttage-Cim at rarly pilgrim bark; Crown'd with her pail, the tripping milkmaid EODgBj The whi-tling ploughman >talk> afield; and, hark! Down the rough .-lope the ponderou- waggon rin;j- : Through rn- 1 ling corn the hare a-toni-h'd >prin-_ I BBATTIE. Slow tolls tlic N ilk-lire clock the drowsy hour; The parlriilire hursts a\vay on whirring wiu^- ; Deep mourns the turtle in s'i|urstrrM hmver. And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower. CALM AND STORM. OFT when the winter storm had ceas'd to rave, He roain'd the snowy waste at even, to view The cloud stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave High towering, sail along th' horizon blue: Where, 'midst the changeful scenery ever new, Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries, More wildly great than ever pencil drew Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size, And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts rise Thence musing onward to the sounding shore, The lone enthusiast oft would take his way. Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar Of the wide-weltering waves. In black array When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal day ; E'en then he hasten' d from the haunt of man, Along the trembling wilderness to stray, AVhat time the lightning's fierce career began, And o'er heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder ran- A VALLEY AMONG THE HILLS. Tmrnr.i; lit- hied, enninour'd of tin- scene; F..r riM'ks on ruck- pilM, :is hv iiiii^ic spell, I I.i-,. -eoreh'd with Huhtniny;. tliciv with i\v green, Krin-M In mi the nortli and c;i>t tlii- Savage ldl. Southward ;i mountain !<>>( \\iih c;i-\- swell, Wh<-e I'.irj. lonvr jrrovrs etcninl inuniiiir iu:ule : And IOWMP! tin- \\v-teni MIII :i >1n-:iinlft i'ell, Wh-|v. llinill'.'ll the dills, the eve remote MH'M'vM r.lue liilN, mid .'littT5u_L r waves, :m.l skies in BBATTIB, Along thi< narrow valley you might B66 Tin- wild to tread ; No more I climb those toilsome heights. I'.y guileful Hope milled : pi HIV fond fluttering heart no imnv T<> Mirth'- enlivening -train ; For present plenum- x.un i- o'er, And all the p ;l >t i- lo COWPER. YARDLEY OAK. SURVIVOR sole, and hardly such, of all That once liv'd here, thy brethren, at my birth, 11 YARDLEY OAK. (Since which I number threescore winters past,) A -hatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trnnk'd perhaps. As now. and with excoriate forks deform, Relics ol' lines! could a mind, imbued "With truth from Heaven, created thing adore. I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It -eems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imaiiin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet I'lipm-itied by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Lo\M not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after ta.-tc Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once a cup and ball, Which babes might play with ; and the thievish jay Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, .-wallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of houghs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rain- Uencatli thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle: and a skipping deer. With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, preparM The soft receptacle, in which, secure. Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. Fancy dream-. Disprove it, it' ye can, Ye reas'nerfi broad awake, whose busy search ( )!' argument, employ M too oft am: Sil'i- half the plea-tiro of .-hort lite away! Thou fell'-t mature; and in the loamy clod. Swelling with vegct:iti\e force instinct. Did burst thine egg, M theirs the fabled Twin-. 12 COWl'KK. Now Mars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf, And, all the elements thy i>uny growth Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig. Who liv'd, when thou wast such '. O could'st tliou spea!-. \~ in Dodoua once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, hut at thy mouth, Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, i'acts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right, Desp'rate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods ; And Time hath made thee what thou art a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign ; and the num'rous flocks That graz'd it stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter' d from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship first a seedling, hid in grass ; Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as cent'ry roll'd Slow after century, a giant-bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose till at the last The rottenness, which Time is charged t' inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. 13 YAKDLKY OAK. AYhat exhibitions various hath the world "Witness" d dt' mutability, in all That we account most din-able below ! Change is the diet on which all subsist. Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless .-ea of clouds Calm and alternate storm, moi-ture and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live, plant, animal, and man, And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads. Fine passing thought e'en in her coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain Tin- force that agitates, not unimpaired ; lint, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time wa<, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could >hake thee to thy root and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents. That might have ribbM the sides and plank'd the deck Of Mime tlagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms. The shiptt right's darling treasure 1 , didst present To the four-ipiarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber, many a load! Hut the a\c -pai-'d thee. In tho-e thriftier days Oak- fell not. hewn by thousands to supplr The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd For -enatorial honours. Thus to Time The task \\as Irft to whittle thee away II CQWPBR With his slv M'vthe, whose ever-nibbling el- Noi-elc. . ;m atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, lias, unobserv'd, Aehiev'd a labour which bad far and wide. I>\ man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell' d now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but tin- seoo))'d rind, that seems A lingo ibroat calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou could'st ill re<|uite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs. Which, crook' d into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in Avisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverized of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild, With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some have left A splinter' d stump, bleach'd to a snowy white ; And some, memorial none where once they grew. But life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, K\vn where death predominates. The Spring Kinds thee not less alive to her sweet force Than yonder upstarts of the neighboring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine. 15 YARDLEY OAK. But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected I'roni tbee. seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform My sell' the oracle, and will discourse Jn my own ear such matter as I may. One man alone, the father of us all, Dre\v not his life from woman; never gaz'd, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw. ( )n all around him ; learn'd not by degrees, Xor ow'd articulation to his ear ; But, moulded by his Maker into man, At once upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assigned To each his name si^nilicant, and, HUM With love and wisdom, render' d back to Heav'n In praise harmonious the iirst air he drew, lie was exciis'd the penalties of dull Minority : no tutor charir'd his hand With the thought-tracing quill, <>r task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, Kveiitf'ul. should supply her with a theme. 16 LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. O THAT those lips had language I Life lias pass'd VTith me but ronirhly since I heard thee last. Those lips arc thine thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solac'd me ; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away !" LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. The meek intelligence of those dear (Blest be the art that can immortalise, Tin 1 art that hafllos Time's tyrannic claim To quench it.) hen- shine* on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, welcome guest, though unexpected here! AVlio bidst me honour with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 1 Avill obey, not willingly alone, I >nt gladly, as the precept were her own ; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief. Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream that thou art she. 3Iy mother ! when I learn'd that thou wast dead, Say. wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? llover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, it' souls can weep in bliss Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers ^ I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day, I -aw the hearse that bore thee slow away. And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long >igh. and wept a last adieu! Hut was it such \ It was. AVlu-re thou art gone, Adieu- and Ian-wells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word.- shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maiden.-, griev'd themselves at my concern. Oft gave me prmni-e of thy quick return: What ardently I wish'd, I long belie\M. And. di-appointed -till, wa- -till deceiv'd ; Hy expectation every day heguil'd. Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thu.- many a -:id to-morrow came and v. Till, all my -h.ek of infant Borrow -pen!, 18 COWPEB, 1 learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot. \Yhere once- we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nnrs'ry Hour; And where the gard'ner Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public wax. Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In >carlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, "Tis now become a history little known, That once we calTd the pastoral house our own. Short-liv'd possession ! but the record i'air, That memory keeps of all thy kindne>s there, Still outlives many a storm, that has eiliic'd A thousand other themes less deeply trac'd. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; All this, and, more endearing still than all. Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks, That humour interpos'd too often makes ; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honours to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorn'd in heaven, though little notic'd here. Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers. The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I prick' d them into paper with a pin. (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear. Might one wish bring them, would I wish them li I would not trust my heart; the dear delight Seems so to be desir'd. perhaps I might. But no what here we call our life is such. 19 LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. So little to be lov'd, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The stonns all weather' d, and the ocean cross'd) Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, Win- re spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, AVhile airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reach'd the shore, "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar;" And thy lov'd consort, on the dangerous tide Of life, long since has anchor'd by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. Always from port withheld, always distressed, .Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-toss'd, Sails ripp'd, scams op'ning wide, and compass lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Si-i- me more di.-tant from a prosperous course. Vet O the thought, that thou art sale, and he! That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boa-t is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthronM, and rulers of the earth; lint higher far my proud pretentious rise, The Mn of parents pa M into the ,-kies. And now. farewell ! Time miivvok'd has run Hi- wonted course, yet what I wi-hM is done. I'.y coiitriiiplation's help, not sought in vain, i Q f ha\e liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have ivnrw'd the JOYS that once were mine "Without the ,-iii of violating thine; And while the wing- of Fancy -I ill an- ' And I can \i'\v thi- mimic -how of tl. Time ha- but half -uccredrd in hi- thrl't Th\-.'lf ivmox'd, thy pow'r \<> .-out lie me left. HAYLEY. THE VISION OF SERENA. "WELL may'st thou bend o'er this congenial sphere; For Sensibility is Sovereign here. Thou seest her train of sprightly damsels sport, Where the soft spirit holds her rural court; But fix thine eye attentive to the plain, And mark the varying wonders of her reign." As thus she spoke, she pois'd her airy seat High o'er a plain exhaling every sweet; For round its precincts all the flowers that bloom Fill'd the delicious air with rich perfume ; And in the midst a verdant throne appear'd, 21 THE VISION OF SKRKNA. In simplest form by graceful fancy rear'd, And deek'd with flowers : not such whose. Haunting dyes Strike with the strongest tint our dazzl'd e\ lint tliose wild herhs that tend'rest fibres bear. And .-linn th' approaches of a damper air. Urn- stood the lovely ruler of the scene. And beauty, more than pomp, announe'd The Queen. The bending snowdrop and the briar-rose. Tin- simple circle of her crown compose ; - of every hue her robe adorn, Except tlf iiiHpid rose without a thorn. Of that enchanting age her figure seems, When smiling nature with the vital beams Of vivid youth, and Pleasure's purple flame, (Jilds her accomplish'd work, the female frame, With rich luxuriance tender, sweetly wild, And just between the w r oman and the child. Her lair left arm around a vase she flings, From which the tender plant mimosa springs; Towards its leaves, o'er which she fondly bends, The youthful fair her vacant hand extends With gentle motion, anxious to survey I low far the feeling fibres own her sway; Tin- leaves, as conscious of their (Jin-en's command, Surer ive fall at her approaching hand; While her soft breast with pity si-ems to pant, And shrinks at every shrinking of the plant. Around their sn\rivign, on the verdant ground, Su.rt airy forms in mystic measures bound. rmmmberM damsels dillerent charms display. IVii-i\e with bii . or in their plea>mv- gay, Hut, the bright triumphs of their joy to cheek, In the e|e;ir air then- hangs a du-ky speek ; It -\vrll.~ it >preads and rapid, a< it grow-. ()'-r the -ay scene a chilling -hadow throws. The -oh Seivna. who In-held its flight. Su-peet- no c\il from a cloud >o light: IIAVLl.V. lut, ah! too soon, with pity's tender pain, Sin 1 saw its oth interwoven with so nice an art, No power can tear the twisted threads apart ; Yet happier these, to Nature's heart more dear, Than the dull offspring in the torpid sphere, Where her warm wishes, and affections kind, Lose their bright current in the stagnant mind. Here grief and joy so suddenly unite, That anguish serves to sublimate delight." She spoke ; and, ere Serena could reply, The vapour vanish'd from the lucid sky. The nymphs revive, the shadowy fiends are fled. The new-born flowers a richer fragrance shed. While on the lovely Queen's enchanting face, Departed sorrow's faint and fainter tract- Gave to each touching charm a more attractive grace. 23 HURDI& SOUNDS, I '.i. noiliinr :ln- l':ir-x His dewy supper from the savoury herb Audibly gathering or cheerful hind From the lov'd harvest least returning home, Whistling at intervals some rustic air. Such rural sounds, If haply notic'd by the musing mind, Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve The solemn luxury of idle thought. If not abroad I sit, but sip at home The cheering beverage of fading eve, 1>\ some fair hand, or ere it reach the lip, With mingled flavour tinctur'd of the cane And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock, As from the window studious looks mine eye, Steal fold-ward nibbling o'er the shadowy down Let the reluctant milch-kine of the farm Wend slowly from the pasture to the pail. Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field, And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance stript, Shake his enormous limbs with blund'rinjr speed, Eager to gratify his famish' d lip With taste of herbage and the meadow-brook. 25 CHARLOTTE SMITH. THE SWALLOW. Tin gone LI yrllow ,,n tin- heath, The hanks with >|>:iks :uv l.iiclilinj:: and hfiicath, The h:iwlh..ni H.OII will lu-ar the wivath. Tin- >il\rr wn-ath <' .May. CHAKI.nTTK SMITH. welcome iiuest of Drilled Sprin;.'-. The Swallow, too, is conic at last ; ,Just at sunset, when thrushes sin-r, 1 saw her dasli with rapid wiiijr, And hailM her as she jiass'd. Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed-roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch, At the grey dawn of day. As fables tell, an Indian Sage, The Hindustani woods among, Could in his desert hermitage, As it' 'twere mark'd in written page, Translate the wild bird's song. I wish I did his power possess, That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess, And know from what wild wilderness You came across the sea. I would a little while restrain Your rapid wing, that I might hear Whether on clouds that bring the rain, You sail'd above the western main, The wind your charioteer. In Afric, does the sultry gale, Through spiey bower, and palmy grove, Bear the repeated Cuckoo's tale? Dwells there a time, the wandering Kail, Or the itinerant Dove > 27 THK SWALLOW. Were you in Asia? O relate, If there your fabled mister's woes She -eein'd in .-OITOW to narrnte ; Or sings .-In- lnii to celebrate Her nuptials with the rose? I would inquire how, journeying long The vast ami pathless ocean o'er. You ply ajrain those pinions strong, And come to build anew among The scenes you left before; But if, as cooler breezes blow, Prophetic of the waning year, You hide, though none know when or how, In the diirs excavated brow, And linger torpid here; Thus lost to life, what favouring dream IJids you to happier hours awake; And tells, that dancing in the beam, The light gnat hovers o'er the stream, The May-fly on the lake ? Or if, by instinct taught to know Approaching dearth of insi-ct food, To i.-lrs and willowy ails you go, And crowding on the pliant bough, Sink in the dimpling flood : How learn ye, while the cold waves boom Your deep ;nid oo-y conch ah<>\e. The time when flower- of promise bloom. And call you from your Iran-lent tomb, I Q li-hl, and life, and lo\ 28 UIAKI.OTTK SMITH. Alas! how little can In- known, HIT sarivd \cil where Natnie draws; Let hatlled Science humbly own, HIT mysteries understood alone By HIM who gives IHT laws. SONNET WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF SPRING. THE garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew, Anemones, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair, Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion, and corrosive care, Bid all thy fairy colours fade away! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring; Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? 29 SONNETS. SONNET. Simri. D tin 1 I ono wanderer, fainting on his way, KY-t tor a moment of the sultry hours, And. though his path through thorns and ronglme-s lav. Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers, Wearing gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he awhile may lose : So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy! So charm'd my way with Friendship and the Muse. I Jut darker now grows life's unhappy day. Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come, Her pencil, sickening, Fancy throws away. And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb. And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Win-re the pale spectre Care pursues no more. SONfl I.I < -\ Til K DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. SWKKT pnot of the woods, a long adieu! Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ali! 'twill be long ere thou shall nng anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on Spring thy wandering tlights await, Or whether >ilent in our groves yon dwell. The pen-i\e Mn-e .-hall own thee for her mate. And .-till protect the song >he loxes >o well. With o.-iutious step the hive-lorn youth r-hall glide Thru' the lone brake that -hades thy mo. y nest : \nd Bhepherd-girh from eye- profane .-hall hide The gentle bird, who >ings of pity be-t : -till thy voice -h:ill -oft alli-ctions move. And -till be dear to BOITOW. and to IOM-! FROM " BEACHY HEAD." I ONCE was happy, when, while yet a child I learn'd to love these upland solitudes. And when, elastic as the mountain air, To my light spirit can' was yet unknown, And evil unforeseen : early it came, 31 FROM - BEACH Y HEAD." And childhood scarcely past, I was condemn'd, A guiltless exile, silently to sigh, While Memory, with i'aithful pencil, drew The contrast; and regretting, I eompar'd With the polluted smoky atmosphere And dark and stifling streets, the southern hills, That, to the setting sun their graceful heads tearing, o'erlook the frith, where Yecta breaks With her white rocks the strong impetuous tide, When western winds the vast Atlantic urge To thunder on the coast. Haunts of my youth! Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scatter' d thorns ; whose spring branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb There seeking shelter from the noonday sun : And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way While heavily upward mov'd the labouring wain, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind, To ease his panting team, stopp'd with a stone The grating wheel. .Advancing higher still, The prospect widens, and the village church }"u\ little, o'er the lowly root's around, K'ears its grey belfry, and its simple vane: Those lowly root's of thatch are half conceal'd Iy the rude arms of trees, lovely in Spring. When on eaeli bough the rosy linctur'd bloom Sit> thick, and promises autumnal plenty. l-'M fruit. Console them for tin; vineyards of tin- South. Surpa.-s not these. Where wood- of a-h. ami hereh. And partial cop-e-,. fringe the green hill font. CHAELOTTE SMITH. Tin' upland shepherd rears his modest home ; There wanders by a little nameles.- stream That I'roin tin- hill wells forth, bright no\v and dear. Or after rain with chalky mixture grey, lint still refreshing in its shallow run>e The cottage garden ; most for use designed, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement ; yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flower- : And pansies ray'd, and freak'd and mottled pinks 33 c BEACHY HEAD. Grow among balm, and rosemary and rue ; There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almost imrulturM : some with dark green leaves ( ontra.-t their flowers of pure unsullied white; Other- like velvet robes, of regal state Of richest crimson : while, in thorny moss Kn-hrin'd and cradled, the most lovely wear Thi- hue- of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. With fond regret I recollect e'en now In Spring and Summer what delight I felt Among the.-e cottage gardens, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid, AVere welcome to me ; soon and simply pleas'd, An early worshipper at Nature's shrine, I lov'd her rudest scenes warrens, and heaths, And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows. And hedgerows, bordering unfrequented lanes Bower'd with wild roses, and the clasping woodbine, Where purple ta-.-els of the tangling vetch With bittersweet and bryony inweave, And the dew fills the silver bindweed's cups- I lov'd to trace the brooks whose humid banks Nourish the harebell, and the freckled pagil ; And > troll among o'ershadowing woods of beech, Lending in Summer from the heats of noon :i'-pering shade ; while haply there reclines Some pen-i\e lover of uncultur'd flowers, Who from the tumps, with bright green mosses clad, Plucks the wood sorrel with its light thin leaxes. Heart-Bhap'd, and triply-folded, and its root ping like beaded coral ; or who there (iather-. the cop-e's pride, anemones Wiih ray- like L r "l'l'ii -tuds on ivory laid Mi>-t delicnte: but toiirlfd with purple cloud-. Fit crown for April'- fair but changeful brow. ANNA SEWAKD. SONG. FROM thy waves, stormy Lannow, I fly; From the rocks, that are lash'd by their tide; From the maid, whose cold bosom, relentless as they, Has wivrk'd my warm hopes by her pride! Yet lonely and rude as the scene, Her smile to that scene could impart A charm, that might rival the bloom of the vaie But away, thou fond dream of my heart! From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly! Now the blasts of the winter come on, And the waters grow dark as they rise ! But 'tis well ! they resemble the sullen disdain That has lour'd in those insolent eyes. Sincere were the sighs they represt, But they rose in the days that are flown ! Ah, nymph! unrelenting and cold as thou art, My spirit is proud as thine own. From thy rocks, stormy Lannow, I fly! Lo! the wings of the sea-fowl are spread To escape the loud storm by their flight; And these caves will afford them a gloomy retreat From the winds and the billows of night ; Like them, to the home of my youth, Like them, to its shades I retire ; Receive me, and shield my vex'd spirit, ye groves, From the pangs of insulted desire ! To thy rocks, stormy Lannow, adieu ! 35 DAEWIN. MARCH OF CAMBYSES. WHEN Heaven's dread justice smites in crimes o'ergrown Tin- blood-nurs'd tyrant on his ])nrj)le tlirone, Gnomes! your bold forms win umber' d arms outstretch, And urge the vengeance o'er the guilty wretch. Thus when Cambyses led his barbarous hosts From IYi>ia's rocks to Egypt's trembling coasts, Drilled each hallow' d fane, and sacred wood, And, drunk with fury, swell'd the Nile with blood ; "NVav'd his proud banner o'er the Theban states, And ]>our'd destruction .through her hundred gates; In dread divisions march' d the niarshall'd bands, And swarming armies blackcn'd all the lands, 15y Memphis these to Ethiop's sultry plains, And those to Ammon's sand-encircled fanes. Slow as they pass'd the indignant temples frown'd, Low cur-es iniittering from the vaulted ground; Long :ii.-lcs oi' cypress wav'd their deepen'd glooms, And quivering Spectres grinn'd amid the tomb- : Prophetic whi-pers lnvath'd from Sphinx's tongue, And Memnon's lyre with hollow murmurs rung; I>ur.-t from each pyramid expiring groans, And darker shadows stretchM their lenglhen'd cones, Day after day their dreadful rout they steer, Lu.-t in the van, and rapine in the rear. Cinome-! jis they marchM, you hid the gather' d fruits. The bladed gra-.-. >\veet gr:iin<. and mealv roots: Scai-'d the tired quails, that journey o'er llu-ir head.-, LYtain'd the hn-u>ts in their earthy bed*; 1'ade on your .-amis no night-born dews distil, Slay'd with \indieti\e hands the -canty rill. Loud o'er the camp the liend of Famine .-hr'n-ks. Call- all her brood, and champs her hundred beaks; DARWIN. OYr ton square leagues her pennons broad expand, And twilight swims upon the shuddering sand ; IVreh'd on her civst the gritlin Discord clii And giant .Murder rides between lu-r wings; lilood 1'roin each clotted hair, and horny (mill, And showers of tears in Mended streams distil; High pois'd in air her spiry neck she bends, liolls her keen eye, her dragon-daws extends, Darts ironi above, and tears at each fell swoop With iron fangs the. decimated troop. Now o'er their head the whiz/ing whirlwinds breathe, And the live desert pants, and heaves beneath; Tinned by the crimson sun, vast columns rise Of eddying sands, and war amid the skies, In red arcades the billowy plain surround, And whirling turrets stalk along the ground. Long ranks in vain their shining blades extend, To demon-gods their knees unhallow'd bend. Wheel in wide circle, form in hollow square, And now they front, and now they fly the war, Pierce the deaf tempest with lamenting cries, Press their parch'd lips, and close their bloodshot eyes. Gnomes! o'er the waste you led your myriad powers, Climb' d on the whirls, and aim'd the flinty showers! Onward resistless rolls the infuriate surge, Clouds follow clouds, and mountains mountains urge ; Wave over wave the driving desert swims, lUirsts o'er their heads, inhumes their struggling limbs; Man mounts on man, on camels camels rush, Hosts march o'er hosts, and nations nations crush, Wheeling in air the winged islands fall, And one great earthy ocean covers all ! Then ceased the storm, Night bow'd his Ethiop brow To earth, and listen'd to the groans below, Grim Horror shook, awhile the living hill Heaved with convulsive throes, and all was still! 37 ANTIQUE GEMS. THREE IMPRESSIONS OF ANTIQUE GEMS. Tin: EAGLE. So. when with bristling plumes the bird of Jove Vindictive leaves the argent fields above, Home on broad wings the guilty world lie awes, And grasps the lightning in his shilling claws. THE CHILD SLEEPING. No voice so sweet attunes his cares to rest, So soft no pillow as his mother's breast ! Thus clitirm'd to sweet repose, when twilight hours Shed their soft influence on celestial bowers, The Cherub Innocence, with smile divine, Shuts his white wings, and sleeps on Beauty's shrine. LOVE RIDING ON THE LION. So playful Love on Ida's flowery sides With ribbon-rein the indignant lion guides; 1'lea-ed on his brindled back the lyre lie rin And -hake< delirious rapture from the string-: Slow a- tin- pan-ing monarch stalks along. Sheaths his retractile claws, and drinks the song. Soft nymphs on timid step the triumph view. And li-trning lawns with beating hoof- pursue: With pointed ears the alarmed tbrest start-, And love and mn.-ie .-often .-avage hearts. TASTE. IF the wide eye the wavy lawns explores, The bending woodlands, or the winding shores, Hills, whose green sides with soft protuberance rise, Or the blue concave of the vaulted skies ; Or scans with nicer gaze the pearly swell Of spiral volutes round the twisted shell ; Or undulating sweep, whose graceful turns Bound the smooth surface of Etrurian urns, When on fine forms the waving lines impressed Give the nice curves, which swell the female breast ; The countless joys the tender mother pours Round the soft cradle of our infant hours, In lively trains of unextinct delight Rise in our bosoms recognised by sight ; Fond Fancy's eye recals the form divine, And Taste sits smiling upon Beauty's shrine. Where Kgypt's pyramids iijrantic stand, And stretch their shadows o'er the shuddering sand; Or where high rocks, o'er ocean's dashing floods, Wave high in air their panoply of woods ; 39 TASTE. Admiring Taste delights to stray beneath With eye uplifted, and forgets to breathe; Or, as aloft his daring footsteps climb, ta their high summits -with his arm sublime. Where mouldering columns mark the lingering wreck Of Thebes, Valmyra. Jiabylou, JJalbcc; The prostrate oheli>k, or shattered dome, Uprooted pedestal, and yawning tomb, On loitering steps reflect ive Taste surveys "With folded arms and sympathetic 1 gaze ; Chann'd with poetic Melancholy treads O'er ruin'd towns and desolated meads ; Or rides sublime on Time's expanded wings, And views the fate of ever-changing things. When IJeauty's streaming eyes her woes express, Or Virtue braves unmerited distress; -igli in sympathy, with pain combin'd, And uew-horn 1'ity charms the kindred mind; The eiiainoiirM Sorrow every cheek bedews, And Taste impa ion'd woos the tragic 31 use- The rush-tliatcliM cottage on the purple moor, Where ruddy children frolic round the door. The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak, The .-baggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke, Tin- bearded goat, with nimble eyes, that glare Through the long tissue of his hoary hair, vith quick foot he climbs some ruin'd wall And crops the ivy, which prevents its fall; With rural charm- the tranquil mind delight. And form a picture to tli' admiring sight. While T.'isir with pleasure bends his eye surprisM In modern da\ - al Nature unchastis'd. CROWE. LEWESDON HILL. How changed is thy appearance, beauteous Hill ! Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath And russet fern, thy seemly-colour'd cloak, To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains 41 LEWESDON HILL. Of chill December, and art rally robed In livery of tin- spring: upon thy brow A cup of llowery hawthorn, and thy neck IMantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick Of golden bloom; nor lack thee tufted woods Adown thy -ides: tall oaks of lusty green, The darker iir. light ash, and the nesh tops Of the young ha/el join, to form thy skirts In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath: So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up Against the birth of May; and, vested so, Thou dost appear more gracefully array'd Than fashion-mongering fops, whose gaudy shows, Fantastical as are a sick man's dreams, From vanity to costly vanity Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely divss. From sad to gay returning with the year, Shall grace thee still till Nature's self shall change, Tin - are the beauties of thy woodland scene At each return of Spring: yet some delight Ivather to view the change; and fondly gaze On fading colours, and the thousand tints AVhich Autumn lays upon the varying leaf: I like them not. for all their boasted hues Are kin to sickliness ; mortal decay I- drinking up their vital juice; that gone, They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise Such false complexions, and for beauty take A look consumption-bred f . \> >on. if grey AVere mi \i iii young Louisa's, tresses brown, I'd call it beautiful variety. And then-tore doat on her. Yet I can spv A beauty in that fruitful change, when come- The y.-llow Autumn, and the hopes o' the year i to golden ripeness; nor dispraise The pure and BpOtlett form of that >harp time. CROWE. When. January spreads a pall oi' snow O'er the dead lace of th' iindisliiiLiui>li'd earth. Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath, And bless this friendly mount, that weather-lends My reed-rooi'M cottage, while the wintry blast From the thick North comes howling; till the Sprinj Return, who leads my devious steps abroad, To climb, as now, to Lewesdon's airy top. From this proud eminence on all sides round Th' unbroken prospect opens to my view, On all sides large; save only where the head Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon's lofty Pen : So call (still rendering to his ancient name Observance due) that rival Height south-west, Which, like a rampire, bounds the vale beneath. There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine, Returning with their milky treasure home, Store the rich dairy; such fair plenty fills The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now, Since that the Spring hath deck'd anew the meads With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun Their foggy moistness drain' d; in wintry days Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks l'n friendly, when autumnal rains begin To drench the spungy turf; but ere that time The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil, Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named Of the White Horse, its antique monument Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth Miiiht equal, though surpassing in extent. This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon's base 43 LEWESDOX HILL. Extended to tin- sea. and water' d well liy many a rill ; hut chief with thy clear stream, Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side Of Lewenlon softly welling forth, dost trip Adown the valley, Al:i~: bow BOOD thy little course will end 1 II.\v BOOH thy infant >iiv:mi >h:dl l..-e itself In the salt mass of water-, ere it Lirow T<> name or greetoeae : Vet it iim\-< .-doiiLT 1'nlainti'il witli the eoninieree of the world. II CROWE. Nor pa ing bv tin 1 noisy haunts oi men ; But through sequestcrM meails, a littlr .-pace. Winds secretly, anil in its wanton path Max cheer somi' drooping Hower, or miniMrr Of its cool yvater to the thirsty lamb: Then lalls into the ravenous sea, as pure As when it issued from its native hill. How is it vanish'd in a hasty spleen, The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now I saw the hoary pile cresting the top Of that north-western hill ; and in this Now A cloud hath pass'd on it, and its dim bulk Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot Which the strain'd vision tires itself to find. And even so fares it with the things of earth Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud That shall enfold them up, and leave their place A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken Reaches too far, when all that we behold Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time, Or what he soon shall spoil. His out-spread wings (Which bear him like an eagle o'er the earth) Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem To foster what they touch, and mortal fools Rejoice beneath their hovering: Woe the while! For in that indefatigable flight The multitudinous strokes incessantly Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all His secret injury : on the front of man Grey hairs and wrinkles ; still as Time speeds on, Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat With ceaseless violence; nor overpass, Till all the creatures of this nether world Are one wide quarry ; following dark behind, The cormorant Oblivion swallows up The carcases that Time has made his prey. 45 LEW KS DON HILL. But hark ! the village clock strikes nine the chimes Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make False-measured melody on crazy bells. O wondrous power of modulated sound! AVhich, like the air, (whose all-obedient shape Thou mak'st thy slave,) canst subtilly pervade The yielded avenues of sense, unlock The close affections, by some fairy path Winning an easy way through every ear, And with thine unsubstantial quality Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all ; All, but some cold and sullen-temper'd spirits Who feel no touch of sympathy, or love. Yet what is music, and the blended power Of voice with instruments of wind and string? What but an empty pageant of sweet noise! "Tis past ; and all that it has left behind I- but an echo dwelling in the ear Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside, A void and countless hour in life's brief day. Now I descend To join the worldly crowd ; perchance to talk, To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts, That lift th' expanded lu-art above this spot To heavenly nm-ing, the>e shall pass away, (K\-n as this goodly prospect from my view.) Hidden by near and earthy-rooted care-. So passrth human life our better mind I- M a Sunday's garment, then put on When we ha\e nought to do; but at our work We w.-ar a worse tr thrift. . : PERCY. THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. IT was a friar of orders gray Walkt forth to tell his beades ; 47 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. And he met with a lady faire C'lad in a piljiriim'V weedes. Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar. I pray thee tell to me, It -MT at yon holy shrine .My true love thou didst see?" And how should I know your true love From many another one?" "O, by his cockle hat, and staff, And Ivy his sandal shoone ; "But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His llaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyne of lovely blue." "O lady, lie is dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone ! And at Iiis hrad a irreen <_ r rass turfc, And at his luvls a stone. -Within these holy cloystcrs long Hi- laniruisht, and he dyed, Lamenting oi' a ladyr's love. And '|>l :lvl| i".- 1 I' 1 ' 1 ' 1'i'ide. Ih'i-e loiv him Itiii-ctaeed on his bier i proju-r youths ami tall, And many a tear bedrwM \\\< jrravo Within yon kirk-yard wall." "And art thou dead, thou irentlc youth. And art thou dead and jione ! And did-t thou dye tor lovr of m- '. IJivak, TII.-| la-art oi' itO) 48 PERCY. "O weep not, lady, wivp not soe : Somr tIy comfort Mvk : Let not vain sorrow rive thy heart, V traivs Li-dew tliv rln-i-k." " O do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove ; For [ luivc lost the sweetest youth That i-\T won ladye's love. And nowe, alas! for thy sad losse, I'll evermore WITJ) and sigh: For thee I only wisht to live, For thee I wish to dye." Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy son-owe is in vaine : For violets pluckt the sweetest showers Will ne'er make grow againe. " Our joys as winged dreams doe fiye ; Why, then, should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy losse, Grieve not for what is past." " O say not soe, thou holy friar ; I pray thee, say not soe : For since my true-love dyed for mee, 'Tis meet my teares should flow. "And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again ? Ah ! no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain. His cheek was redder than the rose; The comeliest youth was he ! 49 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. Hut he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas! and woe is me!" Siirh no more, lady, sigh no more, ?v!en were deceiver? ever: One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never. "Iladst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavv ; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy." "Now say not soe, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not soe ; My love he had the truest heart: O he was ever true ! "And art thou dead, thou much-lov'd youtb ? And didst thou dye for mee? Then fun-well home; for evermore A pilgrim I will bee. Put first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay. And thrice I'll kiss the green gra>s-t"if That wnips his breathless clay." Yri itay, fair lady : rest awhile Benrath thi- cloyster wall : See through the hawthorn \t\\\-< the cold wind, And dii/./ly rain doth fail." "O May IIH- not. thou holy friar; O stay me not. I pra\ : No dri//ly rain that falls on n-..- Can wa-h my fault away." BO PERCY, " Yet stay, laii- lady, turn again. And dry those pearly (car- ; For see beneath ihis gown of gray Thy owne true-love appears. Here, forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought ; And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought. lint Imply, for my year of grace I- not yet pass'd away, .Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay." "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I've found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part." GENTLE RIVER. ( i I:\TLE river, gentle river, Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore, Many a brave and noble captain Floats along thy willow' d shore. All bende thy limpid waters, All beside thy sands so bright, Moorish Chiefs and Christian Warriors Join'd in fierce and mortal fight. 61 GENTLE RIVER. Lord-, and dukes, and noble princes, On thy fatal bunks were slain: Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter All the pride and flower of Spain. There the hero, brave Alonzo, Full of wounds and glory, died : There the fearless I'rdiales Fell a victim by his side. Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra Through their squadrons slow retires ; Proud Seville, his native city, Proud Seville his worth admires. Close behind, a renegade Loudly shouts with taunting cry: "Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra; Dost thou from the battle fly? Well 1 know thee, haughty Christian, Lung I livM beneath thy roof; Oft I've in ihe lists of glory i ilnv win the prize of proof. Well I know thy aged parents. AVell thy blooming bride 1 know; Seven yean I was thy captive, of pain and woe. .May our Prophet grant my wish. Ilanjjlity Chid', thou shall be mine; Thou >h;dt drink that cup ^' sorrow. Which I drank whni I was thine." Like a lion turns the warrior Back he sends an angry glare : "\Vhizzinjr came the Moorish javelin, Vainly whizzing through the air. 53 GENTLE RIVER. oack the hero, full of fury, Sent a deep and mortal wound: Instant sunk the Kenegado, Mnto and lifeless on the ground. With a thousand Moors surrounded, IJrave Saavedra stands at bay : A\Varied out, but never daunted, C'oUl at length the warrior lay. Near him fighting, great Alonzo Stout resists the Paynim bands; From his slaughtered steed dismounted Firm intrcnch'd behind bim stands. Furious press tbe hostile squadron, Furious lie repels their rage: Lo of blood at length cni'ecbles : Who can war with thousands wage I Win-re von rock the plain o'ershadows, Clo-r beneath its loot rctir'd. Fainting, sunk the bleeding hero. And without a, gnnui expir'd. CRABBE. A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. ACAIN, the country was enclosed, a wide And sandy road has banks on cither side ; Where, lo! a hollow on the left appear'd, And there a Gipsy tribe their' tent had rcar'd : A GIPSY ENCAMPMENT. 'Twas open spread, to catch the morning sun. And they had now their early meal begun, When two brown boys just left their grassy seat, The early Trav'ller with their prayers to greet: While yet Orlando he-Id his pence in hand. Hi- -aw their sister on her duty stand; Some twelve years old, demure, affected, sly, Prepared the force of early powers to try; Sudden a look of languor he descries, And well-fcign'd apprehension in her eyes : Train'd. but yet savage, in her speaking fad- lie niark'd the features of her vagrant race; When a light laugh and roguish leer expressed The vice implanted in her youthful breast : Forth from the tent her elder brother came, A VI lo seem'd offended, yet forbore to blame The young designer, but could only trace The looks of pity in thu Traveller's face: Within, the. Father, who from fences nigh Had brought the fuel for the fire's supply, Watch'd now the feeble blaze, and stood dejected by. On ragged rug. just borrow' d from the bed. And by the hand of coarse indulgence fed, In dirty patchwork negligently dress'd, Ileclin'd the AVil'e, an infant at her breast ; In her wild lace some touch of grace remain'd. Of \igour pal>ied and of beauty stain'd ; Her bloodshot eyes on her unheeding mate \\Yre wrathful turn'd, and seem'd her wants to state, ('iir-ing his tardy aid her ^Mother there With gip-v--tate engross'd the only chair; Solemn and dull her look ; with such she stand> And read- the milk-maid's fortune in her hands. Tracing the lines of life ; a uni'd through year-. Karli feature now the steady falsehood wea: With hard and g -he views the food. And grudging pinches their intruding brood. 5G CRABBE. Last in the group, tin 1 worn-out (Jrandsire >it>, Neglected, lost, and living but by (its: Useless, despis'd, his worthless labours done, And halt' protected by tin 1 vicious Son, Who halt' supports him; lie with heavy glance Views the young rutlians who around him dance; And, by the sadness in his face, appears To tract' the progress of their future years: Through what strange course of misery, vice, deceit, Must wildly wander each unpractis'd cheat! What shame and grief, what punishment and pain, Sport of fierce passions, must each child sustain Ere they like him approach their latter end, Without a hope, a comfort, or a friend ! MARINE VIEWS. BE it the Summer-noon : a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place; Then just the hot and stony beach above, Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; (For heated thus, the warmer air ascends, And with the cooler in its fall contends) Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps An equal motion; swelling as it sleeps, Then slowly sinking; curling to the strand, Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the rigid sand, Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, And back return in silence, smooth and slow. MARINE VIEWS. Ships in the calm seem anchored; for they glide On the .-till sea, urg'd solely by the tide: Art thou not present, this calm scene before, Where all beside is pebbly length of shore, And far as eye can reach, it can discern no more? Yet some times comes a ruffling cloud to make The quiet surface of the ocean shake ; As an awakeifd giant with a frown .Mi-lit show his wrath, and then to sleep sink down. View now the Winter-storm! above, one cloud. Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud : Th' unwieldy porpoise through the day before, Had roll'd in view of boding men on shore; And sometimes hid and sometimes show'd his form. Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All when' the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam. The breaking billows east the flying foam I'pon the billows rising all the deep I- restless change; the waves so swell' d and steep, Urea king and sinking, and the sunken swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells: Hut nearer land yon may the billows trace. As it' contending in their watery cha-e : May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach. Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch; CuiTd a- they come, they strike with furious force. And then, re-flowing, take their grating coin 1 - . Kaking tin- rounded flints, which ages past KollM by their ragr, and shall to ages last Far oil' the IVtrcl in the troubled way Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray; She ri-es often, often drops again. And .-ports at ease on the tempestuous main. High o'er tin- restleefl deep, abo\e the reach ()f 'junner'- Impe, \:i-l flocks ^of Wild-duek> Mretch; Far Bfl ihe eye ran glance on either >idc. In a broad Bp*06 a:,d level line they glide; 58 All in their wedge-like figures from the north, Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. In-shore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; Oft in the rough opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, While to the storm they give their weak complaining cry; 59 MARINE VIEWS. Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest. Darkness begins to reign; the louder wind Appal- tin- weak, and awes the firmer mind; IJut frights not him whom evening and the spray Li part conceal yon Prowler on his way: Lo ! he has something seen ; he runs apace, As it' lit- fear'd companion in the chase; He sees his prize, and now he turns again, Slowly and sorrowing "Was your search in vain?" Gruffly ho answers, " 'Tis a sorry sight! A seaman's body: there'll be more to-night I" Hark to those sounds! they're from distress at sea: How quick they come! What terrors may there be! V 3, 'tis a driven vessel: I discern Lights, signs of terror, gleaming from the stern. Others behold them too, and from the town In various parties seamen hurry down ; Their wives pursue, and damsels, urged by dread, L< -t men so dear be into danger led; Their head the gown has hooded, and their call In this .-ahe cries, "Thou shalt not go." No need of this; not here the stoutest boat (an through such breakers, o'er such billows tloat : Yet may they view the-e lights upon the beach. Which yield them hope whom help can never reach. From parted cloud- the moon her radiance throw- On the wild waves, and all the danger show.-: lint -how- them beaming in her .-hining vest, Terrific .-plendonr! gloom in glory divs.-M ! 60 CRABBE. This tor a moment, and then clouds ajiain Hide every beam, and tear and darkness reign. Pnt hear we not those sounds? Do lights appear.' I see them not! the storm alone I hear: And lo! the sailors homeward take their way; Man must endure let us submit and pray. A GOOD VILLAGER. : in ilu-M- l.-ulirs. l>ut in iimiiilit :dlird, A nolilc |r:i-:mt. N:iar A>lilnnl, died. Nolilr In- was, rniiicniiiiiiir nil tiling iiif:in, Hi- Irulli uiuiiifstionM, and liis >iml >riviK- : Of no IM:MI' |u->'iicr Isuir 1'i-lt nlVnid ; At no 111:111'- |iu-tiui I-:iac look'd di-inay'd ; CRABBE, Shame knew liim noi, hf u\ ill on him. who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances who at night may die : Yet help me, Ileav'n! anil let me not complain Of what I >uller, but my fate sustain." Such wen- hi- thoughts, and so resign'd lie grew ; I)aily he plac'd the Workhouse in his view! But came not there, for sudden was his late. lie dropp'd. expiring, at hi< cottage gate. I feel hi- ah-enee in the hours of prayer. And view hi- -eat, and >igh lor Isaac there: 84 CRABBE. I see no more those white locks thinly spread Round the bald polish of that honoured head; No more that awful glance on playful wight, Compcll' d to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers, all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile ; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: But he is blest, and I lament no more A wise good man contented to be poor. THE PARTING LOOK. ONE day he lighter seem'd, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seem'd to think, Yet said not so, "Perhaps he will not sink:" A sudden brightness in his look appear'd, A sudden vigour in his voice was heard; She had been reading in the Book of Prayer, And led him forth, and placed him in his chair; Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew, The friendly many and the favourite few: Not one that day did he to mind recal But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all ; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people, death has made them dear. He named his Friend, but then his hand she press'd, And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest." "I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound ! Then gazed affrighten'd ; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past! 65 E MARY TIGHE. PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. ALLOW'D to settle on celestial eyes, Soft Sleep, exulting, now exerts his sway, From Psyche's anxious pillow gladly flies To veil those orbs, whose pure and lambent ray The Powers of heaven submissively obey. Trembling and breathless then she softly rose, And seized the lamp, where it obscurely lay, With hand too rashly daring to disclose The sacred veil which hung mysterious o'er her woes. Twice, as with agitated step she went, The lamp, expiring, shone with doubtful gleam. As though it warn'd her from her rash intent', And twice she paus'd, and on its trembling beam Gazed with suspended breath, while voices seem With murmuring sound along the roof to sigh; A- on. just waking from a troublous dream, With palpitating heart and stniininji eye, Still tix'd with tear remains, still thinks the danger nih. Oh, daring Muse ! wilt thou indeed essay T.. paint the wonders which that lamp could show.' And ran-t thou hope in living words to say Tin- ila//liiiL r glories of that heavenly view .' Ali '. wrll I ween that, if with pencil true 66 MARY TIGHE. That splendid vision could be well exprest, The fearful awe imprudent Psyche knew, Would seize with rapture every wondering breast, When Love's all-potent charms divinely stood confest. All imperceptible to human touch, His wings display celestial essence light; The clear effulgence of the blaze is such, The brilliant plumage shines so heavenly bright, That mortal eyes turn dazzled from the sight; A youth he seems in manhood's freshest years. Round his fair neck, as clinging with delight, Each golden curl resplendently appears, Or shades his darker brow, which grace majestic wears ; Or o'er his guileless front his ringlets bright Their rays of sunny lustre seem to throw, That front than polish' d ivory more white! His blooming cheeks with deeper blushes glow Than roses scatter'd o'er a bed of snow: While on his lips, distill'd in balmy dews, (Those lips divine that even in silence know The heart to touch,) persuasion to infuse, Still hangs a rosy charm that never vainly sues. The friendly curtain of indulgent sleep Disclos'd not yet his eyes' resistless sway, But from their silky veil there seem'd to peep Some brilliant glances with a soften'd ray. Which o'er his features exquisitely play, And all his polish'd limbs suffuse with light; Thus through some narrow space the azure day, Sudden its cheerful rays diffusing bright, Wide darts its lucid beams, to gild the brow of night. His fatal arrows and celestial bow Beside the couch were negligently thrown, G7 PSYCHE GAZING UPON THE LOVE-GOD. Nor needs the god his dazzling arms, to show His glorious birth, such beauty round him shone As sure could spring from Beauty's self alone ; The gloom which glow'd o'er all of soft desire, Could well proclaim him Beauty's cherish'd son ; And Beauty's self will oft these charms admire, And steal his witching smile, his glance's living fire. Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost, Long Psyche stood with fix'd adoring eye ; Her limbs immovable, her senses tost Between amazement, fear, and ecstasy, She hangs enamour'd o'er the deity Till from her trembling hand extinguish'd falls The fatal lamp. He starts and suddenly Tremendous thunders echo through the halls, While ruin's hideous crash bursts o'er the affrighted walls. Dread Horror seizes on her sinking heart, A mortal dullness shudders at her breast; Her soul shrinks fainting from Death's icy dart, The groan scarce utter'd dies but half-exprest, And down she sinks in deadly swoon opprest ; But when, at length, awakening from her trance The terrors of her fate stand all confest, In vain she casts around her timid glance, The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance. N<> trace! of those joys, alas! remain; A desert solitude alone appear-. No \rrd.-mt -hade relieves the sandy plain, The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheerr-, OIK- li.-invn face the dreary prospect wears: Nought through the vast horizon meets her eye dm the dismal tumult of her fears. No trace of human hahitation nigh, A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. 68 ANN EADCLIFFE. TO MELANCHOLY. SPIRIT of love and sorrow, hail ! Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Mingling with Evening's dying gale, Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear! Oh, at this still, this lonely hour, Thine own sweet hour of closing day, Awake thy lute, whose charmful power Shall call up Fancy to obey; G9 TO MELANCHOLY. To paint the wild romantic dream, That meets the poet's musing eye, As on the bank of shadowy stream He breathes to her the fervid sigh. lonely spirit! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt ; The minster's moonlight aisles along, Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt 1 hear their dirges faintly swell ! Then sink at once in silence drear, While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, Dimly their gliding forms appear! Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, As the cold moon, with trembling eye, Darts her long beams the leaves between. Lead to the mountain's dusky head, Where, far below, in shades profound, Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread, And sad the chimes of vesper sound. Or guide me where the dashing oar Just breaks the stillness of the vale: As slow it tracks tin- winding shore, To meet the ocean's distant sail : To pebbly banks that Neptune laves, With niea-nr'd surjrcs, loud and deep; Whriv tin- d:irk rlifl' bends o'er the wa\ Ami wild the winds of Autumn sweep. Tin-re pause at midnight's spertred hour, And li-t the lonji-resoundin;i jiale ; And eateh the fleetinir moonlight's power O'er foaming seas and distant sail. 70 ANN RADCLIFFE. SONG OF A SPIRIT. IN the sightless air I dwell, On the sloping sunbeams play; Delve the cavern's inmost cell, AWiere never yet did daylight stray. I dive beneath the green sea waves, And gambol in the briny deeps; Skim every shore that Neptune laves, From Lapland's plains to India's steeps. Oft I mount with rapid force, Above the wide earth's shadowy zone, Follow the day-star's flaming course, Through realms of space to thought unknown; And listen to celestial sounds That swell in air, unheard of men, As I watch my nightly rounds O'er woody steep and silent glen. Under the shade of waving trees, On the green bank of fountain clear, At pensive eve I sit at ease, While dying music murmurs near. And oft, on point of airy clift That hangs upon the western main, I watch the gay tints passing swift, And twilight veil the liquid plain. 71 SONG OF A SPIRIT. Then, when the breeze has sunk away, And Ocean scarce is heard to lave, For me the sea-nymphs softly play Their dulcet shells beneath the wave. Their dulcet shells! I hear them now; Slow swells the strain upon mine ear ; Now faintly falls now warbles low, Till rapture melts into a tear. The ray that silvers o'er the dew, And trembles through the leafy shade, And tints the scene with softer hue, Calls me to rove the lonely glade ; Or hie me to some ruin'd tower, Faintly shown by moonlight gleam, Where the lone wanderer owns my power, In shadows dire; that substance seem ; In thrilling sounds that murmur woe. And pausing ,-ilence make more dread; In music breathing from below Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. Unseen I move unknown am ti-ar'd ; Fancy's wildest dreams I weave ; And oft by bards my voice is heard To die along the gales of eve. 71' m ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION "One sun by day, by night ten thousand shine." Yocs;. 'Tis past, the sultry tyrant of the South Has spent his short-livM rage; more grateful hours 73 A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. Move silent on ; the skies no more repel The dazzled sight, but, with mild maiden beams Of temper' d lustre, court the cherish'd eye To wander o'er their sphere ; where hung aloft DIAN'S bright crescent, like a silver bow, New strung in heaven, lifts its beamy horns Impatient for the night, and seems to push Her brother down the sky. Fair VENUS shines Even in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood Of soften'd radiance with her dewy locks. The shadows spread apace ; while meeken'd Eve, Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires Through the Hesperian gardens of the West, And shuts the gates of Day. 'Tis now the hour When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts, The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth Of unpierc'd w r oods, where wrapt in solid shade SI ic mus'd away the gaudy hours of noon, And fed on thoughts unripen'd by the sun, Moves forward; and with radiant finger points To yon blue concave swell'd by breath divine, Where, one by one, the living eyes of heaven Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether One boundless Ma/e; ten thousand trembling fires, And dancing lustres, where th' unsteady eye, Restless and da/./led, wanders unconfin'd O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field, And worthy of the Master: He, whose hand With hieroLrlyphirs elder than the Nile In-cribed the mystic tablet; hung on high To public gaze, and said, Adore, O man ! The finder of thy GOD. From what pure wells Of milky linht. what soft o'erflowing urn, Arc all ih.-e lamps so lill'd ? these friendly lamps. For ever .-t reaming o'er the a/.nre deep To point our path, and liirht us to our home. 71 ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. How soft they slide along their lucid spheres! And, silent as the foot of Time, fulfil Their destin'd courses. Nature's self is ImshM, And, but a scntter'd leaf, which rustics through The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard To break the midnight air; though the rais'd ear, Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise! But are they silent all? or is there not A tongue in every star that talks with man, And woos him to be wise ? nor woos in vain : This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. At this still hour the self-collected soul Turns inward, and Beholds a stranger there Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; An embryo GOD; a spark of fire divine, Which must burn on for ages, when the sun (Fair transitory creature of a day!) Has clos'd his golden eye, and, wrapt in shades, Forgets his wonted journey through the East. Ye citadels of light, and seats of GODS! Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, devolving periods past, may oft look back, With recollected tenderness, on all The various busy scenes she left below, Its deep-laid projects and its strange events, As on some fond and doting tale that sooth'd Her infant hours O be it lawful now To tread the hallow'd circle of your courts, And with mute wonder and delighted awe Approach your burning confines. Seized in thought, On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail, From the green borders of the peopled earth. And the pale moon, her duteous, fair attendant ; From solitary Mars; from the vast orb 75 A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk Dances in ether like the lightest leaf; To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, "Where cheerless Saturn 'midst his wat'ry moons Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, Sit- like an exiled monarch: fearless thence I launch into the trackless deeps of space, Where, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, Of elder lii-ain, which ask no leave to shine Of our terrestrial star, nor borrow light From the proud regent of our scanty day; Sons of the morning, first-born of creation, And only less than HIM who marks their track, And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop, Or is tliciv aught beyond? What hand unseen Impels me onward through the glowing orbs Of habitable nature, far remote, To the dread confines of eternal night, To solitudes of waste unpeopled space, The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; AY here embryo systems and unkindlcd suns Slccj) in the womb of chaos? Fancy droops, And Thought, astoni>h'd, stops her bold career. Hut oh, lliou mighty Mind! whose powerful word Said. Tims let all things be, and thus they were, Where shall I seek thy presence? how unblam'd Invoke thy dread perfection? the broad eye-lids of the morn beheld thee? Or doe.- ihe beamy shoulder of Orion Support thy throne? Oh, look with pity down On erring, guilty man; not in thy names ( )f terror clad; not with those thunders arinM That eon-''ioii< Sinai frit, when fear appall'd The Scattered tribes; thou hast a gentler voi That Nvhi-j.er- comfort to the swelling heart. Aba-h'd, yet loiiL-iiii: to behold her Maker! 76 ANNA LKTITIA HAIMJATLD. lint now my soul, imnsM to stretch her powers In flight so daring, drops her weary win-, And seeks again the known accustom' d spot, Drest up with sun, and >hade, and lawns, and stream . A mansion fair and spacious for its guests, And all replete with wonders. Let me here, Content and grateful, wait tlT appointed time, And ripen for the skies: the hour will come When all these splendours bursting on my sight Shall stand unvcil'd, and to my ravish'd sense l'n lock the glories of the world unknown. A PETITION. IF the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads By living waters, and through flowery meads, Where all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, Oh! teach me to elude each latent snare, And whisper to my sliding heart, Beware ! With caution let me hear the Syren's voice, And doubtful, with a trembling heart rejoice. If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, And, with strong confidence, lay hold on Thee; With equal eye my various lot receive, Resign'd to die, or resolute to live; Prepar'd to kiss the sceptre or the rod, While God is seen in all, and all in God. 77 HANNAH MORE. FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND TWO PORTRAITS. a youth of L r ny renown, \\'lio tijjurM niucli :il)iiiit the town, Had pa M, with p-ncral aj)|)rol)a(i<)i), The modi-h forms of education ; 78 HANNAH MOKK. Knew what was proper to be known, Th' establish'd jargon of Bon-ton; Had learnt, with very moderate reading, The whole new system of good breeding : He studied to be cold and rude, Though native feeling would intrude : Unlucky sense and sympathy Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be. For FLORIO was not meant by nature, A silly or a worthless creature : He had a heart dispos'd to feel, Had life and spirit, taste and zeal; Was handsome, generous ; but, by fate, Predestin'd to a large ^state ! Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days Was marr'd by pleasure, spoil'd by praise. The Destiny, who wove the thread Of FLORIO' s being, sigh'd, and said, " Poor youth ! this cumbrous twist of gold, More than my shuttle well can hold, For which thy anxious fathers toil'd, Thy white and even thread has spoil'd : 'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth From sense, simplicity, and truth ; Thy erring fire, by wealth misled, Shall scatter pleasures round thy head, When wholesome discipline's control Should brace the sinews of thy soul; Coldly thou'lt toil for learning's prize, For why should he that's rich be wise 1 ?" The gracious Master of mankind, Who knew us vain, corrupt, and blind, In mercy, though in anger, said, That man should earn his daily bread; His lot inaction renders worse, While labour mitigates the curse ; The idle life's worst burdens bear, 79 FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. And meet, what toil escapes, despair! Forgive, nor lay the fault on me, This mixture of mythology ; The Muse of 1'aradi^o has deign M With trutli to mingle fables feign'd ; And though the Bard that would attain The glories, MILTON, of thy strain, Will never reach thy style or thoughts, He may be like thee in thy faults! Exhausted FLORIO, at the age When youth should rush on glory's stage, When life should open fresh and new, And ardent Hope her schemes pursue ; Of youthful gaiety tyereft. Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left; lie found already to his cost, The shining gloss of life was lost; And Pleasure was so coy a prude, Sin- fled the more, the more pursued; Or if o'ertaken and caress'd, lie loath'd and left her when possess'd. But FLORIO knew the WORLD; that science Sets sense ;mut SLOTH keeps one long, fast possesMon : Ambition V rei^n is quickly clos'd, Th' usurper Rage is soon depos'd ; Intemperance, where there's no temptation, Makes voluntary abdication ; Of other tyrants short the strife, 81 FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. But INDOLENCE is king for life: The despot twists, with soft control, Eternal fetters round the soul. Yet though so polish'd FLORIO'S breeding, Think him not ignorant of reading: For he, to keep him from the vapours, Subscrib'd at HOOKIIAM'S, saw the papers; Was deep in poet's-corner wit ; Knew what was in italics writ ; Explained fictitious names at will ; Each gutted syllable could fill. There oft, in paragraphs, his name Gave symptom sweet of growing fame ; Though yet they only serv'd to hint- That FLORIO lov'd to see in print His ample buckles' alter* d shape, His buttons chang'd, his varying cape 1 ; And many a standard phrase was his Might rival bore, or banish quiz. Tin- man who grasps this young renown, And early starts for Fashion's crown. In time that glorious prize may wield, Which clubs and cv'n Newmarket yield. He studied while he dress'd, for, true 'tis He read Cojnpencliums, Extracts, Beauti<*. Abreiji'*, J)irtiininiiires, Recucil*. Mercures, Journaux, />/m//-, and />/////<*: No work in substance now is follow'd. The chnnie extract only's swallow'd. I If lik'd tho-e literary cooks Who skim the cream of others' hooks: And ruin half an author's grace- Iy plucking Inn nmt* from their plan-. Hi- wonder- any writing sells Hut the-e sjiic'd mushrooms and morell-. Hi- palate ork< alone can touch Win mouthful is lnnntt: 82 HANNAH Mo|{]-:. Some phrase that with the public took \V;i- nil he read <>f any book; For plan, detail, arrangement, system, He let them go, and never miss'd 'em. Of each new Play he sa\\ a part, And all the anas had by heart : He found whatever they produce Is fit for conversation-use ; Learning so ready for display, A page would prime him for a day: They cram not with a mass of knowledge, Which smacks of toil, and smells of college, Which in the memory useless lies, Or only makes men good and wise. This might have merit once, indeed, But now for other ends we read. A friend he had, BELLARIO hight, A reasoning, reading, learned wight; At least, with men of FLORIO'S breeding, He was a prodigy of reading. He knew each stale and vapid lie In tomes of French philosophy ; And these, we fairly may presume, From PYRRHO down to DAVID HUME, 'Twere difficult to single out A man more full of shallow doubt: He knew the little sceptic prattle, The sophist's paltry arts of battle ; Talk'd gravely of th' Atomic danco, Of moral fitness, fate, and chance ; Admir'd the system of LUCRETIUS, Whose matchless 1 verse makes nonsense specious! To this his doctrine owes its merit?, Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits ; Though sceptics dull his schemes rehearse, Who have not souls to taste his verse. BELLARIO founds his reputation 83 FLORIO AND HIS FRIEND. On dry, stale jokes about Creation ; Would prove, by argument circuitous, The combination was fortuitous. Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive, And prey on bigots who believe ; With bitter ridicule could jeer, And had the true free-thinking sneer. Grave arguments he had in store, Which had been answer'd o'er and o'er; And us'd, with wondrous penetration, The trite, old trick of false citation; From ancient authors fond to quote A phrase, or thought, they never wrote. Upon his highest shelf there stood The Classics, neatly cut in wood; And in a more commodious station, You found them in a French translation : He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes, Hut keeps the French just for the notes. He worshipp'd certain modern names Who history write in epigrams, In pointed periods, shining phrases, And all the small poetic daisies Which crowd the pert and florid style, Where fact is dropt to rai-e a smile ; Where notes indecent or profane Serve to raite doubts, but not explain : \Ylirn- all is -pan^rle, jrlittrr, show, And truth is overlaid In-low: Art- -enrn'd by History's sober Muse, AIM- CI.\I:I;M>M\ disdaiifd to ii.-e. AVhate'er the subject of debate, 'Twas larded still with sceptic prate; Begin whatever theme you will, In unbelief he lands yon still : Tin- y>. Which, by possession, quickly cloys; Tin- lilies was solid, constant, true, ai-lion, and 'twas ja'mn too , For though tlic bu>iin->- mi-lit l>c linish'd, 86 HANNAH MOKK. Tin 1 pleasure scarcely was liniini>h'd ; Did In- ride out, or sit, or walk, He livM it o'er a^ain in talk ; Prolong' d the fugitive delight, In words by day, in dreams by night. "Twas i;tffn(/ did his soul allure, A deep, keen, modish Epicure;- Though once this name, as I opine, Meant not such men as live to dine; Yet all our modern Wits assure us. That's all ilicy know of EPICURUS: They fondly fancy, that repletion Was the chief good of that fain'd Grecian. To live in gardens full of flowers, And talk philosophy in bowers, Or, in the covert of a wood, To descant on the sovereign good, Might be the notion of their founder, But they have notions vastly sounder: Their bolder standards they erect, To form a more substantial sect; Old EPICURUS would not own 'em, A Dinner is their summum bonum; More like you'll find such sparks as these To EPICURUS'" deities ; Like them, they mix not with affairs, But loll and laugh at human cares. To beaux this difference is allow'd, They choose a sofa for a cloud. BELLARIO had embrac'd with glee This practical philosophy. BOWLES. RETURN TO OXFORD. CHERWELL. CIIKIIWKI.L! how pleased along thy willow'd edge Kre while I stray'd; or when the morn began To tinge aloft the turret's golden fan, Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge, And now, recliu'd upon thy banks once more, I I) id the pipe FAREWELL, and that sad lay ^ hose music on my melancholy way I w< >o'd, beneath thy willows waving hoar, Staking to rest till the returning sun Of joy beam out, as when HEAVEN'S humid bow Shines silent on the passing storm below; Whate'er betide, yet soiiu-thing have I won Of -dace, that may hear me on serene, Till K\e's dim hand >hall close the sinking scene. ON THE RHINE. 'T\v\> mom. and heantifnl the mountains' brow, Hung with the clusters of the bending vine Shone in the early light, when on the L'IIIM \V. -ail'd, and heard the waters round the prow In murmur- parling; varying a- wo go, L'ock- afii-r rock- come forward and retire, A- MOM grey r<>n\--ut-\vall, or -unlit spin- Start- up. along the banks, unfolding slow. 88 Here castles, like the prisons of despair, Frown as we pass! There, on the vineyard's The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide ; While GRIEF, forgetful amid scenes so fair, Counts not the hours of a long summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY. FRONTING the ocean, but beyond the ken Of public view, and sounds of murm'ring men, Of unhewn roots compos'd, and gnarled wood, A small and rustic Oratory stood: Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross, The porch within was lin'd with mantling moss ; A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side One to admonish seem'd, and One to guide; This to impress how soon life's race is o'er; And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more. O'er thr rude porch, with wild and gadding stray. Tin- elust'ring copu wcav'd its trellis gay: Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove Their aged and fantastic arms above. In front, amid tin- gay .-iirrounding flowers, A dial counted the departing hour-. On which the sweetest light of summer shone, A rude and brief inscription mark'd the stone : "To count, with pa.-.-ing shade, the hours, I plac'd the dial 'mid the ilowers. That, one by one, came forth, and died, Blooming, and with'ring, round its ^ide. .Mortal, let the -ight impart It- pen.-i\e moral to thv heart!" Just heard to trickle through a covert near. And ^ soothing, with perpetual lapse, the ear, A fount, like rain-drop*., lilter'd through the stone, And, bright a- amber, on the shallows -hone. Intent hi- fairy pastime to pursue, And, gem-like, hovering o'er the \5olet- blue, 90 BOWLES. The humming-bird, here, its urn-casing song Needlessly murmur' d all tin- summer long. And when the winter came, ivtirM to iv>i. And from tlu- myrtles hung its trembling nest, No sounds of a conflicting world were nrar; The noisi* of ocean limit ly met the ear, That seemM, as sunk to rest the noon-tide blast ; But dying sounds of passions that were past; Or closing anthems, when, far off, expire The lessening echoes of the distant choir. Here, every human sorrow hush'd to rest, His pule hands meekly cross'd upon his breast, ANSKLMO sat : the sun, with west'ring ray, Just touch'd his temples, and his locks of grey. There was no worldly feeling in his eye ; The world to him "was as a thing gone by." Now, all his features lit, he rais'd his look, Then bent it thoughtful, and unclasp'd the book ; And whilst the hour-glass shed its silent sand, .V tame opossum lick'd his wither' d hand. That sweetest light of slow-declining day, Which through the trellis pour'd its slanting ray, Resting a moment on his few grey hairs, Seem'd light from heaven sent down to bless his pray'r.-. When the trump echo'd to the quiet spot, He thought upon the world, but mourn'd it not ; Enough if his meek wisdom could control, And bend to mercy, one proud soldier's soul; Enough, if while these distant scenes he trod, He led one erring Indian to his God. 91 THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. BENEATH aerial cliffs, and glittering snows. The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose, Chief of the mountain tribes: high, overhead, The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread, Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires, And CHII.LAN trail'd its smoke, and smould'ring fires. A -_ r len beneath a lonely spot of rest Hung, scarce discover'd, like an eagle's nest. Summer was in its prime; the parrot-flocks Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks; The chrysomel and purple butterfly, Amid the clear blue light, are wand'ring by; The humming-bird, along the myrtle bow'r-. With twinkling wing, is >]>inning o'er the flow'rs, Tin- woodpecker is heard with busy bill, The mock-bird sings and all beside i^ still. And look ! the cataract, that bursts so high A- mt to mar the deep tranquillity, The tumult of its dashing fall suspends, And, Mealing drop by drop, in mist descends; Through whose illumin'd spray and sprinkling dew-. Shine to the ad\er-e sun the broken rainbow hues. Clierk'riug. with partial shade, the beams of noon, And arching the grey rock with wild festoon, Here, it- -ay net-work, and fantastic twine. The purple eoj_ r ul threads from pine to pine. And oft, as the fiv-h airs of morning hivathe. Dip- it- long tendrils in the stream beneath. Then-, through the trunk.-, with mo and lichens white, The -im-hm. dart- it- interrupted light, BOWLES, And, 'mid the cedars' darksome boughs, illuim -. With instant touch, the lori's scarlet plumes. So smiles the scene; but can its smiles impart Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart .' He heeds not now, when, beautifully bright, The humming-bird is circling in his sight ; Nor e'en, above, his head, when air is still, Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill ; But, gazing on the rocks and mountains wild, Rock after rock, in glittering masses, pil'd To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high Grey smoke, whose column stains the cloudless sky, He cries, " Oh ! if thy spirit yet be fled To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead, In yonder track of purest light above, Dear, long-lost object of a father's love, Dost thou abide? or, like a shadow come, Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home, And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam Of evening, light the desert mountain-stream? Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard, In the sad notes of that melodious bird, Which, as we listen with mysterious dread, Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead ? Perhaps, beyond those summits, far away, Thine eyes yet view the living light of day; Sad, in the stranger's land, thou mayst sustain A weary life of servitude and pain, With wasted eye gaze on the orient beam, And think of these white rocks and torrent-stream, Never to hear the summer cocoa wave, Or weep upon thy father's distant grave." YE, who have wak'd, and listen' d with a tear, When cries confus'd, and clangours roll'd more near With murmur'd prayer, when Mercy stood aghast, 93 THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. As War's black trump peul'd its terrific blast, And o'er the wither' d earth the armed giant pass'd. VK. who his track with terror have pursued, When some delightful land, all blood-imbued, He swept ; where silent is the champaign wide, That echo'd to the pipe of yester-tide, Save, when far oil', the moonlight hills prolong The last deep echoes of his parting gong ; Nor aught is seen, in the deserted spot Where trail'd the smoke of many a peaceful cot, Save livid corses that unburied lie, And conflagrations, reeking to the sky; Come listen, whilst the causes I relate That bow'd the warrior to the storms of fate, And left these smiling scenes forlorn and desolate. In other days, when, in his manly pride, Two children for a father's fondness vied, Oft they essay'd, in mimic strife, to wield Hi- lance, or laughing peep'd behind his shield. Oft in the sun, or the magnolia's shade, Lightsome of heart, as gay of look, they play'd, Brother and sister: She, along the dew, Blithe as the squirrel of the forest, flew ; Blue rushes wreath'd her head; her dark brown ha Fell, gently lifted, on her bosom bare; Her necklace shone, of sparkling insects made, That flit, like specks of fire, from sun to shade. Light was her form; a clasp of silver brac'd The a/.ure-dyed ichella round her waist ; Her ancles rung with shells, as, unconfin'd. She danc'd, and sung wild carols to the wind. With .-now-white teeth, and laughter in her eye, S<>. beautiful in youth, she bounded by. Yet kindness sat upon her aspect bland, The tame alpaca stood and lick'd her hand ; She brought him gathered moss, and lov'd to deck With llow'ry twine his tall and stately neck, Whilst he with silent gratitude replies, And bends to her caress his large blue eyes. These children danc'd together in the shade, Or stretch'd their hands to see the rainbow fade ; THE HOME OF THE OLD INDIAN. Or sat and mock'd, with imitative glee, The paroquet, that laugh'd from tree to tree ; Or through the forest's wildest solitude, From glen to glen the marmozet pursued ; And thought the light of parting day too short, That rall'd them, ling'ring, from their daily sport. In that fair season of awnk'ning life, AVlii-ii dawning youth and childhood are at strife; When on the verge of thought gay boyhood stands Tip-toe, with glist'ning eye and outspread hands ; With airy look, and form and footsteps light, And glossy locks, and features berry-bright, And eye like the young eaglet's to the ray Of noon, unblenching, as he sails away ; A brede of sea-shells on his bosom strung, A small stone hatchet o'er his shoulders slung, With slender lance, and feathers blue and red, That like the heron's crest wav'd on his head, Buoyant with hope, and airiness, and joy, LAUTARO was the loveliest Indian boy: Taught by his sire, ev'n now he drew the bow, Or track'd the jaguar on the morning snow; Startled the condor on the craggy height; Thru silent sat, and mark'd its upward flight, Lessening in ether to a speck of^ white. But when tlf impassioned Chieftain spoke of war, Smote liis broad breast, or pointed to a scar, Spoke of the strangers of the distant main, And the proud banners of insulting Spain, Of the barb'd horse and iron horseman spoke, And his red gods, that, wrapp'd in rolling smoke, Koar'd from the guns, the Boy, with still-dra\\n bivath, Ilunjr >n the wondrous tale, as unite a* death; Then rsiU'd hi- animated eyes, and cried. U O1 iii MI. i-iKiMi IJY MY FATHER'S sn>; LANDING AT TYNEMOUTH. As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side, Much musing on the track of terror past, AVhen o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast Pleas'd I look back, and view the tranquil tide That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam Of evening smiles on the grey battlement Of yon forsaken tower that TIME has rent ; The lifted oar far off with transient gleam Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep, 97 THE BURIAL PLACE. O'er-spent ; oh ! when on wakeful Memory's breast Shall stillness steal like this, and kindred rest? Then some sweet harmonies might soothe her sleep, Harmonies, on the wandering minstrel's lyre, Like airs of parting day, that, as they breathe, expire. THE BURIAL PLACE. THE Indian, sad and still, I'ae'd on from wood to vale, from vale to hill; Her infant, tir'd, and hush'd awhile to rest, Smil'd, in a dream, upon its mother's breast; The pensive mother grey Anselmo led : Behind, Lantaro bore his Father dead. Beneath tin- branching palms they slept at night; The small birds wak'd them ere the morning light. I it'll >re their path, in distant view, appear' d The mountain-Smoke, that its dark column rear'd O'er AlfDES 1 summits, in the pale blue sky, Lifting their icy pinnacles so high. Four days they onward led their eastern way: On the lifth rising morn before them lay ( 'mi. LAN'S lone j^lni. ;llm( l w hose. windings green The Warrior* ~ lo\M and la>t abode was seen. No -moke went up, stillness was all around, where the waters fell with soothing sound, Sa\e where the Thenca Ming ><> h'ud ami clear. And the bright humming-bird was spinning near- BOWLES, Yet here nil human tumults seem'd to eease. And sunshiiu' rested on the spot of peace ; The myrtles hloom'd as fragrant and as green As it' Lautaro searee had lei't the scene, And in his ear the tailing water's spray Seenfd swelling with the sounds of yesterday. Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, There shall my father's bones in peace be hud." Beneath the cedars' shade they duir the ground : The small and sad communion gather' d round. Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel, And broke the spear, and cried, " Farewell ! farewell !" Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd " Adieu !" As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw. The little child, that to its mother clung, With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung, Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound, And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground. The Alpaca, grown old, and almost wild, Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child, Came from the mountains, and, with earnest gaze, Seem'd as rememb'ring those departed days, When his tall neck he bent, with aspect bland, And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand! And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclin'd, The Warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee, "ETERNAM PACEM DONA, DOMINE." Then, rising up, he clos'd the holy book, And lifting in the beam his litrhted look, (The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,) " Here, too," he cried, " my bones in peace shall rest ! Few years remain to me, and never more Shall I behold, O Spain, thy distant shore! 99 SUNRISE. Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave O'er the poor CHRISTIAN'S and the INDIAN'S grave. Then may it (when the sons of future days Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze) Then may it teach, that charity should bind, Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind ! The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear Thy voice, O CHRIST! and drop the slaught'ring spear." SUNRISE. 'Tis dawn: the distant Andes' rocky spires, One after one, have caught the orient fires. Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight, His wings are touch'd with momentary light. Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering head*, A boundless ocean of grey vapour spreads, That <>Yr the champaign, stretching tar below, Moves on, in cluster' d masses, rising slow, Till all the living landscape is display'd In various pump of colour, light, and shade; Hill.-, forest*, rivers, lakes, and level plain, niiig in sunshine to the southern main. The Llama'- tleece fumes with ascending dew ; The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew; 100 And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride, The tall flamingo, by the river's side, Stalks, in his richest plumage bright array'd, With snowy neck superb, and legs of length' ning shade. 101 KOGERS. THE OLD HOUSE. MARK yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, First to ilu-sc eyes the light of heaven convey \1. Tin- mould'ring gateway shows the grass-grown court, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new, And the In-art promis'd what the fancy drew. through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd. Win -iv moss inlays the rudely sculptured shield. The martin's old, hereditary nest Long may the ruin spare its hallow" d gueM '. As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! That hall, where once in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now staiu'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, ( )t't ha- it- rouf with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, \\V MviTtrn'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling je.M. And all wa- -mi-hine in each little breast. 'Twa- here we cha-'d the >lippi-r by the sound; And tuni'd the blind-fold hero round and round. 'Twas lien-, at eye, we form'd our fairy ring; And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 102 Giants and genii claim'd each wondering ear; And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, Or view'd the forest-feats of Robin Hood ; 108 MOTHER AND CHILD. Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour AYith startling step \ve scal'd the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder' d by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. Tlu- storied arras, source of fond delight, "With old achievements charms the wilder' d sight; And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictur'd crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, AVhen soft it spoke a promis'd pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of Time? The massive beam, with curious carving wrought, Whence the caged linnet sooth' d my pensive thought ; Tho-e muskets, cased with venerable rust; Those once-lov'd forms, still breathing thro' their dust ; Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, Starting to life all whisper of the Past! MOTHER AND CHILD. 'I'm. \ ; For with my lather's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy. The people's shouts were long and loud. My mother, shudd'ring, closed her ears; Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd, My mother answcr'd with her tears. 'Why arc you crying thus," said I, While other- laugh and shout with joy?" She ki M me and, with such a Huh ! She call'd me her poor orphan hoy. 106 'What is an orphan boy?" I cried, As in her face I look'd and smiled ; My mother through her tears replied, "You'll know too soon, ill-fated child!" And now they've toll'd my mother's knell, And I'm no more a parent's joy, O Lady, I have learnt too well What 'tis to be an orphan boy. 107 THE ORPHAN BOY'S TALE. Oh! were I by your bounty fed! Nay, gentle Lady, do not chide, Trust me, I mean to earn my bread ; The sailor's orphan boy has pride. Las earth above Th<- being we so much did love. Mi- empty chain above it leant, Such murder's fitting monument! Hut lie, the favourite and the flower, MOM eheri-h'd since hi- natal hour, Hi.- mother's imajie in lair lace, 110 BYRON. Tin 1 infant love of all his race, His martyr' d father's dearest thought, My latest care, for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his mijrlit be Less wretched now, and one day free; He too, who yet had held, untir'd, A spirit natural or inspir'd, He, too, was struck, and day by day Was wither'd on the stalk away. Oh, God! it is a fearful thing To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood : I've seen it rushing forth in blood, I've seen it on the breaking ocean Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, I've seen the sick and ghastly bed Of Sin delirious with its dread: But these were horrors this was woe Unmix'd with such but sure and slow: He faded, and so calm and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak, So tearless, yet so tender kind, And griev'd for those he left behind; With all the while a cheek whose bloom Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints as gently sunk away As a departing rainbow's ray An eye of most transparent light, That almost made the dungeon bright, And not a word of murmur not A groan o'er his untimely lot, A little talk of better days, A little hope my own to raise, For I was sunk in silence lost In this last loss, of all the most ; And then the sighs he would suppress Of fainting nature's feebleness, 117 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. More slowly drawn, grew less and less : I listen'd, but I could not hear I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread Would not be thus admonished ; I call'd, and thought I heard a sound I burst my chain with one strong bound, And rush'd to him: I found him not; / only stirr'd in this black spot, / only liv'd / only drew The accursed breath of dungeon dew; The last the sole the dearest link Between me and the eternal brink, Which bound me to my failing race, Was broken in this fatal place. One on the earth, and one beneath My brothers both had ceas'd to breathe : I took that hand which lay so still, Alas ! my own was full as chill ; I had not strength to stir, or strive, I5ut felt that I was still alive A frantic feeling, when we know Tluit what we love shall ne'er be so. I know not why I could not die ; I had no earthly hope but faith, And that forbade a selfish death. What next befel mo then and there I know not well I never knew ; Kir.-t C.-UIH- I lie loss of light, and air, Ami thru of darkness too: I had no thought, no feeling none A IIH mil t hi- MMIH-S I stood a stone, Ami was >ranv ronsrious what I wi-t, A^ BhrubleM ongB within the ini-t ; 118 BYRON. For all was blank, :m\e despair. And thus when they appcarM at last, And all my bonds asidr were ca-t, Tln--- heavy walls to ine had grown BYRON. A lu'rinitatrc and all my own! And hall' I li-It as tiny were come To tear me from a second home: With spiders I had friendship made, And watcli'd them in their sullen trade. Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? Wo were all inmates of one place, And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learn'd to dwell My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends To make us what we are: even I Regained my freedom with a sigh. THE DREAM. OUR life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnam'd Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world. And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being; they become A portion of ourselves as of our time. And look like heralds of eternity; They pass like spirits of the past they speak Like sibyls of the future ; they have power 123 THE DREAM. The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; They make us what we were not what they will, And shake us with the vision that's gone by, The dread of vanish'd shadows Are they so? Is not the past all shadow? What are they? Creations of the mind? The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms that can outlive all flesh. I would recall a vision which I dream' d Perchance in sleep for in itself a thought, A slumbering thought, is capable of years, And curdles a long life into one hour. I saw two beings in the hues of youth Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, Green and of mild declivity, the last As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, Save that there was no sea to lave its base, But a most living landscape, and the wave Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men Seatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke Ari.-ing from such rustic roofs; the hill Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd Not by the sport of nature, but of man : These two, a maiden and a youth, were there (; ; i/injr the one on all that was beneath. Fair as herself but the boy gazed on her; And both were young, and one was beautiful: And both were young yet not alike in youth. A- the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; The boy had fewer summers, but his heart Had far on thrown hi- years, and to his eye There was but one beh>\ate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Word- which I could not guess of; then he leanM Hi- l>owM head on his hands, and shook as 'twere With a convulsion then arose again. And with hi- ie-ih and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears. And he did calm him>rlf, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet : a< he paus'd, 186 BYRON. The Lady of his love re-cnterM there; She was serene and smiling then, and yet Slio knew she was by him belov'd, she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all. He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp IK 1 took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retir'd, but not as bidding her adieu, For they did part with mutual smiles; he passM From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And, mounting on his steed, he went his way; And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been ; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all ; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had surviv'd the names Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber'd around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, 127 THE DREAM. So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That Ood aloiu- was to be seen in heaven. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love was wed with one Who did not love her better: in her home, A thousand leagues from his, her native homo, She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, Daughters and sons of Beauty, but behold ! rpon her face there was the tint of grief, The settled shadow of an inward strife, And an unquiet drooping of the eye, As if its lid were charg'd with unshed tears. What could her grief be? She had all she loved, And he who had so loved her was not there To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. AVhat could her grief be? She had loved him not, Not given him cause to deem himself beloved, Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd her mind a spectre of the past. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wand'ivr was return'd. I saw him stand Before an altar with a gentle bride; HIT face was fair, but was not that which made Tin- >t:irli_L r ht of his boyhood; as he stood K\en at the altar, o'er his brow there came The self-same a.-pect, and the quivering shock That in the antique Oratory shook Hi- bosom in its solitude; and then A- in that hour a moment o'er his face The tablet of unutterable thoughts \\.M- traced and then it faded as it came, And he -tood calm and quiet, and he spoke 128 BYRON. The liiiinir vows, hut hoard not his own \vonl>. And all things reel'd around him; In- could see Not that which was, nor that which should have been But the old man>iim, and the accustomed hall, And the remeinber'd chambers, and the place. The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, All things pertaining to that place and hour, And her who was his destiny, came back And thrust themselves between him and the light: What business had they there at such a time? A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Lady of his love ; oh ! she was changed, As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, They had not their own lustre, but the look Which is not of the earth ; she was become The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts Were combinations of disjointed things; And forms impalpable and unperceiv'd Of others' sight familiar were to hers. And this the world calls phrenzy ; but the wise Have a far deeper madness, and the glance Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; What is it but the telescope of truth? Which strips the distance of its fantasies, And brings life near in utter nakedness, Making the cold reality too real ! A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Wand'rer was alone as heretofore ; The beings which surrounded him were gone, Or were at war with him ; he was a mark For blight and desolation, compass' d round With Hatred and Contention; Pain was inix'd 129 THE DREAM In all which was serv'd up to him, until, Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. He fed on poisons, and they had no power, But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived Through that which had l>een death to many men, And made him friends of mountains : with the stars And the quick Spirit of the Universe He held his dialogues ; and they did teach To him the magic of their mysteries. To him the book of Night was open'd wide, And voices from the deep abyss re veal' d A marvel and a secret. Be it so. My dream was past; it had no further change. It was of a strange order, that the doom Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Almost like a reality the one To end in madness both in misery. SHELLEY. WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. THE sun is warm, the sky is clear, The waves are dancing fast and bright, Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 131 WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. The purple noon's transparent light. The breath of the moist earth is light Around its unexpandcd buds ; Like many a voice of one delight, The winds, the birds, the ocean floods, The city's voice itself is soft, like Solitude's. I see the deep's untrampled floor With green and purple sea-weeds strown ; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolv'd in star-showers, thrown. I sit upon the sands alone, The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measur'd motion. How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown'd Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. Yet now despair itself is mild, Kven as the winds and waters are ; I could lie down like a fired child. And weep away the life of eare "Which I have borne, and yet must hear. Till death, like sleep, might steal on me. And I might fed in the warm air My cheek grow wet., and hear the sea IJivathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 182 SHELLEY. Some miirht lament thai I was cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost In-art, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan : They might lament, for I am one Whom men love not and yet regret; Unlike this clay, which, when the sun SI i all on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoy' d, like joy in memory yet. TO NIGHT. SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, Swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought ! Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and sand, Touching all with thine opiate wand Come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the Dawn, I sigh'd for thee ; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 133 TO NIGHT. And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I Mh'd for thee. Thy In-other Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? And I replied, No, not thee ! Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon Sleep will come when thou art fled: Of neither would I ask the boon, I ask of thee, beloved Night Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon! SPRING. () Si'i{ix<;! of hope, and love, and youth, and gladne.-.-. White-wiiig'd enililein! brightest, best, and fairest! Whence comest thou, when with dark Winter's sadnes- The tears that lade in sunny smiles thou shares! .' Si-ter <>f joy! thou art the child who wearest Thy mother's dying smile, tender and sweet; Thy mother Autumn, lor whose grave thou beare-t I-'iv-li fl<>\ver~, and beams like flowers, with gentle feet Di-tnrhing not the leaves which are her winding-sheet. KEATS. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. MY heart aches, and a drowsy mmibm-ss pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 135 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk : 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth ! That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim : Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret, Here, where men sit and hear each other groan, When- palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies Where but to think is to be full of sorrow, And leaden-eyed despairs ; When- Beauty cannot keep her lustrous e\ Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee. Nut charioted by Hat-elms and his jiards, lint on the \iewless winirs of Poi-y, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 186 KEATS, Already with thee ! tender is the ni^lil. And haply the ( >nern-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Kays; But Iii-iv there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mos>y way.-. 1 cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmid darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; Kast-fading violets cover' d up in leaves : And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To ta"ke into the air my quiet breath ; Now more than ever seerns it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy ! Still wouklst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! No hungry generations tivad tliee down: The voice I hear this passing niiiht was lu-anl In ancient days by emperor and clown : 137 ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home. She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; The same that oft times hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades : AVas it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music : do I wake or sleep ? ^ COLEEIDGE. LOVE. ALL thoughts, nil psi-^ions. all delights Whatever >tirs this mortal frame, 139 LOVE. All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay lieside the ruin'd tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She lean'd against the armed man, The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, ]\I v hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story An old rude song that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose lint ira/.e upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand : And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. llo COLERIDGE, I told her lio\v he pined: and, ah! Tin- low, the deep, the pleading tone, With wl i icli I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listen'd with a flitting blush, "With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn "Which crazed this bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, There came, and look'd him in the face, An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ! And that, unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land ; And how she wept and clasp' d his knees, And how she tended him in vain And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went awa}' When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ; 141 LOVE. His dying words but when I reached That ti-nderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve, The inusicr and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng; And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish'd long! She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; And, like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved she stept aside ; As conscious of my look, she stept Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half inclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And, bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I ealm'd her fears; and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride; And BO I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride ! 142 WORDSWORTH. THE GLORY OF IMAGINATION. THE Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves, On the green turf, a dial to divide The silent hours ; and who to that report Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, Throughout a long and lonely summer's day, His round of pastoral duties, is not left With less intelligence for moral things Of gravest import. Early he perceives, Within himself, a measure and a rule, Which to the sun of truth he can apply, That shines for him, and shines for all mankind. Experience daily fixing his regards 143 A CLOUD PICTURE. On Nature's want?, he knows how few they are, And where they lie, how answer' d and appeas'd : This knowledge ample recompense affords For manifold privations ; he refers His notions to this standard ; on this rock Rests his desires; and hence, in after life, Soul-strengthening patience and sublime content. Imagination not permitted here To waste her powers, as in the worldling's mind, On fickle pleasures, and superfluous cares, And trivial ostentation is left free And puissant to range the solemn w r alks Of time and nature, girded by a zone That, while it binds, invigorates and supports. Acknowledge, then, that whether by the side Of his poor hut, or on the mountain-top, Or in the cultur'd field, a Man so bred (Take from him what you will upon the scor3 Of ignorance or illusion) lives and breathes For noble purposes of mind : his heart Beats to th' heroic song of ancient days ; His eye distinguishes, his soul creates. A CLOUD PICTURE. So was lie lifted gently from the ground. And with their freight homeward the shepherds mov'd Through the dull mist, I following when a step. A nude Mcp, that freed me from the skirts ( )t die Mind v.-ipour, openM to my view (llory beyond ;ill glory ever seen P.y \\;ikiir_! BenBe, "I 1 by the divaming soul! TIT ;i]|>ear;inee, in-tantaiH-nusly disrlo.-'d. 144 WORDSWORTH, Was of a mighty city boldly say .V wilderness of building, sinking far And seli'-jwithdrawn into a boundless depth, Far sinking into splendour without end! Fabric il seem'd of diamond and of gold, With alabaster domes and silver spires, And blazing terrace upon terrace, high Uplifted: here, serene pavilions bright, In avenues disposed; there, towers begirt With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars illumination of all gems! By earthly nature had th' effect been wrought Upon the dark materials of the storm Now pacified; on them, and on the coves And mountain-steeps and summits, whereunto The vapours had receded, taking there Their station under a cerulean sky. Oh, 'twas an unimaginable sight ! Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf. Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, Confus'd, commingled, mutually inflam'd, Molten together, and composing thus, Each lost in each, that marvellous array Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge Fantastic pomp of structure without name, In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapp'd. Right in the midst, where interspace appear'd Of open court, an object like a throne Under a shining canopy of state Stood fix'd ; and fix'd resemblances were seen To implements of ordinary use, But vast in size, in substance glorified; Such as by Hebrew Prophets were beheld In vision forms uncouth of mightiest power For admiration and mysterious awe. This little Vale, a dwelling-place of Man, Lay low beneath my feet ; 'twas visible 145 K DION. I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the re veal' tl abode Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart Swell'd in my breast. " 1 have been dead," I cried, " And now I live ! Oh ! wherefore do I live ?" And with that pang I pray'd to be no more ! DION. (SEE PLUTARCH.) SERENE, and fitted to embrace, Where'er he turn'd, a swan-like grace Of haughtiness without pretence, And to unfold a still magnificence, Was princely Dion, in the power And beauty of his happier hour. And what pure homage then did wait On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, Fell round him in the grove of Academe, Softening their inbred dignity austere That he, not too elate With self-sufficing solitude, But with majestic lowliness endued, Mi'jht in the universal bosom reign, And from affectionate observance gain Help, under every change of adverse late. Five thousand warriors O the rapturous day ! Each crownM with flowers, and arniM with spear and shield. Or ruder weapon which their course might yield. Ivance in bright array, itc WORDSWORTH. Who loads thorn on? The anxious people see L< >i i Li-ox il i'd Dion marching at their head : lit- also erownM with ilowers of Sicily. And in a white, tar-beaming corslet clad! Pure transport, undisturb'd by doubt or fear, Tlu- sia/ers feel; and, rushing to the plain, Salute those strangers as a holy train, Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear), That brought their precious liberty again. Lo ! when the gates are eriter'd, on each hand, Down the long street, rich goblets fill'd with wine In seemly order stand, On tables set, as if for rites divine; And, as thfc great Deliverer marches by, He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrewn ; And flowers are on his person thrown In boundless prodigality ; Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, Invoking Dion's tutelary care, As if a very Deity he were ! Mourn, hills and groves of Attica! and mourn Ilissus, bending o'er thy classic urn ! Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads Your once sweet memory, studious walks, and shades ! For him who to divinity aspired, Not on the breath of popular applause, But through dependence on the sacred laws Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, Intent to trace th' ideal path of right (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight; But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars ; And, following guides whose craft holds no consent With aught that breathes th' ethereal element, Hath stain'd the robes of civil power with blood Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 147 DION. Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, Hollow excuses, and triumphant pain ; And oft his cogitations sink as low As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, The heaviest plummet of despair can go But whence that sudden check ? that fearful start ? He hears an uncouth sound Anon his lifted eyes Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, A Shape of more than mortal size And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! A woman's garb the phantom wore, And swiftly swept the marble floor Like Auster whirling to and fro, His force on Caspian foam to try; Or Boreas when he scours the snow That skins the plains of Thessaly, Or when aloft on Mcenalus he stops His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops! So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, The sullen Spectre to her purpose bow'd, Sweeping vehemently sweeping No pause admitted, no design avow'd ! "Avaunt, inexplicable guest! avaunt!" Exclaim'd the Chieftain "let me rather see The coronal that coiling vipers make ; The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, And the long train of doleful pageantry Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt : Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, Mo\e where the blasted soil is not unworn, And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!" But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid; Lords of the \i-iun:iry eye, whose lid, 148 WORDSWORTH. Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Ye Liotls, thought lu', that servile Implement Obeys a mystical intent! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere; But should She labour night and day, They will not, cannot disappear; Whence angry perturbations, and that look Which no philosophy can brook! Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim! O matchless perfidy! portentous lust Of monstrous crime! that horror-striking blade, Drawn in defiance of the gods, hath laid The noble Syracusan low in dust! Shudder'd the walls the marble city wept And sylvan places heav'd a pensive sigh ; But in calm peace th' appointed Victim slept, As he had fall'n in magnanimity; Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change ; too just To his own native greatness to desire That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. So were the hopeless troubles, that involved The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. Releas'd from life, and cares of princely state, He left this moral grafted on his Fate : "Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 149 INCIDENT AT BRUGES. INCIDENT AT BRUGES. IN Bruges town is many a street Whence busy life hath fled; Where, without hurry, noiseless feet The grass-grown pavement tread. There heard we, halting in the shade Flung from a convent-tower, A harp that tuneful prelude made To a voice of thrilling power. The measure, simple truth to tell, Was fit for some gay throng; Though from the same grim turret fell The shadow and the song. When silent were both voice and chords, The strain seem'd doubly dear, Yet sad as sweet, for English words Had fall'n upon the ear. It was a breezy hour of eve ; And pinnacle and spire Quiver* d and seem'd almost to heave Cloth'd with innocuous fire ; But, where we stood, the setting sun Show'd little of his stair: And, if the glory ivarh'd the Nun, 'Twas through an iron gratr. Not always is the heart unwise, Nor pity idly borne, If even a j>a>.-inir Stranger sijihs For tin-in who do not mourn. 150 Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, Captive, whoe'er thou be! Oh! what is beauty, what is love, And opening life to thee? Such feeling press'd upon the soul, A feeling sanctified By one soft trickling tear that stole From the Maiden at my side: Less tribute could she pay than this, Borne gaily o'er the sea, Fresh from the beauty and the bliss Of English liberty? 151 A JEWISH FAMILY. A JEWISH FAMILY. IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR, UPON THE RHINE. GENIUS of Eaphael ! if thy wings Might bear thee to this glen, With faithful memory left of things To pencil dear and pen, Thou wouldst forego the neighbouring Rhine, And all his majesty A studious forehead to incline O'er this poor family. The Mother her thou must have seen, In spirit, ere she came To dwell these rifted rocks between, Or found on earth a name ; An image, too, of that sweet Boy Thy inspirations give Of playfulness, and love, and joy, Predestined here to live. Downcast, or shooting giancos iar, How beautiful his t \ That blend the nature of the star With that of summer skies ! I speak as if of sense iM-jruilM ; Uncounted months are gone, Yet am I with the .It-wish Child. That exquisite Saint John. 1 :,L> WORDSWORTH, I see tlu' dark-brown curls, the brow, The smooth transparent skin, Refin'd, as with intent to show The holiness within ; The grace of parting Infancy By blushes yet uniainM ; Age faithful to the mother's knee, Nor of her arms asliainM. Two lovely Sisters, still and sweet As flowers, stand side by side ; Their soul-subduing looks might cheat The Christian of his pride ; Such beauty hath tlr Eternal pour'd Upon them not forlorn, Though of a lineage once abhorr'd, Nor yet redeem'd from scorn. Mysterious safeguard, that, in spite Of poverty and wrong, Doth here preserve a living light, From Hebrew fountains sprung; That gives this ragged group to cast Around the dell a gleam Of Palestine, of glory past, And proud Jerusalem! 153 A PORTRAIT. A PORTRAIT. SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight too her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet ; A Creature, not too bright or good For human nature's daily food ; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the tcmpi-niti- will, Endurance, foivHiilil, slivngth and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of an an^d light. 154 WORDSWORTH. LUCY. THREE years she grew in sun and shower, Then Nature said, "A lovelier (lower On earth was never sown ; This Child I to myself will takr : She shall be mini 1 , and I will make A Lady of my own. Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse : and with me The Girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the Fawn That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. The Floating Clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend: Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the Storm Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form By silent sympathy. The Stars of Midnight shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where Rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. 155 SONNET. And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy Dell." Thus Nature spoke. The work was done How soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. SONNET COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1803. EARTH has not any thing to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright ;ui(l glitlorinjr in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. The river irlidi'tli at his own sweet will: Dear (idd! the very houses seem asleep;' And all that niiiihtv heart is lying still! 166 LAMB. HESTER. A REMEMBRANCE. WHEN maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavour. A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together. A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flush'd her spirit I know not by what name beside I shall it call: if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied She did inherit. Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool ; But she was train'd in Nature's school, Nature had blest her. A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester. 157 VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning, When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning? VERSES FOR AN ALBUM. FRESH clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an Album bright, A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And friends, and foes, in foul or fair, Have written " strange defeature" there. And Time, with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, I lath stamp'd sad dates he can't recall. And Error, gilding worse, Like speckled snake that Mrays and shine lictray- his path by crooked lines. .My -.-aided eyes no longer brook I'p'm this iiik-hliirr'd thing to look. Go shut the leaves and clasp the book! 158 KIRKE WHITE. THE HERB ROSEMARY. SWEET scented flower! who art wont to bloom On January's front severe, And o'er the wintry desert drear To waft thy waste perfume! Come, thou shalt form my nosegay now. And I will bind thee round my brow ; And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy song, And sweet the strain shall be, and long, The melody of death. Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell. Come, press my lips, and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder-tree ; And we will sleep a pleasant sleep, And not a care shall dare intrude, To break the marble solitude, So peaceful, and so deep. And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, Moans hollow in the forest-trees, And sailing on the gusty breeze, Mysterious music dies. Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine, It warns me to the lonely shrine, 169 ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. The cold turf altar of the dead ; My grave shall be in yon lone spot, Where as I lie, by all forgot, A dying fragrance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed. ODE TO DISAPPOINTMENT. COME, Disappointment, come! Not in thy terrors clad; Come in thy meekest, saddest guise; Thy chastening rod but terrifies The restless and the bad. But I recline Beneath thy shrine, And round my brow resign'd thy peaceful cypress twine. Though Fancy flies away Before thy hollow tread, Yet Meditation, in her cell, Hears with faint eye the ling'ring knell, That tells her hopes are dead ; And though the tear By chance appear, Yet she can smile, and say, My all was not laid here ! What is tliis 'passing scene? A peevish April day ! A little sun, a little rain, And then ni:ht sweeps along the plain, And all things lade away. Man (i.-iii'j, \ft at their own nature- awed? Soul:- that Ther know by a mysteriou- sense, 166 DANA. Thou awful, unseen presence are they quenched. Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes By that bright day which ends not, as the sun His robe of light flings round the glittering stars? And with our frames do perish all our loves ? Do those that took their root and put forth buds, And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speed i, And make it send forth winning harmonies, That to the cheek do give its living glow, And vision in the eye the soul intense With that for which there is no utterance Are these the body's accidents? no more? To live in it, and when that dies, go out Like the burnt taper's flame? Oh. listen, man! A voice within us speaks that startling word, " Man, thou shalt never die !" Celestial voices Hymn it unto our souls : according harps, By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars Of morning sang together, sound forth still The song of our great immortality : Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas Join in this solemn, universal song. Oh, listen, ye, our spirits ; drink it in From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 'Tis floating midst day's setting glories ; Night, Wrapped in her sable robe, with silent step Comes to our bed and breathes it in our ears : Night, and the dawu, bright day, and thoughtful eve. All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd 167 THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls To mingle in this heavenly harmony. Why is it that I linger round this tomb? What holds it? Dust that cumber'd those I mourn. They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, And put on those of light. They're gone to dwell In love their God's and angels'. Mutual love, That bound them here, no longer needs a speech For full communion ; nor sensations strong, Within the breast, their prison, strive in vain To be set free, and meet their kind in joy. Changed to celestials, thoughts that rise in each, By natures new, impart themselves, though silent. Each quick'ning sense, each throb of holy love, Affections sanctified, and the full glow Of being, which expand and gladden one, By union all mysterious, thrill and live In both immortal frames : Sensation all, And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought! Ye pair'd, yet one! wrapped in a consciousness Twofold, yet single this is love, this life! Why call we, then, the square-built monument, The upright column, and the low-laid slab, Tokens of death, memorials of decay? Stand in this solemn, still assembly, man, Ami learn thy proper nature; for thou see'st, In tin-si- shaped stones and lettered tables, figures Of life : More are they to thy soul than those Which In- \vh> talk'd on Sinai's mount with (Jod Brought to the old Jiuleans types are the.-e. Of thine eternity. 1G8 DANA. I thank thcc, Father. That nl this simple grave, on which llic dawn Is breaking, emblem of that day which hatli No close, Thou kindly unto my dark mind Ha\vvt ; ITS SCOTT. Tin' westlaiul wind is liuslit :m|]'d S<> druse, the combatants SC.MI-CC kmnv To aim or to nvoid tin- hlo\v. Si.K.il.'rin.r and blindfold jrrows UK- ti-ht But soon slinll d;i\vu a disinnl li-ln : 176 SCOTT. \Mid cries, niul clashing arms, there came Tlii' hollow sound of rushing flame; Ni-\v horrors on the tumult dire Ari-i the Castle is on lire! Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand, Or frantic llcrlrani's desperate hand. .Matilda saw for frequent broke From the dim casements mists of smoke. Yon tower, which late so clear defin'd On the fair hemisphere reclin'd, That, pencill'd on its azure pure, The eye could count each embrasure, Now, swatlfd within the sweeping cloud, Seems giant spectre in his shroud; Till, from each loophole flashing light, A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, And, gathering to united glare, Streams high into the midnight air; A dismal beacon, far and wide That waken'd Greta's slumbering side. Soon all beneath, through gallery long And pendant arch, the fire flash'd strong, Snatching whatever could maintain, Raise, or extend, its furious reign ; Startling, with closer cause of dread. The females who the conflict fled, And now rush'd forth upon the plain, Filling the air with clamours vain. But ceas'd not yet, the Hall within, The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din, Till bursting lattices give proof The flames have caught the rafter" d roof. What! wait they till its beams amain Crash on the slayers and the slain ? Th' alarm is caught the drawbridge falls - The warriors hurry from the walls ; 177 'I 1 ! IE BURNING OF ROKEBY. But, by the conflagration's light, Upon the lawn renew the fight. Each straggling felon down was hew'd, Not one could gain the shelt'ring wood ; But forth th' atfriirhted harper sprung, And to Matilda's robe he clung. Her shriek, entreaty, and command, Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. Denzil and he alive were ta'en; The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. And where is Bertram? Soaring high, The general flame ascends the sky; In gather'd group the soldiers gaze Upon the broad and roaring blaze, When, like infernal demon, sent Red from his penal element, To plague and to pollute the air His face all gore, on fire his hair Forth from the central mass of smoke The giant form of Bertram broke! His brandish'd sword on high he rears, Then plung'd among opposing spears ; Round his left arm his mantle truss' d, Receiv'd and foil'd three lances' thrust; Nor these his headlong course withstood, Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash-wood. In vain his foes around him clung; With matchless i'oree aside he thing Their boldot. a< the bull at bay To80ea tin- ban-dugs from his wav, Thron-h forty li.rs his path he made. And Mifrly trail fd the foivM -lade. Scarce was this final conflict o'er. When from the postern Redmond bore Wilfrid, who. M of ]if,. bnvft. SCOTT. Had in tin- t'atal Hall IK-CM left. Deserted there ly all his train; I>nt Redmond saw, and limi'd again. Beneath an oak he laid him down, That in the blaze glcaiuM ruddy brown. And then his mantle's Hasp undid; Matilda held his drooping head, Till, given to breathe the freer air, Returning life repaid their care. IK 1 ga/i-d on them with heavy sigh, "I could have wish'd even thus to die!" No more he said for now with speed Each trooper had regaiifd his steed; The ready palfreys stood array'd, For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid ; Two AVillrid on his horse sustain, One leads his charger by the rein. But oft Matilda look'd behind, As up the Vale of Tees they wind, Where far the mansion of her sires Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires. In gloomy arch above them spread, The clouded heaven lower'd bloody red ; Beneath, in sombre light, the flood Appear' d to roll in waves of blood. Then, one by one, was heard to fall The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall. Each rushing down with thunder sound, A space the conflagration drown'd ; Till, gathering strength, again it rose, Announc'd its triumph in its close, Shook wide its light the landscape o'er, Then sunk and Rokeby was no more! 17D CAMPBELL. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. OUR bugles sang truce for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky ; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw; And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track, Till Autumn and sunshine arose on the way To the house of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sun^r. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times oYr, And my wife ,-obb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay Stay with us! rest! thon art weary and worn !"- (And fain was thrir war-broken soldier to stay:) Hut sorrow retnrn'd with tlie dawning of morn, And the \oice in my dreaming ear melted away! CAMPBELL. THE EXILE OF ERIN. THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion; For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean. \Vhcre once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, lie sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh. t% Sad is my fate!" .slid the heart-broken stranger: "The, wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, l>ut I have no refuge from famine and dangcr,- A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hour Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers. And strike to the numbers of Erin-go-bragh. "Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea -beaten shore; l>ut, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more I Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me ! They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! "Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? 181 Ah! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Y-et all its sad recollections suppressing. One dyinr wish my lone bosom can draw : Krin ! an exile berjin-:iths thee his blessing, Land of my i'oiviathcrs ! Knn-iio-hrauh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, (ireen be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-strikini: hards HII-J ah.nd with devotion,- * Kiia mavonrnin, Krin-jio-hrayh '.' " 182 I'A.MI'IJKLL. DRINKING SONG OF MUNICH. SWEET Iser! were thy sunny realm And flowery gardens mine, Thy waters I would shade with elm, To prop the tender vine. My golden flagons I would fill With rosy draughts from every hill; And, under each green spreading bower. My gay companions should prolong The feast, the revel, and the song, To many an idle sportive hour. Like rivers crimson'd by the beam Of yonder planet bright, Our balmy cups should ever stream Profusion of delight; No care should touch the mellow heart, And sad or sober none depart; (For wine can triumph over woe ;) And Love and Bacchus, brother powers, Should build in Iser's sunny bowers A Paradise below? 183 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. WIZARD. LOCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day, When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle-array! For a Held of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight: They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown, Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? "I'is thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led; Oh, weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave. LOCHIEL. (io. preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or. it' gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, Thi- mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. WIZARD. I la! laiiLrhVt thou, Loehiel, my vision to scorn.' Proud bird of tin- mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Sa\, ru-li'd the bold eagle exultingly forth. From his home, in the dark-rolling clouds of the North .' IM CAMPBELL. Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeedinjr, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad: But down let him stoop from liis havoc on hi-li ! Ah! home let him speed tor the spoiler i> n'urh. Wliy Ihunes the far summit? Wliy shoot to the bias; Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? "I'is the lire-show'r of Kuin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose hanners arise on the battlement's height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan: Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam, like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws! When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array WIZARD. Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot, cover what God ' would reveal : 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. 1 tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that hark for thy fugitive king. 185 LQCHIEL'S WARNING. Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight Kise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! .... . . . 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors Cullodcn is lost, and rny country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accurs'd be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Win-re his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale LOCHIEL. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale ; For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore. Like ocean-wcvds heap'd on the surf-beaten shoiv, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death he laid low, With lii< hack to the field, and his feet to the foe : And. leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-lied of fame. 18C CAMl'I'.KLL. HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow ; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh' d. To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills, with thunder riven Then rush'd the steed to battle driven ; And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash' d the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. 187 HOHENLINDEN. The combat deepen-. On. yr hr:;\r. Who rush to rlnry. or the ^rn\r! W:i\v, .Mnnicli. nil thy banners w:i\f! And chnrirc \viili nil thy chivalry! CAMPBELL. Few, i'rw shall part, win-re many meet! Tin- snow >liall ln> their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall he a soldier's sepulchre! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. OF Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime : As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death ; And the boldest held his breath For a time. But the might of England flush' d To anticipate the scene ; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun 189 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; Their shots along the deep slowly boom : Then ceas'd and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail ; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave: " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! And we conquer but to save : So peace instead of death let us bring: But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King." Then Denmark blest our chief That ho gave her wounds repose ; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose. A- Death withdrew his shades from the day While the sun look'd smiling bright < )'er a wide and wol'id sight, When- the tires of funeral light Died away. Now jcy. Old England, rail For the tidings of thy might, 190 CAMPBELL. ly the festal cities' hla/e, Whilst tlu- wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar. Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom y thy wild and stormy steep, KIsinore ! l>ravc hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died. With the gallant, good Riou ; Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Yi; Mariners of England ! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze ! Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe! And sweep through the deep. While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. 11)1 The spirits of your fathers S 1 1 ; 1 1 1 s t art from every wave ! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their jrrave : Win-re I Make and miirhty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall jrlow, As ye sweep throiiirh the deep. While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rares loud and loni;, And the stormy winds do blow. 199 CAMPBELL. Britannia needs no bulwark-, No towers along the steep ; Her march is on the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak, She quells the floods below As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean- warriors ! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more. And the storm has ceased to blow. 193 WILDE. STANZAS. MY life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close, Is scatter'd on the ground to die! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see But none shall weep a tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail its date is brief, Restless and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand ; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, Hut none, alas! shall mourn for me! 194 JAMES MONTGOMERY. THE DEATH OF ADAM. THE sun, in summer majesty on high, Darted his fierce effulgence down the sky ; Yet dimm'd and blunted were the dazzling rays, His orb expanded through a dreary haze, And, circled with a red portentous zone, He look'd in sickly horror from his throne : When higher noon had shrunk the lessening shade, Thence to his home our father we convey'd, And stretch'd him, pillow'd with his latest sheaves, On a fresh couch of green and fragrant leaves. Here, though his sufferings through the glen were known, "We chose to watch his dying-bed alone, Eve, Seth, and I. In vain he sigh'd for rest, And oft his meek complainings thus express'd: "Blow on me, Wind! I faint with heat! O bring Delicious water from the deepest spring; Your sunless shadows o'er my limbs diffuse, Ye Cedars! wash me cold with midnight dews; Cheer me, my friends ! with looks of kindness cheer ; Whisper a word of comfort in mine ear ; These sorrowing faces fill my soul with gloom This silence is the silence of the tomb." The sun w r ent down, amidst an angry glare Of flushing clouds, that crimson'd all the air ; The winds brake loose; the forest-boughs were torn, And dark aloof the eddying foliage borne; 195 THE DEATH OF 'ADAM. Cattle to shelter scudded in affright ; The florid Evening vanish'd into night: Then burst the hurricane upon the vale, In peals of thunder, and thick-volley'd hail ; Prone rushing rains with torrents whelm'd the land; Our cot amidst a river seem'd to stand; Around its base, the foamy-crested streams Flash'd through the darkness to the lightning's gleams ; With monstrous throes an earthquake heaved the ground ; The rocks were rent, the mountains trembled round. Amidst this war of elements, within More dreadful grew the sacrifice of sin, Whose victim on his bed of torture lay, Breathing the slow remains of life away. Erewhile, victorious faith sublimer rose Beneath the pressure of collected woes; But now his spirit waver'd, went and came, Like the loose vapour of departing flame, Till at the point, when comfort seem'd to die For ever in his fix'd unclosing eye, Bright through the smouldering ashes of the man, The saint brake forth, and Adam thus began : "O ye who shudder at this awful strife, This wrestling agony of Death and Life, Think not that He, on whom my soul is cast, Will leave me thus forsaken to the last; Nature's infirmity alone you see ; My chains are breaking, I shall soon be free : Though firm in God the spirit holds her trust, The flesh is frail, and trembles into dust. Thou, of my faith the Author and the End ! Mine early, late, and everlasting Friend! The joy, that once Thy presence gave, restore, Ere I am summon'd hence, :md sivn no more ; Down to the dust returns this earthly frame Receive my spirit, Lord ! from whom it came." 196 JAMES MONTGOMERY. He closed his eyelids with a tranquil smilr, And seem'd to rest in silent prayer awhile: Around his couch with filial awe we kneel'd, When suddenly a light from heaven reveal'd A Spirit, that stood within the unopen'd door, The sword of God in his right hand he bore ; His countenance was lightning, and his vest Like snow at sun-rise on the mountain's crest ; Yet so benignly beautiful his form, His presence still'd the fury of the storm ; At once the winds retire, the waters cease ; His look was love, his salutation "Peace!" Our Mother first beheld him, sore amazed, But terror grew to transport, while she gazed. "'Tis he, the Prince of Seraphim! who drove Our banish'd feet from Eden's happy grove. Adam, my Life, my Spouse, awake!" she cried; "Return to Paradise; behold thy Guide! O let me follow in this dear embrace !" She sunk, and on his bosom hid her face. Adam look'd up; his visage changed its hue, Transform'd into an Angel's at the view. "I come!" he cried, with faith's full triumph fir'd, And in a sigh of ecstasy expir'd. The light was vanish'd, and the vision fled ; We stood alone, the living with the dead ; The ruddy embers, glimmering round the room, Display' d the corpse amidst the solemn gloom ; But o'er the scene a holy calm repos'd, The gate of heaven had open'd there, and clos'd. 197 JOANNA BAILLIE. THE PHRENZY OF ORRA. Hartman. Is she well? Theobald. Her body is. Hart. And not her mind? oh, direst wreck of all! That noble mind! But 'tis some passing seizure, Some powerful movement of a transient nature ; It is not madness! Theo. 'Tis Heaven's infliction ; let us call it so ; Give it no other name. Eleanora. Nay, do not thus despair; when she beholds us, She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing, Be gradually restored Alice. Let me go to her. Theo. Nay, forbear, I pray thee ; I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman, Go in and lead her forth. Orra. Come back, come back! the fierce and fiery light! Theo. Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day. Orra. Have cocks crow'd yet? Theo. Yes; twice I've heard already Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky I- it not daylight there? And these green boughs Are fresh and i'rat:rant round thee; every sense Tell- thee it U the eheerfnl curly day. Orra. Aye, so it is; day lakes his daily turn, Rising between the gulfy dells of night, Like whitrn'd billowa on a gloomy MB. 198 JOANNA BAILLIK. Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through ihe dark, And will-o'-the-wisp his dancing taper light, They will not come again. [Bending her ear to t/ie ground. Hark, hark ! aye, hark ! They are all there : I hear their hollow sound Full many a fathom down. T/teo. Be still, poor troubled soul ! they'll ne'er return They are for ever gone. Be well assured Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home, AM th crackling fagots on thy midnight fire, Blazing like day around thee ; and thy friends Thy living, loving friends still by thy side, To speak to thee and cheer thee. See, my Orra! They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them? Orra. No, no! athwart the wav'ring garish light, Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing. Elea. My gentle Orra! hast thou then forgot me? Dost not thou know my voice? Orra. 'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd. For there be those who sit in cheerful halls, And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds; And once I liv'd with such; some years gone by, I wot not now how long. Hughobert. Keen words that rend my heart ! thou hadst a home, And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection. Urston. Be more composed, my Lord ; some faint remembrance Returns upon her, with the well-known sound Of voices once familiar to her ear. Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune, That may lost thoughts recall. [Alice sings. Orra. Ha, ha! the witch'd air sings for thee bravely. Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds? It lures not me. I know thee well enough : The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat, And fleshless heads nod to thee Off, I say! 199 THE PHRENZY OF ORRA. Why are ye here? That is the blessed sun. Elea. Ah, Orra! do not look upon us thus; These are the voices of thy loving friends That speak to thee ; this is a friendly hand That presses thine so kindly. Hart. Oh, grievous state! what terror seizes thee? Orra. Take it away! It was the swathed dead; I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch. Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now: Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things; And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast sounds, I'll bide the trooping of unearthly steps, With stiff, clench'd, terrible strength. Hugh. A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me. Hart. Be patient ; 'tis a momentary pitch ; Let me encounter it. Orj'a. Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd eye ; I may not look upon thee yet I must. Unfix thy baleful glance. Art thou a snake? Something of horrid power within thee dwells. Still, still that powerful eye doth suck me in Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core. Spare me ! O spare me, Being of strange power, And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay. Elea. Alas, the piteous sight! to see her thus, The noble, generous, playful, stately Orra! Theo. Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile ! Think'st thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state The slightest shadow of a base control ? [Raising Orra from the ground. No ; rise, thou stately flower with rude blasts rent ; As honourM art thou with thy broken stem And leaflet-; >tiv\vM. as in thy summer's pride. I've seen thee w<>rshi|>p'd like a regal Dame, With every Mndied form of inarkM devotion, WhilM I, in distant >ilence, scarcely proffer'. 1 Ev'n a plain soldier's courtesy; but now, 200 JOANNA BAILLII,. No liege man to his crowned mistress sworn, Bound and devoted is as I to thee ; And he who offers to thy alter' d state The slightest seeming of diminish'd rev'rence, Must in my blood (To Hartman) O pardon me, my friend! Thou'st wrung my heart. Hart. Nay, do thou pardon me, I am to blame: Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung. But what can now be done ? O'er such wild ravings There must be some control. Theo. O none ! none ! none ! but gentle sympathy, And watchfulness of love. My noble Orra! Wander where'er thou wilt, thy vagrant steps Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary, Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task; Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty Could ne'er have bound him. Alice. See how she gazes on him with a look, Subsiding gradually to softer sadness, Half saying that she knows him. El There is a kindness in her changing eye. 201 GKAHAME. THE SABBATH. How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The plough-boy's whistle, and the milk-maid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze ; Sounds the most faint attract the ear, the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale ; And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark Warbles his heaven-tun'd song; the lulling brook Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; 'While from yon lowly roof, whose circling smoke O'er-mounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, The voice of Psalms, the simple song of prai>- AVith lovr-like wings Peace o'er yon village broods; Tin- li//yinr mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din Ilnth ccas'd ; all, all around is quietness. Less fearful on this day, the limping haiv 202 Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, Her deadliest foe. The toil-worn horse, set free, Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large ; And as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, His iron-arm'd hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 203 SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. SUNDAY TO THE SHIPWRECKED. OH! my heart bleeds to think there now may live One hapless man, the remnant of a wreck, Cast on some desert island of that main Immense, which stretches from the Cochin shore To Acapulco. Motionless he sits, As is the rock his seat, gazing whole days, With wandering eye, o'er all the watery waste ; Now striving to believe the albatross A sail appearing on the horizon's verge ; Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours, Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time Upon the well-notch'd calendar to mark Another day, another dreary day, Changeless. But yet by him, The Hermit of the Deep, not unobserv'd The Sabbath passes ; 'tis his great delight. Each seventh eve he marks the farewell ray, And loves, and sighs to think, that setting sun Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain-tops, Or, higher risen, slants athwart her vales, Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below ('haunt in the dewy shade. Thus, all night long I It- \v;itrhr-, while the rising moon deserihes The pmirn-s of the day in happier lands. And now he almost fancies that he hears The ehiming from his native villas- ehnreh : KM GRAHAME. And now he sings, and fondly hopes the strain May be the same that sweet ascends at home In congregation full, where, not without 'a tear, They are remember'd who in ships behold The wonders of the deep: he sees the hand, The widow'd hand, that veils the eye suffus'd ; ' He sees his orphan' d boy look up, and strive The widow'd heart to soothe. His spirit leans On God. Calm he views The far-exploding firmament, and dares To hope one bolt in mercy is reserv'd For his release; and yet he is resign'd To live: because full well he is assur'd Thy Hand does lead him, thy right Hand upholds. And thy right Hand does lead him! Lo! at last, One sacred eve, he hears, faint from the deep, Music remote, swelling at intervals, As if the embodied spirit of sweet sounds Came slowly floating on the shoreward wave: The cadence well he knows a hymn of old, Where sweetly is rehears'd the lowly state Of JESUS, when his birth was first announced, In midnight music, by an angel choir, To Bethlehem's shepherds, as they watch'd their flocks. Breathless, the man forlorn listens, and thinks It is a dream. Fuller the voices swell ; He looks, and starts to see, moving along, A fiery wave, (so seems it,) crescent form'd, Approaching to the land; straightway he sees A towering whiteness; 'tis the heaven-fill' d sails That waft the mission'd men, who have renounced Their homes, their country, nay, almost the world, Bearing glad tidings to the farthest isles Of ocean, that the dead shall rise again. Forward the gleam-girt castle coast-wise glides, It seems as it would pass away To cry 205 A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. The wretched man in vain attempts, in vain, Powerless his voice as in a fearful dream Not so his hand; he strikes a flint, a blaze Mounts from the ready heap of wither' d leaves: The music ceases; accents harsh succeed, Harsh, but most grateful; downward drop the sails Ingulf 'd the anchor sinks ; the boat is launch'd ; But cautious lies aloof till morning dawn : Oh then the transport of the man, unus'd To other human voice beside his own, His native tongue to hear! he breathes at home. Though earth's diameter is interpos'd. Of perils of the sea he has no dread, Full well assur'd the mission'd bark is safe, Held in the hollow of the ALMIGHTY'S HAND. A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. DELI r, i HIT i. is this loneliness; it calms My In-art ; pleasant the cool beneath these elms, That thro\v across the stream a moveless shade. Here Nature in her midnoon whisper speaks : How peaceful every sound! the ring-dove's plaint. Mo:iiiM from the twilight centre of the grove, While every other woodland lay is mute, S:i\- \\licn the wren flits from her down-roved nr-t. Ami in m the root ]>r'iL r > trills her ditty clear, The LM-: i sshopper's oft pausing chirp, the buzz, Angrily shrill, of moss-entangled bee, 206 That, soon as loos'd, booms with full twang away, The sudden rushing of the minnow shoal, Scar'd from the shallows by my passing tread. Dimpling the water glides, with here and there A glossy fly, skimming in circlets gay The treacherous surface, while the quick-eyed trout Watches his time to spring; or, from above, 207 A SABBATH WALK IN SUMMER. JSome feather'd dam, purveying 'mong the boughs, Darts from her perch, and to her plumeless brood Bears off the prize : sad emblem of man's lot ! He, giddy insect, from his native leaf, (Where safe and happily he might have lurk'd,) Elate upon ambition's gaudy wings, Forgetful of his origin, and, won-o, Unthinking of his end, flies to the stream ; And if from hostile vigilance he 'scape, Buoyant he flutters but a little while, .Mistakes the inverted image of the sky For heaven itself, and, sinking, meets his fate. Now, let me trace the stream up to its source Among the hills ; its runnel by degrees Diminishing, the murmur turns a tinkle. Closer and closer still the banks approach, Tangled so thick with pleaching bramble-shoots, With brier, and hazel branch, and hawthorn spray, That, fain to quit the dingle, glad I mount Into the open air; grateful the breeze That fans my throbbing temples! smiles the plain Spread wide below: how sweet the placid view! But, oh! more sweet the thought, heart-soothing thought, That thousand and ten thousands of the sons Of toil partake this day the common joy Of rest, of peace, of viewing hill and dale, Of breathing in the silence of the woods, And blessing HIM who gave the Sabbath-day. Yes, my heart flutters with a freer throb, To think that now the townsman wanders forth Among the fields and meadows, to enjoy The coolness of the day's decline ; to see Hi- children sport around, and simply pull Tin- flower and weed promiscuous, as a boon, Which proudly in his breast they smiling lix. 208 GRAHAME. Again I turn me to tin- hill, and trace The wi/ard stream, now scarce lo he disccru'd ; Woodless its hanks, hut green with ferny lea\>. And thinly strcw'd with heath-hells up and down. Now, when the downward sun has lei't the glrns. Kach mountain's rugged lineaments an- traced I'pon the adverse slope', where stalks gigantic The shepherd's shadow thrown across the chaHn. As on the topmost ridge he homeward hies. How deep the hush! the torrent's channel, dry. Presents a stony steep, the echo's haunt. But hark, a plaintive sound floating along! 'Tis from yon heath-roof d shielin; now it dies Away, now rises full; it is the song Which HE who listens to the halleluias Of choiring Seraphim delights to hear ; It is the music of the heart, the voice Of venerable age, of guileless youth, In kindly circle seated on the ground Before their wicker door. Behold the man ! The grandsire and the saint; his silvery locks Beam in the parting ray; before him lies, Upon the smooth -cropt sward, the open Book, His comfort, stay, and ever-new delight; While heedless, at his side, the lisping boy Fondles the lamb that nightly shares his couch. 209 BLOOMFIELD. LAMBS AT PLAY. LOOSED from the winding lane, a joyful throng, See o'er yon pasture how they pour along ! Giles round their boundaries takes his usual stroll, Sees every gate secur'd, and fences whole: High fences, proud to charm the gazing eye. Where many a nestling first essays to fly; Where blows the woodbine, faintly streak' d with red, And rests on every bough its tender head ; Round the young ash its twining branches meet, Or crown the hawthorn with its odour sweet. Say, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen Spring's morning smiles, and soul-enlivening green, Say. did you give the thrilling transport way? Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play Leap'd o'er your path with animated pride, Or grazed in merry clusters by your side ! Ye who can smile, to wisdom no disgrace, At the arch meaning of a kitten's face; 1 1 .-pot less innocence, and infant mirth. K\eit-- to praise, or gives reflection birth: In -hades like these pursue your favourite joy. Midst Nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A l'e\v begin a short but vigorous race. And indolence, abjish'd, soon Hies the place: Tim- eh:illeng'.l forth, see thither one by one, ever] -ide assembling playmates run: 210 A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd impatient of delay. Like the fond dove, from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed ;" Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along; Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme. There panting stop; yet scarcely can refrain; A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or, if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try, Like the torn flower the fair assemblage fly. 211 THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. SHOT up from broad rank blades that droop below, The nodding wheat-ear forms a graceful bow, With milky kernels starting full, weigh' d down, Ere yet the sun hath tinged its head with brown ; Whilst thousands in a flock, for ever gay, Loud-chirping sparrows welcome in the day, And from the mazes of the lealy thorn Drop one by one upon the bending corn. Giles with a pole assails their close retreats, And round the grass-grown dewy border beats ; On either side completely overspread, Here branches bend, there corn o'ertops his head. Green covert, hail ! for thro' the varying year No hours so sweet, no scene to him so dear. Here Wisdom's placid eye delighted His frequent intervals of lonely ease, And with OIK- ray his infant soul inspires, Just kindling there her never-dying fires, Whence solitude derives peculiar charms. And heaven-directed thought his bosom warms, .lu.-t when- the parting bough's light shadows play. Scarce in the shade, nor in the scorching day, Snvteh'd on the turf he lies, ;i peopled bed, When- BWarming insects creep around his head. The Hindi dii.-t-colour'd beetle climbs with pain ()'! tin- .-month plantain leaf, a spacious plain! Thrner hi-hrr -till, by countless steps convey'd. Hi- irains tin- -iimmit of a .-hiv'riiig blade. And Dirts his filmy wings, and looks around. i:\ullinir in hi- 'distance from the ground. The tender speckled moth here dancing seen, The vaulting grasshopper of glossy green, And all prolific Summer's sporting train, Their little lives by various powers sustain. But what can unassisted vision do? What, but recoil where most it would pursue ; His patient gaze but finish with a sigh, When music waking speaks the >ky-lark nigh ! 213 THE FARMER'S BOY IN THE FIELDS. Just starting from the corn she cheerly sings, And trusts with conscious pride her downy wings; Still louder breathes, and in the lace of day .Mounts iij), and calls on (liles to mark her way. Close to his eyes his hat he instant bends, And forms a friendly telescope, that lends Just aid enough to dull the glaring light, And place the wandering bird before his sight : Yet oft beneath a cloud she sweeps along, Lost for awhile, yet pours her varied song. He views the spot, and as the cloud moves by. Again she stretches up the clear blue sky; Her form, her motion, undistinguished quite, Save when she wheels direct from shade to light: The fluttering songstress a mere speck became, Like fancy's floating bubbles in a dream; He sees her yet, but yielding to repose, Unwittingly his jaded eyelids close. Delicious sleep! From sleep who could forbear, With no more guilt than Giles, and no more care ? Peace o'er his slumbers waves her guardian wing, Nor Conscience once disturbs him with a sting: He wakes refresh'd from every trivial pain, And takes his pole and brushes round again. 214 ELLIOTT. BURNS. THAT heaven's belov'd die early, Prophetic Pity mourns; But old as Truth, although in youth, Died giant-hearted Burns. Oh that I were the daisy That sank beneath his plough, Or, "neighbour meet," that "skylark sweet!" Say, are they nothing now? That mouse, "our fellow mortal," Lives deep in Nature's heart; Like earth and sky, it cannot die Till earth and sky depart. Thy Burns, child-honour' d Scotland! Is many minds in one ; With thought on thought, the name is fraught, Of glory's peasant son. Thy Chaucer is thy Milton, And might have been thy Tell ; As Hampden fought, thy Sidney wrote, And would have fought as well. Be proud, man-childed Scotland ! Of earth's unpolished gem ; And "Bonny Doon," and "heaven aboon," For Burns hath hallowed them. 215 A POET'S EPITAl'II. Be proud, though sin-dishonour'd, And grief baptixcd thy child ; As rivers run, in shade and sun, He ran his courses wild. (Iricvc not, though savage forests Look'd grimly on the wave, Where dim-eyed flowers and shaded bowers Seem'd living in the grave. Grieve not, though, by the torrent, Its headlong course was riven, When o'er it came, in clouds and flame, Niagara from heaven ! For sometimes gently flowing, And sometimes chafed to foam. O'er slack and deep, by wood and steep, He sought his heavenly home. A POET'S EPITAPH. STOP, Mortal! Here thy brother li< The Poet of the poor; \\\< hooks were rivers, woods, and skie.-, The meadow and the moor; Hi- le.-ieher- were the lorn heart's wail. The tyrant and the dave, The >treet. the 1'aetory. the jail. The palace and the gra\e '. Sin met thy brother every where! And i- thy brother blamed 216 ELLIOTT. From passion, danger, doubt, and can-. IK 1 no exemption claimM. Tin- meane.-t thing, earth's feeblest won.i He t'ear'd to scorn or hate ; Hut, honouring in a peasant's form The equal o!' tin- great. He bless' d the Steward, whose wealth makes The poor man's little more ; Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes From plunder'd labour's store. A hand to do, a head to plan, A heart to feel and dare Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man Who drew them as they are. SPRING. A i, A IN the violet of our early days Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun, And kindles into fragrance at his blaze; The streams, rejoic'd that "Winter's work is done, Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run. Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom! Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossom'd thorn ! Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb! And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born ! Then, haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn, Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands From sea to sea, while dairies infinite Uplift in praise their little glowing hands, O'er every hill that under heav'n expands. 217 MOOKE. THE LAMENT OF THE PERI FOR HINDA. F.\IM:\\ i.r.i.. farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! (Tin is warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea^) No pearl ever lay, under Oman's green water, More pure in its shell than thy Spirit in thee. Oh! laii- as the sea-flower close to thec growing. How IJL'ht was thy heart till love's witehery came. Like the wind ut the sea-star to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old. The happiest there, from their pastime returning, At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village-maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, belov'd of her Hero! forget thee Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, Close, close by the side of that Hero she'll set thee, Kmbalm'd in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell be it ours to embellish thy pillow With every thing beauteous that grows in the deep ; Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreath'd chamber, We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling. And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell farewell until Pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain. They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in this wave. 219 NOUBMAHAL. NOURMAHAL. THE BEAUTY OF EXPRESSION. THKIIK'S :i beauty, for ever unchangingly bright, Like the long sunny lapse of a summer day's light, Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made tender, Till Love falls asleep in the sameness of splendour. This was not the beauty, oh! nothing like this, That to young NOI/RMAIIAL gave such magic of bliss ; Puit that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, Now melting in mist, and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint hath of Ileav'n in his dreams'. When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, That charm of all others, Avas born with her face ; And when angry for cv'n in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the blossoms sometimes The short, passing anger but seem'd to awaken New beauty, like flow'rs that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness toucli'd her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, From the depth of whose shadow, like holy revealing- From innermost -hrines, came the light, of her feeling-! Then her mirth oh ! 'twas sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring Illnni'd by :i wit that would fascinate SagCS, Yet playful a- Peris just loos' d from their cages. While her laugh, full of life, without any control Puit tin- BWeet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul; Ami where it mo-t sparkled no glance could disco\er. In lip. cheek, or eye-, for -he bright euM all over, Like any lair lake that the "hive/c i- upon. When it break- into dimple- and laugh.- in tin- sun. 220 WOLFE. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Nhall reprehend it .' 228 HOGG. THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. BONNY Kilmeny gaed up the glen ; But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Nor ilu- i-o.-jy monk of the isle 'to see, For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. It was only to hear the Yorlin sing, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring ; The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, And the nut that hangs frac the hazel-tree ; For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. But lang may her minny look o'er the wa', And lang may she seek i' the green-wood shaw : Lang the laird of Duneira blame, And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come hame ! When many a day had come and fled, When grief grew calm, and hope was dead. When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung, When the bedesman had pray'd, and the dead-bell riinj. Late, late in a gloamin' when all was still, When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill, The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain, Like a little wee cloud in the world its lain- When the ingle low'd with an eiry lemc, 009 THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came hame ! 'Kilmeny. Kilmeny, where have you been"? Lang hae we sought baith holt Snd den ; By linn, by ford, by green-wood tree, Yet you are halesome and fair to see. AVhere gat you that joup o' the lily scheen ? Tliat bonny snood o' the birk sae green? And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen ? Kilmcny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?" Kilmeny look'd up with a lovely grace, But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face; As still was her look, and as still was her e'e, As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare; Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew : Hut it seem'd as the harp of the sky had rung, And the airs of heaven play'd round her tongue, AVhen she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, And a land where sin had never been; A land of love and a land of light, AVithouten sun, or moon, or night; When 1 the river swa'd a living stream, And the light a pure celestial beam: The land of \ i.-inn it would seem, A still, an everlasting dream. In yon green-wood there is a waik, And in that waik then- is a wene, And in that wene there is a maike. That neither has flesh, blood, nor bane; And down in yon green-wood he walks his lane. In that grei-n wene Kilmenv lav. Her lio-oin happM wi* the flowerets gay; 280 HOGG. P.ut the nil- \v:is soft, and the silence deep. And Itonnv Kilineny lell sound asleep; She kend nae mair, nor opcn'd her e'e, Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye. She Vaken'd on a conch of the silk sac slim. All striped wi' the liars of the rainbow's rim; And lovely beings round were rife, ^ Who erst had travelled mortal life; And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, 'What spirit, has brought this mortal here?" They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair. They kissed her cheek, and they kerned her hair, And round came many a blooming fere. Saying, "Bonny Kilmeny, ye're welcome here! " Oh, would the fairest of mortal kind Aye keep the holy truths in mind That kindred spirits their motions see, Who watch their ways with anxious e'e y And grieve for the guilt of humanitye! Oh, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair! And dear to Heaven the words of truth, And the praise of virtue frae beauty's mouth ! And dear to the viewless forms of air, The minds that kythe as the body fair! O bonny Kilmeny! free frae stain, If ever you seek the world again That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear Oh, tell of the joys that arc Availing here; And tell of the signs you shall shortly sec ; Of the times that are now, and the limes that shall be. They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, And she walk'd in the light of a sunless day: The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 231 The fountain of vision, and fountain of light ; The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid. That her youth and beauty never might lade: And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie In the stream of life that wander'd by. And >ln- heard a song, she he:ml it sung. She kend not whore; but sae sweetly it rung, It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn, 232 HOGG. r "Oil! hirst hi- tin* dav Kilnieny wa> horn! Now shall the land of tin- spirits sec, Now shall it ken what a woman may be! The sun that shines on the world sae bright, A borrowed gleid of the fountain of light ; And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun, Like a gouden bow, or a beamless sun, Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, And the angels shall miss them travelling the air But lang, lang after baith night and day, When the sun and the world have elyed away ; When the sinner has iiane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom !" Then Kilmeny begg'd again to see The friends she had left in her own countrye, To tell of the place where she had been, And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; To warn the living maidens fair, The loved of Heaven, the spirits' care, That all whose minds unmeled remain Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane. With distant music, soft and deep, They lull'd Kilmeny sound asleep ; And when she awakened, she lay her lane, All happed with flowers in the green-wood wenc. When seven long years were come and fled ; When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; When scarce was remember'd Kilmeny's name, Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came name ! And oh, her beauty was fair to see, But still and steadfast was her e'e! Such beauty bard may never declare, For there was no pride nor passion there; And the soft desire of maiden's een 233 THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY In that mild face could never be seen. Her seymar was the lily flower. And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ? And her voice like the distant melodye, That floats along the twilight sea. liul sin- loved to raike the lanely glen, And kerprd afar IVae tlie haunt- of men ; I In- liolv hymns nnlieard to sing. T. -n-k the flouvrs. and drink the spring. Hut \\hrivver her ]caeei'ul form appearM, Tin- wild l.ctMs oi the hill wen' elieer'd ; 284 HOGG. The wolf play'd blithely round the field, Tin- lordly him low'd and kneel'd ; The dun deer woo'd with manner bland, And cower'd aneath her lilv hand. And when at even the woodlands rung, When hymns of other worlds she sung In ecstasy of sweet devotion. Oh, then the glen was all in motion ! The wild beasts of the forest came, Broke from their bughts and faulds the tamo, And goved around, charmed and aniaxed ; Even the dull cattle crooned and gawd, And murinur'd, and look'd with anxious pain For something the mystery to explain. The buzzard came with the throstle -cock ; The corby left her houf in the rock ; The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew ; The hind came tripping o'er the dew ; The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran ; The hawk and the hern attour them hung, And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; And all in a peaceful ring were hurl'd ; It was like an eve in a sinless world! When a month and a day had come and gane, Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; There laid her down on the leaves sae green, And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. But O, the words that fell from her mouth, Were words of wonder, and words of truth ! But all the land were in fear and dread, For they kendna whether she was living or dead; It wasna her hanie. and she couldna remain; She left this world of sorrow and pain, And return'd to the Land of Thought again. 235 SPRAGUE. THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO THE CHAUNCEY PLACE CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE. GAY, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep. Penance is not for you, Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 'tis given To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays ; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp siway a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above, o'er the lakes and lands. And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands. Or, if ye slay, To note the const-crated Lour. Teach me the airv way, And let me try your envied power. 286 SPBAG1 Al>o\r tin- crowd. On upward winu^ could I l>ut fly, I'd bathe in yon bright cloud. And seek the stars that grin thr sky. 'Tweiv Heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar, On Nature's charms to feed, And Nature's own great God adore. THE BROTHERS. WE are but two the others sleep Through Death's untroubled night; We are but two O, let us keep The link that binds us bright ! Heart leaps to heart the sacred flood That warms us is the same ; That good old man his honest blood Alike we fondly claim. We in one mother's arms were locked- Long be her love repaid ; In the same cradle we were rocked. Round the same hearth we played. Our boyish sports were all the same, Each little joy and woe ; Let manhood keep alive the flame, Lit up so long ago. We are but two be that the band To hold us till we die ; Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, Till side by side we lie. 237 HEMANS. 'Hi: CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTKo. I'm i.-i: \VMS music on the niidni-ht : :i n.vnl ii m ,- il n.HM ; HEMAN8 And a mighty bell, eaeh pause l>etween, Sternly and slowly toll'd. Siranire was I heir mingling j n the sky, II hush'd the listener's breath ; For the music spoke of triumph high, The lonely bell, of death: There was hurrying through the midnight, A sound of many feet; But they fell with a mull led fearfulness Along the shadowy street: And softer, fainter grew their tread, As it near'd the minster gate, Whence a broad and solemn light was shed From a scene of royal state. Full glow'd the strong red radiance In the centre of the nave, Where the folds of a purple canopy Swept down in many a wave ; Loading the marble pavement old With a weight of gorgeous gloom ; For something lay 'midst their fretted gold, Like a shadow of the tomb. And within that rich pavilion, High on a glittering throne, A woman's form sat silently, 'Midst the glare of light alone. Her jeweird robes fell strangely still The drapery on her breast SeemM with no pulse beneath to thrill, So stonelike was its rest ! But a peal of lordly music Shook e'en the dust below, 239 THE CORONATION OF INEZ DE CASTRO. When the burning gold of the diadem Was set on her pallid brow ! Then died away that haughty sound, And from the encircling hand Stepp'd prince and chief, 'midst the hush profound, With homage to her hand. Why pass'd a faint, cold shuddering Over each martial frame, As one by one, to touch that hand, Noble and leader came? Was not the settled aspect fair? Did not a queenly grace, Under the parted ebon hair, Sit on the pale, still face? Death! death! canst thou be lovely I'n to the eye of life? Is not each pulse of the quick high breast With thy cold mien at strife? It was a strange and fearful sight, The crown upon that head. The glorious robes, and the blaze of light, All gather'd round the Dead ! And beside her stood in silence One with a brow as pale, And white lips rigidly compress'd, Lest the strong heart should fail : King Pedro, with a jealous eye, Watching the homage done By the land's flower and chivalry To ln-r. his martyr'd one. Kilt on the lace he looked not. Which once hi- Mar had been ; 940 HEMANS. To every form his glance was turnM. Save of the breathless queen: Though something, won from the grave's embrace, Of her beauty still was there, Its hues were all of that shadowy place, It was not for him to bear. Alas ! the crown, the sceptre, The treasures of the earth, And the priceless love that pour'd those gifts, Alike of wasted worth ! The rites are closed : bear back the dead Unto the chamber deep! Lay down again the royal head. Dust with the dust to sleep! There is music on the midnight A requiem sad and slow, As the mourners through the sounding aisle In dark procession go; And the ring of state, and the starry crown, And all the rich array, Are borne to the house of silence down, With her, that queen of clay! And tearlessly and firmly King Pedro led the train ; But his face was wrapt in his folding robe, When they lower'd the dust again. 'Tis hush'd at last the tomb above Hymns die, and steps depart: Who call'd thee strong as Death, O Love? Mightier thou wast and art. 241 THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. THE MESSAGE TO THE DEAD. THOU 'rt passing hence, my brother! O my earliest friend, farewell! Thou 'rt leaving me, without thy voice, In a lonely home to dwell ; And from the hills, and from the hearth, And from the household tree, With thee departs the lingering mirth, The brightness goes with thee. But thou, my friend, my brother! Thou 'rt speeding to the shore Where the dirge-like tone of parting words Shall smite the soul no more! And thou wilt see our holy dead, The lost on earth and main : Into the sheaf of kindred hearts Thou wilt be bound again ! Tell, then, our friend of boyhood That yet his name is heard On the blue mountains, whence his youth Pass'd like a swift, bright bird. The light of his exulting brow, Tin- vision of his glee, Are on me still Oh ! still I trust That smile again to see. Ami tell our fair young sister, Tin-, rose cut down in spring, That yet my ru>lmig soul is fill'd With lays she lov'd to sing. I IK MANS. soft deep eyes look through my dreams, Tender and sadly sweet; Tell her my heart within me burns Once more that gaze to meet. And tell our white-hair'd father, That in the paths he trod, The child he lov'd, the last on earth, Yet walks and worships God. Say, that his last fond blessing yet Rests on my soul like dew, And by its hallowing might I trust Once more his face to view. An tell our gentle mother, That on her grave I pour The sorrows of my spirit forth, As on her breast of yore. Happy thou art that soon, how soon, Our good and bright will see ! O brother, brother! may I dwell, Erelong, with them and thee! THE RETURN. " HAST thou come with the heart of thy childhood back ? The free, the pure, the kind?" So murmur' d the trees in my homeward track, As they play'd to the mountain-wind. " Hath thy soul been true to its early love ?" Whisper'd my native streams ; 243 THE RETURN. " Hath the spirit, nursed amidst hill and grove, Still revered its first high dreams?" " Hast thou borne in thy bosom the holy prayer Of the child in his parent-halls?" Thus breath'd a voice on the thrilling air, From the old ancestral walls. u Hast thou kept thy faith with the faithful dead, Whose place of rest is nigh ? With the father's blessing o'er thee shed, With the mother's trusting eye?" Then my tears gush'd forth in sudden rain, As I answer'd "O ye shades! I bring not my childhood's heart again To the freedom of your glades. " I have turn'd from my first pure love aside, O bright and happy streams! Light after light, in my soul have died The day-spring's glorious dreams. "And the holy prayer from my thoughts hath pass'd- The prayer at my mother's knee ; Darken'd and troubled I come at last, Home of my boyish glee ! " But I bear from my childhood a gift of tears, To soften and atone ; And oh! ye- scenes of those bless'd years, They shall make me again your own." 244 MITFORD. RIENZI AND HIS DAUGHTER. Sienzi. Claudia nay, start not! Thou art sad; to-day I found thee sitting idly, 'midst thy maids, A pretty, laughing, restless band, who plied Quick tongue and nimble finger, mute and pale As marble ; those unseeing eyes were fix'd On vacant air; and that fair brow was bent As sternly, as if the rude stranger, Thought Age-giving, mirth-destroying, pitiless Thought Had knock'd at thy young giddy brain. Claudia. Nay, father, Mock not thine own poor Claudia. Rien. Claudia used To bear a merry heart, with that clear voice, Prattling; and that light busy foot astir In her small housewifery, the blithest bee That ever wrought in hive. Cla. Oh ! mine old home ! Rien. What ails thee, lady-bird? Cla. Mine own dear home! Father, I love not this new state; these halls, Where comfort dies in vastness j these trim maids, Whose service wearies me. Oh! mine old home! My quiet, pleasant chamber, with the myrtle Woven round the casement; and the cedar by, Shading the sun ; my garden overgrown With flowers and herbs, thick-set as grass in fields; 245 My pretty snow-white doves; my kindest nur- : And old Cainillo. Oh! mint- own dear home! AW Why, Simple child, ihou hast thine old, fond nurse. And jroud Camillo, and shalt have thy d Thy myrtle flowers, and cedars; a whole province LMG MITFORD. I,uie radiance o'er the column beam- I >h, .-oft as moonlight seen afar A silver .-hine on trembling stre.-mis! 248 SIGOURNEY. THE INDIAN SUMMER. WHEN was the red man's summer? When the rose Hung its first banner out? When the gray rock, Or the brown heath, the radiant kalmia clothed? Or when the loiterer by the reedy brooks Started to see the proud lobelia glow Like living flame? When through the forest gleam'd The rhododendron? or the fragrant breath Of the magnolia swept deliriously O'er the half laden nerve? No. When the groves In fleeting colors wrote their own decay, And leaves fell eddying on the sharpen' d blast That sang their dirge ; when o'er their rustling bed 249 THE INDIAN SUMMER. The red deer sprang, or fled the shrill-voiced quail, Heavy of wing and fearful; when, with heart Foreboding or depress'd, the white man mark'd The signs of coming winter: then began The Indian's joyous season. Then the haze, Soft and illusive as a fairy dream, Lapp'd all the landscape in its silvery fold. The quiet rivers that were wont to hide 'Neath shelving banks, beheld their course betray'd By the white mist that o'er their foreheads crept, While wrapp'd in morning dreams, the sea and sky Slept 'neath one curtain, as if both were merged In the same element. Slowly the sun, And all reluctantly, the spell dissolved And then it took upon its parting wing A rainbow glory. Gorgeous was the time, Yet brief as gorgeous. Beautiful to thee, Our brother hunter, but to us replete With musing thoughts in melancholy train. Our joys, alas ! too oft were woe to thee, Yet ah, poor Indian ! whom we fain would drive Both from our hearts, and from thy father's lands, The perfect year doth bear thee on its crown, And when we would forget, repeat thy name. 250 SIGOURNEY. THE HOLY DEAD. Wherefore I praised the dead who are already dead, more than the livin<, f who are yet alive." SOLOMON. THEY dread no storm that lowers, No perish'd joys bewail ; They pluck no thorn-clad flowers, Nor drink of streams that fail: There is no tear-drop in their eye, No change upon their brow; Their placid bosom heaves no sigh, Though all earth's idols bow. Who are so greatly blest? From whom hath sorrow fled? Who share such deep, unbroken rest Where all things toil? The dead! The holy dead. Why weep ye so Above yon sable bier? Thrice blessed ! they have done with woe, The living claim the tear. Go to their sleeping bowers, Deck their low couch of clay With earliest spring's soft breathing flowers And when they fade away, Think of the amaranthine wreath, The garlands never dim, And tell me why thou fly'st from death. Or hid'st thy friends from him. 251 TALK WITH THE SEA. We dream, but they awake ; Dread visions mar our rest; Through thorns and snares our way we take, And yet we mourn the blest! For spirits round the Eternal Throne How vain the tears we shed! They are the living, they alone, A\ r hom thus we call the dead. TALK WITH THE SEA. I SAID with a moan, as I roamed alone, By the side of the solemn sea, " Oh cast at my feet, which thy billows meet, Some token to comfort me. 'Mid thy surges cold, a ring of gold I have lost, with an amethyst bright, Thou hast locked it so long, in thy casket strong, That the rust must have quenched its light. Send a gift, I pray, on thy sheeted spray, To solace my drooping mind, For I'm sad and jiricvr, and erelong must leave This rolling globe behind." Thru tli.- Sea :ms\\vivd, u Spoils are mine, I'Vom many an argosy, And pearl-drops sleep in my bosom deep, lint nauLrht IIMM- I there for tliee !" L'.VJ SIGOURNEY. AVluMi I mused before, on this rock-bound shore, The beautiful walked with me, SI ie hath gone to her rest in the churchyard's brra-t Since I saw thee last, thou Sea! Restore! restore! the smile she wore, When her cheek to mine was pressed, Give back the voice of the fervent soul That could lighten the darkest breast!" But the haughty Sea, in its majesty Swept onward as before, Though a surge in wrath from its rocky path, Shrieked out to the sounding shore "Thou hast asked of our king a harder thing Than mortal e'er claimed before, For never the wealth of a loving heart, Could Ocean or Earth restore." 253 HEBER. THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. WITH heat o'erlabour'd and the length of way, On Ethan's beach the bands of Israel lay. 'Twas silence all, the sparkling sands along; Save where the locust trill' (1 her feeble song, Or blended soft in drowsy cadence fell The wave's low whisper, or the camel's bell. 'Twas silence all! the flocks for shelter fly Where, waving light, the acacia shadows lie; Or where, from far, the flattering vapours make The noontide semblance of a misty lake : While the mute swain, in careless safety spread, With arms enfolded, and dejected head, Dreams o'er his wondrous call, his lineage high, And, late reveal'd, his children's destiny. For, not in vain, in thraldom's darkest hour, Had -ped from Amram's sons the word of power; Nor lail'd the dreadful wand, whose godlike sway Could lure the locust from her airy way; With ivptilr war a ail their proud abodes, And mar the i/iaul pomp of Egypt's gods. Oh. helpless gods! who nought avail'd to shield From liery rain your Zoaifs t'avour'd field! -:, i HEBER Oh, lielpless gods! who saw the curdled blood Taint the pure lotus of your ancient flood, And tour-fold night the wondering earth enchain, While Monition's orient harp was heard in vain! Such musings held the tribes, till now the west With milder influence on their temples prest; And that portentous cloud, which all the day Hung its dark curtain o'er their weary way, (A cloud by day, a friendly flame by night,) Roll'd back its misty veil, and kindled into light! Soft fell the eve : But, ere the day was done, Tall waving banners streak'd the level sun ; And wide and dark along the horizon red, In sandy surge the rising desert spread. " Mark, Israel, mark !" On that strange sight intent, In breathless terror, every eye was bent; And busy faction's fast-increasing hum, And female voices shriek, "They come! they come!" They come, they come, in scintillating show O'er the dark mass the brazen lances glow; And sandy clouds in countless shapes combine, As deepens or extends the long tumultuous line ; And fancy's keener glance e'en now may trace The threatening aspects of each mingled race : For many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, The hireling guards of Misraim's throne, were there. From distant Cush they troop'd, a warrior train, Siwah's green isle and Sennaar's marly plain : On either wing their fiery coursers check The parch' d and sinewy sons of Amalek : While close behind, inured to feast on blood, Deck'd in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. 'Mid blazing helms and bucklers rough with gold, Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots roll'd? Lo, these are they whom, lords of Afric's fates, Old Thebes hath pour'd through all her hundred gates, 255 THE PASSAGE OF THE BED SEA. Mother of armies ! How the emeralds glow'd, Win-re, flushed with power and vengeance, Pharaoh rode! And stoled in white, those brazen wheels before, Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore ; And, still responsive to the trumpet's cry, The priestly sistrum murmur'd Victory ! Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom ? Wliom come ye forth to combat ? warriors, whom ? These flocks and herds this faint and weary train Red from the scourge and recent from the chain ? God of the poor, the poor and friendless save ! Giver and Lord of freedom, help the slave ! North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly, The circling horns of Egypt's chivalry. On earth's last margin throng the weeping train : Their cloudy guide moves on : " And must we swim the main ?" 'Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood, Nor bath'd a fetlock in the nauseous flood He comes their leader comes! the man of God O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod, And onward treads. The circling waves retreat, In hoarse deep murmurs, from his holy feet; And the chased surges, inly roaring, show The hard wet sand, and coral hills below. Witli limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell, Down, down they pass a steep and slippery dell Around them rise, in pristine chaos hurl'd, The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world ; And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green, And caves, the sea-calves' low-roof'd haunt, art 1 seen. Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread; Tin- hei'tlinir waters storm above their head: While far hrliind ivtiivs the sinking day, And fades on Kdcnn's hills its latest ray. V. i not from Israel fled the friendly light, Or dark to them, or rhivrloss eame the night. KEBEB. Still in their Min. along that dreadful road. Hla/ed broad and lienv tin- lirandish'd torch of God. Its meteor glare a ten-fold 'lustre gave, On the long mirror of the rosy wave: While its blest beams a sun-like heat supply, Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye To them alone for Misraim's wizard train Invoke for light their moiisk i r-go1 the dawning rrav. When, on our deck reclined, In careless ease my limbs I lay And woo the cooler wind. I miss tliee when by Gunga's stream My twilight steps I guide, But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee from my side. I spread my books, my pencil try The lingering noon to cheer, But miss thy kind approving eye y Thy meek attentive ear. But when of morn and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far, Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, My course be onward still, O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead, O'er bleak Almorah's hill. That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, Nor wild Malwah detain ; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea, But ne'er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee! 259 LINES. LINES WRITTEN TO A MARCH COMPOSED IN IMITATION OF A MILITARY BAND. I SEE them on their winding way, Above their ranks the moon-beams play, And nearer yet, and yet more near, The martial chorus strikes the ear. They're lost and gone, the moon is past, The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast, And fainter, fainter, fainter still, The dim march warbles up the hill. Again, again, the pealing drum, The clashing horn they come ! they come ! And lofty deeds and daring high, Blend with thrir notes of victory. Forth, forth, and meet them on their way, The trampling hoof brooks no delay; The thrilling fife, the pealing drum, How late but oh, how loved they come ! 2GO SOUTHEY. THE VISIT OF MADOC. A SCENE AMONG THE WELSH HILLS. Now hath Prince Madoc left the holy Isle, And homeward to Aberfraw, through the wilds Of Arvon, bent his course. A little way 261 THE VISIT OF MADOC. He turned aside, by natural impulses Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut. That lonely dwelling stood among the hills By a grey mountain-stream ; just elevate Above the winter torrents did it stand, 1*1 ion a. crarry bank; an orchard slope Arose behind, and joyous was the scene In early summer, when those antic trees Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest green. But .save the flax-field and that orchard slope. All else was desolate, and now it wore One sober hue ; the narrow vale, which wound Among the hills, was grey with rocks, that peer'd Above its shallow soil ; the mountain side Was loose with stories bestrewn, which oftentimes Clatter'd adown the steep, beneath the foot Of straggling goat dislodged ; or lower'd with crags, One day, when winter's work hath loosen'd them, To thunder down. All things assorted well With that grey mountain hue ; the low stone lines, Which scarcely seem'd to be the work of man, The dwelling rudely rear'd with stones unhewn, The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees, (livy with their fleecy moss and mistletoe, The white-bark'd birch, now leafless, and the ash Whose knotted roots were like the drifted rock Through which they forced their way. Adown the vale. Broken by stones, and o'er a stony bed, tin; loud mountain-stream When Madoc came, A little child was sporting by the brook, I'Moatini: tin- fallen leaves that lie miirht see them Whirl in the eddy now, and now be driven Down the de-rent, now on the smoother stream 262 SOUTHET. Sail onward i'ar away. Hut whan ha hoard Tin 1 horse's tramp, he raised his head and watch' d Tin- IVnuv, who now dismounted and drew nigh. The little boy still fix'd his eyes on him, His bright blue eyes; the wind just moved the curls That cl uster' d round his brow ; and so he stood, His rosy cheeks still lifted up to gaze In innocent wonder. Madoc took his hand, And now had ask'd his name, and if he dwelt There in the hut ; when from that cottage-door A woman came, who, seeing Madoc, stopt With such a fear for she had cause to fear- As when a bird, returning to her nest, Turns to a tree beside, if she behold Some prying boy too near the dear retreat. Howbeit, advancing, soon she now approach'd The approaching Prince, and timidly inquired If on his wayfare he had lost the track, That thither he had stray'd. "Not so," replied The gentle Prince ; " but having known this place, And its old inhabitants, I came once more To see the lonely hut among the hills." THE WORLD OF WOE. WHOE'ER hath loved with venturous step to tread The chambers dread Of some deep cave, and seen his taper's beam Lost in the arch of darkness overhead, And mark'd its gleam Playing afar upon the sunless stream, Where from their secret bed, And course unknown, and inaccessible, The silent waters well ; 263 THE WORLD OF WOE. Whoe'er hath trod such caves of endless night, Pie knows, when measuring back the gloomy way, With what delight refresh' d his eye Perceives the shadow of the light of day, Through the far portal slanting, where it falls Dimly reflected on the watery walls : How heavenly seems the sky ; And how, with quickcn'd feet, he hastens up, Eager again to greet The living world and blessed sunshine there, And drink, as from a cup Of joy, with thirsty lips, the open air. Far other light than that of day there shone Upon the travellers, entering Padalon. They too in darkness enter'd on their way ; But far before the car, A glow, as of a fiery furnace light, Fill'd all before them. 'Twas a light which made Darkness itself appear A thing of comfort, and the sight, dismay'd, Sin-link inward from the molten atmosphere. Their way was through the adamantine rock Which <:irt the World of Woe; on either side Its masMvc walls arose, and overhead Arch'd the lonj: passage ; onward as they ride, With stronger glare the light around them spread; And lo ! the regions dread, The World of Woe before them, opening wide. There rolls the fiery flood, (lirdin^ the realms of Padalon around. A sea of flame it seem'd to be. Sea without hound ; For neither mortal nor immortal sijrhf Could pierce across through that intensesl \\ii\\\. 264 THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. IT was the wisdom and the will of Heaven, That in a lonely tent had cast The lot of Thalaba ; There might his soul develop best Its strengthening energic- ; There might he from the world 2G5 THALABA IN THE TENT OF MOATH. Keep liis heart pure and uncontaminate, Till at the written hour he should be found Fit si-rvant of the Lord, without a spot. Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled In that beloved solitude ! Is the morn fair, and doth the freshening breeze Flow with cool current o'er his cheek? Lo! underneath the broad-leaved sycamore, With lids half-closed, he lies, Dreaming of days to come. His dog beside him, in mute blandishment, Now licks his listless hand; Now lifts an anxious and expectant eye. Courting the wonted caress. Or comes the Father of the Eains From his caves in the uttermost West, Comes he in darkness and storms'? When the blast is loud ; When the waters fill The traveller's tread in the sands; When the pouring shower Streams adown the roof; Wlu-n the door-curtain hangs in heavier fold> When the out-strainM tent flags loosely: Within then- is the embers' cheerful glow, The sound of the familiar voice, The soi iji that lightens toil, Domestic Teaee and Comfort arc within Under the common -heller. <>n dry MUK!, The The lr:injuiHi.-in^ herb. S> listen they the reed of Thalaba, 268 SOUTHEY. his skill'd fingers modulate The low, sweet, soothing, melancholy tones. Or if he strung the pearls of poesy, Singing with agitated face And eloquent arms, and sobs that reach the heart, A tale of love and woe ; Then, if the brightening moon that lit his face, In darkness favour'd hers, Oh! even with such a look, as fables say, The Mother Ostrich fixes on her egg, Till that intense affection Kindle its light of life, Even in such deep and breathless tenderness Oneiza's soul is centred on the youth, So motionless, with such an ardent gaze, Save when from her full eyes She wipes away the swelling tears That dim his image there. She call'd him Brother; was it sister-love For which the silver rings, Round her smooth ankles and her tawny arms, Shone daily brighten'd ? for a brother's eye Were her long fingers tinged, As when she trimm'd the lamp, And through the veins and delicate skin The light shone rosy? that the darken'd lids Gave yet a softer lustre to her eye? That with such pride she trick'd Her glossy tresses, and on holy-day Wreath'd the red flower-crown round Their waves of glossy jet? How happily the days Of Thalaba went by! Years of his youth, how rapidly ye fled ! 269 SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. SUNLIGHT ON THE OCEAN. To Bardsey was the Lord of Ocean bound ; Bardsey, the holy Islet, in whose soil Did many a Chief and many a Saint repose, His great progenitors. He mounts the skiff; The canvas swells before the breeze, the sea Sings round her sparkling keel, and soon the Lord Of Ocean treads the venerable shore. There was not, on that day, a speck to stain The azure heaven ; the blessed Sun alone In unapproachable divinity Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light. How beautiful beneath the bright blue sky The billows heave ! one glowing green expanse, Save where along the bending line of shore Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst, Embathed in emerald glory. All the flocks Of Ocean are abroad ; like floating foam The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves; With long protruded neck the cormorants Wing their far flight aloft, and round and round Tin- plovers wheel, and give their note of joy. It was a day that sent into the heart A summer feeling; even the insect swarms From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth, To sport through one day of existence more ; Tin- solitary primrose on the bank Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn It- l>leak autumnal birth; the rocks and >hores r The forest and tin- everlasting hills. Smiled in that joyful sunshine, . . . they partook The universal blessing. 270 CAROLINE BOWLES (MRS. SOUTHEY). SUNDAY EVENING. I SAT last Sunday evening, From sunset even till night, At the open casement watching The day's departing light. Such hours to me are holy, Holier than tongue can tell, They fall on my heart like dew On the parched heather-bell. The Sun had shone bright all day His setting was brighter still, But there sprang up a lovely air As he dropt down the western hill. The fields and lanes were swarming With holy-day folks in their best, Released from their six days' cares By the seventh day's peace and rest. I heard the light-hearted laugh, The trampling of many feet I saw them go merrily by, And to me the sight was sweet. 271 SUNDAY EVENING. There's a sacred soothing sweetness, A pervading spirit of bliss, Peculiar from all other times, In a Sabbath eve like this. Methinks, though I knew not the day, Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all Would tell me that Nature was keeping Some solemn festival. The steer and the steed in their pastures Lie down with a look of peace, As if they knew 'twas commanded That this day their labours should cease. The lark's vesper song is more thrilling As he mounts to bid Heaven good-night ; The brook sings a quieter tune The sun sets in lovelier light The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers Are tinged with more exquisite hues, More odorous incense from out them , Steams up with the evening dews. So I sat last Sunday evening Musing on all these things, With that quiet gladness of spirit No thought of this world brings I watched the departing glory, Till its last rod streak his matt- By her nest on the dewy ground; And the stir of human life Died away to :i distant sound All sounds died away the light laugh The far footstep the merry call To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart Might have echoed a rose-leaf's fall And, by little and little, the darkness Waved wider its sable wings, Till the nearest objects and largest Became shapeless confused things And, at last, all was dark then I felt A cold sadness steal over my heart, And I said to myself, "Such is life! So its hopes and its pleasures depart! " And when night comes the dark night of age, What remaineth beneath the sun Of all that was lovely and loved? Of all we have learnt and done? "When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear To sweet music grows dull and cold, And the fancy burns low, and the heart Oh, Heavens! can the heart grow old? "Then, what remaineth of life But the lees with. bitterness fraught '. What then?" But I check'd as it rose, And rebuked that weak, wicked thought. 273 s SUNDAY EVENING. And I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo ! An answer was written on high By the finger of God himself, In the depths of the dark blue sky. There appeared a sign in the east A bright, beautiful, fixed star! And I look'd on its steady light Till the evil thoughts fled afar And the lesser lights of Heaven Shone out with their pale soft rays, Like the calm unearthy comforts Of a good man's latter days And there came up a sweet perfume From the unseen flowers below, Like the savour of virtuous deeds, Of deeds done long ago ; Like the mem'ry of well-spent time Of things that were holy and dear Of friends, " departed this life In the Lord's faith and fear." So the burthen of darkness was taken From my soul, and my heart felt light; And I laid me down to slumber With peaceful thoughts that nijrlit. 274 LEYDEN. TO THE EVENING STAR. How sweet thy modest light to view, Fair STAR, to love and lovers dear! 275 TO THE EVENING STAR. While trembling on the falling clew Like beauty shining through a tear. Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream, To mark that image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam, To see thy lovely face so fair. Though, blazing on the arch of night, The moon thy timid beams outshine As far as thine each starry light ; Her rays can never vie with thine Thine are the soft enchanting hours When twilight lingers on the plain, And whispers to the closing flowers. That soon the sun will rise again. Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland As music, wafts the lover's sigh, And bids the yielding heart expand In love's delicious ecstasy. Fair STAR! though I be doom'd to prove That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain, Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love! But sweeter to be lov'd again! 276 LEYDEN. TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear? The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear For twilight converse, arm in arm; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm. By Che'ricaTs dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot lov'd, chill, still, and mild, Of castled rocks stupendous pil'd By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendship smil'd, Uncurs'd by thee, vile yellow slave ! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade ! The perish'd bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy play'd, Revives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave ; The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light Gleams baleful on the tomb-fire drear A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widow'd heart to cheer; 277 TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: Her fond heart throbs with many a fear!- I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that lov'd me true ! I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new: The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my wither'd heart: the grave Dark and untimely met my view And all for thee, vile yellow slave! Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banish'd heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipt with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey, Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn ! Go mix*thee with thy kindred clay! 278 CLAHE. CLAKE. MARY LEE. I HAVE traced the valleys fail- In May morning's dewy air, My bonny Mary Lee ! Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear ? Gather' d all for thee? They are not flowers of Pride, For they graced the dingle-side ; Yet they grew in Heaven's smile, My gentle Mary Lee ! Can they fear thy frowns the while. Though offered by me? Here's the lily of the vale, That perfumed the morning gale, My fairy Mary Lee! All so spotless and so pale, Like thine own purity. And might I make it known, 'Tis an emblem of my own Love if I dare so name My esteem for thee. Surely flowers can bear no blame. My bonny Mary Lee ! 279 MARY LEE. Here's the violet's modest blue, That 'neath hawthorns hides from view, My gentle Mary Lee, \Vould show whose heart is true, While it thinks of thee. While they choose each lowly spot, The sun disdains them not ; I'm as lowly too, indeed, My charming Mary Lee; So I've brought the flowers to plead, And win a smile from thee. Here's a wild rose just in bud ; Spring's beauty in its hood, My bonny Mary Lee ! 'Tis the first in all the wood I could find for thee. Though a blush is scarcely seen, Yet it hides its worth within, Like my love ; for I've no power, My angel, Mary Lee, To speak unless the flower Can make excuse for me. Though they deck no princely halls. In bouquets for glittering balls, My gentle Mary Lee ! Richer lines than painted walls Will make them dear to thee; For the blue and la nulling sky Spreads a grander canopy Than all wealth's golden skill, My channinir Mary Lee! Love would make them dearer still, That And why, amid the chilling snows, Does i-iiluT hunter wipe his brow? For once they see his fearful den, Tis a dark cloud that slowly BOOM By night around the homes of men, By day along the stream it IOM-S. Again the dog is on his track, The hunters chase o'er dale and hill, They may not, though they would, look bach, They must go forward forward still. Onward they go, and never turn, Spending a night that meets no day ; For them shall never morning sun Light them upon their endless way. The hut is desolate, and there The famished dog alone returns ; On the cold steps he makes his lair, By the shut door he lays his bones. Now the tired sportsman leans his gun Against the ruins of the site, And ponders on the hunting done By the lost wanderers of the night. And there the little country girls Will stop to whisper, and listen, and look, And tell, while dressing their sunny curls, Of the Black Fox of Salmon Brook. 285 EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. A HEALTH. I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements and kindly stars have given . A form so fair, that, like the air, 'tis less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds, And something more than melody dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows As one may see the burthened bee forth issue from the rose. Affections are as thoughts to her, the measures of her hours ; Her feelings have the fragrancy, the freshness of young flowers ; And lovely passions, changing oft, so fill her, she appears The image of themselves by turns, the idol of past years. Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture on the brain. And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain ; But memory such as mine of her so very much endears, When death is nigh my latest si : Nor can my soul, the limner's art attesting with a sigh, Forget the blood that decked thy cheek, as rosy clouds the sky. They could not semble what thou art, more excellent than fair, As soft as sleep or pity is, and pure as mountain air ; But here are common, earthly hues, to such an aspect wrought, That none, save thine, can seem so like the beautiful of thought. The song I sing, thy likeness like, is painful mimicry Of something better, which is now a memory to me, Who have upon life's frozen sea arrived the icy spot, Where men's magnetic feelings show their guiding task forgot. The sportive hopes, that used to chase their shifting shadows on, Like children playing in the sun, are gone for ever gone ; And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted mind, Like Janus when his gates were shut, looks forward and behind. Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone, Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking harp- string's tone ; And thus my heart, though wholly now from early softness free, If touched, will yield the music yet it first received of thee. 287 CLEMENT C. MOORE. \ VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. tin- ni\ the chimney with rare, In hopes that Si. Nicholas >oon would lie (here ; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their lu-;nU ; 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 the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a Hash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, (lave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer, 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! On, Comet ! on, Cupid ! on, Donder 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 w r ith 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 little hoof As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. lie 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 pedlar just opening his pack. His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! 289 T A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of 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 little round belly, That shook, when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly. 1 1 1- was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know -I had nothing to dread ; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away t. / all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, Christ nets to all, and to all a good-night /" 200 BARTON. TO THE EVENING PRIMR< E. FAIR flower, that shunn'st the -e of day Yet lov'st to open, meekly bol To evening's hues of silver grey Thy cup of paly gold ; Be thine the offering, owing long To thee, and to this pensive hour, Of one brief tributary song. Though transient as thy flower. 291 TO THE EVENING PRIMROSE. I love to watch at silent eve Thy scatter' d blossoms' lonely light, And have my inmost heart receive The influence of that sight. I love at such an hour to mark Their beauty greet the night-breeze chill, And shine, 'mid shadows gathering dark, The garden's glory still. For such 'tis sweet to think the while, "When cares and griefs the breast invade, Is friendship's animating smile In sorrow's darkening shade. Thus it bursts forth, like thy pale cup Cilist'ning amid its dewy tears, And bears the sinking spirit up Amid its chilling fears But still more animating far, If meet Religion's eye may trace Even in thy glimm'ring, earth-born- star, Tin' holier hope of Grace. The hope, that as thy beauteous bloom I vx panels to glad the close of day. So through the shadows of the tomb .May break forth Mercy's ray. 202 SOTHEBY. RHINEFIELD, A LODGE IN THE NEW FOREST. RHINE FIELD ! as through thy solitude I rove, Now lost amid the deep wood's gloomy night, Doubtful I trace a ray of glimmering light ; Now where some antique oak, itself a grove, Spreads its soft umbrage o'er the sunny glade, Stretched on its mossy roots at early dawn While o'er the furze with light bound leaps the fawn, I count the herd that crops the dewy blade : Frequent at eve list to the hum profound That all around upon the chill breeze floats, Broke by the lonely keeper's wild, strange notes, At distance followed by the browsing deer; Or the bewilder' d stranger's plaintive sound That dies in lessening murmurs on the ear. 293 ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT. SKIRID, A HILL NEAR ABERGAVENNY. SKIRID! remembrance thy loved scene renews; Fancy, yet lingering on thy shaggy brow, Beholds around the lengthened landscape glow, Which charmed, when late the day-beam's parting hues Purpled the distant cliff. The crystal stream Of Usk bright winds the verdant meads among; The dark heights lower with wild woods o'erhung ; Pale on the grey tower falls the twilight glean And frequent I recal the sudden breeze, Which, as the sun shot up his last pale flame, Shook every light leaf shivering on the trees: Then, bathed in dew, meek evening silent came, While the low wind, that faint and fainter fell, Soft murmured to the dying day FAREWELL! ON CROSSING THE ANGLESEY STRAIT TO BANGOR AT MIDNIGHT. 'TWAS night, when from the Druid's gloomy cave, Where I had wander'd, tranced in thought, alone 'Mid Cromlech's and the Carnedd's funeral stone, I'eiiHve and slow I sought the Menai's wave : Lulled by the scene, a soothing stillness laid Karh jiang to rest. O'er Snowdon's cloudless brow The moon, that full orh'd rose, with peaceful glow I5i -allied on the rocks; with many a star arrayed. (ilitter'd the broad blue sky; from shore to shore O'er the smooth current streamed a >ilver light. Save where along the flood the lonely height Of rocky IVnmaenmaiir deep darknes- spread ; And all wa- -ilence. >ave the cea-ele-- roar Of Con way bursting on the ocean's bed. 294 BRYANT. SONG OF MARION'S MEN. OUR band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold ; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree ; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. 295 SONG OF MARION'S MEN. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Wo to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear : When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again. And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil : We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon Tin- band that Marion leads The glitter of their rifles. The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain ; 296 BRYANT, ? Tis life to feel the nijrhl-wiml That lifts his tos.-iiin inane. .V moment in the IJritish camp A moment and away Hack to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, (irave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, For ever, from our shore. 297 I GREEN RIVER. Win \ breezes are soft and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away to the woodland scene, "When- wanders the stream with waters of green, A- if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink Mad ni\cn their stain to the wave they drink; .'.ml they, whose meadows it murmur- through. llaxe named the stream from its own lair line. V.-l pure its waters iN .-hallows are bright With eoloivd prhbles and sparkles of light. And clear the depths where ils eddies play. And dimplr- deepen and whirl away. 298 IJKYANT And the plaiH'-tnv's speckled arms o'ershoot The swifter em-rent that mines its root, Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, The qniverim: glimmer of sun and rill With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stum Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees' hum; The flowers of summer are fairest there, And freshest the breath of the summer air ; And sweetest the golden autumn day In silence and sunshine glides away. Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, Beautiful stream! by the village side; But windest away from haunts of men, To quiet valley and shaded glen; And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still. Lonely, save when, by thy rippling tides, From thicket to thicket the angler glides; Or the simpler comes with basket and book. For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. Still save the chirp of birds that feed On the river cherry and seedy reed, And thy own wild music gushing out With mellow murmur and fairy shout, From dawn to the blush of another day Like traveller singing along his way. That fairy music I never hear. Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, And mark them winding away from sight, Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 299 GREEN RIVER. While o'er them the vine to its thicket cling, And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, But I wish that fate had left me free To wander these quiet haunts with thee, Till the eating cares of earth should depart, And the peace of the scene pass into my heart ; And I envy thy stream as it glides along, Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd, Where the sons of strife are subtle arid loud I often come to this quiet place, To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, And gaze upon thee in silent dream, For in thy lonely and lovely stream An image of that calm life appears That won my heart in my greener years. 300 BKYANT. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. Tin: melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and miked woods, and meadows brown and Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's trend. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay. And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloom v day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? 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 November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague en men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, 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 fragrance 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 forests 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. 301 THE LAND OF DREAMS. THE LAND OF DREAMS. A MIGHTY realm is the Land of Dreams, With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, And weltering oceans and trailing streams, That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. But over its shadowy border flow Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, And the nearer mountains catch the glow, And flowers in the nearer fields are born. The souls of the happy dead repair, From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, And walk in the fainter glory there, With the souls of the living hand in hand. One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, From eyes that open on earth no more One warning word from a voice once dear How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er! Far off from those hills that shine with day, And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, Tin- Land of Dreams goes stretching away To dimmer mountains and darker vales. Tin-re lie the chambers of guilty delight. There walk the spectres of guilty fear. And soft low voices, that float through the nigh I. Are whii-pering -in in the helpless ear. 302 BRYANT. Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, Scarce weaned from tin- love of eliiMisli play ! The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower That freshens the early blooms of May! Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, And I know, by thy moving lips, that now Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet ! O keep where that beam of Paradise falls, And only wander where thou may'st meet The blessed ones from its shining walls. So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams, AVith love and peace to this world of strife ; And the light that over that border streams Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. 303 THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. A -i. thi- i- freedom! these pure skit- "NVriv never sl.-iined with village smoke: Tlie fratrrant wind, thai through llieni flics. I.- In-rallied I'roin wastes hy plough nnlirokc Here, with my rille and my steed. And lier who lel't the world for me. I plant mi- where the red deer feed In the givrn d.-sert and am five. BRYANT. For here the fair savannas know No barriers in the bloomy grass; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, Or beam of heaven may glance, I In pastures, measureless as air, The bison is my noble game; The bounding elk, whose antlers tear The branches, falls before my aim. Mine an the river-fowl that scream From the long stripe of waving sedge; The bear that marks my weapon's gleam, Plides vainly in the forest's edge ; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey, Even in the act of springing, dies. With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumbered with a train Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind AVhere never scythe has swept the glades. Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here, With roaring like the battle's sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky: I meet the flames with flames again. And at my door they cower and die. 305 THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. Here, from dim woods, the aged past Speaks solemnly; and I behold The boundless future in the Mist And lonely river, seaward rolled. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew; Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines, whose blue Bright clusters tempt me as I pass? Broad are these streams my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide. Wide are these woods I thread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day's last glimmer dies O'er woody vale and grassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night. 306 THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, When our mother Nature laughs around ; When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? 307 WILLIAM TELL. There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, And the gossip of swallows through all the sky; The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale. There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, There's a smile on the fruit and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles; Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. WILLIAM TELL. CHAINS may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, TELL, of the iron heart ! they could not tame ! For thou wert of the mountains; they proclaim The everlasting creed of liberty. That creed is written on tne untrampled snow, Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold, And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around. I)'nl>t meditate the lesson Nature taught, And to thy brief captivity was brought A vision ol' thy Swit/erland unbound. The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee Ki>r the iireat work to set thy country five. 308 BRYANT, AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. ALL day, from shrubs by our summer dwelling, The Easter-sparrow repeats his song, A merry warbler, he chides the blossoms, The idle blossoms, that sleep so long. The blue-bird chants, from the elm's long branches, A hymn to Avelcome the budding year ; The south-wind wanders from field to forest, And softly whispers, The spring is here! Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, Before these lays from the elm have ceased ; The violet breathes by our door as sweetly As in the air of her native East. Though many a flower in the wood is waking, The daffodil is our door-side queen; She pushes upward the sward already, To spot with sunshine the early green. No lays so joyous as these are warbled From wiry prison in maiden's bower ; No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. ret these sweet lays of the early season And these fair sights of its sunny days, Are only sweet when we fondly listen, And only fair when we fondly gaze. 309 AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. There is no glory in star or blossom Till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes Till breathed with joy as they wander by. Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, And hollows green in the sun are waiting Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. 310 DRAKE. BRONX. I SAT me down upon a green bank-side, Skirting the smooth edge of a gentle river, Whose waters seemed unwillingly to glide, Like parting friends who linger while they sever; Enforced to go, yet seeming still unready, Backward they wind their way in many a wistful eddy 311 BRONX. Gray o'er my head the yellow-vested willow Ruffled its hoary top in the fresh breezes, ' Glancing in light, like spray on a green billow, Or the fine frostwork which young winter freezes, When first his power in infant pastime trying, Congeals sad autumn's tears on the dead branches lying. From rocks around hung the loose ivy dangling, And in the clefts sumach of liveliest green, Bright ising-stars the little beach was spangling, The gold -cup sorrel from his gauzy screen Shone like a fairy crown, enchased and beaded, Left on some morn, when light flashed in their eyes unheeded. The humbird shook his sun-touched wings around, The bluefinch caroll'd in the still retreat; The antic squirrel capered on the ground Where lichens made a carpet for his feet : Through the transparent waves, the ruddy minkle Shot up in glimmering sparks his red fin's tiny twinkle. There were dark cedars with loose mossy tresses, White powdered dog-trees, and stiff hollies flaunting iiilits .- \\vet sounds, all sights, all sounds excelling Oh! 'twas a ravi.-hing spot formed for a poet's dwelling. 312 DRAKE. And did I leave thy loveliness, to stand Again in the dull world of earthly blindness? Pained with the pressure of unfriendly hands, Sick of smooth looks, agued with icy kindness? Left I for this thy shades, whciv mini- intrude, To prison wandering thought and mar sweet solitude? Yet I will look upon thy face again, My own romantic Bronx, and it will be A face more pleasant than the face of men. Thy waves are old companions, I shall see A well-remembered form in each old tree, And hear a voice long loved in thy wild minstrelsy. SONNET. Is thy heart weary of unfeeling men, And chilled with the world's ice? Then come with me, And I will bring thee to a pleasant glen Lovely and lonely. There we'll sit, un viewed By scoffing eye ; and let our hearts beat free With their own mutual throb. For wild and rude The access is, and none will there intrude, To poison our free thoughts, and mar our solitude ! Such scenes move not their feelings for they hold No fellowship with nature's loneliness ; The frozen wave reflects not back the gold And crimson flushes of the sun-set hour; The rock lies cold in sunshine not the power Of heaven's bright orb can clothe its barrenness. 313 HALLECK. RED JACKET. A CHIEF OF THE INDIAN TRIBES, THE TUSCARORAS. ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT I'-V WI-IK. CoOFEBj whose name is with his country's woven, Fir-t in her files, her PIONKKIJ of mind A wanderer now in other (Times, ha- |>royen His love for the young land he left behind; :;i I IIALLECK. And throned her in the senate-hall of nations, Robed like the di-lugc rainbow, heaven-wrought; Ma.Linilieent as his own mind's creations, And beautiful as its green world of thought: And faithful to the Act of Congress, quoted As law authority, it passed nem. con. : lie writes that we are, as ourselves have voted, The most enlightened people ever known. That all our week is happy as a Sunday In Paris, full of song, and dance, and laugh ; And that, from Orleans to the Bay of Fundy, There's not a bailiff or an epitaph. And furthermore in fifty years, or sooner, We shall export our poetry and wine; And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a schooner, Will sweep the seas from Zembla to the Line. If, he were with me, King of Tuscarora! Gazing, as I, upon thy portrait now, In all its medalled, fringed, and beaded glory, Its eye's dark beauty, and its thoughtful brow Its brow, half martial and half diplomatic, Its eye, upsoaring like an eagle's wings; Well might he boast that we, the Democratic, Outrival Europe, even in our Kings! For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's pages Tell not the planting of thy parent tree, But that the forest tribes have bent for ages To thee, and to thy sires, the subject knee. Thy name is princely if no poet's magic Could make RED JACKET grace an English rhyme, Though some one with a genius for the tragic Hath introduced it in a pantomime, 315 RED JACKET. Yet it is music in the language spoken Of thine own land ; and on her herald roll ; As bravely fought for, and as proud a token As Co3ur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. Thy garb though Austria's bosom-star would frighten That medal pale, as diamonds the dark mine, And George the Fourth wore, at his court at Brighton, A more becoming evening dress than thine ; Yet 'tis a brave one, scorning wind and weather, And fitted for thy couch, on field and flood, As Rob Roy's tartan for the Highland heather, Or forest green for England's Robin Hood. Is strength a monarch's merit, like a whaler's? Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as strong As earth's first kings the Argo's gallant sailors, Heroes in history, and gods in song. Is beauty? Thine has with thy youth departed; But the love-legends of thy manhood's years, And she who perished, young and broken-hearted, Are but I rhyme for smiles and not for tears. Is eloquence? Her spell is thine that roadies The heart, and makes the wisest la-ad its sport; And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, The secret of their mastery they are short. The monarch mind, the mystery of commanding, The birth-hour Liit't, the art Napoleon, Of winning, fettering, moulding, wieldinjr, handing The hearts of millions till they move as one: Thou li:ist it. At thy 1 lidding men have crowded The roaiiu-l >lavr ; tli)!i;jli!~, mid liinnls a re loliv nil aiv true To what themselves have voted right or wrong And to their laws denominated blue; (If red, they might to Draco's code belong ;) A vestal state, which power could not subdue, Nor promise win like her own eagle's nest, Sacred the San Marino of the West. A justice of the peace, for the time being, They bow to, but may turn him out next year; They reverence their priest, but disagreeing In price or creed, dismiss him without fear; They have a natural talent for foreseeing And knowing all things ; and should Park appear From his long tour in Africa, to show The Niger's source, they'd meet him with "We know." They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty; A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none. Such are they nurtured, such they live and die : All but a few apostates, who are meddling With merchandise, pounds, shillings, pence, and peddling ; Or wandering through the southern countries, teaching The ABC from Webster's spelling-book ; Gallant and godly, making love and preaching, And gaining by what they call "hook and crook," And what the moralists call overreaching, A decent living. The Virginians look Upon them with as favourable eyes As Gabriel on the devil in Paradise. 319 CONNECTICUT. But these are but their outcast?. View them near At home, where all their worth and pride is placed And there their hospitable fires burn clear, And there the lowliest farmhouse hearth is graced With manly hearts, in piety sincere, Faithful in love, in honour stern and chaste, In friendship warm and true, in danger brave, Beloved in life, and sainted in the grave. And minds have there been nurtured, whose control Is felt even in their nation's destiny; Men who swayed senates with a statesman's soul, And looked on armies with a leader's eye ; Names that adorn and dignify the scroll, Whose leaves contain their country's history, And tales of love and war listen to one Of the Green-Mountaineer the Stark of Bennington. When on that field his band the Hessians fought, Briefly he spoke before the fight began : "Soldiers! those German gentlemen are bought For four pounds eight and sevenpence per man, ly Finland's king; a bargain, as is thought. Are we worth more 1 Let's prove it now we can ; For we must beat them, boys, ere set of sun, OK MAKY STARR'S A WIDOW!" It was done. Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Nor the lon^r summer of Cathayan vale-. The vines tlic llmvers, the air, the skies, that fling Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing Of life'.- le-t anirel. Health, is on her :ale- Through sun and .-now ; and in the autumn time Farth ha- no pmvr and no lovelier clime. 890 IIALLECK. I lor clear, warm heaven at noon (he mist that >hrond> Her twilight hills her cool and starry - '1 he glorious splendour of her sunset clouds. The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. And when you dream of woman, arid her love; Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; The maiden listening in the moonlight grove, The mother smiling in her infant's bower ; Forms, features, worshipped while we breathe or move, Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake, you'll find them there. ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE, OF NEW YORK, SEPT., 1820. "The good die first, And they, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, Burn to the socket." WORDSWORTH. GREEN be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praisi-. Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep. 321 ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 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, 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 thec, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. 822 HORACE SMITH. THE FIRST OF MARCH. Tin: bud is in the bough, and the leaf is in the bud, And Earth's beginning now in her veins to feel the blood, Which warm'd by summer suns in th' alembic of the vim-. From her founts will over-run in a ruddy gush of wine. The perfume and the bloom that shall decorate the flower, Are quickening in the gloom of their subterranean bower ; And the juices meant to feed trees, vegetables, fruits, ^Unerringly proceed to their pre-appointed roots. How awful is the thought of the wonders underground, Of the mystic changes wrought in the silent, dark profound , How each thing upward tends by necessity decreed, And a world's support depends on the shooting of a seed ! The summer's in her ark, and this sunny-pinion'd day Is commission'd to remark whether Winter holds her sway : Go back, thou dove of peace, with the myrtle on thy wing. Say that floods and tempests cease, and the world is ripe for Spring. Thou hast fann'd the sleeping Earth till her dreams are all of flowrr>. And the waters look in mirth for their overhanging bo WITS ; The forest seems to listen for the rustle of its leaves, And the very skies to glisten in the hope of summer eves. Thy vivifying spell has been felt beneath the wave, By the dormouse in its cell, and the mole within its cave ; And the summer tribes that creep, or in air expand their winir. Have started from their sleep at the summons of the Spring. 323 HARVEST HOME. The cattle lift their voices from the valleys and the hills, And the feather' d race rejoices with a gush of tuneful bills ; And if this cloudless arch fills the poet's song with glee, O thou sunny first of March, be it dedicate to thee. DAELEY. HARVEST HOME. DOWN the dimpled green-sward dancing I.iirsts a flaxen-headed bevy, Bud-lipt boys and girls advancing, Love's irregular little levy. Rows of liquid eyes in lauirlitcr, I low they glimmer, how they quiver! Sparkling one another after, Like bright ripples on a river. Tip-y band of rubious f:uvs, riii.-lird with joy's rthnval spirit, .Make your mocks and sly ^nmarcs At Love's self, and do not ti-ar it. 324 PEAED. CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. OXCE on a time, when sunny May Was kissing up the April showers, I saw fair CHILDHOOD hard at play Upon a bank of blushing flowers ; Happy, he knew not whence or how; And smiling, who could choose but love him? For not more glad than CHILDHOOD'S brow, Was the blue heaven that beamed above him. Old TIME, in most appalling wrath, That valley's green repose invaded; The brooks grew dry upon his path, The birds were mute, the lilies faded ; But Time so swiftly winged his flight, In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, That CHILDHOOD watched his paper kite, And knew just nothing of the matter. With curling lip, and glancing eye, GUILT gazed upon the scene a minute, But CHILDHOOD'S glance of purity Had such a holy spell within it. That the dark demon to the air Spread forth again his baffled pinion, And hid his envy and despair, Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 325 CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. Then stepped a gloomy phantom up, Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup, Full to the brim of bitter water: Poor CHILDHOOD bade her tell her name, And when the beldame muttered " SORROW," He said, " Don't interrupt my game ; I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." The MCSE of Pindus thither came, And wooed him with the softest numbers That ever scattered wealth and fame Upon a youthful poet's slumbers; Though sweet the music of the lay, To CHILDHOOD it was all a riddle, And "Oh," he cried, "do send away That noisy woman with the fiddle." Then WISDOM stole his bat and ball, And taught him with most sane endeavour, Why bubbles rise, ami acorns fall, And why no toy may last for ever: SI ic talked of all the wondrous laws Which NATURE'S open book discloses, And CHILDHOOD, ere she made a pause, Was last asleep among the roses. Sleep cm, >lccp on! Oli! MANHOOD'S dream- Are all of earthly pain, or pleasure, Of GLORY'S toils, AMISITION'S scliem Of cherished love, or hoarded treasure : Hut to the couch where ('mi.Dimoii lie> A more delicious trance is Lii\en, Lit up by rays from Seraph-c\ -. And glimp.-rs of remembered hemvn ! 826 THE VICAR. SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste Had turn'd our Parish topsy-turvy. When Darnel Park was Danu-1 Wastr, And roads as little known as scurvy, The man, who hist his way between St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always* shown across the Green, And guided to the Parson's wicket. 327 THE VICAR. Back flew the bolt of lissom lath; Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path. Through dean-dipt rows of box and myrtle ; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlour steps collected, Waited all their tails, and seemed to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected.'' Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown, Up rose the Doctor's " winsome marrow ;" The lady laid her knitting down, Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow : Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed, Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed, And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end, And warmed himself in court or college, llr had not gained an honest friend, And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ; If he departed as he came, "NYith no new light on love or liquor, Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar. His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rocks to rose-; It .-lipped from politics to puns ; It passed from Mahomet to Moses; Keginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant GOUT* And ending with >ome precept deep- I-'or dre--ing eel-, or -hoeing h" 1'KAED. Hi' was a sluvwd and sound divine, Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of pap- and line, He 'stahlished Truth, or started Error, The Baptist found him far too deep; The Deist sighed with saving sorrow ; And the lean Levite went to sleep, And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said nor show'd That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road From Jerome, or from Athanasius ; And sure a righteous zeal inspired The hand and heart that penn'd and plann'd them, For. all who understood admired, And some who did not understand them. And he was kind, and loved to sit In the low hut, or garnished cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit, And share the widow's homelier pottage ; At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarred the shutter. The clammy lips of Fever smiled The welcome, which they could not utter. He always had a tale for me Of Julius Caesar, or of Venus : From him I learned the Rule of Three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qua3 genus ; I used to singe his powder'd wig, To steal the staff he put such trust in ; And make the puppy dance a jig, When he began to quote Augustin. 329 A CHARADE. Alack the change! in vain I look For haunts in which my boyhood trihVd. Tin- level lawn, the trickling brook, The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled : The church is larger than before ; You reach it by a carriage entry ; It holds three hundred people more ; And pews are fitted up for gentry. Sit in the Vicar's seat : you '11 hear The doctrine of a gentle Johnian, Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear, Whose style is very Ciceronian. Where is the old man laid ? Look down, And construe on the slab before you, 4i Hie jacet GULIELMUS BROWN, Vir nulla non donandus lauro." A CHARADE. (THE WORD IS "CAMPBELL," THE POET.) Com from my First, ay, conic! Tin- battle-dawn is nigh ; And tin- sr]v;miiiiL r Irmiip and the thmid'rinj Arc e.-dliiiir thee to die ! Fi^ht as thy lathers fought, Fall ;is thy fathers tell ! Thy ta-k i- taught, thy ,-hrond is wrought :- So forward ! and farewell ' 330 PKAl.i). Toll ye, my Second! toll ! Fling high tin' flambeaux' light ; And sing the hymn lor a parted soul, Beneath tin- .-ilciil night! The wreath upon his head, The cross upon his breast. Let the prayer be said, and 'the tear be shed So take him to his rest ! Call ye, my Whole, ay, call ! The lord of lute and lay ; And let him greet the sable pall AVith a noble song to-day; Go, call him by his name ; No fitter hand may crave To light the flame of a soldier's fame, On the turf of a soldier's grave. 331 HOOD. THE ELM TREE. A DREAM IN THE WOODS. " And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees!" As yqu Like it. PART I. 'TWAS in a shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound And from a Tree There came to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground. Amongst the leaves it seemed to sigh, Amid the boughs to moan ; It rnntterM in the stem, and then The roots took up the tone ; A.- if beneath the dewy grass The dead began to groan. No bree/e there was to stir the leave.-; No bolts that tempests launch, To rend the trunk or rugged hark : No gale to bend the branch; No quake of earth to heave the root-. That stood so stitV and staunch. 332 But still the sound was in my ear, A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, THE ELM TREE. And sometimes underground 'Twas in a shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. From poplar, pine, and drooping birch, And fragrant linden trees ; No living sound E'er hovers round, Unless the vagrant breeze, The music of the merry bird, Or hum of busy bees. But busy bees forsake the Elm That bears no bloom aloft The finch was in the hawthorn-bush, The blackbird in the croft ; And among the firs the brooding dove, That else might murmur soft. Yet still I heard that solemn sound, And sad it was to boot, From ev'ry overhanging bough, And eaeh minuter shoot; From rugged trunk and mossy rind, And from the twisted root. From these, ;i melancholy moan; From those, a dreary siiih ; As if the boughs were win! rv hare, And wild winds sweeping by, Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud \V;i- -teadl'ast ill the sky. _ r n or touch of stirring air Conlil either sense observt Tin- xepliyr had not breath enough 884 HOOD. The thistlt'-down to swerve, Or force the tiliny gossamers To take another curve. In still and silent slumber hush'd All Nature seemed to be : From heaven above, or earth beneath, No whisper came to me Except the solemn sound and sad From that MYSTERIOUS TREE! A hollow, hollow, hollow sound, As i* that dreamy roar When distant billows boil and bound Along a shingly shore But the ocean brim was far aloof, A hundred miles or more. No murmur of the gusty sea, No tumult of the beach, However they may foam and fret, The bounded sense could reach Methought the trees in mystic tongue Were talking each to each! Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales Of greenwood love or guilt, Of whisper' d vows Beneath their boughs; Or blood obscurely spilt; Or of that near-hand Mansion House A royal Tudor built. With wary eyes, and ears alert, As one who walks afraid, I wander'd down the dappled path 335 THE ELM TREE. Of mingled light and shade How sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue Beyond the green arcade ! How cheerly shone the glimpse of Hcav'n Beyond that verdant aisle! All overarch'd with lofty elms, That quench'd the light, the while, As dim and chill As serves to fill Some old Cathedral pile! And many a gnarled trunk was there, That ages long had stood, Till Time had wrought them into shapes Like Pan's fantastic brood ; Or still more foul and hideous forms That Pagans carve in wood! A crouching Satyr lurking here, And there a Goblin grim As staring full of demon life As Gothic sculptor's whim; A marvel it had scarcely been To hear a voice from him! Some whisper from that horrid mouth, Of strange, unearthly tone; ( )r wild infernal laugh, to chill One's marrow in the bone. I>ut no it grins like rigid Death, And silent as a stone ! As silent as its fellows be, For all is mute with them, The branch that climbs the leafy roof 336 HOOD. The rough and mossy stem The crooked root And tender shoot Where hanus the dewy gem. One mystic Tree alone there is, Of sad and solemn sound That sometimes murmurs overhead, And sometimes underground In all that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. PART II. The Scene is changed ! No green Arcade, No trees all ranged a-row But scatter'd like a beaten host, Dispersing to and fro; With here and there a sylvan corse, That fell before the foe. The Foe that down in yonder dell Pursues his daily toil ; As witness many a prostrate trunk, Bereft of leafy spoil, Hard by its wooden stump, whereon The adder loves to coil. Alone he works his ringing blows Have banish'd bird and beast; The hind and fawn have canter'd off A hundred yards at least; And on the maple's lofty top, The linnet's song has ceased. 337 THE ELM TREE. Xo eye his labour overlooks, Or when he takes his rest ; Except the timid thrush that peeps Above her secret nest, Forbid by love to leave the young Beneath her speckled breast. The Woodman's heart is in his work, His axe is sharp and good : With sturdy arm and steady aim He smites the gaping wood ; From distant rocks His lusty knocks Re-echo many a rood. Aloft, upon his poising steel The vivid sunbeams glance About his head and round Ids feet The forest shadows dance ; And bounding from his russet coat The acorn drops askance. His face is like a Druid's face, With wrinkles furrow'd deep, And, tann'd by scorching suns, as brown As corn that's ripe to reap; But the hair on brow, and cheek, and chin, Is white as wool of sheep. Hi- frame is like a giant's frame; I li~ IIMJS an- lonjr and stark : ill- anus like limbs of knotted yew; 1 11- hands like niLTjK'd bark ; So he frllrth still With rijjht good will, Aa if to build an ark ! 338 \ >.vr . ;?3w*T Oh ! well to him the tree might breathe A sad and solemn sound, A sigh that murnmr'd overhead, And groans from underground ; As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound! But calm and mute the maple stands, The plane, the ash, the fir, 339 THE ELM TREE. The elm, the beech, the drooping birch, Without the least demur; And e'en the aspen's hoary leaf Makes no unusual stir. The pines those old gigantic pines, That writhe recalling soon The famous human group that writhes With snakes in wild festoon In ramous wrestlings interlaced, A Forest Laocoon Like Titans of primeval girth By tortures overcome, Their brown enormous limbs they twine, Bedew'd with tears of gum Fierce agonies that ought to yell, But, like the marble, dumb. Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands So like a man of MM, Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad To feel the worm within For all that gesture, so intense, It makes no sort of din ! An universal silence reigns In rugged bark or peel, Except that very trunk which rings Beneath the biting steel Meanwhile, the Woodman plies his axe With unrelenting /CM! ! No rustir .-mm is on his tongue, No whittle on his lips ; But with a quiet though tfnlne>s 840 HOOD. His trusty tool he grips, And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out The bright and flying chips. Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint He spreads the fatal gash ; Till, lo ! the remnant fibres rend, With harsh and sudden crash, And on the dull resounding turf The jarring branches lash ! Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh, The ash, the poplar tall, The elm, the birch, the drooping beech, The aspens one and all, With solemn groan And hollow moan, Lament a comrade's fall! A goodly Elm, of noble girth, That thrice the human span While on their variegated course The constant Seasons ran, Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt Had stood erect as Man. But now, like mortal Man himself, Struck down by hand of God, Or heathen idol tumbled prone Beneath th' Eternal's nod, In all its giant bulk and length It lies along the sod! The echo sleeps: the idle axe, A disregarded tool, Lies crushing with its passive weight 341 THE ELM TREE. The -toad's reputed stool ; The Woodman wipes his dewy brow Within the shadows cool. No zephyr stirs : the ear may catch The smallest insect-hum ; But on the disappointed sense No mystic whispers come ; No tone of sylvan sympathy The Forest Trees are dumb. No leafy noise, nor inward voice, No sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmurs overhead, And sometimes underground As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound! PART III. The deed is done: the Tree is low That stood so long and firm; Tin- Woodman and his axe are gone, His toil has found its term; And where he wrought the speckled thrush Securely hunts the worm. The cony from the sandy bank lias run a rapid race, Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern, To seek the open spare : Ami on its haunches sits erect To clean its furry lace. HOOD. The dappled fawn is close at hand, Tin' hind is bnw.Mii.i: nrar, And on the larch's lowest bough The ousel whistles clear ; But checks the note Within its throat, As choked with sudden fear! With sudden fear her wormy quest The thrush abruptly quits; Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern The startled cony flits; And on the larch's lowest bough No more the ousel sits. With sudden fear, The dappled deer Effect a swift escape ; But well might bolder creatures start And fly, or stand agape, With rising hair, and curdled blood, To see so grim a Shape! The very sky turns pale above, The earth grows dark beneath ; The human Terror thrills with cold, And draws a shorter breath An universal panic owns The dread approach of DEATH ! W r ith silent pace, as shadows come, And dark as shadows be, The grisly Phantom takes his stand Beside the fallen Tree, And scans it with his gloomy eyes, And laughs with horrid, glee 343 THE ELM TREE. dreary laugh and desolate, Where mirth is void and null, As hollow as its echo sounds Within the hollow skull: "Whoever laid this Tree along, His hatchet was not dull! The human arm and human tool Have done their duty well ! But after sound of ringing axe Must sound the ringing knell ; When elm or oak Have felt the stroke, My turn it is to fell! No passive unregarded tree, A senseless thing of wood, Wherein the sluggish sap ascends To swell the vernal bud But conscious, moving, breathing trunks That throb with living blood! Ah ! little recks the Royal mind, Within his Banquet-Hall, While tapers shine, and music breathe?, And Beauty leads the ball, He little recks the oaken plank Shall IK- liis palace wall! Ah! little dreams the haughty Peer, The while his falcon flies Or on the blood-bedabbled turf The antler' d quarry dies That in his o\vn ancestral Park Tlu- narrow dwelling lies! 344 HOOD. But haughty Peer ami mighty King One doom shall overwhelm! The oaken cell Shall lodge him well Whose sceptre ruled a realm While he who never knew a home Shall find it in the Elm! The tall abounding Elm that grows In hedgerows up and down, In field and forest, copse and park, And in the peopled town, With colonies of noisy rooks That nestle on its crown. And well th' abounding Elm may grow In field and hedge so rife, In forest, copse, and wooded park, And 'mid the city's strife, For every hour that passes by Shall end a human life!" The Phantom ends : the shade is gone ; The sky is clear and bright; On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree, There glows a ruddy light; And bounding through the golden fern The rabbit comes to bite. The thrush's mate beside her sits, And pipes a merry lay; The dove is in the evergreens; And on the larch's spray The fly-bird flutters up and down, To catch its tiny prey. 345 THE ELM TREE. gentle hind and dappled fawn Are coming up the glade ; Each harmless furr'd and feather'd thing Is glad, and not afraid But on my sadden'd spirit still The Shadow leaves a shade: A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, As though by certain mark I knew the fore-appointed Tree, Within whose rugged bark This warm and living frame shall find Its narrow house and dark. That mystic Tree which breathed to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur' d overhead, And sometimes underground Within that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. 346 PRINGLE. AFAR IN THE DESERT. AFAR in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, And, sick of the Present, I cling to the Past; When the eye is suffused with regretful tear-, From the fond recollections of former years ; 347 AFAR IN THE DESERT. shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead ; And my Native Land, whose magical name Thrills to my heart like electric flame ; The home of my childhood ; the haunts of my prime ; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, When the feelings were young, and the world was new, Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view ; All all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone! And I, a lone exile, remembered of none ; My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, Aweary of all that is under the sun, With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the Desert, afar from man ! Afar in the Desert I love to ride, With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side : When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear. The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high. And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh ; Oh ! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, A I'M i- in ihr Desert alone to ride! There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, And to bound away with the eagle's speed, With the death-traiiirht firelock in my hand, Tin- only l;i\v of the Desert Land. A l;ir in the Desert I love to ride, With tin- -ilent I>iish-hi. I am not daunted ; no, I will engage!" Hut first," siid .-he, kk what wager will you la;. "A sheep," I answered; "add whati'Yr you will." I.ANDOK. I cannot," she replied, "make that return: Our hided vessels in their pitchy round Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep. But I have sinuous shells of |>earlv hue Within, and they that lustre have imbibed In the sun's palace-porch, where when unyoked His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave : Shake one and it awakens ; then apply Its polisht lips to your attentive ear, And it remembers its august abodes, And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there. And I have others given me by the nymphs, Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have. But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend, This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next." RODERIGO AND JULIAN. THE REPROACH OF THE BEREAVED. Rod. Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates Plainly I see it death to me : pursue l^he dictates of thy leaders ; let revenge Have its full sway; let Barbary prevail. And the pure creed her elders have embraced : Those plaeid sages hold assassination A most compendious supplement to law. Jul. Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other. Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear ; Her form, her voice, all hast thou banisht from me, 353 2 RODERIGO AND JULIAN. Nor dare I, wretched as I am ! recal Those solaces of every grief erewhile. I stand abased before insulting crime, I falter like a criminal myself; The hand that hurl'd thy chariot o'er its wheels, That held thy steeds erect and motionless As molten statues on some palace-gate, Shakes as with palsied age before thee now. Gone is the treasure of my heart for ever, Without a father, mother, friend, or name. Daughter of Julian ! Such was her delight Such was mine too! \vhat pride more innocent, What surely less deserving pangs like these, Than springs from filial and parental love ! Debarr'd from every hope that issues forth To meet the balmy breath of early life, Her sadden'd days, all cold and colourless, Will stretch before her their whole weary length Amid the sameness of obscurity. She wanted not seclusion to unveil Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell ; She found it in all places, at all hours : While to assuage my labours, she indulged A playfulness that shunn'd a mother's eye, Still to avert my perils there arose A piety that even from me retired. JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. NIGHT AND DEATH. MYSTERIOUS night! when our first parent knew Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo! creation widen'd in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O sun ! or who could find, Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife > If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life 1 ? 355 KEBLE. "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow." S\\ i I.T nurslings of the vernal skies, Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew, 356 KKHLE. What more than magic in yon lies, To fill the he-art's fond view? In childhood's sports, companions gay, In sorrow, on Life's downward way, How soothing! in our last decay, Memorials prompt and true. Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours Of happy wanderers there. Fall' n all beside the world of life, How is it stain'd with fear and strife ! In Reason's world what storms are rife, What passions range and glare! But cheerful and unchang'd the while Your first and perfect form ye show, The same that won Eve's matron smile In the world's opening glow. The stars of heaven a course are taught Too high above our human thought; Ye may be found if ye are sought, And as we gaze, we know. Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow- And guilty man, where'er he roams. Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meet But we may taste your solace sweet, And come again to-morrow. Ye fearless in your nests abide Xor may we scorn, too proudly wise, 357 CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. Your silent lessons, undescried By all but lowly eyes : For ye could draw th' admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys: Your order wild, your fragrant maze, He taught us how to prize. Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, As when He paused and own'd you good; His blessing on earth's primal bower, Ye felt it all renew'd. What care ye now, if winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, Ye fear no vexing mood. Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find Of your calm loveliness ! "Live for to-day! to-morrow's light To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight; Go sleep, like closing flowers, at night, And Heaven thy morn will bless." CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. "A joyful and a pleasant tiling it is to be thankful." WHY so stately, maiden fair, Ki-ing in thy imr.-r's arms With that condewrnding air; ( latin-rill;! up thy qiuviily cliann>, 358 KEBLE. -onu> gorgeous Indiuu bird, Which, when at ru- llu- balmy copse is stirr'd, Turns the glowing neck to chide Th' irreverent foot-tall, then makes haste to hide Again its lustre deep Under the purple wing, best home of downy sleep? Not as yet she comprehends How the tongues of men reprove, But a spirit o'er her bends, Train'd in heaven to courteous love, And with wondering grave rebuke Tempers, to-day, shy tone and bashful look. Graceless one, 'tis all of thee, Who for her maiden bounty, full and free, The violet from her gay And guileless bosom, didst no word of thanks repay Therefore, lo, she opens wide Both her blue and wistful eyes, Breathes her grateful chant, to chide Our too tardy sympathies. Little babes and angels bright They muse, be sure, and wonder, day and night, How th' all-holy Hand should give, The sinner's hand in thanklessness receive. We see it and we hear, But wonder not: for why? we feel it all too near. Not in vain, when feasts are spread, To the youngest at the board Call we to incline the head, And pronounce the solemn word. Not in vain they clasp and raise The soft, pure fingers in unconscious praise, Taught, perchance, by pictur'd wall 359 CHILDREN'S THANKFULNESS. How little ones before the Lord may fall, How to His lov'd caress Reach out the restless arm, and near and nearer press. Children in their joyous ranks, As you pace the village street, Fill the air with smiles and thanks If but once one babe you greet. Never weary, never dim, From thrones seraphic mounts th' eternal hymn. Babes and angels grudge no praise : But elder souls, to whom His saving ways Are open, fearless take Their portion, hear the Grace, and no meek answer make. Save our blessings, Master, save From the blight of thankless eye: Teach us for all joys to crave Benediction pure and high, Own them given, endure them gone, Shrink from their hardening touch, yet prize them won : Prize them as rich odours, meet For Love to lavish on His sacred feet ; Prize them as sparkles bright Of heavenly dew, from yon overflowing well of light. 360 MILMAN. THE HEBREW WEDDING. To the sound of timbrels sweet, Moving slow our solemn feet, We have borne thee on the road, To the virgin's blest abode ; With thy yellow torches gleaming, And thy scarlet mantle streaming, And the canopy above Swaying as we slowly move. Thou hast left the joyous feast, And the mirth and wine have ceast ; And now we set thee down before The jealously-unclosing door; That the favour'd youth admits, Where the veiled virgin sits In the bliss of maiden fear, Waiting our soft tread to hear, And the music's brisker din, At the bridegroom's entering in : Entering in a welcome guest To the chamber of his rest. CHORUS OF MAIDENS. Now the jocund song is thine, Bride of David's kingly line ; How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, And thy shrouded eye resernbleth Violets, when the dews of eve A moist and tremulous glitter leave 3G1 On the bashful sealed lid! Close within the bride-veil hid, Motionless thou sitt'st and muto ; Sa\r that at the soft salute Of each entering maiden friend, Thou dost rise and softly bend. Hark! a brisker, merrier glee! The door unfolds, 'tis he! 'tis he! Thus we lift our lamps to meet him. Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. Thou shalt give a fonder meeting, Thou .-halt L r ive a tenderer greeting- 862 MILMAN. THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. EVEN thus, amid thy pride and luxury, O Earth! shall that last coming burst on theo, That secret coming of the SON OF MAN. When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, Irradiate with his bright advancing sign: When that Great Husbandman shall wave his l':i:i, Sweeping, like chaff, thy wealth and pomp away : Still, to the noontide of that nightless day, Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. Along the busy mart and crowded street, The buyer and the seller still shall meet, And marriage-feasts begin their jocund strain : Still to the pouring out the CUP OF WOE; Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro, And mountains molten by his burning feet, And Heaven his presence own, all red with furnace heat. The hundred-gated Cities then, The Towers and Temples, nam'd of men Eternal, and the Thrones of Kings ; The gilded summer Palaces, The courtly bowers of love and ease, Where still the Bird of Pleasure sings ; Ask ye the destiny of them? Go, gaze on fallen Jerusalem! Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurl' d ; The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll, And the vast common doom ensepulchres the world. Oh ! who shall then survive ? Oh ! who shall stand and live ? 363 THE COMING OF THE JUDGE. When all that hath been is no more : NVln'ii for the round earth hung in air, With all its constellations fair In the sky's azure canopy ; When for the breathing Earth, and sparkling Sea, Is but a fiery deluge without shore, Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, A fiery deluge, and without an ARK. Lord of all power, when thou art there alone On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne, That in its high meridian noon Needs not the perish'd sun nor moon : When thou art there in thy presiding state, Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realm of doom ; When from the sea-depths, from earth's darkest womb, The dea(J of all the ages round thee wait : And when the tribes of wickedness are strown Like forest-leaves in th' autumn of thine ire : Faithful and True! thou still wilt save thine own! The Saints shall dwell within th' unharming fire : Karh wiiite robe spotless, blooming every palm. Even safe as we by this still fountain's side, So shall the Church, thy bright and mystic Bride, Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs, O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines; We hail, 'we bless the covenant of its beam, Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem. 364 LEIGH HUNT. AN ITALIAN GARDEN. A NOBLE range it was, of many a rood, WalPd round with trees, and ending in a wood: Indeed, the whole was leafy; and it had A winding stream about it, clear and glad, That danced from shade to shade, and on its way Seem'd smiling with delight to feel the day. There was the pouting rose, both red and white, The flamy heart's-ease, flush'd with purple light, Blush-hiding strawberry, sunny-colored box, Hyacinth, handsome with his clustering locks, The lady lily, looking gently down, Pure lavender, to lay in bridal-gown, The daisy, lovely on both sides, in short, All the sweet cups to which the bees resort, With plots of grass, and perfum'd walks between Of sweetbrier, honeysuckle, and jessamine, With orange, whose warm leaves so finely suit, And look as if they shade a golden fruit; And 'midst the flowers, turf'd round beneath a shade Of circling pines, a babbling fountain play'd, And 'twixt their shafts you saw the water bright, Which through the darksome tops glimmer'd with showering light. So now you walk'd beside an odorous bed Of gorgeous hues, purple, and gold, and red ; And now turn'd off into a leafy walk, Close and continuous, fit for lovers' talk ; 365 And mm- pursued the stream, and as you trod Onward and onward o'er the velvet sod, 1'VIl on your lace an air. watery and sweet, And a new BCDM in your soft-lighting i'e-t ; 3GG LKKJH HUNT. And thru, perhaps, you enter'd upon shades, Pillow' d with dells and uplands 'twixt the glades, Through which the distant palace, now and then. Look'd lordly forth with many-window' d ken, A hind of trees, which reaching round about, In shady blessing stretch'd their old arms out, With spots of sunny opening, and with nooks To lie and read in, sloping into brooks, Where ut her drink you startled the slim deer, Retreating lightly with a lovely fear. And all about, the birds kept leafy house, And sung and darted in and out the boughs ; And all about, a lovely sky of blue Clearly was felt, or down the leaves laugh'd through ; And here and there, in every part, were seats, Some in the open walks, some in retreats With bow r ering leaves o'erhead, to which the eye Look'd up half sweetly and half awfully, IMaees of nestling green, for poets made, Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, The rugged trunks, to inward-peeping sight, Throng' d in dark pillars up the gold green light- But 'twixt the wood and flowery walks, half-way, And form'd of both, the loveliest portion lay, A spot that struck you like enchanted ground : It was a shallow dell, set in a mound Of sloping shrubs, that mounted by degrees The birch and poplar mixed with heavier trees; Down by whose roots, descending darkly still, (You saw it not, but heard) there gush'd a rill, Whose low sweet talking seem'd as if it said Something eternal to that happy shade. The ground within was lawn, with plots of flowers Heap'd towards the centre, and with citron bowers ; And in the midst of all, cluster'*! with bay And myrtle, and just glancing to the day, 367 ABOU BEN ADEEM. Lurk'd a pavilion, a delicious sight, Small, marble, well-proportion'd, mellowy white, With yellow vine-leaves sprinkled, but no more,- And a young orange either side the door. The door was to the wood, forward and square ; The rest was domed at top, and circular ; And through the dome the only light came in, Tinged, as it enter'd, with the vine-leaves thin. ABOU BEN ADHEM. ABOU BEX ADIIEM (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: Kxereding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou ?" The Vision rais'd ijs head, And witli a look made of all sweet accord, Answer'd, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," KV plied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, I Jut cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee then, \Vritr me as one that loves his fellow-men." The AiiiM'l wrote, and \anislfd. The next night It rainr atraiii with a great \\akrning light, And sliow'd the names whom love of God had And. !.: Urn Adhrm's name led all the rest. 368 CEOLY. THE ALHAMBRA. PALACE of Beauty! where the Moorish Lord, King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword, Sat like a Genie in the diamond's blaze. Oh! to have seen thee in the ancient days, When at thy morning gates the coursers stood, The "thousand" milk-white, Yemen's fiery blood, In pearl and ruby harness'd for the King; And through thy portals pour'd the gorgeous flood Of Jewell' d Sheik and Emir, hastening, Before the sky the dawning purple show'd, Their turbans at the Caliph's feet to fling. Lovely thy morn thy evening lovelier still, When at the waking of the first blue star That trembled on the Atalaya hill, The splendours of the trumpe.t's voice arose, 369 A A THE ALHAMBRA. Brilliant and bold, and yet no sound of war; But summoning thy beauty from repose, The shaded slumber of the burning noon. Then in the slant sun all thy fountains shone, Shooting the sparkling column from the vase Of crystal cool, and falling in a haze Of rainbow hues on floors of porphyry, And the rich bordering beds of every bloom That breathes to African or Indian sky, Carnation, tuberose, thick anemone ; Then was the harping of the minstrels heard, In the deep arbours, or the regal hall, Hushing the tumult of the festival, When the pale bard his kindling eye-ball rearM, And told of Eastern glories, silken hosts, Tower'd elephants, and chiefs in topaz arm'd; Or of the myriads from the cloudy coasts Of the far Western sea, the sons of blood, The iron men of tournament and feud, That round the bulwarks of their father swarm' d. Doom'd by the Moslem scimitar to fall, Till the Red Cross was hurl'd from Salem's wall. Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun, That had no rival, and no second? gone! Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd, Like the grait day-star to the ocean dim, The lillm\s of the ages o'er thee swim, Gloomy and fathomless; thy tale is told. Whore is thy horn of battle? that, but blown, Brought every chief of Afric from his throne; Brought every spear of Afric from the wall; Brought every charger barbed from the stall, Till all its tribes sit mounted on the shore; Waiting the waving of thy torch to pour The living deluge on the fields of Spain. Owen of Earth's loveliness, there was a stain 870 CROLY. Upon thy brow the stain of guilt and gore: Thy course was bright, bold, tivarh'rous and 'tis o'er. The spear and diadem an- from thee gone; Silence is now sole monarch of thy throne ! FLORA. THE flowers are Nature's jewels, with whose wealth She decks her Summer beauty; Primrose sweet, With blossoms of pure gold ; enchanting Rose, That, like a virgin queen, salutes the Sun, Dew-diadem'd ; the perfumed Pink, that studs The earth with clustering ruby; Hyacinth, The hue of Venus' tresses ; Myrtle green, That maidens think a charm for constant love, And give night-kisses to it, and so dream ; Fair Lily! woman's emblem, and oft twined Round bosoms, where its silver is unseen, Such is their whiteness ; downcast Violet, Turning away its sweet head from the wind, As she her delicate and startled ear From passion's tale! 371 FERGUSON. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. COME, see the Dolphin's Anchor forged; 'tis at a white heat now: The bellows ceased, the flames decreased; though on the forge's brow. The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound; And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round, All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare; Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there. The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below : And red and deep, a hundred veins burst out at every throe: It rises, roars, rends all outright O, Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright; the high sun shines not so! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe ; As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil all about the faces fiery grow " Hurrah !" they shout, " leap out leap out ;" bang, bang, the sledges go : Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low ; A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow; The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the ratilinjr cinders stro.w The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow: And thick ;tnd loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "ho!" Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load! Let's lorjfc a jjoodly anchor; a Bower, thick and hroad . For a heart of oak is lianirinir on every blow I bode; And I see the good ship riding all in a perilous road. 372 FERGUSON. The low reef rolling on her lee ; the roll of ocean poured From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board; The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; the boats stove at the chains; But courage still, brave mariners the 1 lower yet remains, And not an inch to Hindi he deigns save when ye pitch sky high, Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing here am I!" Swing in your strokes in order; let foot and hand keep time, Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime; But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we! Strike in, strike in the sparks begin to dull their rustling red; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped : Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ; When, weighing slow, at eve they go, far, far from love and home; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me, What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea' O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monsters' palaces ! methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails! Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea unicorn, And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn ; To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far-astonished shoals 373 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. Of his back -browsing ocean calves ; or, haply in a cove, Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love, To find the long-haired mermaidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine? The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons that tugs thy cable line ; And night by night 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day, Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play ; But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave, A fisher's joy is to destroy thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst thou but understand Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who that dripping band, Slow swaying in the heaving waves that round about thee bend, With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing their ancient friend : Oh, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee, Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst leap within the sea ! Give honour to their memories who left the pleasant strand, To shed their blood so freely for the love of fatherland. Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy churchyard grave, So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave: Oli, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honour him for their memory, whose bones he goes among '. 374 MOULTRIE. THE THREE SONS. I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould ; They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair, And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air: I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me, But loveth yet his mother more with grateful fervency. 375 THE THREE SONS. But that which others most admire is the thought which fills his min The food for grave inquiring speech he everywhere doth find : Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk ; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk ; Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks- on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next ; He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teaches him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are the words which he will say. Oh, should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now. I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be, How silver sweet those tones of his when he prattles on my knee. I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his brother's, keen, Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his hath ever been ; But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and tender feeling, And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing. When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street, Will shout with joy, and bless my boy, he looks so mild and sweet. A playfellow is he to all, and yet, with cheerful tone, Will sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone. His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth, To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth. Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for earthly love. And it', lir.-ide his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim, comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him. I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I can not tell, For they reckon not by years or months where he is gone to dwell. To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given, And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went to live in Heaven. 376 MOULTKIK. I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he weareth now, Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow. Tin 1 thoughts that till his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel, Air nuinber'd with the secret things which God will not reveal. But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest, Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast. I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh, But his sleep is bless' d with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe, (his mother dear and I,) When God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be, When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this world's misery, When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, Oh ! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again. 377 FORGET THEE?' " FORGET THEE ?" " FORGET thee?" if to dream by night, and muse on thee by day, If all the worship deep and wild a poet's heart can pay, It' prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power, It' winged thoughts that flit to thee, a thousand in an hour, It busy Fancy blending thee with all my future lot, If this thou call'st "forgetting," thou, indeed, shalt be forgot! "Forget thee'?" Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune; " Forget thee ?" Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon ; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's refreshing dew; Thyself forget thine own "dear land" and its "mountains wild and blue. Forget each old familiar face, each long-remember'd spot, When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot! Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free, For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me ; Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh ! bid not mine to rove, But let it nurse its humble faith, and uncomplaining love ; If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail me not, F<>r<_ r ct me then; but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot! 878 MACAULAY. THE SPANISH ARMADA. ATTEND, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise ; I tell of the thrice-famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great Fleet Invincible against her bore in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay ; 379 THE SPANISH ARMADA. Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile ; At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace ; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers ; before him sound the drums ; His yeomen round the market-cross make clear an ample space, For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace. And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells. Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield: So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho ! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight : ho ! scatter flowers, fair maids Ho ! gunners, fire a loud salute : ho ! gallants, draw your blades : Thou sun, shine on her joyously ye breezes, waft her wide ; Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride. The freshening breeze of eve unfuiTd that banner's massy fold, The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold ; Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the dav ; For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread : Ili^li on St. Michael's Mount it shorn-: it shone on Beachy Head. Far <>n the drrp the Spaniard saw, along each southern shin-. Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinklinir points of Jin- : The fisln-r h-l't his skitf to rock on Tamar's :linrriiir \va\v~ : The rugged miners poured to war from Memlip's BonkM a\- O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew : 380 MACAULAY. He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, tin- rangers of Beaulieu : Right sharp and quick the bells till night rang out from Bristol town ; And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down ; The sentinel on Whitehall Gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red lijrht. Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires ; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires ; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear ; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer; And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of flags and pikes dashed down each roaring street : And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in : And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent. Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still, All night from tower to tower they sprang ; they sprang from hill to hill : Till the proud peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales, Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales, Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height, Till streamed hr crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light, Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain ; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent ; Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. 381 MOTHERWELL. JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way 5 But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. "Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ac heart ! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembered evennair. 382 MOTI IKK \YKLL. I wonder, Jeanir, nt'tm yet, \VluMi sitting on that bink, Cheek touchm' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, AY hut our wee heads could think? When baith bent doun ower ae braid Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans laughin* said, We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran aff to speel the braes The broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back O' scule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve! Oh lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang! Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood, The throssil whusslit sweet; JEANIE MORRISON. throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me? Oh ! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near. Ye never were forgot. The fount that first hurst IV: ir this heart. Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. 384 MOTIIKKWKLL. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me ! THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. THEY come ! the merry summer months of Beauty, Song, and Flowers ; They come ! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart, and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside, Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide; Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity. The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand, And like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously, It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee: And mark how with thine own thin locks, they now are silvery grey, That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering "Be gay!" There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky, But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody: Thou seest their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gold ; And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. 385 u A SOLEMN CONCEIT. God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth, Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. Hut soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound ; from yonder wood it came ; The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name ; Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, his notes are void of art, But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart ! Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me, To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree ! To suck once more in every breath their little souls away, And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day. When rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy ! I'm sadder now, I have had cause ; but O ! I'm proud to think That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ; Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky, Still mingle music in my dreams as in the days gone by. When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old! A SOLEMN CONCEIT. STATELY trees are growing, Lusty winds are blowing, And mighty rivers flowing On, for ever on. As stately forms were growing, As lusty spirits blowing, As mighty fancies flowing On, for ever on ; 386 MOTHERWELL. But there has been leave-taking. Sorrow and heart-breaking, And a moan, pale Echo's making, For the gone, for ever gone ! Lovely stars are gleaming, Bearded lights are streaming, And glorious suns are beaming On, for ever on. As lovely eyes were gleaming, As wondrous lights were streaming, As glorious minds were beaming On, for ever on ; But there has been soul-sundering, AVailing, and sad wondering ; For graves grow fat with plundering The gone, for ever gone! We see great eagles soaring, We hear deep oceans roaring, And sparkling fountains pouring On, for ever on. As lofty ones were soaring, As sonorous voices roaring, And as sparkling wits were pouring On, for ever on ; But, pinions have been shedding, And voiceless darkness spreading, Since a measure Death's been treading O'er the gone, for ever gone ! Every thing is sundering, Every one is wondering, And this huge globe goes thundering On, for ever on. But, 'mid this weary sundering, Heart-breaking and sad wondering, ser A SOLEMN CONCEIT. And this huge globe's rude thundering On, for ever on, I would that I were dreaming Where little flowers are gleaming, And the long green grass is streaming O'er the gone, for ever gone! TAYLOE. ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. PLATFORM AT THE TOP OF THE STEEPLE OF 8T. NICHOLAS* CHURCH. TIME -PAY-BREAK. ARTEVELDE (alone). THERE lies a sleeping city. God of dreams! What an unreal and fantastic world Is going on below! Within the sweep of yon encircling wall, How many a large creation of the night, Wide wilderness and mountain, rock and sea, Peopled with busy transitory groups, Finds room to rise, and never feels the crowd ! If when the shows had left the dreamers' eyes They should float upward visibly to mine, How thick with apparitions were that void ! But now the blank and blind profundity Turns my brain giddy with a sick aversion. I have not slept. I am to blame for that. Long vigils, join'd with scant and meagre food, Must needs impair that promptitude of mind, And cheerfulness of spirit, which, in him Who leads a multitude, is past all price. I think I could redeem an hour's repose Out of the night that I have squander'd, yet. The breezes, launch'd upon their early voyage, Play with a pleasing freshness on my face. I will enfold my cloak about my limbs, Ajid lie where I shall front them; here, I think. \_He lies down. 39 ARTEVELDE IN GHENT. If this were over blessed be the calm That comes to me at last! A friend in need Is nature to us, that, when all is spent, Brings slumber bountifully whereupon We give her sleepy welcome if all this Were honourably over Adrianna [Falls asleep, but starts up almost instantly. I heard a hoof, a horse's hoof I'll swear, Upon the road from Bruges, or did I dream? No! 'tis the gallop of a horse at speed. VAN DEN BOSCH (without). What ho! Van Artevelde! ARTEVELDE. Who calls? VAN DEN BOSCH (entering). 'Tis I. Thou art an early riser, like myself; Or is it that thou hast not been to bed? ARTEVELDE. What are thy tidings? VAN DEN BOSCH. Nay, what can they be? A page from pestilence and famine's day-book ; So many to the pest-house carried in, So many to the dead-house carried out. The same dull, dismal, damnable old story. ARTEVELDE. He quiet ; listen to the westerly wind, And tell me if it bring thee nothing new. VAN DEN BOSCH. Nought to my < >\\\\ save howl of hungry dog Tluit hears the house is stirring nothing else. ARTEVELDE. N<>, now I hear it not myself no nothing. Tin- city's hum is up but ere you came 'Twus audible enough. TAYLOR. VAN DEN BOSCH. In God's name what? ARTEVELDE. A horseman's tramp upon the road from Bruges. VAN DEN BOSCH. Why, then, be certain 'tis a flag of truce ! If once he reach the city we are lost. Nay, if he be but seen, our danger's great. What terms so bad they would not swallow now? Let's send some trusty varlets forth at once To cross his way. ARTEVELDE. And send him back to Bruges? VAN DEN BOSCH. Send him to hell and that's a better place. ARTEVELDE. Nay, softly, Van den Bosch ; let war be war, But let us keep its ordinances. VAN DEN BOSCH. Tush! I say, but let them see him from afar, And in an hour shall we, bound hand and foot, Be on our way to Bruges. ARTEVELDE. Not so, not so; My rule of governance has not been such As e'er to issue in so foul a close. VAN DEN BOSCH. AVhat matter by what rule thou may'st have govern'd ? Think'st thou a hundred thousand citizens Shall stay the fury of their empty maws Because thou'st ruled them justly? ARTEVELDE. It may be That such a hope is mine. VAN DEN BOSCH. Then thou art mad. And I must take this matter on myself. [Zs //'" /'.'/ AUTI.\ I.I IT. Hold, Van den Bosch; I say tin- shall not In 1 . 392 TAYLOR. I must be madder than I think I am Ere I shall yield up my authority. Which I abuse not, to be used by thcc. VAN DEN BOSCH. This comes of lifting dreamers into power. I tell thee, in this strait and stress of famine, The people, but to pave the way for pi-arc, Would instantly despatch our heads to Bru. Once and again I warn thee that thy life Hangs by a thread. ARTEVELDE. Why, know I not it does? What hath it hung by else since Utas' eve? Did I not by mine own advised choice Place it in jeopardy for certain ends? And what were these? To prop thy tottering state? To float thee o'er a reef, and, that performed, To cater for our joint security? No, verily ; not such my high ambition. I bent my thoughts on yonder city's weal ; I looked to give it victory and freedom; And working to that end, by consequence From one great peril did deliver thee Not for the love of thee or of thy life, Which I regard not, but the city's service; And if for that same service it seem good, I will expose thy life to equal hazard. VAN DEN BOSCH. Thou wilt? ARTEVELDE. I Will. VAN DEN BOSCH. Oh, Lord! to hear him speak, What a most mighty emperor of puppets Is this that I have brought upon the board ! But how if he that made it should unmake? AKTEVELDE IN GHENT. ARTEVELDE. Unto His sovereignty who truly made me With infinite humility I bow ! Both, both of us are puppets, Van den Bosch; Part of the curious clock-work of this world, We scold, and squeak, and crack each other's crowns ; And if by twitches moved from wires we see not, I were to toss thee from this steeple's top, I should be but the instrument no more The tool of that chastising Providence Which doth exalt the lowly, and abase The violent and proud: but let me hope There's no such task appointed me to-day. Thou passest in the world for worldly wise: Then, seeing we must sink or swim together, What can it profit thee, in this extreme Of our distress, to wrangle with me thus For my supremacy and rule? Thy fate, As of necessity bound up with mine, Must needs partake my cares : let that suffice To put thy pride to rest till better times. Contest more reasonably wrong a prize More precious than the ordering of a shipwreck. VAN DEN BOSCH. Tush, tush, Van Artevelde ; thou talk'st and tnlk'M. And honest burghers think it wondrous fine. IJut thou might'st easilier with that tongue of thine Persuade yon smoke to fly i' th' face o' the wind, Than talk away my wit and understanding. I say yon herald shall not filter here. ARTK V I.I.I >!:. I know, sir, no man better, where my talk Is serviceable singly, where it needs To be by acts enforced. I say, beware, And brave not mine authority too far. 394 TAYLOR. VAN DEN BOSCH. Hast thou authority to take my life? What, is it else to let yon herald in To bargain for our blood? ARTEVELDE. Thy life again ! Why, what a very slave of life art thou! Look round about on this once populous town ; Not one of these innumerous house-tops But hides some spectral form of misery, Some peevish, pining child and moaning mother, Some aged man that in his dotage scolds, Not knowing why he hungers, some cold corse That lies unstraightened where the spirit left it. Look round, and answer what thy life can be To tell for more than dust upon the balance. I, too, would live I have a love for life But rather than to live to charge my soul With one hour's lengthening out of woes like these, I'd leap this parapet with as free a bound As e'er was schoolboy's o'er a garden wall. VAN DEN BOSCH. I'd like to see thee do it. ARTEVELDE. I know thou wouldst; But for the present be content to see My less precipitate descent ; for lo ! There comes the herald o'er the hill. [Exit VAN DEN BOSCH. Beshrew thee! Thou shalt not have the start of me in this. [lie follows, and the scene closes. 395 ERNESTO. ERNESTO. THOUGHTFULLY by the side Ernesto sate Of her whom, in his earlier youth, with heart Then first exulting in a dangerous hope, Dearer for danger, he had rashly loved. That was a season when the untravell'd spirit, Not way-worn nor way- wearied, nor with soil Nor stain upon it, lions in its path Saw none or seeing, with triumphant trust In its resources and its powers, defied Perverse to find provocatives in warnings, And in disturbance taking deep delight. By sea or land he still saw rise the storm With a gay courage, and through broken lights, Tempestuously exalted, for a while His heart ran mountains high, or to the roar Of shattered forests sang superior songs AVith kindling, and what might have seem'd to some, Auspicious energy; by land and sea He was way-founder'd trampled in the dust His many-colour' d hopes his lading rich Of precious pictures, bright imaginations, In absolute shipwreck to the wind and waves Suddenly render' d By her side In- sate : But time had been between ;mlaves that I Would freely iiive them tliese, At once upon the >]>uil tlu-y fly, The costly boon to sei/e. "One only at my side remained Beside this Ethiop none : He, moveless as the steed he reined, Behind me sat alone. " * What will thy gain, good fellow, be, Thus lingering at my side?' 'My king, that I shall faithfully Have guarded thee,' he cried. ' ' True servant's title he may wear He only who has not, For his Lord's gifts, how rich soe'er, His Lord himself forgot." So thou alone dost walk before Thy God with perfect aim, From Him desiring nothing more Beside Himself to claim. For if thou not to Him aspire, But to His gifts alone, Not Love, but covetous desire, Has brought thee to His throne. While such thy prayer, it climbs above In vain the golden key Of God's rich treasure-house of love, Thine own will never be 405 EMEKSON. THE HUMBLE-BEE. BURLY, dozing, humble-bee, 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. 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 a colour of romance, And, infusing subtle hi'sits. Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in MI iiny solitudes, Rover of the, underwoods, 406 EMERSON. Tin- 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 bird-like pleasure. Aught unsavoury 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, catch-fly, adder's- tongue, 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 north-western 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. 407 HOFFMANN. SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. SPARKLING and bright in liquid light, Does the wine our goblets gleam in, With hue as red as the rosy bed Which a bee would choose to dream in. Then fill to-night with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. And break on the lips while meeting. Oh ! if Mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions, We here. awhile would now beguile The grey-beard of his pinions To drink to-nirht with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting. But since delight can't tempt the wight, Nor fond regret delay him, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, Nor sober Friendship stay him, We'll drink to-night with hearts as light. To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim. And break on the lips while meeting. 4 os MORRIS. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas 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 ; Oh, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies ! 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 thec cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. 409 POETRY. Old tree! the storm still brave! And woodman, leave the spot ; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not. POETRY. To me the world's an open book, Of sweet and pleasant poetry; I read it in the running brook That sings its way towards the sea. It whispers in the leaves of trees, The swelling grain, the waving grass, And in the cool, fresh evening breeze That crisps the wavelets as they pass. The flowers below, the stars above, In all their bloom and brightness given, Are, like the attributes of love, The poetry of earth and heaven. Thus Nature's volume, read aright, Attunes the soul to minstrelsy, Tinging life's clouds with rosy light, And all the world with poetry. 410 HOYT. SNOW A WINTER SKETCH. THE blessed morn has come again ; The early gray Taps at the slumberer's window pane, And seems to say Break, break from the enchanter's chain, Away, away! 411 SNOW A WINTER SKETCH. 'Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air, Of winds upon their battle-ground, But gently there, The snow is falling, all around How fair how fair ! The jocund fields would masquerade ; Fantastic scene ! Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade Have cast their green, And joined the revel, all arrayed So white and clean. E'en the old posts, that hold the bars And the old gate, Forgetful of their wintry wars, And age sedate, High capped, and plumed, like white hussars, Stand there in state. The drifts are hanging by the sill, The eaves, the door ; The hay-stack has become a hill; All covered o'er The waggon, loaded for tin- mill The eve before. Maria, brings the water-pail, lint where's the well! Like magic of a fairy tale, Most strange to tell, All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail ! How deep it fell! 412 IIOYT. The wood-pile, too, is playing hide ; The a xi', tin- log, The kennel of that friend so tried, (The old watch-dog,) The grindstone standing by its >i full of spirits in these mighty fanes, And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew, I laid me down within a shadow deep Of a tall column of the Parthenon, And in an absent idleness of thought 1 scrawled upon the smooth and marble base. Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there .' 77/6- naine of a sweet child I knew at ROHK ' \ was in A~ia. 'Twas a peerless night I'pon the plains of Sardis and the moon, TiMiehiiiL r inv evelids through the \vind-st invil tent. Had \\ilehed me from my -lumber. I an>e. And -ilently stole forth, and by the brink 420 WILLIS. Of golden "Pactolus," whnv bathe his waters The bases of Cybele's columns fair, I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood I mused upon the storied past awhile, Watehing the moon, that with the saint- mild eye Had looked upon the mighty Lybian kings Sleeping around me Cro3sus, who had heaped Within the mouldering portico his gold, And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring lieneath yon swelling tumulus and then I loitered up the valley to a small And humbler ruin., where the undefiled* Of the Apocalypse their garments kept Spotless ; and crossing with a conscious awe The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye It seemed as if, amid the moonlight, stood " The angel of the church of Sardis" still ! And I again passed onward, and as dawn Paled the bright morning star, I lay me down, Weary and sad, beside the river's brink, And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn. Wrote with my fingers in the golden "sands." Tell me, O memory ! what wrote I there ? The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome ! The dust is old upon my " sandal-shoon," And still I am a pilgrim ; I have roved From wild America to spicy Ind, And worshipped at innumerable shrines Of beauty, and the painter's art, to me, And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue, And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul, Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored * "Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their gar- ments; and they shall walk with me in white; for they are worthy." RKV. iii. 4. 421 LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY. My memory with thoughts that can allay Fever and sadness; and when life gets dim, And I am overladen in my years, Minister to me. But when wearily The mind gives over toiling, and, with eyes Open but seeing not, and senses all Lying awake within their chambers fine, Thought settles like a fountain, clear and calm- Far in its sleeping depths, as 'twere a gem, Tell me, O memory! what shines so fair? The face of the sweet child I knew at Home ! ALFORD. HYMN TO THE SEA. AVuo shall declare the secret of thy birth, Thou old companion of the circling earth 'I And having marked with keen poetic sight Ere beast or happy bird Through the vast silence stirred, Roll back the folded darkness of the primal night? Corruption-like, thou teemedst in the graves Of mouldering systems, with dark weltering waves Troubling the peace of the first mother's womb ; AVI lose ancient awful form, AVith inly tossing storm, Unquiet heavings kept a birth-place and a tomb. Till the life-giving Spirit moved above The face of the waters, with creative love AVarming the hidden seeds of infant light: AVhat time the mighty AVord Through thine abyss was heard, And swam from out thy deeps the young day heavenly bright. Thou and the earth, twin-sisters, as they say, In the old prime were fashioned in the day, And therefore thou delightest evermore AVith her to lie, and play The summer hours away, Curling thy loving ripples up her quiet shore. She is married, a matron long ago, AVith nations at her side ; her milk doth flow 423 Each year; but thcc no husband dares to tame; Thy wild will is thine o\vn, Thy sole and virrin throne Thy mood is ever changing thy resolve the same. Sunlight and moonlight minister to thro; OYr tin- hro.td circle ol' the shore!.-- I l.-avi-n's t\v> _L r n-:it lights lor ever set and rise; "NVhilr the round vault al>>\f. In vast and nlrnt IOM-. /inir down upon thcc with his hundred 124 ALFORD. All night tliou interest forth thy solemn Counting thy wary minutes all alone ; Then in tin 1 morning thou (lost calmly lie, Deep blue, ere yet the snn 1 1 is day-work hath begun, Under the opening windows of the golden sky. The spirit of the mountain looks on thee Over an hundred hills; quaint shadows flee Across thy marbled mirror ; brooding lie Storm-inists of infant cloud, "With a sight-baffling shroud Mantling the grey-blue islands in the western sky. Sometimes thou liftest up thine hands on high Into the tempest-cloud that blurs tin- sky, Holding rough dalliance with the fitful blast, Whose stiff breath, whistling shrill, Pierces with deadly chill The wet crew feebly clinging to their shattered mast. Foam-white along the border of the shore Thine onward-leaping billows plunge and roar ; While o'er the pebbly ridges slowly glide Cloaked figures, dim and grey, Through the thick mist of spray, Watching for some struck vessel in the boiling tide. Daughter and darling of remotest eld Time's childhood and Time's age thou hast beheld; His arm is feeble and his eye is dim He tells old tales again He wearies of long pain ; Thou art as at the first: thou journeyedst not with him. 425 THACKERAY. THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is The New Street of the Little Fields ; And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo; Green herbs, red peppers, muscles, saili-m, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace; All these you eat at TERRK'S tavern, In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis ; And true philosophers, methinks, Win) love all sorts of natural beaut ic>. Should love good victuals and good drinks. And Cordelier or Benedictine Miirlit gladly, sure, his lot cniltracc. Nor find a la-t-day too afflicting, Which ,MT\vd him up a P.onillaba: 126 THACKERAY. I wonder if the house still there is? Yes, here tin- lump is, as before; The smiling, red-cheeked e'caillere is Still opening oysters at the door. Is TERRE still alive and able? I recollect his droll grimace ; He'd come and smile before your table, And hoped you liked your Bouillabaisse. We enter; nothing's changed or older. " How's Monsieur TERRE, waiter, pray ?" The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder ; " Monsieur is dead this many a day." " It is the lot of saint and sinner. So honest TERRE'S run his race ?" " What will Monsieur require for dinner?" " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ?" "Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?" " Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ; The Chambertin with yellow seal." " So TERRE'S gone," I say, and sink in My old accustomed corner-place ; " He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." My old accustomed corner here is, The table still is in the nook ; Ah ! vanished many a busy year is, This well-known chair since last I took. When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 427 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days, here met to dine ? Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty I'll pledge them in the good old wine. The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace ; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage ; There's laughing TOM is laughing yet ; There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage ; There's poor old FRED in the Gazette ; On JAMES'S head the grass is growing : Good Lord ! The world has wagged apace Since here we set the Claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place but riot alone. A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear lace looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me There's no one now to share my cup. * * * # I drink it MS the Fates ordain it. Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes; Fill ii| the lonely glass, and drain it In memory of dear old times. Welcome the wine, whateYr the >cal is; And HI von down and say your jiraee With thankful heart, whateYr tin- meal IB. Here comes the. smoking Jiouillahai- - 428 THACKERAY. THE END OF THE PLAY. THE play is done ; the curtain drops, Slo\v falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around to say farewell. ll is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's any thing but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. That Fate ere long shall bid you play ; Good-night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway! Good-night ! I'd say, the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age. I'd say, your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain than those of men Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I'd say we suffer and we strive, Not less nor more as men than boys ; With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys, 42'* THE END OF THE PLAY. And if in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I'd say, how fate may change and shift ; The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave ! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to Heaven that willed it so, That darkly rules the fate of all, That semis the respite or the blow, That's free to give or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit: Who brought him to that mirth and state ! His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. 430 THACKERAY. Amen! whatever fate be sent, Tray (lod the heart may kindly glow. Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow. Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful "Will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize? Go, lose or conquer as you can : But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young ! (Bear kindly with my humble lays ;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days: The shepherds heard it overhead The joyful angels raised it then : Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men. My song, save this, is little worth ; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. 431 TENNYSON. THE MAY QUEEN. Vor m\\<\ wake :unl call me early, call me early, mother dear: To-morrow 'ill he the happiest time of all the glad New-year; ( )f all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen <' 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: Tln-iv's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline: Hut none so lair as little Alice in all the land they >ay, S< I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the Ma\ I -leej) so sound all night, mother, that T shall never wake, It' you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: lnt I mn-t gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay. For I'm to In- Queen o' the May, mother. I'm to be Queen o' the May. TKNNYSON. As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I 866, lut Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the ha/el-tive 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 vas a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me eniel-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 'ill woo me any summer day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little ElhV 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 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n 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 valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill 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 call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; To-morrow 'ill 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. 433 E E 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 cops.. Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pain-: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on hijih : I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy lull rim-tree, And the tnt'trd plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill conic buck n^iiii with summer oYr the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldrrintr .irravi-. 434 TENNYSON. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that jrrave of mine. In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shim-, Befoiv the red cock crows from the barn upon the hill, When yon an- 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. I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. 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 for evermore, 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 than ever I have been. 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 rose-bush that I set About the parlour-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. 4.T, 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 year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. t) sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot ri>e. And sweet is all the land about, and nil the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go. It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun. And now it seems as hard to slay, and yet His will be done! But still I think it can't be long before I find relea.-e ; And that in.od man, the clergyman, has told me words of peaee. O blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair! And lilr.--.iiii:- on his whole lite long, until he meet me there! ble iii'_ r - <>n his kindly heart, and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him. as he knelt beside my bed. 43G TENNYSON. He show'd mo all tin- mercy, tor In- taught me all tin- sin: Now, though my lain]) was lighted late, there's OIK- will let me in Nor would I now In- well, mother, again, if that could he, For my desire is but to pass to Him that died lor me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, Then 1 came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Eme on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 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 yon and Eme clear ; 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 listen'd 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 mini-/ 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 seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. 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, Eme, 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 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. 437 THE MAY QUEEN. 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 For ever and for ever with those just souls and true And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, 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. 438 MORTE D'ARTHUR. So all day long the noise of battle roll'd Among the mountains by the winter sea; 439 MORTE D' ARTHUR. Until King Arthur's table, man by man, Had falPn in Lyonness about their Lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere : "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made, Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more but let what will be, be. I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, AVhieh was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake. Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword and how I row'd across And took it, and have worn it, like a king: Ami. wheresoever I am sung or told In at'iertiine, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur. And tlinir him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou BO&Bt, and lightly bring me word. To him n-plied the bold Sir Hedivere : 440 TENNYSON. "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm. A little tiling mav harm a wounded man. Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word." So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake. There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth- work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seem'd Better to leave Excalibur conceal' d There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King. Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "Hast thou perform'd my mission which I gave .' What is it thou hast seen ? or what hast heard ?" And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag." To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale : "Thou hast betray'd thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseem'd Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had follow' d, either hand, 441 MORTE D' ARTHUR. Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bad thee, watch, and lightly bring me word." Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fix'd in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud. "And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt ? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of anus, Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Exealiluir, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Luke. Nine years she wrought it, .-ittinji in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.' So might some old man speak in the aftertime T<> all the people, winning reverence. Bui now much honour and much fame were lost." Bo .-pake, he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Kxcalihiir the second time. And M -tn.dr back slow to the wounded King. Then spoke King Arthur, hreathin^ heavily: Hi' TKNNYSON. "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?" And answer made the bold Sir Iii-diviTe: " I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds." To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: "Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, rnkniglitly, 1 1 'n i tor-hear ted ! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow'd of the power in his eye That bow'd the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt ; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands." Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch'd the sword, And strongly wheePd and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the solendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl' d in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur : But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King. Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath : "Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?" 443 MORTE D'ARTHUR. And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere : "Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not tho' I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him ; But when I look'd again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandish'd him Three times, and drew him under in the mere." And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard ; "My end draws nigh; 'tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin ; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die." So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded thro' his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words, Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him thro' the place of tombs. But, as he walk'd, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed Wl icn all the house is mute. So sigh'd the King, Muttering and murmuring at his car "Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die." But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk'd, Larg'T than human on the fro/en hills. lie heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clash'd his harm-ss in the icy ea\v> And hanvn elia-m>. and all to left and right 11! TENNYSON. The bare black cliff clung' d round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crug thai rani: Sharp-Smitten with tin- dint <>(' armed liet'ls And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon. Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them ; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms Blaek-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream by tin-si- Three Queens with crowns of gold and from them rose A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world. Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me in the barge," And to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shatter'd casque, and chafed his hands, And call'd him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against his brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colourless, and like the wither'd moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne were parch' d with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shatter'd column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, 445 MORTE D' ARTHUR. Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings. Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere, "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole ROUND TABLE is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world; And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds." And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge : " The old order change th, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure ! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long \vay With these thou see'st if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the i-laiul-vallry of Avilion ; \Vhrre fulls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 446 Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow' d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns And bowery hollows crown' d with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 447 MORTE D' ARTHUR. So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. 448 EDWARD GRAY SWEET Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, "And have you lost your heart?" she said; "And are you married yet, Edward Gray?" Sweet. Emma Moreland spoke to me : Bitterly weeping I turn'd away : " Sweet Emilia Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray 44'J EDWARD GRAY. " Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will : To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill. "Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Fill'd I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me. "Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: 'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 1 To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.' "There I put my face in Jhe grass Whisper'd, 'Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did : Speak a little, Ellen Adair!' "Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, ' Here lies the body of Ellen Adair ; And here the heart of Edward Gray!' "Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree : Hut I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me. I Utterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn' d away : Tin re lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Ks her in the place of prayer, And by the hearth-lire's li-ht ; \\V |.;m~e boide her door to hear Once more her sweet "Good-night!" WHITTIER. There seems a shadow on the day. Her smile no longer cheers ; A dimness on tin- stars of night, Like eyes that look through tears. Alone unto our Father's will One thought hath reconciled ; That He whose love exceedeth ours Hath taken home His child. Fold her, oh Father! in thine arms, And let her henceforth be A messenger of love between Our human hearts and Thee. Still let her mild rebuking stand Between us and the wrong, And her dear memory serve to make Our faith in Goodness strong. And, grant that she who, trembling, here Distrusted all her powers, May welcome to her holier home The well beloved of ours. 4G5 POE. THE RAVEN. OlfOE 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. "Tis BOHM \i-itor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more. 4GG POE. Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Kagi'i-lv I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my hooks surcease of sorrow sorrow for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore. 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 "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; This 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 chamber 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, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness 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 ; 'Tis the wind and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 467 THE RAVEX. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 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 craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 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 chamber door Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as "Nevermore." But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther 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." Start Icil 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 songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never nevermore.'" But tlit- Havon still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Strai-ht I wheeled a cn-liioned scat in front of bird and bust and door; Then, upon tin- velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 408 TOE. Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore What tliis grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. " Wretch," I cried, " thy God hath lent thee by these angels he hath sent thee Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh 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 enchanted On this home by Horror haunted tell me truly, I implore Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me tell me, I implore!" Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." " 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 rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend !" I shrieked, up- starting "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 ! 4C'J THE RAVEN: 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 ; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light 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 ! 470 LONGFELLOW. HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 'Aairaatr], I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls! 471 HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows. O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before ; Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night! 472 RESIGNATION. 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! 473 RESIGNATION. 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 vapours, 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 unto that school Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule. 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. 474 LONGFELLOW. Not as a child shall we anaiii brhold her; For when with raptures wild In our embraces we aifain 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; But silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way. 475 KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. WITLAP, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland His drinking-horn bequeathed, 476 LONGFELLOW. That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They miirlil remember the, donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas, And bade the goblet pass ; In their beards the red wine glistened Like dew-drops in the gr;. 477 KING WITLAFS DRINKING-HORN. They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to Christ the Lord, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, Who had preached his holy word. They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more. And the reader droned from the pulpit, Like the murmur of many bees, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, And Saint Basil's homilies; Till the great bells of the convent, From their prison in the tower, Guthlac and Bartholomaeus, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney. And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead. Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!" 478 EXCELSIOR. THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, Excelsior ! His brow was sad; his eye beneath. Flashed like a falchion from its sheath, And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue, Excelsior ! 47'J EXCELSIOR. In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior ! "Try not the Pass!" the old man said; " Dark lowers the tempest overhead, The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior ! "O, stay," the maiden said, "and rest Thy weary head upon this breast i" A tear stood in his bright blue eye, But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior ! " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! Beware the awful avalanche!" This was the peasant's last Good-night; A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior ! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, A voice cried through the startled air, Excelsior ! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with tin- strange device, Excelsior) 480 LONGFELLOW. 4 Thnv, in flu- twiliiriit cold and ur:i\. I. ill-less, but lieanlit'nl, he lav, And from the sky, serene and tar, A voice fell, like a falling star, Excelsior] 181 TUCKERMAX. WEST POINT. WILD mnln-ajrc far around me clings To hnv/.y knoll and hushed ravine, And .MM- each rockv headland flings Its mantle of n-iVf-hinir L r|-,. rn . 182 TUCK KK MAN. The echoes th.it so boldly nmj: When cannon lla-hed l'nni steep to ,-tilvtr bowl of mine it tells of jrood old tinu--. Of joyous d:iys and jolly nights, and merry Christinas cliiin. - : They were a fiv- and jovial race, but lionrst_, 1'i'avc ami true, That dipped their ladle in the punch when this old bowl was new. 483 1IOLMKS. A Spanish galleon brought the liar so runs tin- ancient tale 'Twas hammered by an Antwerp -niith, whose arm was like a Hail ; And now and then between the strokes, for fear his strength should fail. He wiped his brow, and quailed a enp of good old Klemi-h ale. 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, \Yho saw the eherubs, and conceived a longing lor the same; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas lilled with eaudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. lut, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, Hut hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, lie went to Leyden, where he found 'conventicles and schnaps. And then, of course, you know what's next it left the Dutchman's slmi With those that in the Ma/ijlower came, a hundred souls and more, Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, Wlien old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim, The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword, And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery hollands in the man that never feared- He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard; And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought and prayed, All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid! That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin. k 'Run from the white man when you find he smells of hollands gin!" A hundred years, and fifty more had spread their leaves and snov A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose; When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy. 'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. 489 ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good poor child, you'll never This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air, And if -God bless me you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill ; So John did drink and well he Brought that night at Bunker's Hill I I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here; "Tis but the fool that loves excess hast thou a drunken soul, Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! I love the memory of the past its pressed yet fragrant flowers 'The moss that clothes its broken walls the ivy on its towers Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin, That, dooms one to those dreadful words "My dear, where have you been ? 4 no STREET. A FOREST NOOK. A NOOK within the forest; overhead The branches arch, and shape a pleasant bower, Breaking white cloud, blue sky and sunshine bright, Into pure ivory and sapphire spots, 491 A FOREST NOOK. And flecks of gold ; a soft cool emerald tint Colours the air, as though the delicate leaves Emitted self-born light. What splendid walls And what a gorgeous roof carved by the hand Of glorious Nature ! Here the spruce thrusts in Its bristling plume, tipp'd with its pale green points; The scallop'd beech leaf, and the birch's cut Into fine ragged edges, interlace : While here and there, through clefts, the laurel lifts Its snowy chalices half-brimm'd with dew, As though to hoard it for the haunting elves The moonlight calls to this their festal hall, A thick, rich, grassy carpet clothes the earth, Sprinkled with autumn leaves. The fern displays Its fluted wreath beaded beneath with drops Of richest brown ; the wild-rose spreads its breast Of delicate pink, and the o'erhanging fir Has dropp'd its dark, long cone. The scorching glare Without, makes this green nest a grateful haunt For summer's radiant things; the butterfly Fluttering within and resting on some flower, Fans his rich velvet form ; the toiling bee SI loots by, with sounding hum and mist-like wings ; The robin perches on the bending spray With shrill, quirk chirp; and like a flake of fire The ivdhird seeks the shelter of thr leaves. And now and then a flutter overhead In the thick green, betrays some wandering wing Coming and going, yet conccal'd from siirht. A shrill, loud outcry on yon highest bough Sits tin- gray squirrel, in his Inirlr.-qnr wrath Stamping and chattering fiercely: now lie drops A hoarded nut, then at my smiling ga/.r Buries hiiiiM-ir within the loliii The in-eet tribe are here: the ant toils on With its white burthen ; in its m-tud web 492 STREET. (iray glistening oYr tin- bush, the spider lurk-. A close-crourh'd ball, tMit-darling a- a luini 'IVlls its trapp'd prey, and looping quick its thread.-. Chains into helpleMe-s tin- bu/./ing \vii The wood-tick taps its tiny mullled dnnn To the shrill cricket-life, and swelling loud, The grasshopper its swelling bugle winds. Those breaths of Nature, the light fluttering airs Like gentle respirations, come and go, Lift on its crimson stem the maple-leaf, I)i>plaving its white lining underneath, And sprinkle from the tree-tops golden rain Of sunshine on the velvet sward below. Such nooks as this are common in the woods: And all these sights and sounds the commonest In Nature when she wears her summer prime. Yet by them pass not lightly: to the wise They tell the beauty and the harmony Of e'en the lowliest things that God hath made. That His familiar earth and sky are full Of His ineffable power and majesty; That in the humble objects, seen too oft To be regarded, is such wondrous grace, The art of man is vain to imitate ; That the low flower our careless foot treads down Is a rich shrine of incense delicate, And radiant beauty, and that (Jod hath forin'd All, from the cloud-wrcath'd mountain, to tin Of silver sand the bubbling spring easts up With deepe-t forethought and severest care. And thus these noteless lovely things are type- Of his perfection and divinity. 493 ROBERT BROWNING. TWO IN THE CAMPAGNA, I WONDER do you feel to-day As I have felt, since, hand in hand, We sat down on the grass, to stray In spirit better through the land, This morn of Home and May ? For me, I touched a thought, I know, Has tantalised me many times, (Like turns of thread the spiders throw Mocking across our path,) for rhymes To catch at and let go. Help me to hold it: first it left The yellowing fennel, run to seed There, branching from the brickwork's cleft. Some old tomb's ruin : yonder weed Took up the floating weft, Where one small orange-cup amassed Five beetles, blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal, and last Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it ia>t ! Th<> champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace, An everlasting wash of air Rome's ghost since her deec:i- 491 Such life there, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowi-rs, Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers. Plow say you? Let us, O my dove, Let us be unashamed of soul, As earth lies bare to heaven above. How is it under our control To love or not to love? 495 TWO IN THE CAMPAGXA. I would that you were all to ine, You that are just so much, no more Nor yours, nor mine, nor slave nor free ! AVhere does the fault lie? what the core Of the wound, since wound must be? I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill At your soul's springs, your part, my part In life, for good and ill. No. I yearn upward touch you close, Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth, I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak, Then the good minute goes. Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? Just when I st-rim-d about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again ! The old trick! Only I discern Infinite passion and tin- pain Of finite hearts that yearn. 496 ROBERT I'.KOWNING. EVELYN HOPE. BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead ; Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her hook-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium-Hower, Inhuming 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 thro' the hinge's chink. 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 nought to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals, nought beside? No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as iiiiuhtv to make, And creates the love to reward the love, I claim you still, for my own love's sake! 497 EVELYN HOPE. Delayed it may be for more lives 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? 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 Sec, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand. 498 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. WINE OF CYPRUS. IF old Bacchus were the speaker, He would tell you, with a sigh, Of the Cyprus in this beaker I am sipping like a fly, Like a fly or gnat on Ida At the hour of goblet-pledge, By queen Juno brushed aside, a Full white arm-sweep, from the edge. 499 WINE OF CYPRUS. Sooth, the drinking should be ampler, When the drink is so divine : And some deep-mouthed Greek exampler Would become your Cyprus wine ! Cyclop's mouth might plunge aright in, While his one eye over-leered Not too large were mouth of Titan, Drinking rivers down his beard. Pan might dip his head so deep in. That his ears alone pricked out, Fauns around him, pressing, leaping, Each one pointing to his throat: While the Naiads, like Bacchantes Wild, with urns thrown out to waste, Cry, " O earth, that thou wouldst grant us Springs to keep, of such a taste!" But for me, I am not worthy After gods and Greeks to drink ; And my lips are pale and earthy To go bathing from this brink. Since you heard them speak the last time, They have faded from their blooms, And the laughter of my pastime Has learnt silence at the tombs. Ah, my friend! the antique drinkers Crowned the nip, and crowned the brow. Can I answer the old thinkers In the forms they thought of, now ' Who will fetch from garden-closes Some new garlands while I speak. Thai the forehead, crowned with rOMS, .May >trike scarlet down the cheek? 500 KM/AHF/m BAKRKTT BROWNING. Do not mock me! with my mortal. Suits no wreath airaiu, indeed ! I am sad-voiced as the turtle Which Anacreon iiM-l to feed; Yet as that same bird demurely Wet her beak in cup of his, So, without a garland, surely I may touch the brim of this. Go ! let others praise the Chian ! This is soft as Muses' string This is tawny as Rhea's lion, This is rapid as its spring, Bright as Paphia's eyes e'er met us, Light as ever trod her feet! And the brown bees of Hymettus Make their honey not so sweet. Very copious are my praises, Though I sip it like a fly! Ah but, sipping, times and places Change before me suddenly As Ulysses' old libation Drew the ghosts from every part, So your Cyprus wine, dear Grecian, Stirs the Hades of my heart. And I think of those long mornings Which my thought goes far to seel;. When, betwixt the folio's turnings, Solemn flowed the rhythmic Greek. Past the pane, the mountain spreading. Swept the sheep-bell's tinkling noise, While- a girlish voice was reading Somewhat low for aCs and oCs. 501 WINE OF CYPKUS. Then what golden hours were for us ! While we sate together there, How the white vests of the chorus Seemed to wave up a live air ! How the cothurns trod majestic Down th*e deep iambic lines ; And the rolling anapsestic Curled like vapour over shrines! Oh, our ^Eschylus, the thunderous! How he drove the bolted breath Through the cloud, to wedge it ponderous In the gnarled oak beneath. Oh, our Sophocles, the royal, Who was born to monarch's place And who made the whole world loyal, Less by kingly power than grace. Our Euripides, the human With his droppings of warm tears ; And his touches of things common, Till they rose to touch the spheres! Our Theocritus, our Bion, And our Pindar's shining goals! These were cup-bearers undying Of the wine that's meant for souls. And my Plato, the divine one, If men know the gods aright By their motions, as they shine on With a glorious trail of light! And your noble Christian l>i>lm|><. Who mouthed grandly the last Greek : Though the sponges on their hyssops Were distent with wine too wrak. 602 KLIZABJCTB BARRETT BROWNING. Yrt, your Chrvsosttun, YOU praised him, With his liberal mouth of gold ; And your Basil, you uprai>r went down ; Each thought of the woman who loved him the best, And the children stood watching them out of the town : For men must work, and women must weep, And here's little to earn, and many to keep, Though the harbour bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down ; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower. While the night rack came rolling up, ragged and brown ; But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbour bar be moaning. Three corpses lie out on the shining sands, In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the WOIIILMI are weeping and wringing their hand-, 505 THE SANDS OF DEE. For those who will never come home to the town. But men must work, and women must weep, And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. THE SANDS OF DEE. "On, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she. The creeping tide came up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see; The blinding mist came down and hid the land And never home came she. "Oh, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair A tress o' golden hair, O' drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that si i one so fair, Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam. Tin- cruel, crawling foam, The cruel, hungry foam. To her grave beside the sea : P>ut still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee. 506 KINGSLEY. THE DAY OF THE LORD. THE Day of the Lord is at hand, at hand! Its storms roll up the sky : A nation sleeps starving on heaps of gold ; All dreamers toss and sigh ; The night is darkest before the dawn When the pain is sorest the child is born, And the Day of the Lord is at hand. Gather you, gather you, angels of God Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; Come! for the Earth is grown coward and old Come down and renew us her youth. Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above, To the Day of the Lord at hand. Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell Famine, and Plague, and War ; Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, Gather, and fall in the snare! Hirelings and Mammonites, Pedants and Knaves, Crawl to the battle-field sneak to your graves, In the Day of the Lord at hand. Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, While the Lord of all ages is here? True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, And those who can suffer, can dare. Each age of gold was an iron age too, And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, In the Day of the Lord at hand. 607 AYTOUN. THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. SOUND the fife, and cry the slogan Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild triumphal music, Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland Hear once more the battle-song Swell within their glens and valleys As the clansmen march along! Never from the field of combat, Never from the deadly fray, Was a nobler trophy carried Than we bring with us to-day; Never since the valiant Douglas On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Robert's heart the priceless To our dear Redeemer's shore! Lo! we bring with us the hero Lo! we bring the conquering Gramme, Crowned as best beseems a victor From the altar of his fame ; Fresh :md bleeding from the battle Whence his spirit took its flight, Midst the ernshinir charge of squadron;-, And the thunder of the fight ! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph. As we march o'er moor and le.-i ! Is there :my here will venture To bewail our dead Dnn.l 508 AYTnl V Let tin- widows of tin 1 traitors W(v]> until thi'ir eyes are dim! Wail \v mav lull wrll tor Scotland Let iionr dare to mourn lor him ! Siv! al>o\v his glorious body Lies tin 1 royal banner's fold See! his valiant blood is mingled AVitli its crimson and its gold. See how calm he looks and stately, Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field! See Oh never more, my comrades. Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward lightning, As the hour of fight drew nigh ! Never shall we hear the voice that, Clearer than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for King and Country, Bade us win the field, or fall! ii. On the heights of Killiecrankie Yester-morn our army lay: Slowly rose the mist in columns From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the Pass was wrapped in gloom, When the clansmen rose together From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartan-, And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadswords' edges, And we proved them to be true ; And we prayed the prayer of soldier?, And we cried the gathering-cry, f>0'J THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. And we clasped the hands of kinsmen. And we swore to do or die! Then our leader rode before us On his war-horse black as night Well the Cameronian rebels Knew that charger in the fight! And a cry of exultation From the bearded warriors rose ; For we loved the house of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence " Soldiers ! I have sworn a vow : Ere the evening star shall glisten On Schehallion's lofty brow, Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Grsemes Shall have died in battle-harness For his Country and King James! Think upon the Royal Martyr Think of what his race endure Think on him whom butchers murder'd On the field of Magus Muir: By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruined hearth and shrine By the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mine Strike this day as if the anvil Lay beneath your blows the while. Be they Covenanting traitors, Or the brood of false Argyle! Strike! and drive the trembling rebels IJaekwards o'er the stormy Forth; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honour I< not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger 510 AYTOUN. As we loathe his linviuii gold. Strike! and wlu-n ilu- light is over, If you look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest Search for him that was Dundee !" in. Loudly then the hills re-echoed With our answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded In the bosoms of us all. For the lands of wide Breadalbane, Not a man who heard him speak Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, And they harder drew their breath ; For their souls were strong within them. Stronger than the grasp of death. Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet Sounding in the Pass below, And the distant tramp of horses, And the voices of the foe ; Down we crouched amid the bracken, Till the Lowland ranks draw near, Panting like the hounds in summer. When they scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emerging, Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly, Till they gained the field beneath ; Then we bounded from our covert. 511 THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. Judge how looked the Saxons then. When they saw the rugged mountain Start to life with armed men ! Like a tempest down the ridges Swept the hurricane of steel, Rose the slogan of Macdonald Flashed the broadsword of Lochiel ! Vainly sped the withering volley 'Mongst the foremost of our band On we poured until we met them, Foot to foot, and hand to hand. Horse and man went down like drift-wood When the floods are black at Yule, And their carcasses are whirling In the Garry's deepest pool. Horse and man went down before us Living foe there tarried none On the field of Killiecrankie, When that stubborn fight was done! IV. And the evening star was shining On Schehall ion's distant head, When we wiped our bloody broadswords, And returned to count the dead. There we found him gashed and gory, Stretched upon the cumbered plain, As he told us where to seek him, In the thickest of the slain. And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Pealed the joyful note of triumph, And the clansmen's clamorous cheer: So, amidst tin- battle's thunder, Shot, and steel, and seoivhing flame, In the glory of hi- manhood Passed the spirit of the Graeme! 5 1 _' AYTOUN. V, Open wide tin- vaults of Allml, Where the bones of heroes rest Open wide the hallowed portals To receive another guest! Last of Scots, and last of freemen Last of all that dauntless race Who would rather die unsullied Than outlive the land's disgrace! O thou lion-hearted warrior! Reck not of the after-time : Honour may be deemed dishonour, Loyalty be called a crime. Sleep in peace with kindred ashes Of the noble and the true, Hands that never failed their country, Hearts that never baseness knew. Sleep! and till the latest trumpet Wakes the dead from earth and sea, Scotland shall not boast a braver Chieftain than our own Dundee! K K DAVIS. THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. Baltimore is a sea-port in South Munster, and was plundered ly a baud of Al^crincs in th( night of June 20th, 1631, under the guidance of Hackett, a Dungarvan li 'I'm. -umiiirr sun is falling soft on Carb'ry's hundred i-I-. The sninim-r sun is ulcaniing still throne their play; The gosr-ips lea\e (he little inn ; the households kneel to pray, And full of love, and peace, and rest its daily labour o'er I pou that cosy creek there lay the town of lialtimore. A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there : No MMind, except that th robbing wave, in earth, or sea, or air. The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm : The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. So still the night, these two long barques, round Dunashad that glide Must trust their oars, inethinks not lew, against the chhing-tide Oh! some sweet mission of true, love must urge them to the .-bore They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore ! All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet A stilled gasp! a dreamy noise! "The roof is in a flame!" From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl The yell of " Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore ! Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword ; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gor'd ; Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild ; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child ; \\\\\ see yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with spla.-hing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel- Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore. Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing They see not now the milking maids, deserted is the spring ! Midsummer day this gallant rides from distant. Bandon's town, These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown ; THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent, And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, Then dash'd to sea, and passed Cape Cleir, and saw five leagues before The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. Oh ! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed, This boy will bear a Sheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles ; And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey She's safe she's dead she stabb'd him in the midst of his Serai. And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore, She only smiled O'Driscoll's child she thought of Baltimore. 'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand, Where, high upon a gallows-tree, a yelling wretch is seen 'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan, he, who steered the Algerine! He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there Some muttered of Mac Morrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. 516 BULWEK, LYTTON. EVA. THE MAIDEN'S HOMK. A COTTAGE in a peaceful vale; A jasmine round the door; A hill to shelter from the gale ; A silver brook before. 517 EVA. - Oh, sweet the jasmine's buds of snow, In mornings soft with May; Oh, silver-clear the waves that flow, Reflecting heaven, away! A sweeter bloom to Eva's youth Rejoicing Nature gave ; And heaven was mirror'd in her truth More clear than on the wave. Oft to that lone sequester' d place My boyish steps would roam, There was a look in Eva's face That seem'd a smile of home. And .oft I paused to hear at noon A voice that sang for glee: Or mark the white neck glancing down, The book upon the knee. THE IDIOT BOY. AVho stands between thee and the sun? A cloud himself, the Wandering One ! A vacant wonder in the eyes, The mind, a blank, unwritten scroll; The light was in the laughing skies, And darkness in the Idiot's soul. He touch'd the book upon her knee He look'd into her gentle lace "Thou dost not tremble, maid, to see Toor Arthur by thy dwelling-place. I know not why, but where J pass The aged turn away ; And if my shadow vex the gntBB, Tin- children cease from play. Mfl only playmates are the wind. The blos.-om on tin- hough ! Why are thy looks >o soft and kind.' Tho.u dost not tremble thon \" 518 BULWER LYTTON. Though none were l>y, she livmhlrd not, Too meek to wound, th'd to hear him. THE YOUNG TEACHER. Of wonders on the hind and deeps She spoke, and glories in the sky The eternal life the Father keeps For those, who learn from Him to die. So simply did the maiden speak So simply and so earnestly, You saw the light begin to break, And Soul the Heaven to see ; You saw how slowly, day by day, The darksome waters caught the ray, Confused and broken come and gone The beams as yet uncertain are. But still the billows murmur on, And struggle for the star. THE STRANGER-SUITOR. There came to Eva's maiden home A Stranger from a sunnier clime ; The lore that Hellas taught to liome, The wealth that Wisdom wins from Time, Which ever, in its ebb and flow, Heaves to the seeker on the shore The waifs of glorious wrecks below, The argosies of yore ; Each gem that in that dark profound The Past the Student's soul can find, Shone from his thought, and sparkled round The Enchanted Palace of the Mind. How trustful in the leafy June, She roved with him the lonely vale ; 519 How trustful by the tender moon, She blush'd to hear a tenderer tale. O happy Earth! the dawn ivvi\r-. Day nt'lcr he >ivs, its voice she hears The marble melted from the bre:i-t. And all the Mother gush'd in tears. Tin: Thr cottage in the peaceful vali-. The jasmine round the door, The hill still shelters from the jr The brook still glides before. 523 EVA. Without the porch, one summer noon, The Hermit-dweller see ! In musing silence bending down, The book upon his knee. Who stands between thee and the sun? A cloud herself, the Wand'ring One ! A vacant sadness in the eyes, The mind a razed, defeatured scroll ; The light is in the laughing skies, And darkness, Eva, in thy soul! Yet still the native instinct stirr'd The darkness of the breast She flies, as flies the wounded bird Unto the distant nest; O'er hill and waste, from land to land, Her heart the faithful instinct bore ; And there, behold the Wanderer stand Beside her Childhood's Home once more! LIGHT AND DARKNESS. When earth is fair, and winds are still, When sunset gilds the western hill, Oft by the porch, with jasmine sweet, Or by the brook, with noiseless feet, Two silent forms are seen ; So silent they the place so lone They seem like souls, when life is gone, That haunt where life has been : And his to watch, as in the past Her soul had watcliM his soul. Alas! her darkness waits the last, TJie grave the only goal ! It is not what tin- Itvrh can cure An erring chord, a jarriiii: madness: A calm so deep, it must endure So deep, thou scarce canst call it sadi A summer ninht, \vho-c shadow falls On silent hearths in ruinM halls. Yet, through the gloom, she seemM to feel His presence like a happier air; Close by his side she h>\erriuim>. A ladv lay at point of doom. 526 PROCTER, Day closed: A Child li:id seen the light: Hut lor tin- lady, fair and bright. She rested in undreaming night. Spring rose: Tin- lady's grave was green And near it oftentimes was seen A gentle Boy, with thoughtful mien. Years lied: -lie wore a manly i'aee, And struggled in the world's rough rac\ And won, at last, ;i lofty place. And then he died ! Hehold, before ye, Humanity's poor sum and story; Lite Death, and all that is of ( Jl thee. His rlioscn servant, Is this higher lot allowed ; Hi- has brought thcc through deep waters, Through the t'liniaee, through tin- cloud; "He has made of thee a mourner. Like the Christ, that thou may'st rise To a purer height of glory, Through the pangs of sacrifice! "'Tis alone of His appointing, That thy feet on thorns have trod ; Suffering, woe, renunciation. Only bring us nearer God. "And when nearest Him, then largest The enfranchised heart's embrace : It was Christ, the Man rejected, Who redeemed the human race. " Say not, then, thou hast no duties ; Friendless outcasts on thee call, And the sick and the afflicted, And the children, more than all. " Oh, my friend, rise up, and follow Where the hand of God shall lead ; He has brought thee through affliction, But to fit thee for His need! 1 ' Thus she spoke ; and as from midnight Springs the opal-tinted morn, So, within his dreary spirit, A new day of life was born. 545 Strength sublime- may rise from weakness, Groans be turned to songs of praise, Nor are life's divines! labours Only told by length of days. he died : but deeds of mercy his life's short span. And he left his worldly substance To complete what he began. 546 ARNOLD. TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. IMU'GLAS, ISLE OF MAN. WHO taught this pleading to unpractis'd eyes? Who hid such import in an infant's gloom? Who lent thee, child, this meditative gui What clouds thy forehead, and fore-dates thy doom ? Lo! sails that gleam a moment and are gone; The swinging waters, and the cluster' d pier. Not idly Earth and Ocean labour on, Nor idly do these sea-birds hover near. But thou whom superfluity of joy Wafts not from thine own thoughts, nor longings vain, Nor weariness, the full fed soul's annoy ; Remaining in thy hunger and thy pain : Thou, drugging pain by patience ; half averse From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thcc ; With eyes that sought thine eyes thou didst converse. And that soul-searching vision fell on me. Glooms that go deep as thine I have not known : Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own : Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth. What mood wears like complexion to thy woe? His who in mountain glens, at noon of day. Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below? Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray. 647 TO A GIPSY CHILD BY THE SHORE. What exile's, changing bitter thoughts with glad *. What seraph's, in some alien planet born"? No exile's dream was ever half so sad, Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn. Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore: But in disdainful silence turn away, Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more? Or do I wait, to hear some gray-hair'd king Unravel all his many-colour' d lore : Whose mind hath known all arts of governing, Mus'd much, lov'd life a little, loath'd it more ? Down the pale cheek long lines of shadow slope, Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope, Foreseen thy harvest yet proceed'st to live. meek anticipant of that sure pain Whose sureness gray-hair'd scholars hardly learn ! What wonder shall time breed, to swell thy strain? What heavens, what earth, what suns shalt thou discern ' Ere the long night whose stillness brooks no star, Match that funereal aspect with her pall. 1 tli ink, thou wilt have fathom'd life too far, Have known too much or else forgotten all. The Guide of our dark steps a triple veil Betwixt Our senses and our sorrow keeps: I lath sown with cloudless passages the tale Of grief, and eas'd us with a thousand sleep-. All! not the nectarons poppy lovers use. Noisc(l. bare beaches, rrim-on >ras All tlicM- \vriv Imddlrd in that dreadful west, All shook and tmnhlrd in nnstcat li-lit. And from the centre blazed the angry sun, Stern as the unlash'd eye of God a-glare O'er evening city with its boom of sin. I do remember, as we journeyed homo, (That dreadful sunset burnt into our brain-.) With what a soothing came the naked moon. Sho, like a swimmer who has found his ground, Clime rippling up a silver strand of cloud, 553 PICTURES. And plunged from the other side into the night. I and that friend, the feeder of my soul, Did wander up and down these banks for years. Talking of blessed hopes and holy faiths, How sin and weeping all should pass away In the calm sunshine of the earth's old age. Breezes are blowing in old Chaucer's verse ; "Twas here we drank them. Here for hours we hung O'er the fine pants and trembles of a line. Oft, standing on a hill's green head, we felt Breezes of love, and joy, and melody, Blow through us, as the winds blow through the ^ky. Oft with our souls in our eyes all day we fed On summer landscapes, silver-veined with streams, O'er which the air hung silent in its joy ; With a great city lying in its smoke, A monster sleeping in its o\vn thick breath ; And surgy plains of wheat, and ancient woods In the ealm evenings cawed by clouds of rooks. Acres of moss, and long black si rips of firs. And sweet cots dropt in green, where children played, To us unheard; till, gradual, all was lost In distanrt'-lia/e to a blue rim of hills, Upon whose heads came down the closing sky. PICTURE S. Tin. lark i- siujiinir in the blinding sk\. Hedges are white with May. The bridegroom 88 I.- loving with the shore, hi- wedded bride. And, in the fulness of his niarriap 1 joy. I Ir deeoniles her tawny brow with shells. Retires a space, to see how fair she looks, Then, proud, runs up to kiss her. All is fair All glad, from grass to sun 555 PICTURES. One nymph slumbering lay, A sweet dream 'neath her eyelids, her white limbs Sinking full softly in the violets dim; When timbrelled troops rushed past with branches green. One in each fountain, riched with golden sands, With her delicious face a moment seen, And limbs faint gleaming through their watery veil. A grim old king, "Whose blood leapt madly when the trumpets brayed To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds, Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day; But in the sunset he was ebbing fast. Hinged by his weeping lords. His left hand held His white steed, to the belly splashed with blood, That seemed to mourn him with his drooping head ; His right, his broken brand; and in his ear His old victorious banners flap the winds. He called his faithful herald to his side "Go! tell the dead I come!" With a proud smile, The warrior with a stab let out his soul, Which Ued, and shrieked through all the other world. "Ye dead! My master comes!" And there was Till the great Shade should enter. 566 BAILEY. A SUMMER NIGHT. THE last high upward slant of sun on the trees, Like a dead soldier's sword upon his pall, Seems to console earth for the glory gone. Oh! I could weep to see the day die thus; The death-bed of a day, how beautiful ! Linger, ye clouds, one moment longer there ; Fan it to slumber with your golden wings! Like pious prayers, ye seem to soothe its end. 557 WORDS. It will wake no more till the all-revealing day ; When, like a drop of water, greatened bright Into a shadow, it shall show itself With all its little tyrannous things and deeds, Unhomed and clear. The day hath gone to (inpo, Or to thy rh;ir!_ r < v I'll l;iy a broken lu-:irt ! 660 KNOWXES, It may be, broken vows, and blasted honour! Or else a iniml distraught ! Walter. AVhafs this > Julia. The strait I'm fallen into my patience cannot bear! It frights my reason warps my sense of virtue! Religion! changes me into a thing I look at with abhorring! Walter. Listen to me. Julia. Listen to me, and heed me ! If this contract Thou hold'st me to abide thou the result! Answer to Heaven for what I suffer! act! Prepare thyself for such calamity To fall on me, and those whose evil stars Have link'd them with me, as no past mishap, However rare, and marvellously sad, Can parallel ! lay thy account to live A smileless life, die an unpitied death Abhorr'd, abandon' d of thy kind, as one AVI 10 had the guarding of a young maid's peace, Look'd on and saw her rashly peril it; And when she saw her danger, and confess'd Her fault, compell'd her to complete her ruin ! Walter. Hast done? Julia. Another moment, and I have. Be warn'd! Beware how you abandon me To myself! I'm young, rash, inexperienced! tempted By most insufferable misery ! Bold, desperate, and reckless ! Thou hast age, Experience, wisdom, and collectedness, 5G1 x THE APPEAL AND THE REPROOF. Power, freedom, everything that I have not, Yet want, as none e'er wanted! Thou canst save me, Thou ought'st! thou must! I tell thee, at his feet I'll foil a corse ere mount his bridal bed ! So choose betwixt my rescue and my grave ; And quickly too! The hour of sacrifice I- near! Anon the immolating priest Will summon me ! Devise some speedy means To cheat the altar of its victim. Do it ! Nor leave the task to me ! Walter. Hast done? Julia. I have. Walter. Then list to me and silently, if not With patience. [Brings chairs for himself and her. How I watch'd thee from thy childhood, I'll not recall to thee. Thy father's wisdom Whose humble instrument I was directed Your nonage should be pass'd in privacy, From your apt mind, that far outstripp'd your years. Fearing the taint of an infected world ; For in the rich ground, weeds, once taking root, Grow strong as flowers. He might be right or wrong! I thought him right; and therefore did his bidding. Most certainly he loved you so did I; Ay ! well as I had been myself your father ! [7//x hand is resting upon his knee. Julia attempts to talc it. II- ii'ithdraws it; looks at her. She hangs her In (id. U'ell ; you may take my hand ! I need not -ay I low fast you grew in knowledge, and in goodness, That hope could scarce enjoy its golden dreams, S.. -<>on fulfilment rcalixed them all! KNOWLES. Enough. You came to womanhood. Your heart Pure as tho leaf of the consummate bud, That's now unfolded ly the smiling sun, And ne'er knew blight nor canker! When a good Is liily niati-d, she grows doubly good, How good soe'er before! I found the man I thought a match for thro ; and, soon as found, Proposed him to theo. 'Twas your father's will, Occasion offering, you should be married Soon as you rcaeh'd to womanhood. You liked My choice accepted him. We came to town ; Where, by important matters, summon'd thence, I left you, an affianced bride! Julia. You did ! You did! Walter. Nay, check thy tears ! Let judgment now, Not passion, be awake. On*my return, I found thee what ? I'll not describe the thing I found thee then ! I'll not describe my pangs To see thee such a thing ! The engineer Who lays the last stone of his sea-built tower It cost him years and years of toil to raise, And, smiling at it, tells the winds and waves To roar and whistle now but, in a night, Beholds the tempest sporting in its place May look aghast, as I did ! 563 MASSEY. OUR WEE WHITE ROSE. ALL in our marriage garden Grew, smiling up to God, A bonnier flower than ever Suckt the green warmth of the sod ; O beautiful unfathomably Its little life unfurled ; And crown of all things was our wee White Rose of all tne world. From out a balmy bosom, Our bud of beauty grew : It fed on smiles for sunshine ; On tears for daintier dew : Aye nestling warm and tenderly, Our leaves of love were curled, So close and close, about our wee AVI lite Rose of all the world. With mystical faint fragrance Our house of life she filled Revealed each hour some fairy tower Where winged hopes might build ! We saw though none like us might see Such precious promise pearled Upon the petals of our wee Whit i- Rose of all the world. But, evermore the halo Of Angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight That folds some fairy feast. Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently Our darling bud up-curled, And dropt i' the grave God's lap our wee A VI lite Kose of all the world. 5C5 THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. Our Rose was but in blossom; Our life was but in spring ; When down the solemn midnight We heard the Spirits sing '' Another bud of infancy With holy dews impearled !" And in their hands they bore our wee White Rose of all the world. You scarce could think so' small a thin; Could leave a loss so large ; Her little light such shadow fling From dawn to sunset's marge. In other springs our life may be In bannered bloom unfurled, But never, never match our wee White Rose of all the world. THAT MERRY, MERRY MAY. An ! 'tis like a tale of olden Time, long, long ago ; A VI i en the world was in its golden Prime, and Love was lord below! Kvery vein of Karth was dancing With the Spring's new wine! 'Twas the pleasant time of flowers. When I met you, love of mine ! Ah ! Mime -pirit sun* was straying Out of liea\en that day, When I met you, Sweet ! a-Maying In that merry, merry May ! 666 Little heart! it shyly opcn'd Its red leaves' love-lore, Like a rose that must be ripen'd To the dainty, dainty core. But its beauties daily brighten, And it blooms so dear, 567 BABE CHRISTABEL. Tho' a many Winters whiten, I go Maying all the year. And my proud heart will be praying Blessings on the day, When I met you, Sweet, a-Maying, In that merry, merry May. BABE CHRISTABEL. IN this dim world of clouding cares, We rarely know, till wildered eyes See white wings lessening up the skie?, The Angels with us unawares. And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death ! Shall light thy dark up like a Star, A Beacon kindling from afar Our light of love, and fainting faith. Thro' tears it gleams perpetually, And glitters thro' the thickest glooms, Till the eternal morning comes To light us o'er the Jasper Sea. With our best branch in touderest leaf. We've strewn the way our Lord doth come ; And, ready for the harvest-home, His Reapers bind our ripest slu-af. Our beautiful IJml of li-ht hath lied: Awhile she sat with folded winirs Sanjr round us a few hoveriiiiis Then Mraightway into glory sped. MASSEY. And whitr-winjird Angels nurture lirr; With heaven's white radiance robed and crown'd. And all Love's purple glory round, She summers on the Hills of Mvn-li. Thro' Childhood's morning-land serene She walkt betwixt us twain, like Love; While, in a robe of light above, Her better Angel walkt unseen, Till Life's highway broke bleak and wild; Then, lest her starry garments trail In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail, The Angel's arms caught up the child. Her wave of life hath backward roll'd To the great ocean, on whose shore We wander up and down, to store Some treasures of the times of old : And aye we seek and hunger on For precious pearls and relics rare, Strewn on the sands for us to wear At heart, for love of her that's gone. O weep no more ! there yet is balm In Gilead! Love doth ever shed Rich healing where it nestles, spread O'er desert pillows some green palm! God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed; The best fruit loads the broken bough ; And in the wounds our sufferings plough, Immortal Love sows sovereign seed. 569 ALLINGHAM. AUTUMNAL SONNET. Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or i\e :md iilad, with tones that reeoLini>e 'Die soft in\i.-ihle dew on each one's ;. It may In-. soiwwhat thus we shall have leave To walk with memory, when distant lies Karth. where we were wont to live and 570 felt MACKAY. YOUTH AND SOKUONV. "(;KT thee back, Sorrow, get thec back! My brow is smooth, mine eyes arc bright, My limbs arc full of health and strength, My checks are fresh, my heart is Unlit. So, gi-t thcc back! oh, get thee back! Consort with age, but not with me; Why shouldst thou follow on my track ' I am too young to li\e with thee." " O foolish Youth, to scorn thy friend ! To harm thee wherefore should I seek? I would not dim thy sparkling eyes, Nor blight the roses on thy cheek. I would but teach thee to be true ; And should I press thee overmuch, Ever the flowers that I bedew Yield sweetest fragrance to the touch." "Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! I like thee not ; thy looks are chill. The sunshine lies upon my heart, Thou showest me the shadow still. So, get thee back ! oh, get thee back ! Nor touch my golden locks with grey ; Why shouldst thou follow on my track ? Let me be happy while I may." " Good friend, thou needest sage advice ; I'll keep thy heart from growing proud, I'll fill thy mind with kindly thoughts. And link thy pity to the crowd. 571 YOUTH AND SORROW. Wouldst have a heart of pulseless stone? Wouldst be too happy to be good ? Nor make a human woe thine own, For sake of human brotherhood'?" "Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back! Why should I weep while I am young? I have not piped I have not danced My morning songs I have not sung: The world is beautiful to me, Why tarnish it to soul and sense? Prithee begone ! I'll think of thee Some half a hundred winters hence." " O foolish Youth, thou know'st me not .- I am the mistress of the earth 'Tis / give tenderness to love ; Enhance the privilege of mirth ; Refine the human gold from dross ; And teach thee. wormling of the sod, To look beyond thy present loss To thy eternal gain with God." " Get thee back, Sorrow, get thee back ! I'll learn thy lessons soon enough ; It' virtuous pleasure smooth my way. Why shouldsl thou .-eek to make it rough? No fruit can ripen in the dark, No bud can bloom in constant cold So, prithee. Sorrow, miss thy mark. Or strike me not till I am old." "I am thy friend, thy best of friends; No luul iii ronstant heat- can blow The Lnvrn i'niit withers in the drought, lint ripens where the waters flow. 572 L .1]5l The sorrows of thy youthful day Shall make thee wise in coming years ; The brightest rainbows ever play Above the fountains of our tears." Youth frowned, but Sorrow gently smiled ; Upon his heart her hand she laid, And all its hidden sympathies Throbbed to the fingers of the Maul. And when his head grew grey with Time, He owned that Sorrow spoku the truth, And that the harvest of his prime Was ripened by the rains of Youth. 573 FRANCES BROWN. THE HOPE OF THE RESURRECTION. SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK OF AN AFRICAN CHIEF TO A MISSIONARY THY voice hath filled our forest shades, Child of the sunless shore ! For never heard the ancient glade- Such wondrous words before. Though bards our land of palms have filled With tides of joy or dread, Yet tliou alone our souls hast thrilled With tidings of her dead. The men of old, who slept in death Before the forests grew, Whose glory faded here beneath. While yet the hills were new, The warriors famed in battles o'er, Of whom our fathers spake, The wi>e. whose wi-dom shines no more, \ will they awake .' The 1'ors who lell in thousand I'.eiieath my conquerim: brand, Wlm-r hones have strewn the Caller's height The P.n-lmiaii's lonely land, 574 The 1 young, who shared my warrior- w;iv, But found an early urn, And the roses of my youth's bright d:iy- Stranger, will they return ? My mother's face was fair to see My father's glance was bright, But long ago the grave from me I lath hid their blessed light; Still sweeter was the sunshine shc{' time \ And the sun is weary <>!' the \vail That meets him in every rlimr: And the sky grows dim with the mist of tours lirinji hack the blue of its first, bright years! 576 FRANCES BROWN. New Earth ! for tin* land and waves With a weight of evil groan ; And its dwellings stand in a, soil of gra\ Which fearful things have known : From the touch of fire, from the battle-stain, Gives us its Eden green again ! New Law ! for 'tis the arm of wrong, And great hath been the cry When oppressors' hands in their might grew strong, And their deeds have pierced the sky: But the powers are shaken; oh! requite With the free, unchanging law of right. New Faith ! for a voice of blood Hath been heard from every shrine, And the world hath worshipped many a God With rites it deemed divine: But the creeds grow old, and the fanes decay: Show us, at last, some better way! New Hope! for it rose among The thorns of a barren spot, Where the bloom is brief and the labour long, And the harvest cometh not: And hearts grow weary that watch and wait Give them a rainbow that fears not fate ! New Love! for it hath been cast On the troubled waters, long, And hoped in visions vain that passed Away, like a night-bird's song: It may not be severed from the lost, But give us the young world's love uncross'd ! New Life! give the summers back Whose glory passed in vain, 577 o o ALL THINGS NEW. Redeem our clays from the shadow black Of clouds without the rain, And the wastes which bitter waters wore And our canker-eaten years restore ! New Light! for the lamps decay Which shone on the old world's youth, And the wise man watches for a ray Of the undiscovered Truth : Long hath he looked through the midnight dim,- Let the glorious Day-Spring visit him ! Must the Earth's last hope like a shadow flee? Was the dream of ages vain ? Oh! when will the bright restoring be, And the glory come again Of our promised spring, with its blessed dew And His Word, that maketh all things new! r,-8 PARSONS. SORRENTO. betwixt the present and the past- Naples and Paestum look ! Sorrento lies : Ulysses built it, and the Sirens cast Their spell upon the shore, the sea, the skies If thou liast dreamed, in any dream of thine, How Paradise appears, or those Elysian Immortal meadows which the gods assign Unto the pure of heart behold thy vision ! These waters, they are blue beyond belief, Nor hath green England greener fields than these The sun 'tis Italy's; here winter's brief And gentle visit hardly chills the breeze. Here Tasso dwelt, and here inhaled with spring The breath of passion and the soul of song. Here young Boccacio plumed his early wing, Thenceforth to soar above the vulgar throng. All charms of contrast every nameless grace That lives in outline, harmony, or hue So heighten all the romance of the place, That the rapt artist maddens at the view, And then despairs, and throws his pencil by, And sits all day and looks upon the shore And the calm ocean with a languid eye, As though to labour were a law no more. 679 SORRENTO. Voluptuous coast! no wonder that the proud Imperial Koman found in yonder isle Some sunshine still to gild Fate's gathering cloud, And lull the storm of conscience for a while. What new Tiberius, tired of lust and life, May rest him here to give the world a truce, A little truce from perjury and strife, Justice adulterate and power's misuse? Might the gross Bourbon he that sleeps in spite Of red Vesuvius ever in his eye, Yet, if he wake, should tremble at its light As 'twere Heaven's vengeance, promised from on high,- - Or that poor gamester, of so cunning play, Who, up at last, in Fortune's fickle dance, Aping the mighty in so mean a way, Makes now his dice the destinies of France, Might they, or any of Oppression's band, Sit here and learn the lesson of the scene, Peace might return to many a bleeding land, And men grow just again, and life serene. 680 PARSONS. SAINT PERAY. WHEN to any saint I pray, It shall be to Saint Peray. He alone, of all the brood, Ever did me any good: Many I have tried that are Humbugs in the calendar. On the Atlantic faint and sick, Once I prayed Saint Dominick: He was holy, sure, and wise ; Was't not he who did devise Auto da Fes and rosaries? But for one in my condition .This good saint was no physician. Next in pleasant Normandie, I made a prayer to Saint Denis, In the great cathedral, where All the ancient kings repose; But, how I was swindled there At the " Golden Fleece," he knows ! In my wanderings, vague and various, Reaching Naples as I lay Watching Vesuvius from the bay, I besought Saint Januarius. But I was a fool to try him ; Naught I said could liquefy him; And I swear he did me wrong, Keeping me shut up so long 581 SAINT PERAY. In that pest-house, with obscene Jews and Greeks and things unclean What need had I of quarantine 1 In Sicily at least a score, In Spain about as many more, And in Rome almost as man} As the loves of Don Giovanni, Did I pray to sans reply ; Devil take the tribe! said I. Worn with travel, tired and lame, To Assisi's walls I came : Sad and full of homesick fancies, I addressed me to Saint Francis; But the beggar never did Anything as he was bid, Never gave me aught but fleas, Plenty had I at Assise. But in Provence, near Vaucluse, Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint Gifted with a wondrous juice Potent for the worst complaint. 'Tuns at Avignon that first In the witching time of thirst To my brain the knowledge came Of this blessed Catholic's name ; Forty miles of dust that day Made me welcome Saint Perav. Though till then I had not heard Aught about him, ere a third Of a litre passed my lips All saints else were in eclipse. For his gentle spirit glided With such mairie into mine. 1' ARSONS. That methought such Miss as I did Poet never drew from wine. Rest he gave me and refection, Chastened hopes, calm retrospection, Softened images of sorrow, Bright forebodings for the morrow, Charity for what is past, Faith in something good at last. Now, why should any almanack The name of this good creature lack? Wherefore should the breviarv Omit a saint so sage and merry? The Pope himself should 'grant a da\ Especially to Saint Peray. But, since no day hath been appointed, On purpose, by the Lord's anointed, Let us not wait we'll do him right; Send round your bottles, Hal and set your night. 583 J. RUSSELL LOWELL. THE SINGING LEAVES. A BALLAD. "WiiAT fairings will ye that I bring?" Said the king to his daughters three ; "For I to Vanity Fair am bound, Now say what shall they ! r ", Then up and spakr the eldest daughter. The lady tall and i_ r rand, "Ye shall bring to me tin- diamonds great, And gold rings for my hand." 584 J. RUSSELL LOWELL. Thereafter >pake tin- seeond daughter. That was both white and ml, 'For me brin.u silk that -will stand alone And a gold comb lor my head." Then lowly spake the least daughter. That was whiter than thistle-down, And among the gold of her blithesome hair Dim shone the golden crown. " There came a bird at sunrise And sang 'neath my bower-eaves, And sent the sweet dream that bade me To ask for the Singing Leaves." The vein of his forehead reddened In a ridge of angry scorn, "Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, And chosen as ye were born. "But thou, like a thing of peasant blood, That is happy binding the sheaves !" Then he saw her dead mother in her face, And said, "Thou shalt have thy Leaves.' ii. He bade farewell to the elder twain, And touched his lips to their cheek, But 'twas thrice he kiss'd the Princess Anne, And looked back and did not speak. And he has ridden three days and night-. Till he came to Vanity Fair ; And easy it was to buy gems and gold, But no Singing Leaves were there. 585 THE SINGING LEAVES. Then deep in the greenwood rode he, And asked of every tree : 'Oh, if ye have ever a singing leaf. I pray you to give it me !" But the trees all kept their counsel ; They said neither yea or nay ; Only there sighed from the pine-tops A music of seas far away. Only the aspen pattered With a sound like growing rain, That fell ever fast and faster, Then faltered to silence again. "Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page, That would win both hose and shoon, And will bring to me these Singing Leaves, If they grow 'neath sun or moon?" Then lightly turned him Walter, the page, By the stirrup as he ran, "Now pledge to me the truesome word Of a knight and gentleman, "That you will give me the first, first thing You meet at your castle-gate ; And the princess shall get the Singing Leaves Or mine be the traitor's fate !" The king's head dropped on his bosom A moment, as it might be 'Twill In 1 my hound, he thought, and he said, "I pledge my word to thee." Then \Valter took from next his heart A packet small and thin : And jiive you this to the 1'rincos Ainu Tin- Singing Leaves are tin-rein." 58G J. RUSSELL LOWELL. in. As the king rode in, o'er the loud draw-bridge A maiden to meet him ran ; And, "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried Together, the Princess Anne. " Lo, here thy Singing Leaves," quoth he ; "And wo, but they cost me denr'" She took the packet, and her smile Deepened down beneath the tear. It deepened down to her very heart, And then flushed back again, And lighted her tears as the sudden sun Transfigures the summer rain. And the first leaf, when she opened it, Sang, "I am Walter, the page, And the songs I sing 'neath thy window Are all my heritage !" And the second leaf sang, "But in the land That is neither on earth or sea, My harp and I are lords of more Than thrice this kingdom's fee!" And the third leaf sang, "Be mine! be mine!" And still it sang, "Be mine!" Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!" At the first leaf she grew pale enough, At the second she turned aside, At the third, 'twas as if a lily flushed AVith a rose's red heart's tide. 587 LONGING. " Good counsel gave the bird," she said ; k 'I have my wish thrice o'er; For they sing to my very heart," she said, "And it sings with them evermore." LONGING. OF all the myriad moods of mind That through the soul come thronging, Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, So beautiful, as Longing? The thing we long for, that we are For one transcendent moment, Before the Present poor and bare Can make its sneering comment. Still, through our paltry stir and strife, Glows down the wished Ideal, And Longing moulds in clay what Life Carves in the marble Keal ; To let the new life in, we know, Desire must ope the portal ; Perhaps the longing to be so Helps make the soul immortal. Longing is God's fresh liravrmvanl will, With our poor earthward striving; \Vf ([iii'in-h it that we may bo still Content with merely living ; 588 J. RUSSELL LOWKLL. But would we learn that heart's i'ull Which we are hourly wronging, Our lives must eliinh from hope to hope, And realize our longing. Ah ! let us hope that to our praise Good God not only reckons The moments when we trend his ways. But when the spirit beckons, That some slight good is also wrought Beyond self-satisfaction, When we are simply good in thought, Howe'er we fail in action. AUF WIEDERSEHEN! i. SUMMER. THE little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; She pushed it wide, and as she passed A wistful look she backward cast, And said, " Auf Wiedersehen /" With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered, reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright; Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, "Auf Wiedersehen /" 589 PALINODE. The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; I linger in delicious pain ; Ah ! in that chamber, whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, " Auf Wiedersehen /" 'Tis thirteen years ; once more I press The turf that silences the lane ; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and ah, yes, I hear "Auf Wiedersehen /" Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seemed too fain ; But these they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart, She said," Auf WiederseJien /" PALINODE, ii. AUTUMN. Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now, On field and hill, in heart and brain ; The naked trees at evening sough, The leal' to the forsaken bniijrh S'urhs not, "We meet airain !" 590 .1. KrssuLL LOWELL, Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome That now is void, and dunk witli rain. And one O, hope more trail than loam ! Tin- bird to his deserted home Sings not, " We meet again !" The loath gate swings with rusty croak ; Once, parting there, we played at pain : There came a parting, when the weak And fading lips essayed to speak Vainly, " We meet again !" Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, Though thou in outer dark remain ; One sweet, sad voice ennobles death, And still, for eighteen centuries saith Softly, "Ye meet again!" If earth another grave must bear, Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, And something whispers to despair, That, from an orient chamber there, Floats down, " We meet again !" 591 MAEIA LOWELL. THE ALPINE SHEEP. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND AFTER THE LOSS OF A CHILD. WHEN on my ear your loss was knelled, And tender sympathy upburst, A little spring from memory welled, Which once had quenched my bitter thirst, And I was fain to bear to you A portion of its mild relief, That it might be as healing dew, To steal some fever from your grief. After our child's untroubled breath Up to the Father took its way, And on our home the shade of Death, Like a long twilight haunting lay, And friends came round, with us to weep Her little spirit's swift remove, The story of the Alpine sheep Was told to us by one we love. They, in the valley's sheltering care, Soon crop the meadows' tender prime, And when the sod grows brown and bare, The Shepherd strives to make them climb To airy shelves of pasture green, That liMiijr along the mountain's side, Where grass and flowers together loan. And down through mist the sunbeams slide. 591 MARIA LOWELL. But nought can lompt the liinid tilings The steep and rugged path to trv, Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings, And seared below tin- pastures lie, Till in his arms his lambs he takes, Along the dizzy verge to go, Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks, They follow on o'er rock and snow. And in those pastures, lifted fair, More dewy-soft than lowland mead, The shepherd drops his tender care, And sheep and lambs together feed. This parable, by Nature breathed, Blew on me as the south- wind free O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed From icy thraldom to the sea. A blissful vision, through the night Would all my happy senses sway Of the Good Shepherd on the height, Or climbing -up the starry way, Holding our little lamb asleep, "While, like the murmur of the sea, Sounded that voice along the deep, Saying, "Arise and follow me!" 593 pp READ. THE WAYSIDE SPRING. dweller by the dusty way Brijiht saint within a mossy shrine-, The tribute of a heart to-day Weary and worn is thinr. .V.I! READ. The earliest blossoms of the year. The sweet-brier and tin- violet The pious hand of Spring has here Upon thy altar set. And not alone to thee is given The homage of the pilgrim's knee But oft the sweetest birds of Heaven Glide down and sing to thee. Here daily from his beechen cell The hermit squirrel steals to drink. And flocks which cluster to their bell Recline along thy brink. And here the waggoner blocks his wheels. To quaff the cool and generous boon ; Here, from the sultry harvest fields The reapers rest at noon. And oft the beggar marked with tan, In rusty garments grey with dust, Here sits and dips his little can, And breaks his scanty crust ; And, lulled beside thy whispering stream, Oft drops to slumber unawares, And sees the angel of his dream Upon celestial stairs. Dear dweller by the dusty way, Thou saint within a mossy shrine, The tribute of a heart to-day Weary and worn is thine ! 595 THE CLOSING SCENE. THE CLOSING SCENE. WITHIN this sober realm of leafless trees, The russet year inhaled the dreamy air, Like some tanned reaper in his hour of ease, When all the fields are lying brown and bare. The gray barns, looking from their hazy hills O'er the dim waters widening in the vales, Sent down the air a greeting to the mills, On the dull thunder of alternate flails. All sights were mellowed, and all sounds subdued, The hills seemed farther, and the streams sang low ; As in a dream, the distant woodman hewed His winter log with many a muffled blow. Th' embattled forests, erewhile armed in gold, Their banners bright with every martial hue, Now stood, like some sad beaten host of old, Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest blue. On slumb'rous wings the vulture held his flight; The dove scarce heard his sighing mate's complaint ; And like a star slow drowning in the light, The village church- vane seemed to pale and faint. The sentinel cock upon the hill-.-ide crew; Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before Silmt till some replying wanderer blru His alien horn, and then was heard no nun.. see BEAD. Where erst the jay within tin 1 din's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round her millediied yount By every light wind like a censer swung; Where sang the noisy masons of the eves, The busy swallows circling ever near, Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, An early harvest and a plenteous year; Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, To warn the reapers of the rosy east, All now was songless, empty, and forlorn. Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail, And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom ; Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, Made echo to the distant cottage loom. There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers ; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night ; The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by passed noiseless out of sight. Amid all this in this most cheerless air, And where the woodbine shed upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the year stood there, Firing the floor with his inverted torch Amid all this, the centre of the scene, The white-haired matron, with monotonous tread Plied her swift wheel, and with her joyless mien Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread. 597 THE CLOSING SCENE. She had known sorrow. He had walked with her, Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust, And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, Her country summoned, and she gave her all, And twice War bowed to her his sable plume ; Re-gave the swords to rust upon her wall. Re-gave the swords but not the hand that drew, And struck for Liberty the dying blow; Nor him, who to his sire and country true Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe. Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Like the low murmurs of a hive at noon ; Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed : Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene ; And loving neighbours smoothed her careful shroud, While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. 598 ^ ^ BUTLER. NOTHING TO WEAR. AN EPISODE OF CITY LIFE. Miss FLORA M'FLIMSEY, of Madison Square, Has made three separate journeys to Paris, And her father assures me, each time she was there, That she and her friend Mrs. Harris, 51U NOTHING TO WEAR. (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery,) Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping, In one continuous round of shopping ; Shopping alone, and shopping together, At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather ; For all manner of things that a woman can put On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, In front or behind, above or below : For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls ; Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls ; Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in ; Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in ; Dresses in which to do nothing at all ; Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall ; All of them different in colour and pattern, Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin, Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material, Quite as expensive and much more ethereal ; In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of, From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills ; In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, While M'Flimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore. They footed the streets, and he footed the bills. The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Formed, M'Flimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, Which did not appear on the ship's nianit -i, But for which the ladies themselves manifested Such particular interest, that they invested 600 BUTLER Tlu-ir o\vn proper persons in layers and rows Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-dothfiB, Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trilles as those; Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circas>iun heani; (ia\e (joud-by to the ship, and style most recherche and rare. The want of which leaves her with nothing to wen. And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic That .-he'> quite ;i n-clnse. and almost a sceptic, 606 BUTLER For she touchingly says that this sort of grid' Cannot find in Religion the sliirhtrst ivlii-f, And Philosophy has not a maxim to span- For the victims of such overwhelming despair But the saddest by far of all these sad feature- Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timon-. Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance. And deride their demands as useless extravagance ; One case of a bride was brought to my view, Too sad for belief, but, alas! 'twas too true, Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. The consequence was, that when she got there, At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, And when she proposed to finish the season At Newport, the monster refused out and out, For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, Except that the waters were good for his gout ; Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, And proceedings are now going on for divorce. But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain, Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity Of every benevolent heart in the city, And spur up Humanity into a canter To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is So needed at once by these indigent ladies, Take charge of the matter ? or won't PETER COOPEI: The corner-stone lay of some splendid super- C07 NOTHING TO WEAR. Structure, like that which to-day links his name In the Union unending of honour and fame ; And found a new charity just for the care Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, The Laying-out Hospital well might be named? Won't STEWART, or some of our dry-goods importers, Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters? Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses, Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier, Won't some one discover a new California? Oh ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, And the temples of Trade which tower on each side, To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt Their children have gathered, their city have built; Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wivtrhos, the young and the old, Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the cold. See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; Hear tin- sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor, Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare Spoiled children of Fashion you've nothing to wear! Ami oh. if icrchance then- .-houlil l.e a sphere. Where all is made right which so puzzles us hero, 608 BUTLER A V hero, the glare, and llir glitter, and tim-el of Time Fade and die in tin- Unlit of that region sublime, Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, Must be clothed lor the lii'e and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; Oh, daughters of Earth! foolish \irgins. In-ware! Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear! -..,--" m 609 QQ BAYAKD TAYLOR DAUGHTER OF EGYPT. DAUGHTER of Egypt, veil thine eyes ! I cannot bear their fire ; Nor will I touch with sacrifice Those altars of Desire. For they are flames that shun the day, And their unholy light Is fed from natures gone astray In passion and in night. The stars of Beauty and of Sin, They burn amid the dark, Like beacons that to ruin win The fascinated bark. Then veil their glow, lest I forswear The hopes thou canst not crown, And in the black waves of thy hair My struggling manhood drown ! ON THE SEA. THE pathway of the sinking moon Fades from the silent bay; The mountain-isles loom large and faint. Folded in shadows gray, And the lights of land arc setting stars That soon will pass away. 610 I'.AVAKD TAYLOR. Oh, boatman, cease thy mellow shy dip of the languid oar Is a furrow of silver fire. Day cannot make thee half so fair, Nor the stars of eve so dear : Tin- arms that clasp, and the breast that keeps, They tell me thou art near, And the perfect beauty of thy face In thy murmured words I hear. The lights of land have dropped below The vast and glimmering sea : The world we leave is a tale that is told A fable, that cannot be. There is no life in the sphery dark But the love in thee and me. BEDOUIN SONG. FROM the Desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire ; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry : I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold! 611 BEDOUIN SONG. Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain ; I l;e on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold! My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! V It Ix that narrow Venetian street, On the wall above the garden-gate (Within, the breath of the rose is sweet, And the nightingale sings there, soon and late), 613 SAINT CHRISTOPHER. Stands Saint Christopher, carven in stone, With the little child in his huge caress, And the arms of the baby Jesus thrown About his gigantic tenderness; And over the wall a wandering growth Of darkest and greenest ivy clings, And climbs around them, and holds them both In its netted clasp of knots and rings, Clothing the saint, from foot to beard, In glittering leaves that whisper and dance To the child, on his mighty arm upreared, With a lusty, summer exuberance. To the child on his arm the faithful saint Looks up with a broad and tranquil joy, His brows and his heavy beard aslant Under the dimpled chin of the boy, Who plays with the world upon his palm, And bends his smiling looks divine On the face of the giant, rapt and calm, And the glittering frolic of the vine. He smiles on either with equal grace- On the simple ivy's unconscious life, And the soul in the giant's lifted face, Strong from the peril and the strife ; For both are his own the innocence That climbs from the heart of earth to heaven, And the virtue that greatly rises thence Through trial sent and victory given. Grow, ivy, up to his countenance ! Uut it cannot smile on my life as on thine Look, saint, with thy trustful, fearless glance, When- I dare not lift these eyes of mim- ! GH ALDEK THE ANCIENT " LADY OF SORROW. 1 ' UK ii closing eyelids mock the light; Her cold, pale lips are sealed quite ; Before her face of spotless white A mystic veil is drawn. Our Lady hides herself in night ; In shadows halh she her delight; She will not see the dawn ! The morning leaps across the plain It glories in a promise vain ; At noon the day begins to wane, With its sad prophecy ; At eve the shadows come again : Our Lady finds no rest from pain, No answer to her cry. In Spring she doth her Winter wait ; The Autumn shadoweth forth her fate ; Thus, one by one, years iterate , Her mystic tragedy. Before her pass in solemn state All shapes that come, or soon or late, Of this world's misery. What is, or shall be, or hath been, This Lady is ; and she hath seen, Like frailest leaves, the tribes of men Come forth, and quickly die. Therefore our Lady hath no rest ; For close beneath her snow-white breast Her weary children lie. G15 THE ANCIENT "LADY OF SORROW." She taketh on her all our grief; Her Passion passeth all relief; In vain she holds the poppy leaf- In vain her lotus crown. Even fabled Lethe hath no rest, No solace for her troubled breast, And no oblivion. "Childhood and youth are vain," she saith, " Since all things ripen unto death ; The flower is blasted by the breath That called it from the earth. And yet," she saith, " this thing is sure- There is no life but shall endure, And death is only birth. "From death or birth no powers defend, And thus from grade to grade we tend, By resurrections without end, Unto some final peace. But distant is that peace," she saith ; Yet eagerly awaiteth Death, Expecting her release. " Oh Rest," she saith, " that will not come, Not even when our lips are dumb, Not even when our limbs are numb, And graves are growing green. Oh Death, that, coming on apace, Dost look so kindly in the face, Thou wear'st a treachVmis mien." But still she gives the shadow placi Our Lady, with the saddest grace, Doth yield her to his feigned embrace-. And to his treachery ! Yr must not draw aside her veil ; Yt must not hear her dying wail ; Ye must not see her die. GIG Hut, hark ! from out tin- slillnrs* Low-murmured myths and prophecies, And chants that tivmldc to tin- flkiefl Misi-rcro Domim- ! They, trembling, lose tlu'msdvrs in rest, Soothing the an^uisli of IKT Im-ast-- Domine ! fill STODDAKD. THE SEA. [THE LOVER.] You stooped and picked a wreathed shell Beside the shining sea " This little shell, when I am gone, Will whisper still of me." I kissed your hands, upon the sands, For you were kind to me. I hold the shell against my ear, And hear its hollow roar ; It speaks to me about the sea, But speaks of you no more. T pace the sands, and wring my hands, For you are kind no more. ON THE PIER. at the end of the long, dark street, Years, years a-o, I >.-it with my sweetheart on the pier, Watcliing tin- river flow. 618 STOOD AKD. The moon was climbing the sky that night, White as tin- winter's snow : We kisM-tl in its light, and swore to be true- Hut that, was years ago ! Once more I walk in the dark old street, Wearily to and fro But I sit no more on the desolate pier, Watching the river flow. THE SKY IS THICK UPON THE SEA. THE sky is thick upon the sea, The sea is sown with rain, And in the passing gusts we hear The clanging of the crane. The cranes are flying to the South; We cut the northern foam; The dreary land they leave behind Must be our future home. Its barren shores are long and dark, And gray its autumn sky; But better these than this gray sea, If but to land and die ! 619 DORR. THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL. ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ; All night Inim- the stars in heav'n <>Yr the slain sad vigils kept. Oh the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night ! Oh the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light! DOUR. One by one the pale stars faded, and at length (lie morning IM< But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death a\v..kc. Slowly passed the golden hours of that Ion-- bright summer day, And ujum that Held of carnage still the dead unburied lay: Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air. But the foemen held possession of that hard-won battle-plain, In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. Once again the night dropped round them night so holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast i Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep : For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace- To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes. And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told: How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet -Mars. Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow? Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, Came two little maidens sisters with a light and hasty trend, And a look upon their faces half of sorrow, half of dread. G21 THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they . stood Where the Drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude. They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store, And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame ; For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new, strange task was o'er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore. Then with slow and weary labour a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning again heralded the sun. And then those little maidens they were children of our foes Laid the body of our Drummer-boy to undisturbed repose. 622 ROSSETTL THE SEA-LIMITS. CONSIDER the sea's listless chime: Time's self it is, made audible The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret continuance sublime Is the sea's end. Our sight may pass No furlong farther. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time-. No quiet, which is death's it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath, Its painful pulse is in the sands. Lost utterly, the whole sky stands, Gray and not known, along its path. Listen alone beside the sea Listen alone among the woods : Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee : Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge, and sink back, and surge nirain Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the strown beach, And listen at its lips : they sigh The same desire and mystery, The echo of the whole sea's speech. And all mankind is thus at heart Not anything but what thou art : And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each. 623 CHRISTINA GABEIELLA KOSSETTI. A BIRTHDAY. MY heart is like a singing-bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot ; My heart is like an apple-tree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit ; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea My heart is gladder than all these, Because my love is come to me. Raise me a dais of silk and down, Hang it with vair and purple dyes, Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys, Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me. SING NO SAD SONGS FOR ME. \Vin:\ I am dead, my dcaivst. Sing mi -ad songs for me; Plant tliou no ROBefl at my head. Nor shady cypress-tree; C24 CHK1STINA (JAIJKIK.I.LA K< )SS1 .TTI. lie the given gr:i>s :ilto\c me With showers :inr-rt. I sliall not sec thr sh:id<>\\^. I shall not ibi'l the rain ; I >hall not hear the Dightingale Sing on, as if in pain ; And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget. G2r> SWINBURNE. BEFORE PARTING. A MONTH or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant ; but one tires of scented time, Cold, sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, And that strong purple under juice and foam Where the wine's heart has burst, Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. Once yet, this poor one time ; I will not pray Even to change the bitterness of it The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise Over my face and eyes. And yet, who knows what end the scythed wheat Makes of its foolish poppies' mouths of red 't These were not sown ; these are not harvested ; They grow a month, ami arc cast under feet, And none has earc thereof, As none has care of a divided love. I kimw each shadow of your lips by rote, Kach change of love in eyelids ami eyebrows; The fashion nf Ihir temples tremulous With tender blood, and colour of your throat : I know not how love is gone out of this. tig that all was his. 686 Love's likeness there endures upon all tli. r>tit OUt of these one shall ii..l u'alhci' love, Day hath not strength, nor the ni^ht shade enough To make love whole, and till his lips with ea- A- some bee-builded cell 1'Yels at filled lips the honey swell. I know not how this last month leaves your hair Less full of purple colour and hid spice, And that luxurious trouble of closed cye> Is mixed with meaner shadows and waste care ; And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet Worth patience to regret. STEDMAK THE DOOR-STEP. THE Conference-meeting through at last, We boys around the vestry waited To see the girls come tripping past Like snow-birds willing to be mated. Xot 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. I Jut no; she blushed and took my arm! We let the old folks have the highway, And started toward 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 ** -'Hied all transformed and in a glory. The snow was crisp beneath our fret. The moon was full, thr fields were irl l>y hood and tippet sheltered sweet, Her face with youth and health was The little hand outside her mull' (Oh, sculptor, if you could hut mould it !) So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, To keep it warm I had to hold it. 628 STEDMAN. To have her with me there alone Twas h.ve, 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 lingered; We heard the voices nearer come, Yet on the door-step still we lingered. She shook her ringlets from her hood, And with a "Thank you, Xed," dissembled; J>ut yet I knew she understood With what a daring wish I trembled. A cloud passed 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, darling mouth, I kissed her ! Perhaps 'twas boyish love, yet still, Oh listless woman, weary lover, To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill, IM give but who can live youth over? 629 DAKKNESS AND THE SHADOW." " DARKNESS AND THE SHADOW." WAKIN<;, I have been nigh to Death Have felt the chillness of his breath Whiten my cheek and numb my heart, And wondered why he stayed his dart Yet quailed not, but could meet him so, As any lesser friend or foe. But sleeping, in the dreams of night His phantom stifles me with fright. O God ! what frozen horrors fall Upon me with his visioned pall The movelessness, the unknown dread, Fair life to pulseless silence wed ! And is the grave so darkly deep, So hopeless, as it seems in sleep V Can our sweet selves the coffin hold So dumb within its crumbling mould ' J . And is the shroud so dank and drear A garb the noisome worm so near? "Where, then, is Heaven's mercy fled. To quite forget the voiceless dead y 680 1 1 ALPINE (MILES O'EEILLY). RESIGNED. NEVER again on the shoulder To see our knightly bars ; Never again on the shoulder To see our lordly leaves ; Never again to follow The flag of the Stripes and Star-: Never again to dream the dream That martial music wea\ 681 RESIGNED. Never again call "Comrade" To the men who were comrades for yeur- Never to hear the bugles, Thrilling, and sweet, and solemn ; Never again call "Brother" To the men we think of witli tears ; Never again to ride or march In the dust of the marching column. Never again be a sharer In the chilly hour of the strife When, at dawn, the skirmish-rifles In opening chorus rattle ; Never to feel our manhood Kindle up into ruddy life 'Mid the hell of scenes and noises In the hot hours of the battle. Crippled, forlorn, and useless, The glory of life grown dim, Brooding alone o'er the memory Of the bright, glad days gone by : Nursing a bitter fancy. And nursing a shattered limb; Oh, comrades, resigning is harder We know it is easy to die. Xever again on the jacket To see our knightly bars; Never again on the jacket To see our lordly leave- : Never again to follou Tin- Hag of the Stripes ami Stars; Never au'ain to dream the divam That yoiuiLi' ambition weftve GEOEGE ELIOT. DAY IS DYING. (FROM " THE SPANISH GYPSY.") DAY is dying! Float, O song, Down the westward river, Requiems chanting to the Day- Day, the mighty Giver. Pierced by shafts of Time, he bleeds Melted rubies sending Through the river and the sky, Karth and heaven blending; All the long-drawn earthy banks Up to cloud-land lifting ; Slow between them drifts the swan, 'Twixt two heavens drifting. Wings half open, like a flow'r July deeper flushing^ Neck and breast as virgin's pure- Virgin proudly blushing. Day is dying! Float, O swan. Down the ruby river ; Follow, song, in requiem To the miofhtv _:, Don't I dream of the partridge I spruiiir by the Of the |uivrrin - Lj bare and her des|>ei-ate Of the nimble r.-i sijiiirrel secure in bis 686 BEEES, Far away in the top of tin- liickory-l i Looking down sale and saucy at .Matthew and nir, Till the hand true and steady a messenger shot, And the creature npl>ounded, and fell, and was nays you're a poet ; may lie ; I ain't, much on rliynie: I reckon you'd give me :i hundred, and beat me every lime. Poetry! That's the way some chaps put's up an idee, But I takes mine " straight, without sugar," and that's what's the matter with me. Poetry ! Just look around you alkali, rock, and sage ; Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ain't it a pretty page ? Sun in the east at mornin', sun in the west at night, And the shadow of this yer station the on'y thing moves in sight. Poetry ! Well, now Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; Kun right away, my pooty ! By-by ! Ain't she a lamb? Poetry that reminds me o' su'thin' right in that suit ; Jest shet that door thar, will yer, for Cicely's ears is cute. Ye noticed Polly the baby? A month afore she was born. Cicely my old woman was moody-like and forlorn ; Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and trees Family man yourself, sir? Well, you know what a woman be's. Narvous she was, and restless ; said that she " couldn't stay." Stay and the nearest woman seventeen miles away ! But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be on hand, And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o' land. 649 "CICELY." One night the tenth of October I woke with a chill and fright, For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn't in sight, But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said that she "couldn't stay," But had gone to visit her neighbor seventeen miles away ! When and how she stampeded I didn't wait for to see, For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is off the scent, For there warn't no track in the darkness to tell me the way she went. I've had some mighty mean moments afore I kern to this spot Lost on the Plains in '50, drowned almost, and shot Hut out on this alkali desert, a-hunting a crazy wife, Was ra'ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. " Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely !" I called, and I held my breath ; And "Cicely!" came from the canyon and all was as still as death ; And "Cicely! Cicely I Cicely!" came from the rocks below, And jest but a whisper of "Cicely !" down from them peaks of snow. I ain't what you call religious, but I jest looked up to the sky. And this yer's to what I'm coming, and maybe ye think I lie : But up away to the east'ard, yaller, and big, and far, I saw of a suddent rising the singlerest kind of star. Big, and yaller, and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me; Yaller, and bi^, and dancing, such as you never see; I'.i--, and yalK-r, and dancing I never sa\v such a star, And I thought of them sharps in the I>ibk, and I went for it then and thar. 050 I;KKT HAIMI . Over tlu- brush and boulders I si umblcd and pushed ahead; Keeping the star afore me, I went, wherever it, led ; It miii'ht hev been lor an liour, when suddent, and peart, and ni-!i. Out of the yearth afore- me thar rix u]> a lal>y's cry. Listen ! tliar's the same music; but, her lun^s, they are stronger no\\ Than the day I ]acked IHT and her mother I'm denied if I je-t know how. lint the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o' the whole tiling i-. That Cis never knew what happened from that very night to this ! But Cicely says you're a poet, and maybe you might, some day, .lest slino- her a rhyme 'bout a baby that was born in a curious way- Ami see what she says. And, old fellow, when you speak of the star. don't tell As how the doctors lantern for maybe 't won't sound so well. G51 CONANT. A DREAM OF FAIRIES. IT was Summer it was June; Slept the sun in western bowel'-; I'p liad risen llie mnn. Glens, and groves, and meadows, frit-mil' Sigh ye not for those old nook>? Have ye found, in regions endlc . Haunts with half so lovely looks? 654 \NT. "Answer none ! All ! nevenm>re In the woodlands shall we view them, Xor on Brassy meado w-floor ; Nor by falling waters w<>,> them To us, as in days of yon-. "Nevermore, in lonely wood, Maids shall hear dim strains alluring, Strains that cannot be withstood; Something that's divine assuring Nothing shall be met but good. " Could we turn earth back again, And those olden days recover ! Some high lady were I then, And a glorious knight my lover, Noblest, famousest of men ; "Through the wide world nobly famed For his gentleness and valour ; By the poor down-trodden claimed ; Wrong's dark cheek would turn to pallor But to hear his scutcheon named ! "But his noble heart would be Mine, though we were realms asunder ; And, when victory left him free, He would come back, to sit under The old oak-tree boughs with me. 41 For a castle should be ours, Many-towered, high-walled, deep-moated Ringed with groves, and lawns, and flowers ; Founts from marble basins spouted, Falling back in silvery showers. 666 A DREAM OF FAIRIES. "Underneath the old oak-trees With green chaplets I would crown him ; Do him dearer courtesies Than a queen could smile upon him For his famous victories; "While my noble knight would tell Hard adventures, wild and daring ; How the wizard-robber fell, And the flames, the midnight scaring, Shot up from his citadel; " How the potent Fairy King Was his Genius and his leaguer ; Of the wondrous Horn and Ring ; And the Goblet, to lips eager With wine gushing, like a spring; "How he passed through forests old, Haunts of drear, mysterious dangers, Where the Giants have their hold, And the scaly Dragon-rangers Guard enchanted heaps of gold ; "How the Hush! what strains are those? Some enchantment o'er me creeping?" Soft and slow her eyelids close She droops sideways she is sleeping, While the music ebbs and flows ; Sleeping, cheek upon her arm, Her unknotted hair loose straying; Naught can fall lo her of harm Witli Ilie placid moonlight playing < )n her eyelids like n charm. 666 Lo, a thousand merry sprites, Their lithe bodies sparkling, flashing, Shower of animated lights, Like the crystal rain :i dashing Wind from frosty branches smites; Round about her, on the ground, In the silvered air above her, 057 T T A DREAM OF FAIRIES. To the small, sweet, tinkling sound Merrily skip, dance, and hover, Singing this fantastic round : "Happy and free, Merrily we Flit through the dells, Sleep in the cells Of flower-cups and bells. Zephyr and Moonlight Know where we bide, Hidden from noonlight, Snugly we hide ! Zephyr, Moonlight, never tell Where the Fairy people dwell !" Tu whit, tu whoo! tu whit, tu whoo! Sleep and Fairies fly together. From the grove glides Helen, too, Slowly, slowly, w r ondering whether It was all a dream, or true. BOKEE. DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 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 ? 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 endeavour; 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 drum 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 ? IK: cannot know Lay him low. C59 SONNET. 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 cares he ? he cannot know : Lay him low. SONNET. NAY, not to thee to Nature will I tie The gather'd blame of every pettish mood ; And when thou frown'st, I'll frown upon the wood, Saying, "How wide its gloomy shadows lie!" Or, gazing straight into the day's bright eye, Predict ere night a second fatal flood ; Or vow the poet's sullen solitude Has changed my vision to a darksome dye. But when thou smil'st, I'll not look above To wood or sky ; my hand I will not lay L T pon the temple of my sacred love, To blame its living fires with base decay; But whisper to thee, as I nearer move, "Love, thou dost add another light to day." 660 WHITMAN. PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM. 1 J PROUD music of the storm ! Blast that careers so free, whistling across the prairies ! Strong hum of forest tree-tops ! wind of the mountains ! Personified dim shapes ! you hidden orchestras ! You serenades of phantoms, with instruments alert, Blending, with Nature's rhythmus, all the tongues of nations ; You chords left as by vast composers ! you choruses ! You formless, free, religious dances ! you from the Orient ! You undertone of rivers, roar of pouring cataracts ; You sounds from distant guns, with galloping cavalry ! Echoes of camps, with all the different bugle-calls ! Trooping tumultuous, filling the midnight late, bending me powerl< <-. Entering my lonesome slumber-chamber Why have you seiz'd me? 2 2 Come forward, O my Soul, and let the rest retire ; Listen lose not it is toward thee they tend ; Parting the midnight, entering my slumber-chamber, For thee they sing and dance, O Soul. 3 A festival song ! The duet of the bridegroom and the bride a marriage-march, With lips of love, and hearts of lovers, fill'd to the brim with love ; The red-flush'd cheeks, and perfumes the cortege swarming, full of friendly faces, young and old, To flutes' clear notes, and sounding harps' cantabile. CCl PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM. 4 Now loud approaching drums ! Victoria ! see'st thou in powder-smoke the banners torn, but flying ? the rout of the baffled ? Hearest those shouts of a conquering army? 5 (Ah, Soul, the sobs of women the wounded groaning in agony, The hiss and crackle of flames the blacken'd ruins the embers of cities, The dirge and desolation of mankind.) 6 Now airs antique and medieval fill me ; I see and hear old harpers with their harps, at Welsh festivals ; I hear the minnesingers, singing their lays of love ; I hear the minstrels, gleemen, troubadours, of the feudal ages. 7 Now the great organ sounds, Tremulous while underneath, (as the hid footholds of the earth, On which arising, rest, and leaping forth, depend, All shapes of beauty, grace, and strength all hues we know, Green blades of grass, and warbling birds children that gambol and play the clouds of heaven above,) The strong base stands, and its pulsations intermits not, Bathing, supporting, merging all the rest maternity of all the rest ; And with it every instrument in multitudes, The pl.-iycrs playing all the world's musicians, The solemn hynms and masses, rousing adoration, All passionate heart-chants, sorrowful appeals, The measureless sweet vocalists of ages ; And for their solvent setting, Earth's own diapason, Of winds and woods and mighty ocean WE V68 ; A new composite orchestra binder of years and climes ten-fold re newer, As of the far-back per>M with Irani ic shouts, as they spin around, turning always towards Mecca ; I sec the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the A nibs ; Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, i >ee the modern (ireeks dam-ing. I hear them clapping their hands, as they l>end tlieir liodi- I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet. 23 I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding each other ; I see the Roman youth, to the shrill sound of flageolets, throwing and catching their weapons, As they fall on their knees, and rise again. 24 I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling ; I see the worshippers within, (nor form, nor sermon, argument, nor word, But silent, strange, devout rais'd, glowing heads ecstatic faces.) 11 25 I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings, The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen ; The sacred imperial hymns of China, To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone ;) Or to Hindu flutes, and the fretting twang of the vina, A band of bayaderes. 12 26 Now Asia, Africa leave me Europe, seizing, inflates me ; To organs huge, and bands, I hear as from vast concourses of voices, Luther's strong hymn, Eine feste Burg ist wiser Gott ; Rossini's Stabat Mater dolorosa ; Or, floating in some high cathedral dim, with gorgeous color'd windows, The passionate Agnus Dei, or Gloria in Excelsis. GG5 PROUD MUSIC OF THE STORM. 13 27 Composers ! mighty Maestros ! And you, sweet singers of old lands Soprani ! Tenori ! To you a new bard, carolling free in the West, Obeisant, sends his love. 28 (Such led to thee, O Soul ! All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee, But now, it seems to me, sound leads o'er all the rest.) 14 29 I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul's Cathedral ; Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, ora- torios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn ; The Creation, in billows of godhood laves me. 30 Give me to hold all sounds, (I, madly struggling, cry,) Fill me with all the voices of the universe, Endow me with their throbbings Nature's also, The tempests, waters, winds operas and chants marches and dances, Utter pour in for I would take them all. 15 31 Then I woke softly, And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream, And questioning all those reminiscences the tempest in its fury, And all the songs of sopranos and tenors, And those rapt Oriental dances, of religious fervor, Ami tin- sweet varied instruments, and the diapason of organ>. And all the artless plaints of love, and icrief and dc;itli, I -aid to my silent, curious Soul, out of the bed of the slumber- chamber, Come, I'm- I have found the clue I sought so long, Let us go forth refreshM amid the d.'iy, Cheerfully tallying life, walking the world, the real, \oiiri>h'd henceforth by our celestial dream. WHITMAN. :ir divaiu of racing storm, nor sea-hawk's Happing wings, nor liarsh scream, N>r voealism of sun-bright Italy, Nor German organ majestic nor vast concourse of voices nor layers of harmonies ; Nor strophes of husbands and wives nor sound of marching soldiers, Nor flutes, nor harps, nor bugle-calls of camps ; But, to a new rhythmus fitted for thee, Poems, bridging the way from Life to Death, vaguely wafted in night air, uncaught, unwritten, Which, let us go forth in the bold day, and write. GG7 KETCHUM. DOLORES. Tx beauty fairer far Than the divinest dream of him who divw The ^lately Eos guiding up the blue HIT L^'iinm-d :iiid jjoldi-ii car, 668 Kl.rcilUM. From the dusk realm of night Comes forth the radiant morning, brushing hark The clouds like blossoms from her rosy truck With diamond dews Inflight. The priestly mocking-bird -Wakens tlie grossbeak with his early hymn, And down the slopes, and through the woodlands dim Sweet, holy sounds are heard. Her gold-enamelled bells The tall campanula rings ; 'mid daisies white The lithe, slim phalaris* flaunts his pennons bright O'er all the grassy swells. The benzoin's breath divine Spices the air; the jasmine censers swing; Among the ferns beside the darkling spring The mailed nasturtions shine. The brown bees come and go ; His cheerful tune the lonely cricket sings ; While the quick dragon-fly, on lightning wings, Darts flashing to and fro. Pomegranates, golden-brown, Drop delicate nectar through each rifted rind ; And ghostly witches'-featherf on the wind Comes slowly riding down. * The ribbon-grass of Southern Texas (Phalaris Americana) is remark- able for its splendid colours. t The winged seeds of a species of thistle. 689 DOLORES. The gray cicada sings Drowsily amid th' acacia's feathery leaves ; Around her web the caterpillar weaves The last white silken rings. October silently His pleasant work fulfils with busy hands, While, cheering him, floats o'er the shining sands The murmur of the sea. Deep in the shady dell The cowherd, whistling at his own rude will, Lists, with bared head, as from the distant hill Rings out St. Michael's bell, Calling, with warning lips, Matron and maid, albeit the south winds blow, To climb the height, and pray for them that go Down to the sea in ships. The fishers in the boats, Mending their nets with murmurous song and noise, Stop sudden, as Dolores' silver voice From the gray chapel floats. They think how, o'er the bay, The sailor bridegroom, from her white arms torn, Sailed in the haze and gold of Michaelmas morn One year ago to-day. Then, rocking with tlic tide, They reckon up the news of yotcrday, And count wh:it time, to-day within the bay The home-bound ship may ride. 670 Kl. TCI HIM. Dreaming, the long night hours. Of white sails coining <>Yr the tn^iii'j; deep. At dawn this morning from lier strange, glad sleep She rose to Bather flowers, Cups honeyed to the brim, And fruits, and brilliant grasses, and the stems Of myrtles, with their waxen diadems, To offer unto him. Beside the chapel porch, The Gloria ended, lingering now, she turns To look, as on the brightening spire-cross burns The morning's golden torch ; Then sees, with sober glee, The swift prophetic sea-gulls flying south, Far out beyond the landlocked harbour's mouth, Into the open sea. " Steady, thou freshening breeze," Her dark eyes say, as o'er the sparkling main She gazes ; " steady, till thou bring again The ship from distant seas ; "So, ere his golden wine The setting sun adown the valley pour, Dear eyes may watch with me, beside the door, The autumn day decline." O breeze ! O sea-birds white ! Ye may not bring her from that rocky coast The stranded ship nor wrest the tempest-tossed From the black billow's might ; 671 DOLORES. But when she wearily Shall pray for comfort, of that country tell Where all the lost are crowned with asphodel, And there is no more sea. LEMON. OLD TIME AND I. OLD Time and I the oilier night Had a carouse together ; The wine was golden, warm, and bright Ay ! just like summer weather. Quoth I, "There's Christmas come again, And I no farthing richer;" Time answered, "Ah ! the old, old strain I prithee pass the pitcher. "Why measure all your good in gold? No rope of sand is weaker ; 'Tis hard to get, 'tis hard to hold- Come, lad, fill up your beaker. Hast thou not found true friends more true, And loving ones more loving?" I could but say, "A few a few ; So keep the liquor moving." 'Hast thou not seen the prosp'rous knave Come down a precious thumper? His cheats disclosed?" "I have. I have:'' " Well, surely that's a bumper." "Nay, hold a while; I've seen the just Find all their hopes grow dimmer." "They will hope on, and strive, and trust, And conquer'!" "That's a brimmer." 673 OLD TIME AND I. " 'Tis not because to-day is dark, No brighter day's before 'era ; There's rest for every storm-toss'd bark." " So be it ! Pass the jorum !" "Yet I must own I should not mind To be a little richer." "Labour and wait, and you may find Hallo ! an empty pitcher." THE END. 674 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY BERKELEY Return to desk from which borrowed. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 10 LIBRARY USE JANS 1857 L> LD 21-100m-ll,'49(B71468l6)476 N > '.i 2, H REC'O WAY 6 JUN 1 '64 B REC'D jljN9 '64 MAY 2 MAI 21 '65 -9 P M/17W.JJAM i w I /CO THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY ffiflfiC R&CI