y c"«^ Ifavotite |p>oem0 Ifrom lenglisb ant) american Hutbore ®nc 1bun6reti an6 SCftssffour ©ems that wUl Uve always E6ite6 bie ^bomas W. Ibanbtorb Xos Bngeles, Cal. San^erson^nmbitten Company ICO I PEEFAOE. There are certain poems — some of them rather lengthy and some of them very brief — which, because they have touched the universal heart, have become universal fa- vorites. To gather together in one small volume the Favorite Poems from English and American authors has been a pleasant task. The editor has been very anxious in the compilation of these pages not to omit any of those gems of poetic beauty which are universally ad- mired-, at the same time he has ventured to introduce a few of the efforts of modern singers, which bid fair to become universal favorites, all in good time. We have, all of us — even the most practical and pro- saic — a vein of poetry somewhere in our nature, and a book such as this, is just the companion we need to make glad the quiet hours of life. The aim of the editor all along has been to present the public with a volume that should answer the mood of the poet Longfellow, ex- \)resied In the following memorable stanzas: " Read from some humble poet, Whose songs gush from his heart As showers from the clouds of summer. Or tears from the eyelids start. Such songs have power to quiet, The restless pulse of care: And come like the benediction That follows after prayer." COISTTEISTTS. Abide with Me IV. H. Lyte 996 America W.C. Bryant 66 4 NNiE Laurie A nonymotts 38 A.ITUD Lang Svne Robert Burns 17S A Canadian Boat Song Thomas Moore 146 A Sermon for the Sisters Irwin Russell 294 A Song of Easter Celia Tkaxter 219 Barbara Frietchie ./. G. Whittier 177 Battle Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe 137 Beautiful Hands A ntnymous 37 Bernardo Del Carpio Mrs. Hemans 244 Bktter in the Morning Leander S. Coan 252 Beyond Anonymous 68 Bingen on the Rhine Hon. Mrs. Norton 33 Bonos of Affection L. E. Landon 65 Boston Hymn -../?. W. Emerson a8 Clear the Way Charles Mackay 54 Could Wk But Know C. E. Sttdman J84 Come Into THE Garden, Maud. ., Lord Tennyson 45 Creed of the Bells George IV. Bungay 223 Corfew Must Not Ring To-night Rose Hariwick Thgrpe 95 Ellen Adair Elmo 59 Entertaining Her Big Sister's Beau Brei Harte 82 Evelyn Hope Robert Browning 104 Excelsior H. W. Longfellow 188 Faithless Nelly Gray Thomas Hood 75 Farmer John .J. T. Trowbridge 115 Fareweel Alexander Maclagan 261 Forest Hymn , W.C. Bryant u G MAUD MULLER. Maud Miiller, on a summer's day, Kaked the meadows sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wcairh Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry giee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But when she glanced to the far-off town- White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast— A wish, she had hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up^, And filled for him her small tin cup. And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. Then said the Judge, " a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier torn gown, And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, JO FAVORITE POEMS. And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyeSw At last, like one who for delay- Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. / Maud Miiller looked, and sighed: "Ah me That I the Judge's bride might be! He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat; I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. And the baby should have a new toy each d-ay. And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor. And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Miiller standing still. ^ A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet; And her modest and graceful air Shows her wise and good as she is fair. Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay; No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, But low of cattle and song of birds. And health and quiet and loving words." But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold. And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune; And the young girl mused beside the well. FAVORITE POEMS. Till the rain on the unraked clover felt. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright gloW; He watched a picture come and go: And sweet Maud Miiller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red. He longed for the wayside rill instead, And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover blooms. And the proud man sighed with a secret paii?, ** Ah, that I was free again! Free as when I rode that day Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.'* She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door; But care and sorrow and childbirth pain Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadov/ lot. And she heard the little spring-brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall. In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein. And Qfazins: down with tender arrace. She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned. And for him who sat by the chimney log Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug^ 5« FAVORITE POEMS. A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty, and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, " It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for Judge, For rich refiner and household drudget God pity them both! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall. For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: " It might have been.'" Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes; And in the hereafter, angels may Poll the stone from its grave away, John G, Whittier. THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. When marshal'd on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky; One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem; But one alone the Savior speaks. It is the star of Bethlehem. Once on the raging sea I rode. The storm was loud, — the night was dark,— The ocean yawn'd, — and rudely blow'd The wind that tossed my foundering bark. FA VORITE, POEMS. S3 Deep horror then my vitals froze Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose, It was the star of Bethlehem. It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers* thrall. It led me to the port of peace. Now safely moored — my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, forever and for evermore. The star! — the star of Bethlehem! Henry Kirke White. OOD BLESS OUR FATHER-LAND. God bless our father-land, Keep her in heart and hand One with our own; From all her foes defend. Be her brave people's Friend; On all her realms descend; Protect her throne. Father, in loving care Guard thou her kingdom's heir, Guide all his ways; Thine arm his shelter be From harm by land and sea; Bid storm and danger liee; Prolong his days. 54 FAVOk/TE POiLMS. Lord, bid war's trumpet cease; Fold the whole earth in peace Under thy wings; Make all thy nations one, All hearts beneath thy sun, Till thou shalt reign alone, Great King of kings. Q W. H0LMI& CLEAR THE WAY. Men of thought! be up, and stirring Night and day: Sow the seed — withdraw the curtain- Clear the way! Men of action, aid and cheer them, As ye may! There's a fount about to stream. There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way! Once the welcome light has broken. Who shall say What the unimagined glories Of the day? What the evil that shall perish In its ray? FAVORITE POEMS. 55 Aid the dawning, tongue and p^i? Aid it, hopes of honest men; Aid it, paper — aid it, type — Aid it, for the hour is ripe, And our earnest must not slacken Into play; M«n of thought and men of action^ Clear the way! Lo! a cloud's about to vanish From the day; And a brazen wrong to crumble Into clay. Lo! the right's about to conquerj Clear the way! With the Right shall many more Enter smiling at the door; With the giant Wrong shall fall Many others, great and small, That for ages long have held us For their prey. Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way! Charles Mackax: INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY. O, listen, man! A voice within us speaks the startling word, "Man, thou shalt never die! " Celestial voices Hymn it round our souls; according harps, By angel fingers touch'd, when the mild stars ^ FAVORITE POEMS, 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 sea» Join in this solemn, universal song. O, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 'Tis floating in day's setting glories; night, Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step, Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears; Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve^ All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse. As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd By an unseen, living hand, and conscious chords Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth Orow dull and distant, wake their passing souls. To mingle in this heavenly harmony. R. H. Dana. "JIM." Say, there! P'r'aps Some on you chaps Might know Jim Wild? Well — no offence; Thar ain't no sense In gettin' riled! Jim was my chum Upon the Bar; That's why I come Down from up yar, Lookin' f«jr lim. FAVORITE POEMS. 5> Thank ye, sir! Y&u Ain't of that crew — Blest if you are! Money! — Not much; That ain't my kind; I ain't no such. Rum ? — I don't mind, Seein' it's you. Well, this yer Jim, Did jj-ou know him ? — Jess about your size; Same kind of eyes — Well, that is strange; Why, it's two year Since he came here. Sick, for a change. Well, here's to us; Eh? The h you say! Dead ?— That little cuss ? What makes you star- You, over thar ? Can't a man drop 'S glass in yer shop But you must r'ar ? It wouldn't take D much to bres^r You and your bar. Dead! Poor— little — Jim! FAVORITE POEMS, Why, thar was me, Jones, and Bob Lee, Harry and Ben, No-account men; Then to take him / Well, thar — Good-bye-— No more, sir — I — Eh? What's that you say? Why, dern it! — sho! — No? Yes? By Jo! Sold! Sold! Why, you limb, You ornery, Derned old Long-legged Jim! Bret Harte, ONLY ONE LIFE. ^Tis not for man to trifle: life is brief. And sin is here. Our age is but the falling of a leaf, A dropping tear. We have no time to sport away the hours; All must be earnest in a world like ours. Noc many lives, but only one have we; One, only one. How sacred should that one life ever be — Day after day filled up with blessed toil. Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil! HORATIUS BONAR. FAVORITE POEMS. 59 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly; at dead of night; The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. "We thought — as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow — How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 6o FAVORITE POEMS. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory. We curved not a line, we raised not a stone, But left him- — ^alone with bis glory! J. Wolfe. THE MAY QUEEN. PART FIRST. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mothet dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new year; Of all the glad new year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud, when the day begins to break; But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and gar- lands gay, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. / FAVORITE POEMS. 6l f-ittle Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, '11 be fresh, and green, and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are pver all the hill. And the rivulet in the flowery dale'U merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mothet dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new year; ro-morrow'U 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. PART SECOND — NEW YEAR'S EVE. [f you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new yeai-; It is the last new year that I shall ever see; Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and thifk no more of me. Fo-night I saw the sun set; he set a;id left behind The good old year, the dear r»ld time, and all my peace of mind; C-2 FAVORITE POEMS. And the new year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree, './here's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane; 1 only wish to live till the snow-drops come again; I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on high; I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook'll caw from the windy, tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'd. the wave. But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave. 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. FAVORITE POEMS. 6.3 If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting place; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon youf face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, ■'^nd be often, often with you when you think I'm fa>? away. Good night, good night; when I have said good nigh? forevermore. And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green; She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. 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; ^o, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. PART THIRD — CONCLUSION. 1 thought to pass away before, and yet alivG 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 snow-drop came, and now the violet'f here. O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me, that cannot rise; And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers tha5 blow ; And sweeter far is d'jath than life to me, that long to ga 64 FAVORITE POEMS, I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat; There came a sweeter token when the night and morn- ing meet; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will dell the sign. All in the wild March morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark wj:s over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I feit resigned. And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of aU my mind. And up the valley came again the music of the wind. But you were sleeping, and I said, " It's not for them; it's mine." And if it comes three times, I thought, I'd take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bers, Then seemed to go right up to heaven, and die among- the stars. FAVORITE POEMS. 65 So now I think my time is near. I trust it is, I know The blessed music went that way my soul will love to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day; But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am passed away. 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. Oh, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done. The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun — Forever and forever with those just souls and true: And what is life that we should moan ? Why make we such ado ? Forever and forever, all in a blessed home, And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come — To lie within the light of God as I lie upon your breast, And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. Lord Tennyson. BONDS OF AFFECTION. There is in life no blessing like affection; It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues, And bringeth down to earth its native heaven. It sits beside the cradle patient hours, Whose sole contentment is to watch and love; 66 FAVORITE POEMS. It bendeth o'er the death-bed, and conceals its own despair with words of faith and hope. Life has naught else that may supply its place; Void is ambition, cold is vanity, And wealth an empty glitter, without love. L. E. LandoNc I WONDER. I wonder if ever a song was sung. But the singer's heart sang sweeter? I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung, But the thought surpassed the meter? I wonder if ever the sculptor wrought Till the cold stone echoed his inmost thought? Or if ever a painter, with light and shade, The dream of his inmost soul betrayed? Anonymous. AMERICA. O mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years; With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; FAVORITE POEMS. 6^ Thy step — the wild deer's rustling feet Within thy woods are not more fleet; Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky. Ay, let them rail, those haughty ones, While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art, How many a fond and fearless heart Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe. |l. They know not, in their hate and pridt,. What virtues with thy children bide. — How true, how good, thy graceful maids Make bright, like flowers, the valley shades: What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen; What cordial welcomes greet the guest By thy lone rivers of the west; How faith is kept, and truth revered. And man is loved, and God is feared. In woodland homes, And where the ocean border foams. There's freedom at thy gates, and rest For earth's down-trodden and opprest, A shelter for the hunted head. For the starved laborer toil and bread. Power, at thy bounds. Stops, and calls back his baffled hounds. O fair young mother! on thy brow Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 68 FAVORITE POEMS. Dfeep in the brightness of thy skies, The thronging years in glory rise. And as they fleet, Drop strength and riches at thy feet. Thine eye, with every coming hour, Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder born, Would brand thy name with words of scorn, Before thine eye Upon their lips the taunt shall die. William Cullen Bryant, BEYOND. Oh, ye lost ones, ye departed, who have passed that silewt shore. Though we call you through the sunset ye return to u« no more. Have ye found the blessed islands where earth's toils and sorrows cease ? Do ye wear the sacred lotus, have ye entered into peace ? Do ye hear us when we call you, do ye heed the tears we shed, — Oh, beloved! oh, immortals! oh, ye dead who are noX dead! Speak to us across the darkness, wave to us a glimmeriag hand. Tell us but that ye remember, dwellers in the silent landT Anonymous. FAVORITE FOEMS, 69 TO lANTHE, SLEEPING. How wonderful is Death! Death and his brother Sleep! One, pale as yonder waning moon. With lips of lurid blue; The other, rosy as the mom When throned on ocean's wave, It blushes o'er the world: Yet both so passing wonderful! Hath then the gloomy Power Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres Seized on her sinless soul ? Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow, That lovely outline which is fair As breathing marble, perish ? Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight But loathsomeness and ruin ? Spare nothing but a gloomy theme. On which the lightest heart might moralize ? Or is it only a sweet slumber Stealing o'er sensation, Which the breath of roseate morning Chaseth into darkness ? Will lanthe wake again, And give that faithful bosom joy, Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life, and rapture from her smile ? 70 FAVORITE POEMS. Yes! she will wake again, Although her glowing limbs are motionless, And silent those sweet lips, Once breathing eloquence That might have soothed a tiger's rage. Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. Her dewy eyes are closed, And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath. The baby Sleep is pillowed: Her golden tresses shade The bosom's stainless pride. Curling like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column. Hr * * * * A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame: Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained. She looked around in wonder, and beheld Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch. Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love, And the bright-beaming stars That through the casement shone. Percy Bysshe Shellsy THE DAY IS DONE. The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of night. As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. FAVORITE POEMS. 7* I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist. And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist — A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles rain. Come read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, / Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time; — For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor, And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet. Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; — Who through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. 72 FAVORITE POEMS. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away. H. W. LONGFELLO)« JIM BLUDSO. Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Because he don't live, you see: Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, The night of the " Prairie Belle" ? He warn't no saint — them engineers Is pretty much all alike — One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike. A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row — FAVORITE POEMS. 73 But he never flunked, and he never lied,— I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had — To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the *' Prairie Belle " took fire, A thousand times he swore He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip'. And her day come at last — The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle, she wouldn't be passed, And so she came tearin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that wilier-bank on the right, There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, " I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Thro' the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know'd he would keep his word. 74 FAVORITE POEMS. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smoke-stacks fell. And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the "Prairie Belle." He warn't no saint — but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead sure thing, — And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard On a man who died for men. John Hay. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; — The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it. The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure, For often at noon when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. FAVORITE POEMS. 75 How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And, now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. Samuel Woodworth. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms. Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot: For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second foot." 76 FAVORITE POEMS. The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "They're only pegs; But there's as wooden members quite. As represent my legs." Now Ben he loved a pretty maid— Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay. But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden leg^ Began to take them off. " O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform." Said she, " I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave, " Before you had those timber toes Your love I did allow; But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing- now." « O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray; For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajoz's breaches." FAVORITE POEMS. 77 "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms." ** O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse: Though I've no feet, some other man Is standing in my shoes. " I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But, now, a long farewell! For you will be my death; — alas! You will not be my Nell! " Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got. And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot. So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine. And for his second time in lif^ Enlisted in the line. One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs; And, as his legs were off, of course He soon was off his legs. And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town; For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down. )| FAVORITE POEMS. A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died — And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside. Thomas Hood. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them! To die,^— to sleep, — No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, — to sleep; — To sleep! perchance to dream; — ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect. That makes calamity of so long life: For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear.' To e^runt and sweat under a weary life; But that the dread ot something after deaih. FAVORITE POEMS. Thfc undiscovered country, from whose bourne No traveler returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of ? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought And enterprises of great pith and moment. With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. ShARSF£AR£ THE DYING SAVIOR. O sacred Head, now wounded, With grief and shame weighed down, Now scornfully surrounded With thorns, Thy only crown; O sacred head, what glor)% What bliss, till now was ThineJ Yet, though despised and gory, I joy to call Thee mine. O noblest brow and dearest, In other days the world All feared when Thou appearedst; What shame on Thee is hurled! How art Thou pale with anguish, With sore abuse and scora! How does that visage languish Which once was bright as morn! So FAVORITE POEMS. What language shall I borrow, To thank Thee, dearest Friend, For this Thy dying sorrow, Thy pity without end! O, make me Thine forever, And should I fainting be, Lord, let me never, never, Outlive my love to Thee, If I, a wretch, should leave Thee, O Jesus, leave not me! In faith may I receive Thee, When death shall set me free. When strength and comfort languish And I must hence depart, Release me then from anguish. By Thine own wounded heart. Be near when I am dying, O, show Thy cross to me! And for my succor flying. Come, Lord, to set me free. These eyes new faith receiving, From Jesus shall not move ; For he who dies believing Dies safely — through Thy love. Paul Gerhasu>i / THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands. FAVORITE POEMS. *1 And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black and long; His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell. When the evening sun is low, And children coming home from school Look in at the open door — They love to see the flaming forge And hear the bellows roar, And catch the sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits amongst his boys; He hears the parson pray and preachj He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir And it makes his heart rejoice; It sounds to him like her mother's voice \ Singing in paradise. He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies. And with his hard rough hand he wipes A *;ear from out his eyes. B2 FAVORITE POEMS. 1 oiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin. Each evening sees its close ; Something attempted, something done^ Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend For the lesson thou hast taughjt ; Thus, at the flaming forge of life, Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed, each thought. H. W. Longfellow. ENTERTAINING HER BIG SISTER'S BEAU. •* My sister'U be down in a minute, and says you're \. And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out. Of running such a rig. The wind did blow — the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay; Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. FAVORITE POEMS. '^ Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung— A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screatnftd. Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin— who but he? His fame soon spread around— «He carries weight! he rides a racel Tis for a thousand pound! " And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low. The bottles twain behind his back, Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road. Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smok« As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. zoo FAVORITE POEMS. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay: And there he threw the wash about On both sides of Ihe way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here's the house!' They all at once did cry; "The dinner waits, and we are tired:" Said Gilpin— "So am I!" But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why? — his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. FAVORITE POEMS. «°' The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him: "What news? what news? your tidings tell: Tell me you must and shall — Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all ? " Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke: ** I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in- Whence straight he came with hat and wig — A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for- wear- Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit — "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. a.02 FAVORITE POEMS. " But let me scrape the dirt aWay That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, " It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So turning to his horse, he said, " I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here— You shall go back for mine." Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast. For which he paid full dear! For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar. And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why? — they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away. She pulled out half a crown; FAVORITE POEMS. 203 And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, This shall be yours when you bring back ** My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain — Whom in a trice he tried to stop. By catching at his rein; But not performing what he mean^ And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to fflisis The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry: " Stop thief! stop thief !— a highwayman! " Not one of them was mute: And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race. 204 FAVORITE POEMS. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, long live the king! And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see! William Cowpeh. HORATIUS. A LAY MADE ABOUT THE YEAR OF ROME CCCLX. Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the nine gods he SAVore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the nine gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, ' To summon his array. East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome! FAVORITE POEMS. toS The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain, From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine. Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine; From lordly Volaterrse, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled bythe hands of giants For godlike kings of old; From sea-girt Populonia, Whose sentinels descry Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky; From the proud mart of Pisse, Queen of the Western waves, Where ride Massilia's triremes, Heavy with fair-haired slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers. There be thirty chosen prophets. The wisest of the land. Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand. Evening and morn the thirty Have turned the verses o'er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore. ao6 FAVORITE POEMS. And with one voice the thirty- Have their glad answer given: " Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena— Go forth beloved of heaven! Go, and return in glory To Clusium's royal dome, And hang round Nurscia's altars The golden shields of Rome!" And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men, The foot are fourscore thousand. The horse are thousands ten, Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array; A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting day. But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright; From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city The throng stopped up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days. Now, from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. The fathers of the city, They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman came With tidings of dismay FAVORJTE POEMS. 207 I wis, in all the senate There was no heart so bold But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the consul — Up rose the fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall. They held a council, standing Before the river-gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spake the consul roundly: '' The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Naught else can save the town." Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: "To arms! to arms! sir consul — Lars Porsena is here." On the low hills to westward The consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky. And nearer, fast, and nparer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still, and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpets' war-note proud. The trampling and the hum. 208 FAVORITE POEMS. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears. Fast by the royal standard, O'erlooking all the war Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car, By the right wheel rode Mamilius Prince of the Latian name. And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the housetops was no woman But spat toward him and hissed, No child but screamed out curses. And shook its little fist. But the consul's brow was sad, And the consul's speech was low. And darkly looked he at the wall. And darkly at the foe: "Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may wi.i the bridge, What hope to save the town? " FAVORITE POEMS. *^ Then out spake brave Horatius, The captain of the gate: * To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods? * And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame — To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame ? " Hew down the bridge, sir consul. With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play — In yon straight path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?" Then out spake Spurius Lartius — A Ramnian proud was he: " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius — Of Titian blood was he: " I will abide on thy left side. And keep the bridge with thee.'' SIO FAVORITE POEMS. " Horatius," quoth the consul, "As thou say est, so let it be." And straight against that great array- Forth went the dauntless three. For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party — Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor. And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned, Then spoils were fairly sold; The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe. And the tribunes beard the high. And the fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold; Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. Now while the three were tightening Their harness on their backs, j The consul was the foremost man To take in hand an ax; And fathers, mixed with commons, Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. FAVORITE POEMS. aW Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Came flashing back the noonday light, Raiik behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly toward the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless three. The three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose; And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath; Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust. And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. Herminius smote down Aruns; Lartius laid Ocnus low; Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow; SI2 FAVORITE POEMS, " Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark; No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns, when they spy Thy thrice-accursed sail! " But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes; A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array. And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. But, hark! the cry is Astur: And lo! the ranks divide; And the great lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the fourfold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans, A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter Stand savagely at bay; But will ye dare to follow. If Astur clears the way ? " FAVORITE POEMS. 213 Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh^ It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh — The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing space — Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, So fierce a thrust he sped. The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel. And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. « And see," he cried, " the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucumo comes next To taste our Roman cheer ? " But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran,. Mingled with wrath, and shame, and dread. Along that glittering van. 214 FAVORITE POEMS. There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria's noblest Were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, In the path the dauntless three, And from the ghastly entrance. Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank — like boys who, unaware. Ranging a wood to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack; But those behind cried "Forward! " And those before cried "Back!" And backward now, and forward, Wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel To and fro the standards reel. And the victorious trumpd:t-peal Dies fitfully away. Yet one man for one moment Strode out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the three, And they gave him greeting loud: "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home! FAVORITE POEMS. 215 Why dost thou stay, and turn away? Here lies the road to Rome." Thrice looked he at the city; Thrice looked he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread; And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied. And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. "Come back, come back, Horatius! " Loud cried the fathers all — " Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall! " Back darted Spurius Lartius— Herminius darted back; And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces. And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone. They would have crossed once more; But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream; 3l6 FAVORITE POEMS. And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind — Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. " Down with him! " cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face; "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " Now yield thee to our grace! " Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Naught spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus naught spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome; « O Tiber! father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day! " So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed The good sword by his side. And, with his harness on his back. Plunged headlong in the tide. But fiercely ran the current. Swollen high by months of rain, FAVORITE POEMS. 2^7 And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows; And oft they thought him sinking. And still again he rose. Never, I ween, did swimmer. In such an evil case. Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing-place; But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up his chin. « Curse on him! " quoth false Sextus,— " Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town! " " Heaven help him! " quoth Lars Porsena, " And bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before." And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the fathers To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, , And noise of weeping loud. He enters through the river-gate. Borne by the joyous crowd. 21^ FAVORITE POEMS. They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night: And they made a molten image, And set it up on high — And there it stands unto this day To witness if I lie. It stands in the Comitium, Plain for all folk to see, — Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee; And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old. Lord Macaulay. THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. *Tls believed that this harp, which I wake now for thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea; , And who often, at eve, through the bright billow roved. To meet on the green shore, a youth whom she loved. But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep. And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep, Till Heaven looked with pity on true love so warm. And changed to this soft harp the sea-maiden's form. Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheek smiled the same. While her sea-beauties gracefully curled round the frame; FAVORITE POEMS. 219 And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright rings, Fell o'er her white arm, to make the gold strings! Hence it came, that this soft harp so long hath been known To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone; Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay To be love when I'm near thee, and grief when away! Thomas Moore, A SONG OF EASTER. Sing, children, sing! And the lily censers swing; Sing that life and joy are waking, and that death no more is king. Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly brightening spring; Sing, little children, sing! Sing, children, sing! Winter wild has taken wing. Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring! Along the caves the icicles no longer glittering cling; And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face to the sun; And in the meadows softly the brooks begin to run; And the golden catkins swing In the warm airs of the spring; Sing, little children, sing! aao FAVORITE POEMS. Sing, little children, sing! The lilies white you bring In the joyous Easter morning for hope are blussoming; And as the earth her shroud of snow from off her breast doth fling, So may we cast our fetters off in God's eternal spring. So may we find release at last from sorrow and from pain. So may we find our childhood's calm, delicious dawn again. Sweet are your eyes, O little ones, that look with smiling grace, Without a shade of doubt or fear into the Future's face! Sing, sing in happy chorus, with joyful voices tell That death is life, and God is good, and all things shaR be well; That bitter days shall cease In warmth and light and peace, — That winter yields to spring, — Sing, little children, sing! Celia Thaxtbr. MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND. Father, I know that all my life Is portioned out for me, And the changes that will surely come, I do not fear to see; But I ask Thee for a present mind Intent on pleasing Thee. FAVORITE POEMS. 221 I ask Thee for a thoughtful love, Through constant watching wise, To meet the glad with joyful smiles, And to wipe the weeping eyes; And a heart at leisure from itself, To soothe and sympathize. I would not have the restless will That hurries to and fro. Seeking for some great thing to do, Or secret thing to know; I would be treated as a child, And guided where I go. Wherever in the world I am, In whatsoe'er estate, I have a fellowship with hearts To keep and cultivate; And a work of lowly love to do. For the Lord on whom I wait. So I ask Thee for the daily strength, To none that ask denied; And a mind to blend with outward life, While keeping at Thy side. Content to fill a little space. If thou be glorified. And if some things I do not ask In my cup of blessing be, I would have my spirit filled the more With grateful love to Thee; And careful, less to serve Thee much Than to please Thee perfectly. FAVORITE POEMS. There are briers besetting every path, Which call for patient care; There is a cross in every lot, And an earnest need for prayer; But a lowly heart that leans on Thee * Is happy anywhere. In a service which Thy love appoints, There are no bonds for me; For my secret heart is taught "the truth" That makes Thy children "free" ; And a life of self-renouncing love Is a life of liberty, Anna L. Waring. MY CREED. I hold that Christian grace abounds Where charity is seen ; that when We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds Of love to men. I hold all else, named piety, A selfish scheme, a vain pretense; Where centre is not, can there be Circumference? This I moreover hold, and dare Affirm where'er my rhyme may go: Whatever things be sweet or fair, Love makes them so. FAVORITE POEMS. 223 Whether it be the sickle's rush Through wheat fields, or tfie fall of showers, Or by some cabin door a bush Of rugged flowers. 'Tis not the wide phylactery, Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers, That makes us saints; we judge the tree By what it bears. And when a man can live apart From works, on theologic trust, I know the blood about his heart Is dry as dust. Alice Gary, CREEDS OF THE BELLS. How sweet the chime of the Sabbath belisi Each one its creed in music tells, Ie tones that float upon the air, As soft as song, as pure as prayer; And I will put in simple rhyme The language of the golden chime. My happy heart with rapture swells Responsive to the bells, sweet bells. "In deeds of love excel, excel! " Chimed out from ivied towers a bell, "This is the church not built on sands, Emblem of one not built with hands; Its forms and sacred rites revere; Come, worship here, come, worship here; In ritual and faith excel," Chimed out the Episcopalian beli. *24 FAVORITE POEMS. " Oh, heed ye ancient landmarks well,** In solemn tones exclaimed a bell; " No progress made by mortal man Can change the just, eternal plan: With God there can be nothing new; • Ignore the false, embrace the true. While all is well, is well, is well," Pealed out the good old Dutch chui ch bell. " Ye purifying waters swell," In mellow tones rang out a bell: "Though faith alone in Christ can save, Man must be plunged beneath the wave, To show the world unfaltering faith In what the sacred Scripture saith: O, swell, ye rising waters, swell," Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. " Not faith alone, but works, as well. Must test the soul," said a soft bell: " Come here and cast aside your load, And work your way along the road. With faith in God, and faith in man, And hope in Christ, where hope began: Do well, do well, do well, do well! " Rang out the Unitarian bell. " Farewell, farewell, base world, farewell," In touching tones exclaimed a bell; " Life is a boon to mortals given, To fit the soul for bliss in heaven: Do not invoke the avenging rod, Come here and learn the way to God; Say to the world farewell, farewell! " Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. FAVORITE POEMS. 1 '•'In after life there is no hell! " In raptures rang a cheerful bell: ** Look up to heaven this holy day, Where angels wait to lead the way; There are no fires, no fiends to blight The future life: be iust and rio-ht. No hell, no hell, no hell, no hell! " Rang out the Universalist bell. " To all the truth we tell, we tell! " Shouted in ecstacies a bell: "Come, all ye weary wanderers, see. Our Lord has made salvation free! Repent, believe, have faith, and then Be saved and praise the Lord. Amen, Salvation's free, we tell, we tell! " Shouted the Methodistic bell. George W. Bungay. THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. I said to Sorrow's awful storm That beat against my breast. Rage on, — thou mayst destroy this form, And lay it low at rest; But still the spirit that now brooks Thy tempest, raging high. Undaunted on its fury looks, With steadfast eye. I said to Penury's meager train, Come on, — your threats I brave; 22