UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES ^ " UlslvhKSrrV of CALlFUKiNi^. AT LOS ANGfc:Lh;S LIHKAKY V. ■ THE WAY OF POETRY THE WAY OF POETRY An Anthology FOR YOUNGER READERS BY JOHN DRINKWATER BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON AIIFFLIN COMPANY • • : • 9 fl , 143484 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY ALL BIGHTS RESERVED SECOND IMPRESSION, OCTOBER, 1922 THIRD IMPRESSION, OCTOBER, I923 CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. • • • ?N ^ 6110 I ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Compiler and publishers acknowledge their indebtedness to the following authors and publishers for the use of copy- right poems: — Mr. Laurence Binyon for "A Song." Mr. Gordon Bottomley for "Netted Strawberries," Brentano's for "Had I a Golden Pound," by Francis Ledwidge. Mr. Robert Bridges for "The Windmill," from Shorter ^ Poems. ^ Mr. Jonathan Cape, London, for "Raptures," "Leisure," ^ and "The Moon," by W. H. Davies. A -N Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. for "The Soldier," from Col- lected Poems, by Rupert Brooke. Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co. for "O Captain! my Captain!" by Walt Whitman. Messrs. E. P. Button & Co. for "The Donkey," from J The Wild Knight, and Other Poems, by G. K. Chesterton; c), and "Romance," from The Dark Wind, by W. J. Turner. >i \ ^ Mr. R. L. Gales for "The Temptation of St, Anthony. Mr. Robert Graves foF "Star Talk." Messrs. Harcourt, Brace & Co. for "Beautiful Meals," from The Little School, by T. Sturge Moore. Messrs. Henry Holt & Co. for "Nicholas Nye," from Peacock Pie, and "Arabia," from The Listeners, by Walter de la Mare. qX Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co. for " Inscription for an ^ Old Bed," by William Morris. The Macmillan Company for "The Dancing Seal" and "The Ice Cart," from Collected Poems, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson; "The Oxen," from Moments of Vision, by Thomas Hardy; "Stupidity Street," "The Bells of Heaven," and "Time, you Old Gipsy Man," from Poems, by Ralph Hodg- vi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS son; and "The Wild Duck" and "On Malvern Hill," by John Masefield, Mrs. Alice Meynell for "Easter Night," from Father of Women, and Other Poems. Mr. Harold Monro for "Strange Meetings," "Over- heard on a Saltmarsh," and "Real Property." Mr. Robert Nichols for "Plaint of an Humble Servant." Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for "I will make you Brooches" and "Requiem," by Robert Louis Stevenson. Mr. Frank Sidgwick for "A Christmas Legend." Mr. J. C. Squire for "The Ship," from Poems: First Se- ries (Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.). Mr. James Stephens for "In the Poppy Field." CONTENTS A Frog he would a-wooing go, Nursery Rhyme 38 A Slumber did my Spirit seal, William Words- worth 69 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, Allan Cunning- ham 143 And did those Feet in Ancient Time, William Blake 79 And shall Trelawny die? Robert Stephen Hawker 14 Arabia, Walter de la Mare 183 Atheist and the Acorn, The, Anne, Countess of WiNCHELSEA QI Autumn, John Clare 210 Autumn : A Dirge, Percy Bysshe Shelley 12 Banks o' Doon, The, Robert Burns 190 Bayliffe's Daughter of Islington, The, Anony- mous 144 Beanfield, The, John Clare 108 ^_,,B^autiful Meals, T. Sturge Moore II Beggar Maid, The, Alfred Tennyson 16 Belle Dame sans Merci, La, John Keats 136 Bells of Heaven, The, R^vlph Hodgson 78 Bells of London, The, Nursery Rhyme 31 Blackbird, John Drinkwater lo Bonny Earl of Murray, The, Anonymous 72 Boy's Song, A, James Hogg 44 ^,-Btiook, The, Alfred Tennyson 24 By the Sea, William Wordsworth 186 Chanted Calendar, A, Sydney Dobell 42 Character of a Happy Life, The, Sir Henry WoTTON 114 Christ\ias Carol, A, George Wither 147 Christmas Legend, A, Frank Sidgwick 63 Cuckoo, To the, William Wordsworth 9 viii CONTENTS Daffodil, Michael Drayton 6o Daffodils, The, William Wordsworth 107 Daffodils, To, Robert Herrick 6 Dancing Seal, The, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson I16 Dear God, To his, Robert Herrick 185 Dear is my Little Native Vale, Samuel Rogers 134 Death, Katherine Phillips 86 Death stands above me, Walter Savage Landor 115 Description of the Spring, A, Sir Henry Wotton 48 Deserted Village, The, Oliver Goldsmith 150 Dirge from " Cymbeline, " William Shakespeare 193 Donkey, The, G. K. Chesterton 1 19 Drake's Drum, Henry Newbolt 142 Dream-Pedlary, Thomas Lovell Beddoes 27 Easter Night, Alice Meynell 195 Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, Oliver Gold- smith 5 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, Thomas Gray 205 Elixir, The, George Herbert 77 Epitaph on a Hare, William Cowper 122 Epitaph on Charles H, The Earl of Rochester 150 Evening Song, John Fletcher 52 Favourite Cat, drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes, On a, Thomas Gray 3 Garden, The, Andrew Marvell 2II Glories of our Blood and State, The, James Shir- ley 192 Green Linnet, The, William Wordsworth 65 Had I A Golden Pound, Francis Ledwidge 172 He that loves a Rosy Cheek, Thomas Carew 80 Helen of Kirconnell, Anonymous 73 Heraclitus, William Cory 194 His Prayer to Ben Jonson, Robert Herrick 181 JiOME-TnOUGHTS, FROM AbROAD, RoBERT BrOWN- ING 23 How MANY Miles is it to Babylon? Nursery Rhyme 4' CONTENTS ix I HAD A Little Hobby-Horse, Nursery Rhyme 35 I HAD A Little Nut-Tree, Nursery Rhyme 36 I HAD A Little Pony, Nursery Rhyme 34 I SAW Three Ships, Anonymous 75 I WILL MAKE YOU BrOOCHES, RobERT LoUIS StEVEN- SON 50 Ice Cart, The, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 169 L\ Lady Street, John Drinkwater 13 i ^xfN Memoriam, Alfred Tennyson 29 In the Poppy Field, James Stephens 2 Inscription for an Old Bed, William Morris 27 Isles of Greece, The, Byron 87 Jack and Joan, Thomas Campion 17 Jacobite's Epitaph, A, Lord Macaulay 141 John Anderson my Jo, Robert Burns 170 Johnny shall have a New Bonnet, Nursery Rhyme 32 La Belle Dame sans Merci, John Keats 136 Lapful of Nuts, The, Samuel Ferguson 106 Lark, To the, Robert Herrick 124 Laughing Song, William Blake 131 Lawn as White as Driven Snow, William Shake- speare 69 ^J::fisuRE, W. H. Davies 55 Letter, A, Matthew Prior 28 Little Trotty Wagtail, John Clare 2 Lord R^\ndal, Anonymous 76 Lord Ullin's Daughter, Thomas Campbell 46 Love's Philosophy, Percy Bysshe Shelley iio Lucasta, To, going to the Wars, Richard Love- lace III Mad Maid's Song, The, Robert Herrick 138 M/esia's Song, Robert Greene 82 Man of Life Upright, The, Thomas Campion 109 Mary's Lamb, Nursery Rhyme 41 Meadows, To, Robert LIerrick 198 Menaphon's Roundelay, Robert Greene 51 Moon, The, W. H. Davies 178 X CONTENTS Mrs. Willow, John Drinkwater 173 My Heart leaps up, William Wordsworth 107 My Lady Greensleaves, Anonymous 189 Netted Strawberries, Gordon Bottomley 121 Nicholas Nye, Walter de la Mare 67 Night, William Blake S3 Now that the Winter's Gone, Thomas Carew 105 Nursery Rhymes 3^ Nurse's Song, William Blake 126 O Captain! my Captain! Walt Whitman 140 Ode: "How sleep the brave, who sink to rest," William Collins 79 Ode to Autumn, John Keats 202 Ode to the West Wind, Percy Bysshe Shelley 199 Old Crow, John Drinkwater 59 Old King Cole, Nursery Rhyme 36 On a Favourite Cat, drowned in a Tub of Gold- fishes, Thomas Gray 3 On his Seventy-Fifth Birthday, Walter Savage Landor 115 On Malvern Hill, John Masefield 184 On May Morning, John Milton 23 Over Hill, over Dale, William Shakespeare 70 Overheard on a Saltmarsh, Harold Monro 139 Owl, The, Alfred Tennyson 67 Oxen, The, Thomas Hardy 125 Pack, Clouds, away, Thomas Heywood 71 Pan, John Fletcher 105 Passionate Shepherd to his Love, The, Christo- pher Marlowe i°7 _^-Past and Present, Thomas Hood 57 Perfect Life, The, Ben Jonson 84 Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, Robert Browning 93 Plaint of an Humble Servant, Robert Nichols 176 Plough, The, Richard Henry Horne 166 Poet's Dream, The, Percy Bysshe Shelley 112 Prayer to Ben Jonson, His, Robert Herrick 181 Preparation, Anonymous io4 CONTENTS 3d Quiet Life, The, Alexander Pope 2a Raptures, W. H. Davies 7 Real Property, Harold Monro 19^ Reaper, The, William Wordsworth 167 Red, Red Rose, A, Robert Burns 192 Requiem, Robert Louis Stevenson 92 Resignation, Walter Savage Landor 146 Ro^LANCE, W. J. Turner 181 Rose Aylmer, Walter Savage Landor 57 Roundelay, Thomas Chatterton 129 Ruth, TH0^LA.s Hood . 44 Sands of Dee, The, Charles Kingsley 13 Scholar Gipsy, The, Matthew Arnold _ 215 She dwelt among the Untrodden Ways, William Wordsworth 112 Ship, The, J. C. Squire 196 Simple Simon, Nursery Rhyme 34 Sister, A, William Wordsworth 58 Soldier, The, Rupert Brooke 174 Song: "Ask me no more where Jove bestows," Thomas Carew 191 Song: "How sweet I roam'd from field to field," William Blake 128 Song: "When icicles hang by the wall," William Shakespeare 8 Song, A: "A widow bird sat mourning for her LOVE," Percy Bysshe Shelley 70 Song, A: "For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth," Laurence Binyon 109 Song from "Pippa Passes," Robert Browning 127 Songs of Innocence, William Blake i Sonnet: "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought," William Shakespeare I9S Spring Morning, William Browne 49 Star Talk, Robert Graves 179 Strange Meetings, Harold Monro 24 Stupidity Street, Ralph Hodgson lO Sweet and Low, Alfred Tennyson 127 Sweet Peace, Henry Vauguan XI3 xii CONTENTS Sylvia, William Shakespeare 125 Temptation of Saint Anthony, The, R. L. Gales 171 Thanksgiving to God for his House, A, Robert Herrick 203 The Frog he would a-wooing ride. Nursery Rhyme 32 The Glories of our Blood and State, James Shir- ley 192 ..JTh e North Wind doth blow, Nursery Rhyme 3 7 There was a Crooked Man, Nursery Rhyme 35 There was a Jolly Miller, Isaac Bickerstaffe 42 There was a Man of Newington, Nursery Rhyme 35 Thrush's Nest, The, John Clare 116 Tiger, The, William Blake, 120 Time goes by Turns, Robert Southwell 85 Time, you Old Gipsy Man, Ralph Hodgson 81 To Bed, to Bed, Nursery Rhyme 41 To Daffodils, Robert Herrick 6 To his Dear God, Robert Herrick 185 To his Love, William Shakespeare 188 To Lucasta, going to the Wars, Richard Lovelace hi To Meadows, Robert Herrick 198 To the Cuckoo, William Wordsworth 9 To the Lark, Robert Herrick 124 Toys, The, Coventry Patmore 175 Upon Westminster Bridge, Willlam Wordsworth 135 Verses written in the Tower the Night before he was Beheaded, Chidiock Tichborne 84 Weel may the Keel row, Anonymous 15 Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A, Allan Cunning- ham 143 What Pleasures have Great Princes, Anonymous 82 Where are you going, my Pretty Maid, Nursery Rhyme 37 Widdicombe Fair, Old Ballad 18 Wild Duck, The, John Masefield 178 Windmill, The, Robert Bridges 168 CONTENTS xiil Wish, A, Abraham Cowley 56 Wish, A, Samuel Rogers 21 With A Copy of Herrick, Edmund Gosse 184 World, The, William Wordsworth I13 World a Game, The, Willlam Drummond 92 Yattendon, Henry Newbolt 214 INTRODUCTION ABOUT POETRY Nothing In the world gives people so much real pleas- ure as making things. And have you ever tried to think exactly what making a thing means? It does n't mean making something out of nothing in a magical way, but It means taking a thing, or a num- ber of things that are already in existence, and so arranging them, that In addition to the things that have been used, an entirely new thing comes into being. For instance, a man may take thousands of bricks, each of which is a separate thing that has already been made, and out of them make an entirely new thing, a house. And in building a house the man is happy for two reasons — because he Is making a use- ful thing, a place where he or some one else can live, and also because he is able to take a lot of bricks that have been lying in heaps, that do not seem to mean anything, and arrange them so that they become a house, which means a great deal. And there is noth- ing which gives us so much satisfaction as this ability to make disorder into order and give a useful mean- ing to things that until we have arranged them — just as the man arranges his bricks into a house — seemed to have no use or meaning at all. Now it is a curious thing that by using our minds xvi INTRODUCTION we are able to get just this same kind of pleasure, which is so good for us, without having any real things to arrange. If you shut your eyes and then think of a horse, for example, it is certain that there is no real horse that you are looking at, and yet in some wonderful way you have been able to make a horse in your mind out of nothing. And the truth is that the idea of a horse which you have been able to call up in your mind, is just as real a thing, and just as important to you, as the horse that you may see in the street. And nothing will help you more in your life than the habit of seeing things in your mind very clearly; the habit not only of making things with your hands, but of making them in your mind as well. And just as, if you were building a house of bricks, you would not get the greatest possible pleasure un- less you built a good, well-shaped, and complete house, so you will not get the greatest possible pleas- ure from the things that you make in your mind, un- less they too are well-shaped and complete. You will find, for instance, that if you think about a horse with your eyes shut, that is to say, if you make a horse in your mind, you will get far more pleasure if you have learnt how to make it very exactly and clearly, than if you are only able to make it uncertainly, so that the horse in your mind is a confused kind of thing. I have said that the pleasure that we get from mak- ing things, whether with our hands or in our minds, is good for us. This is so because, ever since the earth began, the greatest purpose of the life on it has been to grow from a confusion that cannot be understood into INTRODUCTION xvii clear shapes that can be well understood, and when we make anything clearly and exactly we are helping this purpose. So that if the thing that we make is not clear, but only, so to speak, half made or a quarter made, we are failing to help the life of which we are a part as fully as we might, and our pleasure is less in consequence. That is why, when you make a horse (or any other thing) in your mind, you will get far less satisfaction if it is only a vague horse, a little like a horse perhaps and a little like a donkey, shall we say, and a little like a bush or a wheelbarrow, than you will if it is a horse clearly and completely made. i And if we think about this a minute or two longer, we shall see that very often the things that we make in our minds are suggested to us by some one else. If I tell you that I saw the moon last night, you will at once make the moon in your mind. And if some one has himself seen a thing very clearly indeed, he will be able to tell us about it so well that we in our turn can make it very clearly in our own minds, and so get an especially large amount of that pleasure of which I have spoken. And it is just this that the poets can do for us, and that is why their poems can give us so much delight. The poet sees or understands something very clearly indeed, so clearly that he is able to put it quite clearly into his poem, and then in a wonderful way we make it all over again for ourselves in our minds. For instance, William Alorris saw the river Thames flowing on a cold winter night underneath xvlii INTRODUCTION the hills by his country home. And he saw it so clearly that he was able to tell us about it in words so well chosen, and arranged so beautifully for us to hear, that we cannot read them without finding all our best ability helping us in the delightful experience of seeing it all as clearly as Morris himself saw it: "The wind's on the wold And the night is a-cold And Thames runs chill •'Twlxt mead and hill." Now forget about all this, and read the poems in this book. And after a time, when you have got used to them and know which ones ycu like best, read again what I have been saying, and I hope it will help you to understand something about what poetry may be to you now and through all your lives. For, while the first and by far the most important matter is to like a good thing, it is helpful, and, indeed, increases our Hking, if we can find out why we like it. THE POET'S WORDS AND IMAGES I HAVE tried to tell you something of the reason why poetry could give us so much pleasure, and do so much to enrich our lives and our ways of thought. I want now to talk a little about the way in which the poet does his work, so that you may begin to under- stand what lies behind the making of the poetry that we find so full of enchantment. And, again, I do not want you to puzzle too much over what I say, but just to read it carefully, and then from time to time INTRODUCTION xix go back to it, from the poems themselves, in the hope that it may gradually help you to form your own clear judgment about the things that you read. And first, although it seems a very simple thing to say, it is important to remember always, that the material which the poet uses for his work is words. Words to the poet are what paint is to the painter, or *tone or marble to the sculptor, or notes of sound to the composer of music. So that if a poet uses his words well he needs no other help, while if he uses them badly nothing can be done to make his poem anything but worthless. Let us think what this means. Suppose a poet to be looking along a country lane on a dry autumn day, just when most of the leaves have fallen from the trees. Seeing the flock of many-coloured leaves driven along by the wind, his emotions are stirred, and he then feels the need of shap- ing the emotion into the clear shapes of poetry. And to do this he has nothing but words for his purpose. So far as we are concerned, it is of no use for him to dance or wave his arms about in excitement, or rush along as though he too were a leaf driven by the wind. To do these things might in a certain way express his feel- ings, although it would be an expression of far less meaning than the exact statements of poetry,^ but in ' If, for instance, you had been with Wordsworth when he saw a rainbow, and he had suddenly stopped walking and pointed to it, drawing a deep sigh of pleasure, just as any one in thousands of men might do, you would have by no means realised his personal delight as intimately as you now do when you read his simple but complete words — "My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky." • XX INTRODUCTION any case they would mean nothing to us, since we should see nothing of them. So that what he has to record must be recorded in words, and in words alone. This, by the way, is the reason why it is so bad, when you are reading poetry aloud to people, to add to the words all sorts of gestures and facial expressions. The poet when he has finally chosen and arranged his words, if his poem is worth reading at all, has already said completely what he had to say, and if we add to his perfect expression this other feeble expression of our own, it is nothing but an impertinence, as though we were saying, "This poet is not able to express himself very clearly, so we must help him out." Having now seen that words are what he has en- tirely to depend upon, we shall realise how necessary it is that the selection and arranging of words shall be his own doing and not as he remembers it to have been done by some one else. If the poet really sees that scene of the country lane and blown leaves with his own eyes and in his own heart, he will be so intent upon his personal experience that his mind will be ab- sorbed in inventing a personal way of expressing that experience; he will, in fact, create, and it is just this creating that makes us create for ourselves when we read his poem, and so gives us so much precious de- light, as I have already explained. But if his experi- ence is a vague and incomplete one, his mind, in- stead of working vigorously to create for itself, will lazily turn away to remember what some one else has said about the same kind of thing, and since one mind can never repeat another mind's work perfectly, he INTRODUCTION xxi will only manage a half-expression, a second-hand and cheating expression, and directly we understand anything about poetry we are able to see through this kind of deception at once, and we know that it is useless to us, and gives us no real pleasure at all. Be- cause what happens in this case is that the poet only gets a vague expression to match his vague experi- ence, and he makes it vague in our minds too, which is exactly what poetry must never do. We may now see how a great poet treats the vision he had of the autumn wind and the leaves. Shelley wrote of it thus: "0 wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red." You will notice at first how wonderfully he brings into our minds a vivid idea of that " unseen presence" by making it stir into movement the dead leaves, which in turn he makes so real for us in their sharply contrasted colours — "yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red." And then you will notice that he does more than this, which brings me to the other thing I want to tell you about the poet's way of work- ing. He says that the leaves are scattered by the wind — "Like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing." This is what is called an image, and to use an image is one of the most powerful ways in which the poet can make himself clear to us. Shelley was not writing about ghosts and an enchanter, but about leaves xxii INTRODUCTION scattered before the wind. But the cloud of leaves, driven along in commotion, brought into his mind an image of huddled ghosts crowding before the en- chanter who had power to drive them forth at his will. He set this vision down very simply in words, but perfectly — "Ghosts from an enchanter fleeing." And then, although he had already conceived the idea of the leaves driven before the wind in words that could express it quite directly — " thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead are driven . . . yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red" — he sharpens the whole picture in our minds by taking our thoughts for a moment to that other idea of the ghosts and the enchanter, and then telling us that the thing of which he is actually writing is like that other thing of which he is not actually writing. And this using of an image to make the impression of what he sees even clearer than it would have been by direct statement, however exact and lucid, is an act of the imagination, which word you see is built upon the word image. THE LIFE OF POETRY If you look at the list of poets at the end of this book, you will see that while some of the poems that you are reading were written by men who, like Shake- speare, were born nearly four hundred years ago, others were written by men who are living now. A sage once said, "There is no new thing under the ' INTRODUCTION xxHi sun," and yet it is one of the many wonders that we learn from poetry that life, although it goes on from age to age, concerned with the same emotions and seeing the same natural beauty in the world, is always splendidly new. Shakespeare could see and hear — "Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stone, and good in everything," and then one poet after another following him could be aware of the same thing, and yet, because he did strictly perceive it for himself, he could make it as new an experience for himself, and for us when we read his poem, as though no one in the world had ever perceived it before. Thus, nearly two hundred years after Shakespeare, Wordsworth could write — "To me the meanest flower that blows, can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." and then, more than a hundred years later again we have Mr. Ralph Hodgson with — "The everlasting pipe and flute Of wind and sea and bird and brute, And lips deaf men imagine mute In wood and stone and clay." So that you see the poet does not have to discover and express new emotions and thoughts, but rather to express any emotion and his thought about it in such a way that we are certain that the experience in his mind is newly discovered by him and not merely handed on to him ready made by some one else, A great poem might very well be written to-morrow about so simple and old a thing as the blossoming of an apple-tree. xxiv INTRODUCTION You will have noticed that often when you feel very intensely about anything, and whether the feel- ing be a happy or a sad one, you try to satisfy your- self by singing some tune or another; that your emo- tions, in other words, try to find some sort of rhyth- mic expression. This is a deep law of our natures which none of the philosophers has been able rightly to explain, but it is a law which we all recognise. And the poet, too, when he feels and realises anything with sufficient intensity, finds his expression nat- urally taking on a rhythmic form. With each new poem this rhythm is a fresh and personal thing, and yet we find that the language which he has to use has through many hundreds of years discovered certain forms or metres for itself as being best suited to its character. And you will notice as you read these books that one poet after another does in fact use the same metrical forms, not lazily and for want of the trouble to invent new ones, but because his instinct tells him that they are the right and natural ones for his language to fall into. But the strange and won- derful thing is that each poet, while he adds to his authority by using these traditional forms, is able to impress them with his own personal sense of rhythm in such a way that they never grow stale, and are in- deed new things with each new poet who uses them. And so poetry is beautifully like life itself in seem- ing not to change yet always being new. Each year you see the trees covering themselves with green, the flowers in bloom, the young animals in the fields, the sun shining on the corn, the frost making its icicles INTRODUCTION xxv and putting lovely patterns on the window. And in a way these seem to be the same trees and flowers and seasons that have been passing before men's eyes far back through the ages, and yet each year they are all marvellously new, as truly exciting discoveries for us when we see them as though there had never been such life before. And so with the poet and his poetry. He sees the same world, feels the same emotions, and meets the same questions as did his fathers for gener- ations before him, and in finding expression for the working of his mind he will generally accept a form that has grown up in the practice of many poets whom he follows. But he sees and feels and questions out of his individual life, until the old experience is transfigured into something radiantly new and inter- esting, and he breathes into the old forms of poetry his own delighted sense of rhythm, until they too be- come fresh and vivid as the flowers that come to us with untiring wonder year by year. THE HISTORY OF ENGLISH POETRY I HAVE already talked to you a little of the nature of poetry and its meaning for us, of the poet's methods, and of the way in which tradition and new life combine to give poetry its power. It may inter- est you to know something of the actual history of English poetry, and this again will help you to make the pleasure that you get in reading a clearer and more orderly thing in your minds. To write any- thing like a complete account of the progress of Eng- xxvi INTRODUCTION Hsh poetry through six hundred years or so would take a large volume instead of a few pages, but it may be possible to give you a simple outline that you can easily carry about in your memory without con- fusing a very important thing, which is the apprecia- tion of poetry, with a very unimportant thing, which is the learning of dry facts about it. The first great poet, then, who wrote in the English language as we know it to-day, was Geoffrey Chau- cer, who is sometimes called the father of English poetry. In his verses, which show a mastery of words that has never been excelled, he told stories that are among the best that have ever been told. When a little later on you begin to read them for yourselves, you will find them full of beauty and amusement, for Chaucer's humour was as great as his passion. Then for nearly two hundred years, although poetry never died, and was sometimes served by such ad- mirable poets as Sir Thomas Wyatt and the Earl of Surrey, there was no very rich period, and Chaucer remained a great and solitary figure in the art. It was not until towards the end of the sixteenth cen- tury, or something over three hundred years ago, that a large group of poets began to work together towards making English poetry the thing of which we should be prouder than of anything else that England has given to the world. It was then that Christopher Marlowe and Edmund Spenser and Ben Jonson and William Shakespeare walked about the streets of London, and wrote the poems and plays that have grown even more wonderful as the years INTRODUCTION xxvli have gone by, until to-day they seem as much a part of an Englishman's life as his rivers and counties. With these great ones were a host of others — it would be easy to name twenty — who shared the inspiration and added to the glory of what we call the Elizabethan age. From that time the full tide of English poetry has moved on unchecked down to our own day. It is difficult, and not very useful, to say exactly after Elizabeth's time where one period of poetry ended and another began, but the next great poet after Shakespeare to stand out in supremacy was John Milton, who was born about the time that Shake- speare died. The Elizabethans had been tremen- dously interested in the daily life about them, and even in their most tragic passions there is a certain intimacy of detail that makes us remember that they were men like ourselves, puzzled and anxious and brave and excitedly happy by turns. But Milton, who was blind for a long term of his life, making his greatest poems out of his meditation upon God's deal- ings with the world and men that he had created, seemed to move in a serene, almost untroubled mas- tery of thought, and that is why he is so consoling a poet to go to when we find life and the aifairs of men most difficult and unintelligible. He gives us then something of his own noble imagination with which to rise above the narrow ways of our lesser vision. And just when this poet was creating the sublimest world in all poetry, where gods and angels and devils embodied the highest imaginings that the human xxviii INTRODUCTION mind could conceive, others, notably Robert Herrick, were writing exquisite lyrics of the country side and the simple fortunes of men. Alexander Pope and John Dryden, the poets who followed Milton, were the masters of a period in poe- try when a curious weakness of the age expressed itself, naturally enough, in the work of the poets. In life what we call good manners are the superficial to- ken of fine character, and when there is no fine char- acter behind them, they become false and silly, not being really good manners at all, but imitation good manners. Now it would be quite unjust to say that there was no fine character in the age of Pope and Dryden, or that there is no nobility in the work of these poets and their fellows, but it is a fact that people at that time did often make the mistake of sup- posing that good manners were a sufficient occupa- tion in themselves, instead of realising that they could never exist at all unless they were merely the incidental result of fine character. And so they often gave themselves up to trivialities of life, and in their worship of good manners were apt to get no farther than foolish and afl^ected manners, and this confusion in some measure reflected itself in the poetry of the time. But while we find in the work of such poets as Pope, a mechanical correctness of form and a con- ventionality of thought that is sometimes tiresome, we must remember that we have only to make a little allowance for this to discover that they, too, are carrying on the great tradition of poetry with per- sonal and enduring genius. INTRODUCTION xxix Coming now to the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, to which we are led from Pope by men such as Thomas Gray and WilHam Blake through a time not very rich in poetry, we have a second great flowering of English song, as wonderful almost as that other one of Elizabethan days. Here we find William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Robert Burns, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and John Keats, with others whose names are hardly less famous. These men, it need not be said, wrote each in his own strongly distinctive way, but they all worked, under come common im- pulse and without realising that they were working to the same end, towards taking poetry back from the conventional habits of an artificial society to the simplicity of nature and the fundamental emotions of life. They belonged to an older country than the Elizabethans, and the fierce tragic passion of the earlier poets seems perhaps to give way to a deep and wistful but always splendidly courageous tenderness in these later men, but the Inspiration of poetry runs as strongly as ever and there is no weariness, nothing but magnificently renewed vigour. And then came the poets of yesterday, poets whom your fathers and grandfathers can remember as be- ing alive — Alfred Tennyson, Robert Browning, Matthew Arnold, Algernon Charles Swinburne, William Morris, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and the rest, all of them increasing the riches of English poe- try down to our own time. Nor, as you will have found in reading these books, did the making of poe- XXX INTRODUCTION try stop yesterday. It still goes on to-day, and there are poets writing now whose names you will remem- ber when you are old men and women, as those other names have been remembered by our fathers before us. And when they too have gone, poetry will find new imaginations in which to work its never-dying will. John Drinkwater THE WAY OF POETRY THE WAY OF POETRY FROxM "SONGS OF INNOCENCE" Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me: 'Pipe a song about a Lamb!" So I piped with merry cheer. 'Piper, pipe that song again;" I piped: he wept to hear. » So "Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy cheer: So I sang the same again. While he wept with joy to hear. "Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.'* So he vanish'd from my sight, And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. William Blake 2 THE WAY OF POETRY LITTLE TROTTY WAGTAIL Little trotty wagtail, he went in the rain, And twittering, tottering sideways he ne'er got straight again. He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry. Little trotty wagtail, he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail. And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail. Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye, So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good-bye. John Clare IN THE POPPY FIELD Mad Patsy said, he said to me, That every morning he could see An angel walking on the sky; Across the sunny skies of morn He threw great handfuls far and nigh Of poppy seed among the corn; ON A FAVOURITE CAT 1 And then, he said, the angels run To see the poppies in the sun. A poppy is a devil weed, I said to him — he disagreed: He said the devil had no hand In spreading flowers tall and fair Through corn and rye and meadow land, By garth and barrow everywhere: The devil has not any flower, But only money in his power. And then he stretched out in the sun And rolled upon his back for fun: He kicked his legs and roared for joy Because the sun was shining down, He said he was a little boy And would not work for any clown: He ran and laughed behind a bee. And danced for very ecstasy. James Stephens ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES *T WAS on a lofty vase's side. Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below. THE WAY OF POETRY Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr'd applause. Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide. The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Through richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw With many an ardent wish She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to Fish? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent. Nor knew the gulf between — Malignant Fate sat by and smiled — The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in! Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to every watery God ELEGY ON DEATH OF A M.\D DOG Some speedy aid to send: — No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard — A favourite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glisters, gold! Thomas Gray AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Good people all, of every sort Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short. It cannot hold you long. ^ In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad. When he put on his clothes. THE WAY OF POETRY And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began. The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran. And swore the d9g had lost his wits. To bite so good a man. The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every Christian eye: And while they swore the dog was mad. They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That show'd the rogues they lied. The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died. Oliver Goldsmith TO DAFFODILS Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. RAPTURES Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you. We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or anything. We die. As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick RAPTURES Sing for the sun your lyric, lark Of twice ten thousand notes; Sing for the moon, you nightingales, Whose light shall kiss your throats; Sing, sparrows, for the soft warm rain, To wet your feathers tii rough; And, when a rainbow 's in the sky, Sing you, cuckoo — "Cuckoo!" 8 THE WAY OF POETRY Sing for your five blue eggs, fond thrush, By many a leaf concealed; You starlings, wrens, and blackbirds sing In every wood and field: While I, who fail to give my love Long raptures twice as fine, Will for her beauty breathe this one — A sigh, that's more divine. W. H. Davies SONG When icicles hang by the wall And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall. And milk comes frozen home in pail; When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl Tu whoo ! Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note! While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. \ When all aloud the wind doth blow. And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow. And Marian's nose looks red and raw; When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl — Then nightly sings the staring owl Tuwhoo! Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note! While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. William Shakespeare TO THE CUCKOO TO THE CUCKOO O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice: O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the Vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an Invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my schoolboy days I llsten'd to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. 10 THE WAY OF POETRY And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again, O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place, That is fit home for Thee. William Wordsworth STUPIDITY STREET I SAW with open eyes Singing birds sweet Sold in the shops For the people to eat, Sold in the shops of Stupidity Street. I saw in vision The worm in the wheat, And in the shops nothing For people to eat; Nothing for sale in Stupidity Street. Ralph Hodgson BLACKBIRD He comes on chosen evenings, My blackbird bountiful, and sings BEAUTIFUL MEALS II Over the gardens of the town Just at the hour the sun goes down. His flight across the chimneys thick, By some divine arithmetic, Comes to his customary stack, And couches there his plumage black. And there he Hfts his yellow bill Kindled against the sunset, till These suburbs are like Dymock woods Where music has her solitudes. And while he mocks the winter's wrong Rapt on his pinnacle of song, Figured above our garden plots Those are celestial chimney-pots. John Drinkwater BEAUTIFUL MEALS How nice it is to eat! All creatures love it so, That they who first did spread, Ere breaking bread, A cloth like level snow, Were right, I know. And they were wise and sweet Who, glad that meats taste good, Used speech in an arch style, And oft would smile To raise the cheerful mood, While at their food. 12 THE WAY OF POETRY And those who first, so neat, Placed fork and knife quite straight, The glass on the right hand; And all, as planned, Each day set round the plate, — Be their praise great! For then, their hearts being light, ' They plucked hedge-posies bright — Flowers who, their scent being sweet. Give nose and eye a treat: 'T was they, my heart can tell. Not eating fast but well, Who wove the spell Which finds me every day, And makes each meal-time gay; I know 't was they. T. Sturge Moore AUTUMN: A DIRGE The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying. And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead. Is lying. Come, Months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; THE SANDS OF DEE 13 Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling; Come, Months, come away; Put on white, black, and gray; Let your light sisters play — Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. Percy Bysshe Shelley THE SANDS OF DEE "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand. And o'er and o'er the sand. And round and round the sand. As far as eye could see. 14 THE WAY OF POETRY The rolling mist came down and hid the land; And never home came she. "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair^ A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee. Charles Kingsley AND SHALL TRELAWNY DIE? A GOOD sword and a trusty hand! A merry heart and true! King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do. And have they fixed the where and when? And shall Trelawny die? Here's twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why! Out spake their captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he: WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW 15 "If London Tower were Michael's hold. We'll set Trelawny free! **We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay, — With 'one and all,' and hand in hand. And who shall bid us nay? "And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! Come forth, ye cowards all, Here's men as good as you. *'Trelawny he's in keep and hold, Trelawny he may die; — But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will know the reason why!" Robert Stephen Hawker WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW As I came thro' Sandgate, Thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, As I came thro' Sandgate I heard a lassie sing, O weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, O weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in. O wha's like my Johnny, Sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny? i6 THE WAY OF POETRY He's foremost among the mony Keel lads o' coaly Tyne: He'll set and row so tightly, Or in the dance — so sprightly — He'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'T is true, — were he not mine. He wears a blue bonnet, Blue bonnet, blue bonnet; He wears a blue bonnet, — And a dimple in his chin: And weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row; And weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in. Anonymous THE BEGGAR MAID Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare-footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way: "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day.** As shines the moon in clouded skies, • She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes. One her dark hair and lovesome mien. JACK AND JOAN 17 So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!" Alfred Tennyson JACK AND JOAN Jack and Joan, they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still; Do their weekdays' work, and pray Devoutly on the holy day: Skip and trip it on the green. And help to choose the Summer Queen: Lash out, at a country feast. Their silver penny with the best. \ Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale; Climb up to the apple loft. And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father's joy, And little Tom the mother's boy. All their pleasure is content; And care, to pay their yearly rent. Joan can call by name her cows. And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreaths and tuttyes make. And trim «vith plums a bridal cake. x8 THE WAY OF POETRY Jack knows what brings gain or loss; And his long flail can stoutly toss: Makes the hedge which others break; And ever thinks what he doth speak. Now, you courtly dames and knights, That study only strange delights; Though you scorn the homespun gray. And revel in your rich array: Though your tongues dissemble deep. And can your heads frorh danger keep; Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly swain. Thomas Campion WIDDICOMBE FAIR 1 "Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your gray mare, All along, down along, out along, lee. For I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all." Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. II "And when shall I see again my gray mare?" — All along, down along, out along, lee. WIDDICOMBE FAIR 19 "By Friday soon, or Saturday noon, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all." Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Ill Then Friday came and Saturday noon, All along, down along, out along, lee. But Tom Pearse's old mare hath not trotted home, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. IV So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o' the hill, All along, down along, out along, lee. And he sees his old mare down a-making her will, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. V So Tom Pearse's old mare her took sick and her died, All along, down along, out along, lee. 20 THE WAY OF POETRY, And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. VI But this is n't the end o' this shocking affair, All along, down along, out along, lee. Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. VII When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night, All along, down along, out along, lee. Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white, Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. VIII And all the long night be heard skirling and groans, All along, down along, out along, lee. A WISH, 21 From Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones, And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy, Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk, Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Chorus — Old Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. Old Ballad A WISH Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill. With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and apron blue. The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven. Samuel Rogers S2 THE WAY OF POETRY THE QUIET LIFE Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day; Sound sleep by night; study ana ease Together mix'd; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please With meditation. Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. Alexander Pope ON MAY MORNING 43 HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD Oh, to be in England now that April's there, And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England — now! And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower — Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! Robert Browning ON MAY MORNING Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her 24 THE WAY OF POETRY The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May! that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; Woods and groves are of thy dressing; Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. John Milton FROM "STRANGE MEETINGS" The stars must make an awful noise In whirling round the sky; Yet somehow I can't even hear Their loudest song or sigh. So it is wonderful to think One blackbird can outsing The voice of all the swarming stars On any day in Spring. Harold Monro THE BROOK I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, THE BROOK as By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow, I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river. For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel w6 THE WAY OF POETRY With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. Alfred Tennyson INSCRIPTION FOR AN OLD BED 27 DREAM-PEDLARY If there were dreams to sell. What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life's fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell. Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell. What would you buy? A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such pearl from Life's fresh crown Fain would I shake me down, Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy. Thomas Lovell Beddoes INSCRIPTION FOR AN OLD BED The wind's on the wold And the night is a-cold, And Thames runs chill *Twiit mead and \iill. 18 THE WAY OF POETRY But kind and dear Is the old house here And my heart is warm 'Midst winter's harm. ■ Rest then and rest, And think of the best 'Twixt summer and spring, When all birds sing In the town of the tree,. And ye lie in me And scarce dare move Lest the earth and its love Should fade away Ere the full of the day. I am old and have seen Many things that have been; Both grief and peace And wane and increase. No tale I tell Of ill or well But this I say; Night treadeth on day, And for worst or best Right good is rest. William Morris A LETTER My noble, lovely, little Peggy, Let this my First Epistle beg ye, FROM IN MEMORIAM 29 At dawn of mom, and close of even, To lift your heart and hands to Heaven. In double duty, say your prayer: Our Father first, then Notre Pere. And, dearest child, along the day, In every thing you do and say. Obey and please my lord and lady, So God shall love and angels aid ye. If to these precepts you attend, No second letter need I send. And so I rest your constant friend. Matthew Prior FROM "IN MEMORIAM" Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind. For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind. 30 THE WAY OF POETRY Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife;' Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood. The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, , Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. Alfred Tennyson THE BELLS OF LONDON 31 NURSERY RHYMES THE BELLS OF LONDON Gay go up and gay go down, To ring the bells of London town. Halfpence and farthings, Say the bells of St, Martin's. Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's. Pancakes and fritters, Say the bells of St. Peter's. Two sticks and an apple. Say the bells of Whitechapel. Kettles and pans, Say the bells of St. Ann's. You owe me ten shillings, Say the bells of St. Helen's. When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey, When I grow rich. Say the bells of Shoreditch. Pray when will that be.'' Say the bells of Stepney. I am sure I don't know, Says the great bell of Bow. 32 THE WAY OF POETRY JOHNNY SHALL HAVE A NEW BONNET Johnny shall have a new bonnet, And Johnny shall go to the fair, And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon To tie up his bonny brown hair. And why may not I love Johnny? And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny As well as another body? And here's a leg for a stocking, And here's a leg for a shoe; And he has a kiss for his daddy. And two for his mammy, I trow. And why may not I love Johnny? And why may not Johnny love me? And why may not I love Johnny As well as another body? THE FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING RIDE It was the frog in the well, Humble dum, humble dum, And the merry mouse in the mill, Tweedle, tweedle, twino. The frog would a-wooing ride, Humble dum, humble dum, THE FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING RIDE 33 Sword and buckler by his side, Tweedle, tweedle, twino. When upon his high horse set, Humble dum, humble dum, His boots they shone as black as jet, Tweedle, tweedle, twino. When he came to the merry mill pin, Lady A'louse beene you within? Then came out the dusty mouse, I am lady of this housej Hast thou any mind of me? I have e'en great mind of thee. Who shall this marriage make? Our lord, which is the rat. What shall we have to our supper? Three beans in a pound of butter. But, when supper they were at, The frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat, Then came in Tib, our cat. And caught the mouse e'en by the back. Then did they separate: The frog leapt on the floor so flat; Then came in Dick, our drake, And drew the frog e'en to the lake, 34 THE WAY OF POETRY The rat he ran up the wall, And so the company parted all. SIMPLE SIMON Simple Simon met a pieman Going to the fair; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Let me taste your ware." Says the pieman to Simple Simon, "Show me first your penny"; Says Simple Simon to the pieman, "Indeed I have not any." Simple Simon went a-fishing For to catch a whale; All the water he had got Was in his mother's pail. Simple Simon went to look If plums grew on a thistle; He pricked his fingers very much Which made poor Simon whistle. I HAD A LITTLE PONY I HAD a little pony; His name was Dapple-grajr, I lent him to a lady, To ride a mile away. THERE WAS A MAN OF NEWINGTON 35 She whipped him, she slashed him, She rode him through the mire; I would not lend my pony now For all the lady's hire. I HAD A LITTLE HOBBY-HORSE I HAD a little hobby-horse, And it was dapple gray; Its head was made of peastraw, Its tail was made of hay. I sold it to an old woman For a copper groat; And I'll not sing my song again Without a new coat. THERE WAS A CROOKED MAN There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile, He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile: He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse, And they all lived together in a little crooked house. THERE WAS A MAN OF NEWINGTON There was a man of Newington, And he was wondrous wise, He jumped into a quickset hedge, And scratched out both his eyes: 36 THE WAY OF POETRY But when he saw his eyes were out. With all his might and main He jumped into another hedge, And scratched them in again. I HAD A LITTLE NUT-TREE I HAD a little nut-tree, nothing would it bear But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear; The King of Spain's daughter came to visit me, And all was because of my little nut-tree. I skipped over water, I danced over sea. And all the birds in the air could n't catch me. OLD KING COLE Old King Cole Was a merry old soul, And a merry old soul was he; He called for his pipe, And he called for his bowl, And he called for his fiddlers three. Every fiddler he had a fiddle. And a very fine fiddle had he; Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, went the fiddlers. Oh, there's none so rare As can compare With King Cole and his fiddlers three. MY PRETTY MAID 37 THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will poor Robin do then, poor thing? He'll sit in a barn, And keep himself warm. And hide his head under his wing, poor thing. WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MY PRETTY MAID Where are you going, my pretty maid. With your rosy cheeks and golden hair? "I'm going a-milking, sir," she said; The strawberry-leaves make maidens fair. Shall I go with you, my pretty maid, With your rosy cheeks and golden hair? "Yes, if you please, kind sir," she said; The strawberry-leaves make maidens fair. W^at is your father, my pretty maid. With your rosy cheeks and golden hair? "My father's a farmer, sir," she said; The strawberry-leaves make maidens fair. What is your fortune, my pretty maid. With your rosy checks and golden hair? 14 34H4 38 THE WAY OF POETRY "My face is my fortune, sir," she said; The strawberry-leaves make maidens fair. Then I won't have you, my pretty maid, With your rosy cheelcs and golden hair. **Nobody asked you, sir," she said; The strawberry-leaves make maidens fair. A FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING GO A FROG he would a-wooing go, Heigho, says Rowley, Whether his mother would let him or no. With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! So off he set with his opera hat, Heigho, says Rowley, And on the road he met with a rat. With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! "Pray, Mr. Rat, will you go with me, Heigho, says Rowley, Kind Mrs. Mousey for to see?" With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! When they came to the door of Mousey's hall, Heigho, says Rowley, They gave a loud knock and they gave a loud call. A FROG HE WOULD A-WOOING GO 39 With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! "Pray, Mrs. Mouse, are you within?" Heigho, says Rowley. "Oh, yes, kind sirs, I'm sitting to spin." With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! "Pray, Mrs. Mouse,'wiII you give us some beer.'' Heigho, says Rowley, For Froggy and I are fond of good cheer." With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! "Pray, Mr. Frog, will you give us a song? Heigho, says Rowley, But let it be something that's not very long.' With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! "Indeed, Mrs. Mouse," replied the Frog, Heigho, says Rowley, "A cold has made me as hoarse as a dog." With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! "Since you have caught cold, Mr. Frog," Mousey said, Heigho, says Rowley, "I'll sing you a song that I have just made. »f 40 THE WAY OF POETRY With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! But while they were all a-merrymaking, Heigho, says Rowley, A cat and her kittens came tumbling in. With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! The cat she seized the rat by the crown; Heigho, says Rowley; The kittens they pulled the little mouse down. With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! This put Mr. Frog in a terrible fright; Heigho, says Rowley; He took up his hat, and he wished them good-night, With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! But as Froggy was crossing over a brook, Heigho, says Rowley, A lily-white duck came and gobbled him up. With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! So there was an end of one, two, and three, Heigho, says Rowley, The Rat, the Mouse, and the little Frog-gee! MARY'S LAMB 41 With a rowley powley, gammon, and spinach, Heigho, says Anthony Rowley! HOW MANY MILES IS IT TO BABYLON? How many miles is it to Babylon? — Threescore miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? — Yes, and back again! If your heels are nimble and light, You may get there by candlelight. TO BED, TO BED To bed, to bed, Says Sleepy-head; Tarry awhile, says Slow; Put on the pan, Says Greedy Nan, Let 's sup before we go. MARY'S LAMB Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go. He followed her to school one day; That was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play To see a lamb at school. 42 THE WAY OF POETRY And so the teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near. And waited patiently about Till Mary did appear. Then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm. As if he said, "I'm not afraid, — You '11 keep me from all harm." THERE WAS A JOLLY MILLER, There was a jolly miller once, Lived on the river Dee; He worked and sung from morn till night. No lark more blithe than he. And this the burthen of his song For ever used to be — I care for nobody, not I, If no one cares for me. Isaac Bickerstaffe A CHANTED CALENDAR First came the primrose On the bank high, Like a maiden looking forth From the window of a tower When the battle rolls below, So look'd she. And saw the storms go by. A CHANTED CALENDAR 43 Then came the wind-flower In the valley left behind, As a wounded maiden, pale With purple streaks of woe, When the battle has roll'd by- Wanders to and fro, So totter'd she, Dishevell'd in the wind. Then came the daisies, On the first of May, Like a banner'd show's advance While the crowd runs by the way. With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields. As a happy people come, So came they. As a happy people come When the war has roll'd away, With dance and tabor, pipe, and drum, And all make holiday. Then came the cowslip, Like a dancer in the fair. She spread her little mat of green, And on it danced she. With a fillet bound about her brow, A fillet round her happy brow, A golden fillet round her brow, And rubies in her hair. Sydney Dobell 44 THE WAY OF POETRY RUTH She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden Hght of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. , On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripen'd; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born,' Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell. Which were blackest, none could tell, But long lashes veil'd a light, That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim; Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks: — ' Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean. Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. Thomas Hood A BOY'S SONG 45 A BOY'S SONG Where the pools are bright and deep. Where the gray trout lies asleep, Up the river and over the lea, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the blackbird sings the latest, Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest. Where the nestlings chirp and flee. That's the way for Billy and me. Where the mowers mow the cleanest, Where the hay lies thick and greenest. There to track the homeward bee, That's the way for Billy and me. Where the hazel bank is steepest, Where the shadow falls the deepest. Where the clustering nuts fall free, That's the way for Billy and me. Why the boys should drive away Little sweet maidens from the play, Or love to banter and fight so well. That's the thing I never could tell. But this I know, I love to play Through the meadow, among the hay. Up the water and over the lea. That's the way for Billy and me. James Hogg 46 THE WAY OF POETRY LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER A Chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!" "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle. And this. Lord Ullin's daughter. « (( And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. "His horsemen hard behind us ride — Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?" Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady: — "And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white I'll row you o'er the ferry." LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 47 By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men. Their trampling sounded nearer. "O haste thee, haste!'* the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, — When, oh! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her. And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, — His wrath was changed to wailing. For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover: — One lovely hand she strctch'd for aid, And one was round her lover. "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief "Across this stormy water: 48 THE WAY OF POETRY, And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! — O my daughter!" *T was vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. Thomas Campbell A DESCRIPTION OF THE SPRING And now all nature seemed in love; The lusty sap began to move; New juice did stir the embracing vines. And birds had drawn their valentines; The jealous trout that now did lie, Rose at a well-dissembled fly: There stood my friend with patient skill, Attending of his trembling quill. Already were the eaves possessed With the swift pilgrim's daubed nest: The groves already did rejoice In Philomel's triumphing voice. The showers were short, the weather mild. The morning fresh, the evening smiled. Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail and now She trips to milk the sand-red cow; Where, for some sturdy football swain, Joan strokes a sillabub or twain. The fields and gardens were beset With tulip, crocus, violet; SPRING MORNING 49 And now, though late, the modest rose Did more than half a blush disclose. Thus all looked gay, all full of cheer, To welcome the new-liveried year. Sir Henry Wotton SPRING MORNING THOMALIN Where is every piping lad That the fields are not yclad With their milk-white sheep? Tell me: is it holiday, Or if in the month of May Use they long to sleep.? PIERS Thomalin, 't is not too late, For the turtle and her mate Sitten yet in nest: And the thrustle hath not been Gath'ring worms yet on the green, But attends her rest. Not a bird hath taught her young, Nor her morning's lesson sung In the shady grove: But the nightingale in dark Singing woke the mounting lark: She records her love. Not the sun hath with his beams , Gilded yet our crystal streams; 50 THE WAY OF POETRY Rising from the sea, Mists do crown the mountain's tops, And each pretty myrtle drops." 'T is but newly day. William Browne WILL MAKE YOU BROOCHES I WILL make you brooches and toys for your de- light Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. I will make a palace fit for you and me Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room. Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom. And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. And this shall be for music when no one else is near. The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! That only I remember, that only you admire. Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. Robert Louis Stevenson MENAPHON'S ROUNDELAY 51 MENAPHON'S ROUNDELAY When tender ewes, brought home with evening sun, Wend to their folds And to their holds The shepherds trudge when light of day is done, Upon a tree The eagle, Jove's fair bird, did perch; There resteth he. A little fly his harbour then did search, And did presume, though others laughed thereat, To perch whereas the princely eagle sat. The eagle frowned, and shook his royal wings. And charged the fly From thence to hie: Afraid, in haste, the little creature flings, Yet seeks again, Fearful, to perk him by the eagle's side. With moody vein, The speedy post of Ganymede replied, "Vassal, avaunt, or with my wings you die; Is 't fit an eagle seat him with a fly?" The fly craved pity, still the eagle frowned; The silly fly, Ready to die, Disgraced, displaced, fell grovelling to the ground: The eagle saw. And with a royal mind said to the fly, "Be not in awe. 5« THE WAY OF POETRY I scorn by me the meanest creature die; Then seat thee here." The joyful fly upflings, And sat safe shadowed with the eagle's wings. Robert Greene EVENING SONG Shepherds all, and maidens fair. Fold your flocks up, for the air , *Gins to thicken, and the sun ^ Already his great course hath run.' See the dew-drops how they kiss Every little flower that is, Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of crystal beads: See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead Night from under ground; At whose rising, mists unsound. Damps and vapours fly apace. Hovering o'er the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come, Striking dead both bud and bloom; Therefore, from such danger lock Every one his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come as a scout From the mountain, and ere day, Bear a lamb or kid away; Or the crafty thievish fox Break upon your simple flocks. NIGHT. S3 To secure yourselves from these, Be not too secure in ease; Let one eye his watches keep, Whilst the other eye doth sleep; So shall you good shepherds prove, ' And for ever hold the love Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers. And soft silence fall in numbers On your eyelids! So, farewell! Thus I end my evening's knell. John Fletcher NIGHT The sun descending in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven's high bower. With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night. Farewell, green fields and happy groves. Where flocks have took delight. Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom. And each sleeping bosom. 54 THE WAY OF POETRY They look in every thoughtless nest. Where birds are cover'd warm; They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm. If they see any weeping, That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed. When wolves and tigers howl for prey, They pitying stand and weep; Seeking to drive their thirst away, And keep them from the sheep. But if they rush dreadful, The angels, most heedful. Receive each mild spirit. New worlds to inherit. And there the lion's ruddy eyes Shall flow with te?rs of gold. And pitying the tender cries, And walking round the fold, Saying, "Wrath, by His meekness, And, by His health, sickness Is driven away From our immortal day. **And now beside thee, bleating Iamb, I can lie down and sleep; Or think on Him who bore thy name. Graze after thee and weep. LEISURE S5 For, wash'd in life's river, My bright mane for ever Shall shine like the gold As I guard o'er the fold." - William Blake LEISURE What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at nigh^. No time to turn at Beauty's glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. W. H. Da VIES 56 THE WAY OF POETRY A WISH This only grant me, that my means may He Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Some honour I would have. Not from great deeds, but good alone. The unknown are better than ill known; Rumour can ope the grave. Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends Not on the number, but the choice of friends. Books should, not business, entertain the light, And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. My house a cottage, more Than palace, and should fitting be, For all my use, not luxury. My garden painted o'ei With nature's hands, not art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Thus would I double my life's fading space, For he that runs it well, twice runs his race. And in this true delight The unbought sports, this happy state, I would not fear nor wish my fate. But boldly say each night. To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to-day. Abraham Cowlet PAST AND PRESENT 57 ROSE AYLMER Ah, what avails the sceptred race! Ah, what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes May weep, but never see, A night of memories and sighs I consecrate to thee. - Walter Savage Landor PAST AND PRESENT I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses red and white, The violets and the lily-cups — Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built. And where my brother set S8 THE WAY OF POETRY The laburnum on his birthday — The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The lir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tope Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I 'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood A SISTER Behold, within the leafy shade. Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight. I started — seeming to espy The home and sheltered bed. The sparrow's dwelling, which hard by OLD CROW S9 My father's house in wet or dry My sister Emmeline and I Together visited. She looked at it and seemed to fear it; Dreading, though wishing, to be near it; Such heart was in her, being then A little Prattler among men. The Blessing of my later years Was with me when a boy; She gave me eyes, she gave me ears, And humble cares, and delicate fears A heart the fountain of sweet tears, And love, and thought, and joy. William WoRDSVi^ORTH OLD CROW The bird in the corn Is a marvellous crow. He was laid and was born In the season of snow; And he chants his old catches Like a ghost under hatches. He comes from the shades Of his wood very early, And works in the blades Of the wheat and the barley. And he's happy, although He's a grumbleton crow. 6o THE WAY OF POETRY The larks have devices For sunny delight, And the sheep in their fleeces Are woolly and white; But these things are scorn Of the bird in the corn. And morning goes by, And still he is there, Till a rose in the sky Calls him back to his lair In the boughs where the gloom Is a part of his plume. But the boy in the lane With his gun, by-and-by, To the heart of the grain Will narrowly spy. And the twilight will come. And no crow will fly home. John Drinkwateb DAFFODIL BATTE GoRBO, as thou camest this way, By yonder little hill, Or as thou through the fields did stray, Saw'st thou my Daffodil? She's in a frock of Lincoln green, Which colour likes her sight, DAFFODIL 6i And never hath her beauty seen, But through a veil of white; Than roses richer to behold, That trim up lovers' bowers, The pansy and the marigold, Though Phcebus' paramours. GORBO Thou well describ'st the daffodil; It is not full an hour, Since by the spring, near yonder hill, I saw that lovely flower. BATTE Yet my fair flower thou didst not meet Nor news of her didst bring, And yet my Daffodil 's more sweet Than that by yonder spring. GORBO I saw a shepherd that doth keep In yonder field of lilies. Was making (as he fed his sheep) A wreath of daffodillies. BATTE Yet, Gorbo, thou delud'st me still. My flower thou didst not see; For, know, my pretty Daffodil Is worn of none but me. Ci THE WAY OF POETRY To show itself but near her feet No lily is so bold, Except to shade her from the heat. Or keep her from the cold. GORBO Through yonder vale as I did pass, Descending from the hill, I met a smirking bonny lass. They call her Daffodil: Whose presence, as along she went, The pretty flowers did greet, As though their heads they downward h With homage to her feet. And all the shepherds that were nigh. From top of every hill. Unto the valleys loud did cry, There goes sweet Daffodil. BATTE Ay, gentle shepherd, now with joy Thou all my flocks dost fill, That's she alone, kind shepherd boy; \Let us to Daffodil. Michael Drayton A CHRISTMAS LEGEND 63 A CHRISTMAS LEGEND Abroad on a winter's night there ran Under the starlight, leaping the rills Swollen with snow-drip from the hills, Goat-legged, goat-bearded Pan. He loved to run on the crisp white floor, Where black hill-torrents chiselled grooves, And he loved to print his clean-cut hooves, Where none had trod before. And now he slacked and came to a stand Beside a river too broad to leap; And as he panted he heard a sheep That bleated near at hand. "Bell-wether, bell-wether, what do you say? Peace, and huddle your ewes from cold!" "Master, but ere we went to fold Our herdsman hastened away. "Over the hill came other twain And pointed away to Bethlehem, And spake with him, and he followed them. And has not come again. « He dropped his pipe of the river-reed; He left his scrip in his haste to go; And all our grazing is under snow. So that we cannot feed." 64 THE WAY OF POETRY "Left his sheep on a winter's night?" Pan folded them with an angry frown. "Bell-wether, bell-wether, I '11 go down Where the star shines bright." Down by the hamlet he met the man. "Shepherd, no shepherd, thy flock is lorn!" "Master, no master, a child is born Royal, greater than Pan. "Lo, I have seen; I go to my sheep; Follow my footsteps through the snow, But warily, warily see thou go, For child and mother sleep." Into the stable-yard Pan crept, And there in a manger a baby lay Beside his mother upon the hay, And mother and baby slept. Pan bent over the sleeping child, Gazed on him, panting after his run; And while he wondered, the little one Opened his eyes and smiled; Smiled, and after a little space Struggled an arm from the swaddling-band, And raising a tiny dimpled hand, Patted the bearded face. Something snapped in the breast of Pan; His heart, his throat, his eyes were sore, THE GREEN LINNET 65 And he wished to weep as never before Since the world began. And out he went to the silly sheep, To the fox on the hill, the fish in the sea, The horse in the stall, the bird in the tree. Asking them how to weep. They could not teach — they did not know; The law stands writ for the beast that's dumb That a limb may ache and a heart be numb, But never a tear can flow. So bear you kindly to-day, O Man, To all that is dumb and all that is wild, For the sake of the Christmas Babe who smiled In the eyes of great god Pan. Frank Sidgwick THE GREEN LINNET Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather. In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet. My last year's friends together. One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest; 66 THE WAY OF POETRY Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, Presiding Spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May, And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers. Art sole in thy employment; A Life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care,' Too blest with any one to pair, Thyself thy own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze. Behold him perch'd in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings. That cover him all over. My dazzled sight he oft deceives — A Brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain NICHOLAS NYE e^ The voiceless Form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes. William Wordsworth THE OWL When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round: Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay. Twice or thrice his roundelay: Alone and warming his five wits. The white owl in the belfry sits. Alfred Tennyson NICHOLAS NYE Thistle and darnel and dock grew there,- And a bush, in the corner, of may, On the orchard wall I used to sprawl In the blazing heat of the day; Half asleep and half awake, While the birds went twittering by, 68 THE WAY OF POETRY And nobody there my lone to share But Nicholas Nye. Nicholas Nye was lean and gray, Lame of a leg and old, More than a score of donkey's years He had seen since he was foaled; He munched the thistles, purple and spiked, Would sometimes stoop and sigh, And turn to his head, as if he said, "Poor Nicholas Nye!" Alone with his shadow he'd drowse in the meadow. Lazily swinging his tail, At break of day he used to bray — Not much too hearty and hale; But a wonderful gumption was under his skin, And a clear calm light in his eye, And once in a while, he'd smile — Would Nicholas Nye. Seem to be smiling at me, he would, From his bush in the corner, of may, Bony and ownerless, widowed and worn Knobble-kneed, lonely and gray; And over the grass would seem to pass 'Neath the deep dark blue of the sky, Something much better than words between me And Nicholas Nye. But dusk would come in the apple boughs. The green of the glow-worm shine, LAWN AS WHITE AS DRIVEN SNOW 69 The birds In nest would crouch to rest, And home I'd trudge to mine; And there in the moonhght, dark with dew, Asking not wherefore nor why, Would brood like a ghost, and as still as a post, Old Nicholas Nye. Walter de la Mare A SLUTvIBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL" A SLUMBER did my spirit seal; I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years. No motion has she now, no force; She neither hears nor sees; RoU'd round in earth's diurnal course With rocks, and stones, and trees. William Wordsworth LAWN AS WHITE AS DRIVEN SNOW Lawn as white as driven snow; Cypress black as e'er was crow; Gloves as sweet as damask roses; Masks for faces and for noses; Bugle bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady's chamber; Golden quoifs and stomachers, For my lads to give their dears? 70 THE WAY OF POETRY Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel: Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: Come buy. William Shakespeare OVER HILL, OVER DALE Over hill, over dale. Thorough bush, thorough brier. Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere. Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be: In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours; I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. William Shakespeare A SONG A widow bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough; The frozen wind crept on above The freezing stream below. PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY 7' There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound. Percy Bysshe Shelley PACK, CLOUDS, AWAY Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them all I '11 borrow. Wake from thy nest, Robin-redbreast, Sing birds in every furrow; And from each bill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow. You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow! To give my Love good-morrow Sing birds in every furrow! Thomas Heywood 7» THE WAY OF POETRY raE BONNY EARL OF MURRAY Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands, where hae ye been? They hae slain the Earl of Murray, And hae laid him on the green. Now wae be to thee, Huntley, And whairfore did you sae? 1 bade you bring him wi' you, But forbade you him to slay. He was a braw gallant, And he rid at the ring; And the bonny Earl of Murray, O he might hae been a king! _; . a - He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the ba'; And the bonny Earl of Murray Was the flower amang them a'! He was a braw gallant, And he play'd at the glove; 'And the bonny Earl of Murray, He was the queen's luve! O lang will his Lady .'Look owre the Castle Downe,^ Ere she see the Earl of Murray .Come sounding through the town. Anonymous HELEN OF KIRCONNELL 73 HELEN OF KIRCONNELL I I WISH I were where Helen lies, Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell leal II Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me! Ill think na ye my heart was sair, When my Love dropp'd and spak nac mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell lea. IV As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide. None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea; V 1 lighted down my sword to draw, I hacked him in pieces sma', I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me. 74 THE WAY OF POETRY VI O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll male a garland o' thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Until the day I dee! i VII O that I were where Helen lies ! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!" VIII Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee, I'd be blest, Where thou lies low and talcs thy rest, On fair Kirconnell lea. > IX 1 wish my grave were growing green, A winding sheet drawn owre my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea. X I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies. For her sake that died for me. Anonymous I SAW THREE SHIPS 7S I SAW THREE SHIPS I , As I sat under a sycamore tree, — A sycamore-tree, a sycamore-tree, I looked me out upon the sea On Christ's Sunday at morn. II I saw three ships a-sailing there, • — A-sailing there, a-sailing there, Jesu, Mary, and Joseph they bare On Christ's Sunday at morn. ni Joseph did whistle and Mary did sing, — Mary did sing, Mary did sing, And all the bells on earth did ring For joy our Lord was born. IV O they sail'd in to Bethlehem! — To Bethlehem, to Bethlehem; Saint Michael was the steresman, Saint John sate in the horn. V And all the bells on earth did ring — On earth did ring, on earth did ring; "Welcome be thou. Heaven's King, On Christ's Sunday at morn!" Anonymous 76 THE WAY OF POETRY LORD RANDAL 1, "O WHERE liae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?" — *'I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon. For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." II "Where gat ye your dinner. Lord Randal, my son? Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" — "I dined wl' my true-love; mother, make my bed »» For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down. Ill "What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, 'my son? What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I gat eels boil'd in broo'; mother, make my bed soon. For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." IV "What became of your bloodhounds. Lord Randal, my son? What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man ? '" — THE ELIXIR 77 "O they s weird and they died; mother, make my bed soon, For I 'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." V "0 1 fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son! O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man ! " — "O yes! I am poison'd; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down." Anonymous THE ELIXIR Teach me, my God and King, In all things thee to see, And what I do in anything, To do it as for thee: Not rudely, as a beast, To runne into an action; But still to make thee prepossest. And give it his perfection. A man that looks on glasse. On it may stay his eye; Or if he pleaseth, through it passe, And then the heav'n espie. All may of thee partake: Nothing can be so mean, 78 THE WAY OF POETRY Which with his tincture (for thy sake) Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgerie divine: Who sweeps a room, as for thy laws, Makes that and th' action fine. This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold: For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for lesse be told. George Herbert THE BELLS OF HEAVEN T WOULD ring the bells of Heaven The wildest peal of years, If Parson lost his senses And people came to theirs, And he and they together Knelt down with angry prayers For tamed and shabby tigers And dancing dogs and bears, And wretched, blind pit ponies. And littk hunted hares. Ralph Hodgson AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIME 79 ODE How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair * To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! William Collins AND DID THOSE FEET IN ANCIENT TIME And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England's mountain green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England's pleasant pastures seen? And did the countenance divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic mills? 80 THE WAY OF POETRY Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire! I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land. William Blake HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK He that loves a rosy cheek Or a coral lip admires. Or from star-like eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, • Gentle thoughts, and calm desires. Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires: — Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. Thomas Carew TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN 8i TIAIE, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? All things I '11 give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you . A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you. Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may. Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away? Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein — Only a moment. And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb. Off to another Ere that's in the tomb. 82 THE WAY OF POETRY Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day? Ralph Hodgson MiESIA'S SONG Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content; The quiet mind is richer than a crown; Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent; The poor estate scorns fortune's angry frown: Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss, Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. The homely house that harbours quiet rest; The cottage that affords no pride nor care; The mean that 'grees with country music best; The sweet consort of mirth and modest fare; . Obscured life sets down 'a type of bliss: A mind content both crown and kingdom is Robert Greene WHAT PLEASURE HAVE GREAT PRINCES What pleasure have great princes ! More dainty to their choice Than herdsmen wild, who careless In quiet life rejoice. WHAT PLEASURE HAVE GREAT PRINCES 83 And fortune's fate not fearing Sing sweet in summer morning? Their dealings plain and rightful, Are void of all deceit; They never know how spiteful It is to kneel and wait On favourite presumptuous Whose pride is vain and sumptuous. All day their flocks each tendeth; At night they take their rest; More quiet than who sendeth His ship into the East, Where gold and pearl are plenty; But getting, very dainty. For lawyers and their pleading, They 'steem it not a straw; They think that honest meaning Is of itself a law: Whence conscience judgeth plainly, They spend no money vainly. O happy who thus liveth! Not caring much for gold; With clothing which sufficeth To keep him from the cold. Though poor and plain his diet, Yet merry it is, and quiet. Anonymous 84 THE WAY OF POETRY VERSES WRITTEN IN THE TOWER THE NIGHT BEFORE HE WAS BEHEADED My prime of youth is but a frost of cares; My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; My crop of corn is but a field of tares; And all my good is but vain hope of gain; The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; And now I live, and now my life is done! The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; And now I live, and now my life is done! I sought my death, and found it in my womb; I looked for life, and saw it was a shade; I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; And now I die, and now I am but made; The glass is full, and now my glass is run; And now I live, and now my life is done! Chidiock Tichborne THE PERFECT LIFE It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; TIME GOES BY TURNS 85 A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night — It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures life may perfect be. Ben Jonson TIME GOES BY TURNS The lopped tree in time may grow again, Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; The sorriest wight may find release of pain. The driest soil suck in some moistening shower: Time goes by turns, and chances change by course, From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb; Her tides have equal times to come and go, Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web. No joy so great but runneth to an end, No hap so hard but may in fine amend. Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, Not endless night, not yet eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing; — The roughest storm a calm may soon allay: Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 86 THE WAY OF POETRY A chance may win that by mischance was lost; The net that holds no great, takes little fish; In some things all, in all things none are cross'd, Few all they need, but none have all they wish; Unmeddled joys here to no man befall, Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. Robert Southwell DEATH How weak a star doth rule mankind. Which owes its ruin to the same Causes which Nature had designed To cherish and preserve the frame! As commonwealths may be secure, And no remote invasion dread, Yet may a sadder fall endure From traitors in their bosom bred. So while we feel no violence, And in our active health do trust, A secret hand doth snatch us hence. And tumble us into the dust. Yet carelessly we run our race As if we could death's summons waive; And think not on the narrow space Between a cradle and a grave. But since we cannot death reprieve, Our souls and fame we ought to mind. THE ISLES OF GREECE 87 For they our bodies will survive: That goes beyond, this stays behind. If I be sure my soul is safe, And that my actions will provide My tomb a nobler epitaph, Than that I only lived and died, So that in various accidents I conscience may and honour keep: I with that ease and innocence Shall die, as infants go to sleep. Katherine Phillips THE ISLES OF GREECE The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung. Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phcebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo farther west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon -— And Marathon looks on the sea; 88 THE WAY OF POETRY And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, lay below, And men in nations; — all were his! He counted them at break of day — And when the sun set where were they? And where are they? and where art thou. My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now — The heroic bosom beats no more! And must the lyre, so long divine, Degenerate Into hands like mine? 'T is something, in the dearth of fame, Though link'd among a fetter'd race. To feel at least a patriot's shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. Must we but weep o'er days more blest? Must we but blush? — Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! THE ISLES OF GREECE 89 Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylae! What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no; — the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, But one arise, — we come, we come!'* 'T is but the living who are dumb. In vain — in vain: strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call — How answers each bold Bacchanal! You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave — Think ye he meant them for a slave? Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon's song divine: He served — but served Polycrates — A tyrant; but our masters then Were siill, at least, our countrymen. 90 THE WAY OF POETRY The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; That tyrant was Miltiades! Oh! that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. The Heracleidan blood might own. Trust not for freedom to the Franks — They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords, and native ranks, The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, Would break your shield, however broad. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade — I see their glorious black eyes shine; But gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN 91 There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! THE ATHEIST AND THE ACORN Methinks this world is oddly made, And ev'ry thing's amiss, A dull, presuming Atheist said, As stretch'd he lay beneath a shade; And instanced in this: Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing, A Pumpkin, large and round, Is held but by a little string, Which upwards cannot make it spring. Or bear it from the ground. Whilst on this Oak, a fruit so small, So disproportion'd grows; That who with sense surveys this All, This universal Causal Ball, Its ill contrivance knows. My better judgment would have hung That weight upon a tree. And left this mast, thus slightly strung, *Mongst things which on the surface sprung, And small and feeble be. 92 THE WAY OF POETRY No more the caviller could say, Nor further faults descry; For, as he upwards gazing lay, An Acorn, loosen'd from the stay. Fell down upon his eye. Th' offended part with tears ran o'er, As punish'd for the sin: Fool! had that bough a Pumpkin bore, Thy whimseys must have worked no more, Nor skull had kept them in. Anne, Countess of Winchelsea THE WORLD A GAME This world a-hunting is, The prey poor man, the Nimrod fierce is Death; His speedy greyhounds are Lust, sickness, envy, care. Strife that ne'er falls amiss. With all those ills which haunt us while we breathe. Now, if by chance we fly Of these the eager chase. Old age with stealing pace Casts up his nets, and there we panting die. William Drummond REQUIEM Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. THE PIED PIPER OF HAJvIELIN 93 Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill. Robert Louis Stevenson THE PIED PIPER OF HAJVIELIN I Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its walls on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. II Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles. And ate the cheeses out of the vats. And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. And even spoiled the women's chats. 94 THE WAY OF POETRY By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. Ill At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking. "'T is clear," cried they, "our A-Iayor *s a noddy; And as for our Corporation — shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you 're old and obese. To find in the furry civic robe ease! Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation _ Quaked with a mighty consternation, IV An hour they sat in Council; At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell — I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap. At the chamber door, but a gentle tap. THE PIED PIPER OF HAAIELIN 95 "Bless us!" cried the Mayor, "what's that?'* (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat! Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" V **Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger. And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat, from heel to head, Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin. With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin. And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as if my great-grandsire, Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone. Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" VI He advanced to the council table. And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, 96 THE WAY OF POETRY By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, — The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper: And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match his coat of the self-same check, And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon his pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders.^" "One! fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. VII Into the street the Piper stept. Smiling first a little smile. As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 97 Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling; Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens; Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped, advancing. And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished! — Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill note of the pipe I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, 98 THE WAY OF POETRY And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, 'Oh, rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!" And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious, scarce an inch before me. Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' — I found the Weser rolling o'er me." VIII You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests, and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!" — when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place. With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" IX A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 99 And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow, With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! " Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, " Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders! come, take fifty 1" X The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner-time' Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor. With him I proved no bargain-driver; With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion!" XI "How!" cried the Mayor, "d' ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a cook? loo THE WAY OF POETRY Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald! You threaten us, fellow! Do your worst; Blow your pipe there till you burst!" XII Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scatter- ing. Out came the children running. And all the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, — Could only follow with the eye THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN loi That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. And now the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However, he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop. And we shall see our children stop!'* When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side," A wondrous portal opened wide. As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced, and the children followed. And when all were in to the very last. The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say — "It's dull in our town since my playmates left!. I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me : For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand. Where waters gushed, and fruit-trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, I02 THE WAY OF POETRY And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow-deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, ^ The music stopped, and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill. Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before. And never hear of that country morel** XIV Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that Heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, ' To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was man's lot to find him. Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 't was a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever. They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and the year. These words did not as well appear; THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN 103 "And so long after what happened here On the twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street — Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away; And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress, On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned, Long ago in a mighty band. Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land. But how or why, they don't understand. XV So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men — especially pipers! 104 THE WAY OF POETRY And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our prom- ise! Robert Browning PREPARATIONS Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord, Should of his own accord Friendly himself invite, And say, "I'll be your guest to-morrow night"; How should we stir ourselves, call and command All hands to work! "Let no man idle stand! "Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall; See they be fitted all; Let there be room to eat And order taken that there want no meat. See every sconce and candlestick made bright. That without tapers they may give a light. "Look to the presence: are the carpets spread, The dazie o'er the head, The cushions in the chairs. And all the candles lighted on the stairs? Perfume the chambers, and in any case Let each man give attendance in his place.". Thus, if a king were coming, would we do; And 't were good reason too; PAN 105 For 't is a duteous thing To show all honour to an earthly king, And after all our travail and our cost, So he be pleased, to think no labour lost. But at the coming of the King of Heaven All's set at six and seven; We wallow in our sin, Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn. We entertain him always like a stranger. And, as at first, still lodge him in the manger. Anonymous NOW THAT THE WINTER'S GONE Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost Her snow-white robes, and now no more the frost Candies the grass, or culls an icy cream Upon the silver lake, or crystal stream; But the warm sun thaws the benumb'd earth And makes it tender; gives a second birth To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree The drowsy cuckoo, and the humble bee; Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring In triumph to the world the youthful Spring. Thomas Carew PAN Sing his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, io6 THE WAY OF POETRY Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing! Thou who keep'st us chaste and free As the young spring: Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, To that place day doth unyoke! John Fletcher TliE LAPFUL of NUTS Whene'er I see soft hazel eyes And nut-brown curls, I think of those bright days I spent Among the Limerick girls; When up through Cratla woods I went Nutting with thee, And we pluck'd the glossy clustering fruit From many a bending tree. Beneath the hazel boughs we sat. Thou, love, and I, And the gather'd nuts lay in thy lap, Beneath thy downcast eye; THE DAFFODILS 107 But little we thought of the store we'd won, I, love, or thou; For our hearts were full, and we dared not own The love that's spoken now. Oh, there's wars for willing hearts in Spain, And high Germanic! And I'll come back, ere long, again With knightly fame and fee: And I '11 come back, if I ever come back, Faithful to thee, That sat with thy white lap full of nuts. Beneath the hazel-tree. Samuel Ferguson MY HEART LEAPS UP My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began. So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. William Wordsworth THE DAFFODILS I WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills. io8 THE WAY OF POETRY When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils, Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: A Poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company! I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth THE BEANFIELD A BEANFIELD in blossom smells as sweet As Araby, or groves of orange flowers; THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT 109 Black-eyed and white, and feathered to one's feet, How sweet they smell in morning's dewy hours. When seething night is left upon the flowers. Another morn's sun shines brightly o'er the field, The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers, And sweet the fragrance which the union yields To battered footpaths crossing o'er the fields. John Clare A SONG For Mercy, Courage, Kindness, Mirth,- There is no measure upon earth. Nay, they wither, root and stem, If an end be set to them. Overbrim and overflow, If your own heart you would know; For the spirit born to bless Lives but in its own excess. Laurence Binyon THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT The man of life upright. Whose cheerful mind is free From weight of impious deeds. And yoke of vanity; The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent, no THE WAY OF POETRY Whom hopes cannot delude, Nor sorrows discontent; That man needs neither towers, Nor armour for defence, Nor vaults his guilt to shroud From thunder's violence; He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep, And terrors of the skies. Thus, scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, His book the heavens he makes, His wisdom heavenly things; Good thoughts his surest friends. His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage. , Thomas Campion LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY The fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean. The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS in Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle — Why not I with thine? See the mountains kiss high heaven And the waves clasp one another; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdain'd its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea — What are all these kissings worth. If thou kiss not me? Percy Bysshe Shelley TO LUCASTA, GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind, I That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly. True: a new Mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such. As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, dear, so much, Lov'd I not Honour more. Richard Lovelace 112 THE WAY OF POETRY' SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone '' Half hidden from the eye! — Fair as a star, when only one Is shining In the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me! William Wordsworth ('THE POET'S DREAM On a poet's lips I slept Dreaming like a love-adept In the sound his breathing kept; Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, But feeds on the aerial kisses Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses. He will watch from dawn to gloom The lake-reflected sun illume The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, SWEET PEACE 113 Nor heed nor see what things they be; But from these create he can Forms more real than living man, NursHngs of immortahty! Percy Bysshe Shelley THE WORLD The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers: Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours. And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. — Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. William Wordsworth SWEET PEACE My soul, there Is a country Far beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars. 114 THE WAY OF POETRY There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious Friend, And — O my soul, awake! — Did in pure love descend To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of Peace, The rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure But One who never changes — Thy God, thy life, thy cure. Henry Vaughan THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill; Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death. Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath; Who envies none that chance doth raise. Nor vice; who never understood DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME 115 How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good; Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great. Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all. Sir Henry Wotton ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY I STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife, Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; I warmed both hands before the fire of life: It sinks, and I am ready to depart. Walter Savage Landor DEATH STANDS ABOVE ME Death stands above me, whispering low I know not what into my ear. ii6 THE WAY OF POETRY Of his strange language all I know Is, there is not a word of fear. Walter Savage Landor THE THRUSH'S NEST Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush, That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound With joy; and often, an intruding guest, I watched her secret toil from day to day — How true she warped the moss, to form a nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay; And by-and-by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue; And there I witnessed in the sunny hours, A brood of Nature's minstrels chirp and fly. Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. John Clare THE DANCING SEAL When we were building Skua Light — The first men who had lived a night Upon that deep-sea Isle — As soon as chisel touched the stone, The friendly seals would come ashore; And sit and watch us all the while. As though they'd not seen men before; THE DANCING SEAL 117 And so, poor beasts, had never known Alen had the heart to do them harm. They'd little cause to feel alarm With us, for we were glad to find Some friendliness in that strange sea; Only too pleased to let them be And sit as long as they'd a mind To watch us; for their eyes were kind Like women's eyes, it seemed to me. So, hour on hour, they sat: I think They liked to hear the chisel's clink: And when the boy sang loud and clear, They scrambled closer in to hear; And if he whistled sweet and shrill, The queer beasts shuffled nearer still. But every sleek and sheeny skin Was mad to hear his violin. When, work all over for the day, He'd take his fiddle down and play His merry tunes beside the sea. Their eyes grew brighter and more bright, And burned and twinkled merrily: And as I watched them one still night, And saw their eager sparkling eyes, I felt those lively seals would rise Some shiny night ere he could know, And dance about him, heel and toe, Unto the fiddle's heady tune. ii8 THE WAY OF POETRY And at the rising of the moon, Half-daft, I took my stand before A young seal lying on the shore; And called on her to dance with me. And it seemed hardly strange when she Stood up before me suddenly. And shed her black and sheeny skin; And smiled, all eager to begin . . . And I was dancing, heel and toe, With a young maiden white as snow, Unto a crazy violin. We danced beneath the dancing moon, All night, beside the dancing sea, With tripping toes and skipping heels: And all about us friendly seals Like Christian folk were dancing reels Unto the fiddle's endless tune That kept on spinning merrily As though it never meant to stop. And never once the snow-white maid A moment stayed To take a breath, Though I was fit to drop: And while those wild eyes challenged me, I knew as well as well could be I must keep step with that young girl, Though we should dance to death. Then with a skirl The fiddle broke: THE DONKEY 119 The moon went out: The sea stopped dead: And, in a twinkling, all the rout Of dancing folk had fled . . . And in the chill, bleak dawn I woke' Upon the naked rock, alone. They've brought me far from Skua Isle . . • I laugh to think they do not know ' That as, all day, I chip the stone, Among my fellows here inland, I smell the sea-wrack on the shore . , And see her snowy tossing hand. And meet again her merry smile . . And dream I'm dancing all the while, 1 I'm dancing ever, heel and toe. With a seal-maiden, white as snow, On that moonshiny Island-strand, For ever and for evermore. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson THE DONKEY When fishes flew and forests walked And figs grew upon thorn. Some moment when the moon was blood Then surely I was born; With monstrous head and sickening cry And ears like errant wings, 120 THE WAY OF POETRY The devil's walking parody On all four-footed things. The tattered outlaw of the earth, Of ancient crooked will; Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb, I keep my secret still. Fools! For I also had my hour; One far fierce hour and sweet: There was a shout about my ears, And palms before my feet. G. K. Chesterton THE TIGER Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, (What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardour of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire — What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form'd thy dread feet? NETTED STR.\WBERRIES 121 What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? William Blake NETTED STRAWBERRIES I AM a willow-wren: I twitter in the grass on the chimney-top; The apples far below will never drop Or turn quite bright, though when The aimless wind is still I stand upon the big ones and I peck And find soft places, leaving spot and speck When I have munched my fill. Apples and plums I know (Plums are dark weights and full of golden rain That wets neck-feathers when I dip and strain, And stickles each plumy row). But past my well-kept trees The quick small woman in her puffy gown, That flutters as if its sleeves and skirts had grown For flying and airy ease, Has planted little bushes Of large cool leaves that cover and shade and hide Things redder than plums and with gold dimples pied Dropping on new-cut rushes. 122 THE WAY OF POETRY At first I thought with spite Such heady scent was only a flower's wide cup; But flower-scents never made my throat close up, And so I stood in my flight. Yet over all there sways A web like those revealed by dawn and dew. But not like those that break and let me through Shivering the drops all ways. Though I alight and swing I never reach the things that tumble and crush, And if I had such long large legs as a thrush The web would tangle and cling. Gordon Bottomley EPITAPH ON A HARE Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue. Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo; Old Tiney, surliest of his kind. Who, nursed with tender care. And to domestic bounds confined. Was still a wild Jack hare. Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, "» EPITAPH ON A HARE 113 He did it with a jealous look, And when he could, would bite. His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw. On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippin's russet peel. And, when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well. A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn. And swing his rump around. His frisking was at evening hours. For then he lost his fear, But most before approaching showers. Or when a storm drew near. Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away. Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play. I kept him for his humour's sake. For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache. And force me to a smile. 124 THE WAY OF POETRY But now beneath this walnut shade He finds his long last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid Till gentler Puss shall come. He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save. And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave. William Cowper / ./ ^O THE LARK Good speed, for I this day Betimes my matins say, Because I do Begin to woo. Sweet singing lark, Be thou the clerk, And know thy when To say Amen. And if I prove Blest in my love, Then thou shalt be High Priest to me, At my return To incense burn. And so to solemnise Love's and my sacrifice. Robert Herrick SYLVIA MS THE OXEN Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock. "Now they are all on their knees," An elder said as we sat in a flock By the embers in hearthside ease. We pictured the meek mild creatures where They dwelt in their strawy pen, Nor did it occur to one of us there To doubt they were kneeling then. So fair a fancy few would weave In these years! Yet, I feel. If some one said on Christmas Eve, "Come; see the oxen kneel " In the lonely barton by yonder coomb Our childhood used to know," I should go with him in the gloom, Hoping it might be so. Thomas Hardy SYLVIA Who is Sylvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. 126 THE WAY OF POETRY Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness, Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness, And, being help'd, inhabits there. Then to Sylvia let us sing, That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. William Shakespeare NURSE'S SONG When the voices of children are heard on the green, And laughing is heard on the hill, My heart is at rest within my breast. And everything else is still. "Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, And the dews of night arise; Come, come, leave off play, and let us away Till the morning appears in the skies." "No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, And we cannot go to sleep; Besides, in the sky the Httle birds fly. And the hills are all cover'd with sheep." SWEET AND LOW 127 "Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, And then go home to bed." The little ones leap'd and shouted and laugh'd, And all the hills echoed. William Blake SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES » The year 's at the spring And day 's at the morn; Morning 's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven — All's right with the world! Robert Browning SWEET AND LOW Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western seal Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dropping moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.] Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; 128 THE WAY OF POETRY Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep, Alfred Tennyson SONG How sweet I roam'd from field to field And tasted all the summer's pride, Till I the prince of love beheld Who in the sunny beams did glide! He show'd me lilies for my hair, And blushing roses for my brow; He led me through his gardens fair Where all his golden pleasures grow. With sweet May dews my wings were wet. And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; He caught me in his silken net. And shut me in his golden cage. He loves to sit and hear me sing, Then, laughing, sports and plays with me; Then stretches out my golden wing. And mocks my loss of liberty. William Blake ROUNDELAY 129 ROUNDELAY O SING unto my roundelay, O drop the briny tear with me, Dance no more at holy-day, Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his locks as the winter night, ' White his skin as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light. Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be. Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, O he lies by the willow-tree! My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briar'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. 130 THE WAY OF POETRY My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here upon my true love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy Saint to save All the coldness of a maid! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll gird the briars Round his holy corse to grow. Elfin Faery, light your fires; Here my body still shall bow. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my hearte's blood away; IN LADY STREET 131 Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night or feast by day. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Thomas Chatterton LAUGHING SONG When the green woods laugh with the voice ot joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit. And the green hill laughs with the noise of it; When the meadows laugh with lively green. And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene, When Mary and Susan and Emily With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, Hel" When the painted birds laugh in the shade. Where our tabic with cherries and nuts is spread, Come live, and be merry, and join with me. To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!" William Blake IN LADY STREET All day long the traffic goes In Lady Street by dingy rows Of sloven houses, tattered shops — Fried fish, old clothes, and fortune-tellers — 132 THE WAY OF POETRY Tall trams on silver-shining rails> With grinding wheels and swaying tops, And lorries with their corded bales, And screeching cars. "Buy, buy!" the sellers Of rags and bones and sickening meat Cry all day long in Lady Street. And when the sunshine has its way In Lady Street, then all the gray Dull desolation grows in state More dull and gray and desolate, And the sun is a shamefast thing, A lord not comely-housed, a god, Seeing what gods must blush to see, A song where it is ill to sing. And each gold ray despiteously Lies like a gold ironic rod. Yet one gray man in Lady Street Looks for the sun. He never bent Life to his will, his travelling feet Have scaled no cloudy continent, Nor has the sickle-hand been strong. He lives in Lady Street; a bed, Four cobwebbed walls. But all day long A time is singing in his head Of youth in Gloucester lanes. He hears The wind among the barley-blades, The tapping of the woodpeckers IN LADY STREET 133 On the smooth beeches, thistle-spades Slicing the sinewy roots; he sees The hooded filberts in the copse Beyond the loaded orchard trees, The netted avenues of hops; He smells the honeysuckle thrown Along the hedge. He lives alone, Alone — yet not alone, for sweet Are Gloucester lanes in Lady Street. Ay, Gloucester lanes. For down below The cobwebbed room this gray man plies A trade, a coloured trade. A show Of many-coloured merchandise Is in his shop. Brown filberts there, And apples red with Gloucester air, And cauliflowers he keeps, and round Smooth marrows grown on Gloucester ground, Fat cabbages and yellow plums. And gaudy brave chrysanthemums. And times a glossy pheasant lies Among his store, not Tyrian dyes More rich than are the neck-feathers; And times a prize of violets, Or dewy mushrooms satin-skinned. And times an unfamiliar wind Robbed of its woodland favour stirs Gay daflodils this gray man sets Among his treasure. All day long In Lady Street the traffic goes 134 THE WAY OF POETRY By dingy houses, desolate rows Of shops that stare like hopeless eyes. Day long the sellers cry their cries. The fortune-tellers tell no wrong Of lives that know not any right, And drift, that has not even the will To drift, toils through the day until The wage of sleep is won at night. But this gray man heeds not at all The hell of Lady Street. His stall Of many-coloured merchandise He makes a shining paradise, As all day long chrysanthemums He sells, and red and yellow plums And cauliflowers. In that one spot Of Lady Street the sun is not ; Ashamed to shine and send a rare Shower of colour through the air; The gray man says the sun is sweet On Gloucester lanes in Lady Street. John Drinkwater DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE Dear is my little native vale> The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager; The squirrel leaps from tree to tree. And shells his nuts at liberty. UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE IJS In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve. The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent greenwood shade: These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale. Samuel Rogers UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE Sept. 3, 1802 Earth has not anything 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 and glittering 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! 136 THE WAY OF POETRY The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! William Wordsworth LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI **0 WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms. Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the Lake, And no birds sing. **0 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woebegone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. "I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever dew," And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too." "I met a Lady in the Meads, Full beautiful — a fairy's child. Her hair was long, her foot was light, ' And her eyes were wild. "I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. LA BELLE DAJvlE SANS MERCI 137 **I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A fairy's song. "She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said *I love thee true.' "She took me to her elfin grot. And there she wept, and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. "And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd — Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill-side. "I saw pale Kings and Princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried — ' La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall! ' **I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side. 4t And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, 138 THE WAY OF POETRY Though the sedge is wither'd from the Lake And no birds sing." John Keats THE MAD MAID'S SONG GooD-MORROw to the day so fair; Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair. Bedabbled with the dew. Good-morning to this primrose too; Good-morrow to each maid; That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my Love is laid. Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack and well-a-day! For pity, sir, find out that bee, Which bore my Love away. I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries. I'll seek him there; I know, ere this, The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him. OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH 139 Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him; And who with green turfs rear his head. And who do rudely move him. He's soft and tender, pray take heed, With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home; — but 't is decreed That I shall never find him. Robert Herrick OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH Nymph, nymph, what are your beads.'' Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them ? Give them me. No. Give them me. Give them me. No. Then I will howl all night in the reeds, Lie in the mud and howl for them. Goblin, why do you love them so? They are better than stars or water, Better than voices of winds that sing, Better than any man's fair daughter, Your green glass beads on a silver ring. Hush, I stole them out of the moon. I40 THE WAY OF POETRY Give me your beads, I desire them. I will howl in a deep lagoon For your green glass beads, I love them so. Give them me. Give them. No. Harold Monro O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exult- ing, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red! Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up — for you the flag is flung — for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the shores crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH 141 It is some dream that on the deck You 've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with ob- ject won; Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. Walt Whitman A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH To my true king I offered free from stain Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain. For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away, And one dear hope, that was more prized than they. For him I languished in a foreign clime. Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime; Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees, And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees; Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep. Each morning started from the dream to weep; Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave The resting-place I asked, an early grave. 142 THE WAY OF POETRY O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone, From that proud country which was once mine own, By those white cliffs I never more must see. By that dear language which I spake like thee, Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here. Lord JVIacaulay DRAKE'S DRUM Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships, Wi' sailor lads a dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin', He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago. Drake he was Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. "Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore, Strike et when your powder's runnin' low; If the Dons sight Devon, I '11 quit the port o' Heaven, An' drum them up the Channel as we drummed them long ago." A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 143 Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?) Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum, An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Call him on the deep sea, call him up the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; When the old trade's plyin' an' the old flag fly in', They shall find him ware an' wakin', as they found him long ago, Henry Newbolt A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast. And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, W'hile, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. 144 THE WAY OF POETRY There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free — While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. Allan Cunningham THE BAYLIFFE'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON There was a youth, a well-beloved youth, And he was a squire's son; He loved the bayliffe's daughter dear. That lived in Islington. Yet she was coy and would not believe That he did love her so, No nor at any time would she Any countenance to him show. But when his friends did understand His fond and foolish mind. They sent him up to faire London An apprentice for to bind. And when he had been seven long years, And never his love could see: BAYLIFFE'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON 145 Many a tear have I shed for her sake, When she Httle thought of me. Then all the maids of IsHngton Went forth to sport and play, All but the bayliffe's daughter dear; She secretly stole away. She pulled off her gown of green, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to inquire. And as she went along the high road. The weather being hot and dry, She sat her down upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye. She started up, with a colour so redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; One penny, one penny, kind sir, she said, Will ease me of much pain. Before I give you one penny, sweetheart, Pray tell me where you were born. At Islington, kind sir, said she. Where I have had many a scorn. I prythe, sweetheart, then tell to me, O tell me, whether you know, The bayliffe's daughter of Islington. She is dead, sir, long ago. 146 THE WAY OF POETRY If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will unto some far country, Where no man shall me know. O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth, She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And ready to be thy bride. farewell grief, and welcome joy, Ten thousand times therefore; For now I have found mine own true love, Whom I thought I should never see more. Anonymous RESIGNATION Why, why repine, my pensive friend. At pleasures slipp'd away? Some the stern Fates will never lend. And all refuse to stay. 1 see the rainbow in the sky, The dew upon the grass; I see them, and I ask not why ' They glimmer or they pass. With folded arms I linger not To call them back; 't were vain: In this, or in some other spot, I know they'll shine again. Walter Savage Landor A CHRISTMAS CAROL 147 A CHRISTMAS CAROL So now is come our joyful'st feast; Let every man be jolly. Each room with ivy-leaves is dress'd, And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine, Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry. Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, And Christmas-blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meat choke. And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie; And, if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury it in a Christmas pie And evermore be merry! Now every lad is wondrous trim, And no man minds his labour; Our lasses have provided them A bag-pipe and a tabor. Young men, and maids, and girls, and boys, Give life to one another's joys, And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry. Rank misers now do sparing shun; Their hall of music soundcth; 148 THE WAY OF POETRY And dogs thence with whole shoulders run; So all things there aboundeth. The country folks themselves advance With crowdy-muttons out of France; And Jack shall pipe, and Jill shall dance, , And all the town be merry! Ned Swash hath fetch'd his bands from pawn, And all his best apparel; Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn With droppings of the barrel; And those that hardly all the year Had bread to eat or rags to wear, Will have both clothes and dainty fare, And all the day be merry. Now poor men to the justices With capons make their arrants, And if they hap to fail of these They plague them with their warrants. But now they feed them with good cheer, And what they want they take in beer, For Christmas comes but once a year. And then they shall be merry. Good farmers in the country nurse The poor that else were undone; Some landlords spend their money worse, On lust and pride in London. There the roysters they do play. Drab and dice their lands away. A CHRISTMAS CAROL 119 Which may be ours another day, And therefore let's be merry! The client now his suit forbears; The prisoner's heart is eased; The debtor drinks away his cares, And for the time is pleased. Though others' purses be more fat, Why should we pine or grieve at that? Hang sorrow! care will kill a cat, And therefore let's be merry! Hark! now the wags abroad do call Each other forth to rambling; Anon you'll see them in the hall, For nuts and apples scrambling. Hark how the roofs with laughters sound! Anon they'll think the house goes round. For they the cellar's depth have found. And there they will be merry. The wenches with their wassail-bowls About the streets are singing, The boys are come to catch the owls. The wild mare in is bringing. Our kitchen-boy hath broke his box, And to the dealing of the ox. Our honest neighbours come by flocks. And here they will be merry. Now kings and queens poor shcepcotes have, And mate with everybody; ISO THE WAY OF POETRY The honest now may play the knave, And wise men play at noddy. Some youths will now a-mumming go. Some others play at rowland-hoe, And twenty other game boys moe, Because they will be merry. Then wherefore in these merry days Should we, I pray, be duller? No; let us sing some roundelays To make our mirth the fuller. And, whilst thus insplr'd we sing, Let all the streets with echoes ring; Woods, and hills, and everything. Bear witness we are merry! George Wither EPITAPH ON CHARLES II Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Whose word no man relies on, Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one. The Earl of Rochester THE DESERTED VILLAGE Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain. Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid. And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd: THE DESERTED VILLAGE 151 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endear'd each scene; How often have I paused on every charm, The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill. The decent church that topp'd the neighbouring hill. The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made; How often have I bless'd the coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, from labour free. Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree; While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old survey'd; And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, And sleight of art and feats of strength went round; And still as each repeated pleasure tired. Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired; The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out to tire each other down; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titter'd round the place; The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love. The matron's glance that would those looks reprove: These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; 1 52 THE WAY OF POETRY These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms — But all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn. Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green: One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain: No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges, works its weedy way. Along thy glades, a solitary guest. The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all. And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall; And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away, thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began. When every rood of ground maintain'd its man; THE DESERTED VILLAGE 153 For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more: His best companions, innocence and health; And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swain; Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth, and cumbrous pomp repose; And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. Here as I take my solitary rounds. Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs — and God has given my share — I still had hopes my latest hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; 154 THE WAY OF POETRY To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose, I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations pass'd, Here to return — and die at home at last. O blest retirement, friend to life's decline, Retreats from care, that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease; Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly! For him no wretches, born to work and weep. Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; No surly porter stands in guilty state To spurn imploring famine from the gate; But on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending Virtue's friend; Bends to the grave with unperceived decay, While Resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects bright'ning to the last, His Heaven commences ere the world be pass'd! Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow, THE DESERTED VILLAGE ISS The mingling notes came soften'd from below; The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, The sober herd that low'd to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school; The watchdog's voice that bay'd the whisp'ring wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind: These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, For all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widow'd, solitary thing That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She, wretched matron, forced, in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn. To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn; She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild; There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear. And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race. Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place; Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, iS6 THE WAY OF POETRY By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More skill'd to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain; The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow. And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits, or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And e'en his failings lean'd to Virtue's side. But in his duty prompt at every call. He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, THE DESERTED VILLAGE 157 The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair and Anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise. At church, with meek and unafi'ected grace, His looks adorn'd the venerable place; Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray. The service pass'd, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children foUow'd with endearing wile. And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd. Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven. As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form. Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm. Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay. There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule. The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view; I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee. IS8 THE WAY OF POETRY At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'J; Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught. The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew; 'T was certain he could write, and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the parson own'd his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thund'ring sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around. And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts in- spired. Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stoops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place; The white-wash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; THE DESERTED VILLAGE 159 The pictures placed for ornament and use, The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose; The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay; While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show. Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. Vain transitory splendours! Could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall! Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hour's importance to the poor man's heart; Thither no more the peasant shall repair To sweet oblivion of his daily care; No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail; No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; The host himself no longer shall be found Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, These simple blessings of the lowly train; To me more dear, congenial to my heart. One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;. Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined: But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, i6o THE WAY OF POETRY In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens into pain; And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 'T is yours to judge, how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish abound. And rich men flock from all the world around. Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name That leaves our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Takes up a space that many poor supplied; Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robb'd the neighbouring fields of half their growth ; His seat, where solitary sports are seen. Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies; While thus the land adorn'd for pleasure, all In barren splendour feebly waits the fall. As some fair female unadorn'd and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, THE DESERTED VILLAGE i6i Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes: But when those charms are pass'd, for charms are frail, When time advances, and when lovers fail, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd. In nature's simplest charms at first array'd; But verging to decline, its splendours rise. Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise; While scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band; And while he sinks, without one arm to save, The country blooms — a garden and a grave. Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. If to the city sped — What waits him there? To see profusion that he must not share; To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury and thin mankind; To see those joys the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow creature's woe. Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plies the sickly trade; iSz THE WAY OF POETRY Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps dis- play, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign. Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Sure these denote one universal joy! Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes Where the poor houseless shiv'ring female lies. She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd. Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd; Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head. And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower. With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town. She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train — Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene. Where half the convex world intrudes between, THE DESERTED VILLAGE 163 Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charm'd before, The various terrors of that horrid shore; Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day; Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, Where the dark scorpion gathers death arourd; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey And savage men more murd'rous still than they, While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green. The breezy covert of the warbling grove. That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day. That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure pass'd, Hung round their bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. i64 THE WAY OF POETRY The good old sire the first prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And bless'd the cot where every pleasure rose, And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubl}^ dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief. O Luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree, How ill-exchanged are things like these for thee! How do thy potions, with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. Boast of a florid vigour not their own; At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land: Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, THE DESERTED VILLAGE 165 That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety, with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degenerate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well! Farewell, and oh! where'er thy voice be tried. On Torno's cliff^s, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervours glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigours of the inclement clime; Aid slighted truth; with thy persuasive strain Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him, that states of native strength possess'd, Though very poor, may still be very bless'd; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away; While self-dependent power can time defy. As rocks resist the billows and the sky. Oliver Goldsmith 1 66 THE WAY OF POETRY THE PLOUGH Above yon sombre swell of land Thou see'st the dawn's grave orange hue, With one pale streak like yellow sand, And over that a vein of blue. The air is cold above the woods; All silent is the earth and sky, Except with his own lonely moods The blackbird holds a colloquy. Over the broad hill creeps a beam, Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-stream Of stalwart horses come to plough. Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind Your labour is for future hours: Advance — spare not — nor look behind — Plough deep and straight with all your powers. Richard Henry Horne THE REAPER Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; THE REAPER 167 listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chant More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird. Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,' That has been, and may be again? Whate'cr the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; 1 saw her singing at her work,"' And o'er the sickle bending; I listen'd, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. William Wordsworth i68 THE WAY OF POETRY THE WINDMILL The green corn waving in the dale, Tlie ripe grass waving on the hill: I lean across the pSddock pale And gaze upon the giddy mill. Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep Cut thro' the air: with rushing sound Each strikes in fury down the steep, Rattles, and whirls in chase around. Beside his sacks the miller stands On high within the open door: A book and pencil in his hands. His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er. His tireless merry slave, the wind, Is busy with his work to-day: From whencesoe'er he comes to grind, He hath a will and knows the way. He gives the creaking sails a spin, The circling millstones faster flee. The shuddering timbers groan within, And down the shoot the meal runs free. The miller giveth him no thanks. And doth not much his work o'erlook: He stands beside the sacks, and ranks The figures in his dusty book. Robert Bridges THE ICE CART 169 THE ICE CART Perched on my city office-stool I watched with envy, while a cool And lucky carter handled ice. . . . And I was wandering in a trice, Far from the gray and grimy heat'^ Of that intolerable street, O'er sapphire berg and emerald floe, Beneath the still, cold ruby glow Of everlasting Polar night. Bewildered by the queer half-light, Until I stumbled, unawares, Upon a creek where big white bears Plunged headlong down with flourished heels. And floundered after shining seals Through shivering seas of blinding blue. And as I watched them, ere I knew, I'd stripped, and I was swimming, too,, Among the seal-pack, young and hale, And thrusting on with threshing tail. With twist and twirl and sudden leap Through crackling ice and salty deep — Diving and doubling with my kind, Until, at last, we left behind Those big white, blundering bulks of death, And lay, at length, with panting breath Upon a far untravelled floe. Beneath a gentle drift of snow — Snow drifting gently, fine and white. Out of the endless Polar night. 17© THE WAY OF POETRY Falling and falling evermore Upon that far untravelled shore. Till I was buried fathoms deep Beneath that cold, white drifting sleep — Sleep drifting deep, Deep drifting sleep. . , .' The carter cracked a sudden whip: I clutched my stool with startled grip, Awakening to the grimy heat Of that intolerable street. Wilfrid Wilson Gibson JOHN ANDERSON MY JO John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And monie a cantie day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go. And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. Robert Burns THE TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTHONY 171 THE TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTHONY {^Adapted from an Old French Chanson.) Goblins came, on mischief bent. To Saint Anthony in Lent. *'Come, ye goblins, small and big, We will kill the hermit's pig. "While the good monk minds his book We the hams will cure and cook. "While he goes down on his knees We will fry the sausages. ** While he on his breast doth beat We will grill the tender feet. "While he David's Psalms doth sing We will all to table bring." On his knees went Anthony To those imps of Barbary. "Good, kind goblins, spare his life, He to me is child and wife. "He indeed is good and mild As 't were any chrisom child. "He is my felicity, Spare, oh spare my pig to mel** 172 THE WAY OF POETRY But the pig they did not spare, Did not heed the hermit's prayer. They the hams did cure and cook, Still the good Saint read his book. When they fried the sausages Still he rose not from his knees. When they grilled the tender feet He ceased not his breast to beat. They did all to table bring, He for grace the Psalms did sing. All at once the morning broke, From his dream the monk awoke, f There in the kind light of day Was the little pig at play. R. L. Gale? HAD I A GOLDEN POUND Had I a golden pound to spend, My love should mend and sew no more; And I would buy her a little quern, Easy to turn on the kitchen floor. And for her windows curtains white. With birds in flight and flowers in bloom, MRS. WILLOW 173 To face with pride the road to town And mellow down her sunlit room. And with the silver change we'd prove The truth of Love to life's own end, With hearts the years could but embolden, Had I a golden pound to spend. Francis Ledwidge MRS. WILLOW Mrs. Thomas Willow seems very glum. Her life, perhaps, is very lonely and hum-drum, Digging up potatoes, cleaning out the weeds, Doing the little for a lone woman's needs. Who was her husband? How long ago? What does she wonder? What does she know? W'hy does she listen over the wall, Morning and noon-time and twilight and all, As though unforgotten were some footfall? "Good-morning, Mrs. Willow." "Good-morning, sir," Is all the conversation I can get from her. And her path-stones are white as lilies of the wood. And she washes this and that till she must be very good. She sends no letters, and no one calls. And she does n't go whispering beyond her walls; Nothing in her garden is secret, I think — That's all sun-bright with foxglove and pink. 174 THE WAY OF POETRY And she does n't hover round old cupboards and shelves As old people do who have buried themselves; She has no late lamps, and she digs all day And polishes and plants in a common way, But glum she is, and she listens now and then For a footfall, a footfall, a footfall again. And whether it's hope, or whether it's dread, Or a poor old fancy in her head, I shall never be told; it will never be said. John Drinkwater THE SOLDIER If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air. Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given ; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day. And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooke THE TOYS I7S THE TOYS My little son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise, Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, 1 struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd — His mother, who was patient, being dead — Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep, With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan. Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head. He had put, within his reach, A box of counters, and a red-vein'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach, And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells. And two French copper coins, ranged there with care- ful art, To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death, And thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys, How v/eakly understood. 176 THE WAY OF POETRY Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou 'It leave Thy wrath, and say, "I will be sorry for their childishness." Coventry Patmore PLAINT OF AN HUMBLE SERVANT {For Edward Elgar) Lord, who didst create all things That run on legs or rise on wings, Who in Thy equal care of all Dost no less mark the sparrow's fall Than of great sinner or great saint. Listen, and judge, Lord, this my plaint. Thou who didst mould the lion and lamb, Thou seest of what shape I am; Not lovely as those creatures are, But gawky, rude, familiar In every field and market-place — The jackiest jackass of my race. Not much is it that is implored By this Thy creature of my Lord — 1 do not ask that Thou shouldst change That which to His eyes was not strange When on my grandad-grandad's hide Thy Son t'ward Zion deigned to ride — But Lord — came it of wisdom dark, Or that Thy hand did cease to mark PLAINT OF AN HUMBLE SERVANT 177 That which it made (through weariness Of fashioning beasts great and less) Thou hast on me, Thy hapless jade, Another heavy burden laid. For upon Saints' days, when I stand Holiday-making — twixt the sand Of the bright foreshore and the steeple, Whereunder crowd the stiff-starched people To pay Thee homage, each great ear Must a heavenly chorus hear: First overhead ting-tang the bells, Then in the aisle the organ swells, Praising Thee, Lord, till deep and strong The happy folk take up the song, Till the gay birds outside, too, raise A sweet, wild shrilling song of praise. Mark then, what grief, Lord, must be mine Who do not find Thee less divine, For dared I also raise my voice, That with the throng I might rejoice — Ah! what a hell of sound I draw Who can but sing ^^ Hee-Haw! Ilee-Haw!" O grief! O shame! on every bush The pert birds scold or bid me hush. And — worst of all — my master hies Out from the church with angry cries, And, save I forthwith cease, his stick Descends upon me fast and thick. 1.78 THE WAY OF POETRY Lord — last — just this: at thy behest All's done as seemeth to Thee best, Old Balaam had an ass which spoke, May not another of that folk? Were it not but a little thing To Thee to let a jackass sing No less than proud sinner or poor saint? That is all, Lord. Thus ends my plaint. Robert Nichols THE MOON Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, O thou fair Moon, so close and bright; Thy beauty makes me like the child That cries aloud to own thy light: The little child that lifts each arm To press thee to her bosom warm. Though there are birds that sing this night With thy white beams across their throats, Let my deep silence speak for me More than for them their sweetest notes: Who worships thee till music fails Is greater than thy nightingales. W. H. Davies THE WILD DUCK Twilight. Red in the West. Dimness. A glow on the wood. STAR TALK 179 The teams plod home to rest. The wild duck come to glean. O souls not understood, What a wild cry in the pool ! What things have the farm ducks seen That they cry so — huddle and cry? Only the soul that goes. Eager. Eager. Flying. Over the globe of the moon, Over the wood that glows. Wings linked. Necks a-strain, A rush and a wild crying. • • • • • A cry of the long pain In the reeds of a steel lagoon, In a land that no man knows. John Masefield STAR TALK "Are you awake, GemelH, This frosty night?" "We'll be awake till reveille. Which is sunrise," say the GemelH, "It's no good trying to go to sleep: If there's wine to be got we'll drink it deep, But rest is hopeless to-night. But rest is hopeless to-night.'* "Are you cold too, poor Pleiads, This frosty night?" 1 80 THE WAY OF POETRY "Yes, and so are the Hyads: See us cuddle and hug," say the Pleiads, "All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: We huddle together like birds in a storm: It's bitter weather to-night, It's bitter weather to-night.'* "What do you hunt, Orion, This starry night?" "The Ram, the Bull, and the Lion, And the Great Bear," says Orion, "With my starry quiver and beautiful belt, I am trying to find a good thick pelt To warm my shoulders to-night, To warm my shoulders to-night.' >» "Did you hear that. Great She-bear, This frosty night?" "Yes, he's talking of stripping me bare Of my own big fur," says the She-bear, "I'm afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, And the frost so cruel to-night! And the frost so cruel to-night!" "How is your trade, Aquarius, This frosty night?" "Complaints is many and various. And my feet are cold," says Aquarius, "There's Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, ^ ROMANCE i8i And the pump has frozen to-night, And the pump has frozen to-night." Robert Graves HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON When I a verse shall make, Know I have pray'd thee, For old religion's sake, Saint Ben, to aid me. Make the way smooth for me, When I, thy Herrick, Honouring thee, on my knee Offer my lyric. Candles I'll give to thee And a new altar, And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be Writ in my Psalter. Robert Herrick ROMANCE When I was but thirteen or so I went into a golden land, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Took me by the hand. My father died, my brother too. They passed like fleeting dreams, 1 82 THE WAY OF POETRY I stood where Popoca taped j In the sunHght gleams. I dimly heard the master's voice And boys far-off at play, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Had stolen me away. I walked In a great golden dream To and fro from school — Shining Popocatapetl The dusty streets did rule. I walked home with a gold dark bojr. And never a word I 'd say, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi Had taken my speech away: I gazed entranced upon his face Fairer than any flower — O shining Popocatapetl, It was thy magic hour: The houses, people, traffic seemed Thin fading dreams by day, Chimborazo, Cotopaxi They had stolen my soul away! W. J. Turner ARABIA 183 ARABIA Far are the shades of Arabia, Where the Princes ride at noon, 'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, Under the ghost of the moon; And so dark is that vaulted purple Flowers in the forest rise And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars Pale in the noonday skies. Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night. They haunt me — her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say — "He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away." Walter de la Mare 1 84 THE WAY OF POETRY WITH A COPY OF HERRICK Fresh with all airs of woodland brooks And scents of showers, Take to your haunt of holy books This saint of flowers. When meadows burn with budding May, And heaven is blue, Before his shrine our prayers we say, — Saint Robin true. Love crowned with thorns is on his staff, — Thorns of sweet-brier; His benediction is a laugh, Birds are his choir. His sacred robe of white and red Unction distils; He hath a nimbus round his head Of daffodils. Edmund Gosse ON MALVERN HILL A WIND is brushing down the clover, It sweeps the tossing branches bare, Blowing the poising kestrel over The crumbling ramparts of the Caer. It whirls the scattered leaves before us Along the dusty road to home. TO HIS DEAR GOD 185 Once it awakened into chorus The heart-strings in the ranks of Rome. There by the gusty coppice border The shrilling trumpets broke the halt, The Roman line, the Roman order, Swayed forwards to the blind assault. Spearman and charioteer and bowman Charged and were scattered into spray, Savage and taciturn the Roman Hewed upwards in the Roman way. There — in the twilight — where the cattle Are lowing home across the fields, The beaten warriors left the battle Dead on the clansmen's wicker shields. The leaves whirl in the wind's riot Beneath the Beacon's jutting spur. Quiet are clan and chief, and quiet Centurion and signifer. John Masefield TO HIS DEAR GOD I'll hope no more For things that will not come: And, if they do, they prove but cumbersome; Wealth brings much woe; And, since it fortunes so, 186 THE WAY OF POETRY 'T is better to be poor, Than so abound, As to be drowned, Or overwhelmed with store. Pale care, avaunt! I'll learn to be content With that small stock Thy Bounty gave or lent. What may conduce To my most healthful use, Almighty God, me grant; But that, or this, That hurtful is. Deny thy suppliant. Robert Herrick BY THE SEA It is a beauteous evening, calm and free; The holy time is quiet as a Nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea: Listen! the mighty Being is awake. And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here, If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought Thy nature is not therefore less divine; PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE 187 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. William Wordsworth THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE Come live with me and be my Love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dale and field, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull, Fair lined sHppers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds With coral clasps and amber studs J 1 88 THE WAY OF POETRY And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my Love. Thy silver dishes for thy meat As precious as the gods do eat, Shall on an ivory table be Prepared each day for thee and me. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May-morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Then live with me and be my Love. Christopher Marlowe TO HIS LOVE When in the chronicle of wasted time I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique pen would have exprest Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring; And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing: MY LADY GREENSLEEVES 189 For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. William Shakespeare MY LADY GREENSLEEVES Alas 1 my love, you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously; And I have loved you so long. Delighting in your company. Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves! I bought thee petticoats of the best, The cloth so fine as fine as might be; I gave thee jewels for thy chest. And all this cost I spent on thee. Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves! Thy smock of silk, both fair and white, With gold embroidered gorgeously; Thy petticoat of sendal right: And these I bought thee gladly. Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves! 190 THE WAY OF POETRY Greensleeves now farewell! ad^eu! God I pray to prosper thee! For I am still thy lover true: Come once again and love me! Greensleeves was all my joy! Greensleeves was my delight! Greensleeves was my heart of gold! And who but my Lady Greensleeves! Anonymous THE BANKS O' DOON Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care? Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird. That sings upon the bough: Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true! Thou '11 break my heart, thou bonie bird. That sings beside thy mate: For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate! Aft hae I roved by bonie Doon To see the woodbine twine. And ilka bird sang o' its luve. And sae did I o' mine. SONG 191 Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Frae aff its thorny tree, And my fause luver staw my rose, But left the thorn wi' me. Robert Burns SONG Ask me no more where Jove bestows, When June is past, the fading rose; For in your beauties orient deep These flowers, as in their causes, sleep. Ask me no more, whither do stray The golden atoms of the day; For, in pure love, heaven did prepare Those powders to enrich your hair. Ask me no more, whither doth haste The nightingale, when May is past; For in your sweet dividing throat She winters, and keeps warm her note. Ask me no more, where those stars light. That downwards fall in dead of night; For in your eyes they sit, and there Fixed become, as in their sphere. Ask me no more, if east or west, The phoenix builds her spicy nest; 192 THE WAY OF POETRY For unto you at last she flies, And in your fragrant bosom dies. Thomas Carew A RED, RED ROSE O MY Luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; O my Luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonie lass»\ So deep in luve am I; ^ ^ ., And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry: Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; O I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. Robert Burns THE GLORIES OF OUR BLOOD AND STATE The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and Crown Must tumble down, DIRGE FROxM CYMBELINE 193 And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor- victim bleeds: Your heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. James Shirley DIRGE FROM "CYMBELINE" Fear no more the heat o' the sun Nor the furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'cn thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must. As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 194 THE WAY OF POETRY Fear no more the frown o' the great; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the oak: The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; Fear not slander, censure rash; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan: All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. William Shakespeare HERACLITUS They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed. I wept, as I remembered how often you and I Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky. And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest, A handful of gray ashes, long long ago at rest. Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake; For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. William Cory EASTER NIGHT I9S SONNET When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste; Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long-since-cancell'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight. Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before: — But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrows end. William Shakespeare EASTER NIGHT All night had shout of men and cry Of woeful women filled His way; Until that noon of sombre sky On Friday, clamour and display Smote Him; no solitude had He, No silence, since Gethscmane. Public was Death; but Power, but Might, But Life again, but Victory, 196 THE WAY OF POETRY Were hushed within the dead of night. The shutter'd dark, the secrecy. And all alone, alone, alone He rose again behind the stone. Alice Meynell THE SHIP There was no song nor shout of joy Nor beam of moon or sun, When she came back from the voyage Long ago begun; But twilight on the waters Was quiet and gray. And she glided steady, steady and pensive, Over the open bay. Her sails were brown and ragged, And her crew hollow-eyed. But their silent lips spoke content And their shoulders pride; Though she had no captives on her deck, And in her hold There were no heaps of corn or timber Or silks or gold. J. C. Squire REAL PROPERTY' Tell me about that harvest field. •^Oh! Fifty acres of living bread. REAL PROPERTY 197 The colour has painted itself in my heart. The form is patterned in my head. So now I take it everywhere; See it whenever I look round; Hear it growing through every sound, Know exactly the sound it makes — Remembering, as one must all day, Under the pavement the live earth aches. Trees are at the farther end, Limes all full of the drowsy bee: So there must be a harvest field Whenever one thinks of a linden-tree. A hedge is round it, very tall, Hazy and cool and breathing sweet. Round paradise is such a wall. And all the day, in such a way, In paradise the wild birds call. You only need to close your eyes And pass into your secret mind, And you'll be into paradise: I've learnt quite easily to find Some linden-trees and drowsy bees, A tall sweet hedge with the corn behind. I will not have that harvest mown: I'll keep the corn and leave the bread. I've bought that field; it's now my own: 198 THE WAY OF POETRY I've fifty acres in my head. I take it as a dream to bed. I carry it about all day. . . . Sometimes when I have found a friend I give a blade of corn away. Harold Monro TO MEADOWS Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been filled with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours. Ye have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home. You've heard them sweetly sing,' And seen them in a round. Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned. But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead. Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown. ODE TO THE WEST WIND 199 You're left here to lament Your poor estates alone. Robert Herrick ODE TO THE WEST WIND (I) O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, oh, hearl (2) Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commo- tion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean. 200 THE WAY OF POETRY Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh, hear! (3) Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, LuU'd by the coil of his crystalline streams. Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know ODE TO THE WEST WIND 201 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear! (4) If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. (5) Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone. Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! 202 THE WAY OF POETRY Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my Hps to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? Percy Bysshe Shelley ODE TO AUTU^IN Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more. And still more, later flowers for the bees. Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-hfted by the winnowing wind; THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE 203 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozlngs, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, — thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft. And gathering swallo»"= twitter in the skies. John Keats A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weatherproof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry. Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, 204 THE WAY OF POETRY Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who hither come, and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall. And kitchen small; A little buttery, and therein A Httle bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead. Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire. Close by whose living coal I sit. And glow like it. Lord, I confess, too, when I dine The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by Thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress. Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent: And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. *T is Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 205 And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 't is Thy plenty-dropping hand That sows my land: All this, and better, dost Thou send Me for this end: That I should render for my part A thankful heart. Which, fired with incense, I resign As wholly Thine: But the acceptance — that must be, O Lord, by Thee. Robert Herrick ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea. The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. 2o6 THE WAY OF POETRY Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour: — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 207 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd. Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes 2o8 THE WAY OF POETRY Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 209 E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch. And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill. Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne — 210 THE WAY OF POETRY Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'* THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heaven, 't was all he wish'd, a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Thomas Gray AUTUMN I LOVE the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day. And from the glossy elm-tree takes The faded leaves away, Twirling them by the window pane With thousand others down the lane. THE GARDEN an I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig, Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by In Summer's lap with flowers to lie. I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the trees, The pigeons nestled round the cote On November days like these; The cock upon the dunghill crowing, The mill sails on the heath a-going. The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea, The acorns near the old crow's nest Drop pattering down the tree; The grunting pigs, that wait for all, Scramble and hurry where they fall. John Clare THE GARDEN How vainly men themselves ama^e, To win the palm, the oak, or bays; And their incessant labours see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; 2ii THE WAY OF POETRY While all the flowers and trees do close. To weave the garlands of repose! Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men. Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow; Society Is all but rude To this delicious solitude. • No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame. Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! thej^ know or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your bark I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have seen our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; THE GARDEN 113 The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my nriouth do crush their wine; The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas, Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot. Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight. Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk'd without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 't was beyond a mortal's share To wander solit?ry there: 214 THE WAY OF POETRY Two paradises 't were in one, To live in paradise alone. How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new; Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? Andrew Marvell YATTENDON Among the woods and tillage That fringe the topmost downs, All lonely lies the village. Far off from seas and towns. Yet when her own folk slumbered I heard within her street Murmur of men unnumbered And march of myriad feet. For all she lies so lonely. Far off from towns and seas, The village holds not only The roofs beneath her trees: While Life is sweet and tragic And Death is veiled and dumb. THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 215 Hither, by singer's magic, The pilgrim world must come. Henry Newbolt THE SCHOLAR GIPSY "There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there; and at last to join himself to a company of vagabond gipsies. Among these extrava- gant people, by the insinuating subtilty of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery. After he had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride by a couple of scholars, who had for- merly been of his acquaintance. They quickly spied out their old friend among the gipsies; and he gave them an account of the necessity which drove him to that kind of life, and told them that the people he went with were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the power of imagination, their fancy binding that of others : that himself had learned much of their art, and when he had compassed the whole secret, he intended, he said, to leave their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned." — Glanvil's Vanity of Dogmatizing, i66i. Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill! Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes! No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed. Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head! But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green, Come, shepherd, and again begin the quest! 2i6 THE WAY OF POETRY Here, where the reaper was at work of late — In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruse, And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use — Here will I sit and wait. While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn — All the live murmur of a summer's day. Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field. And here till sun-down, shepherd, will I be! Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep; And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed show- ers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers. And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book — Come, let me read the oft-read tale again! The story of that Oxford scholar poor. Of shining parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at preferment's door, One summer morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the gipsy lore, THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 217 And roam'd the world with that wild brother- hood, And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more. But once, years after, in the country-lanes, Two scholars whom at college erst he knew Met him, and of his way of life inquir'd. Whereat he answer'd, that the gipsy crew. His mates, had arts to rule as they desired The workings of men's brains; And they can bind them to what thoughts they will. "And I," he said, "the secret of their art. When fully learn'd, will to the world impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill!" This said, he left them, and return'd no more. — But rumours hung about the country-side That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray. Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray. The same the gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors Had found him seated at their entering, But, mid their drink and clatter, he would fly; — And I myself seem half to know thy looks, 2i8 THE WAY OF POETRY And put the shepherds, wanderer, on thy trace; And boys who in lone wheatlields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place; Or in my boat I lie Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats, Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm green-muffled Cumner hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats. For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground! Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe. Returning home on summer nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the punt's rope chops round; And leaning backward in a pensive dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers. And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream! And then they land, and thou art seen no more! Maidens who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam. Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers — the frail-leaf'd, white anemone. Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves. THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 219 And purple orchises with spotted leaves — But none has words she can report of thee. And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass, Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, Have often pass'd thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown; Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air — But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone! At some lone homestead in the Cumner hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns. Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late For cresses from the rills, Have known thee watching, all an April day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slowly away. Tn autumn, on the skirts of Bagley-wood, Where most the gipsies by the turf-edged way 220 THE WAY OF POETRY Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of gray, Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly — The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all! So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall. And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face toward Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And thou hast climb'd the hill And gain'd the white brow of the Cumner range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, The line of festal light in Christ-Church hall — Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange. But what — I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls. And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy tribe. And thou from earth art gone Long since, and in some quiet churchyard laid! Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 221 Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave — Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade. No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours! For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'T is that from change to change their being rolls; 'T is that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen. And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our well-worn life, and are — what we have been! Thou hast not lived, why should'st thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire! Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead — Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire! The generations of thy peers are fled, And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal lot. And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page. Because thou hadst — what we, alas! have not! For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without. Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, 222 THE WAY OF POETRY Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings, O Hfe unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope. Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives. And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope. Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we. Light half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd. Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose vague resolves never have been fulfill'd; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day — Ah, do not we, wanderer, await it too? Yes! we await it, but it still delays. And then we suffer! and amongst us one, Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed. And how the breast was soothed, and how the head. And all his hourly varied anodynes. THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 223 This for our wisest! and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, With close-lipp'd patience for our only friend, Sad patience, too near neighbour to despair; But none has hope like thine! Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy. And every doubt long blown by time away. O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life. With its sick hurry, its divided aims. Its head o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife — Fly hence, our contact fear! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude! Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade, With a free onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silver'd branches of the glade — Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, Freshen thy flowers, as in former years, 224 THE WAY OF POETRY With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles, to the nightingales! But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from thy own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest! Soon, soon thy cheer would die. Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd thy powers, And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made; And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours. Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! — As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the JEge&n isles; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brinej And knew the intruders on his ancient home, The young light-hearted masters of the waves; And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail. And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, THE SCHOLAR GIPSY 225 To where the Atlantic raves Outside the western straits, and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam. Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales. Matthew Arnold THE END INDEX OF AUTHORS Dates are given, except in the case of living poets Anonymous Weel may the Keel row 15 Widdicombe Fair 18 The Bonny Earl of Murray 72 Helen of Kirconnell 73 I saw Three Ships 75 Lord Randal 76 What Pleasure have Great Princes 82 Preparations I04 The Bayliffe's Daughter of Islington 144 My Lady Greensleeves 189 Arnold, Matthew (i 822-1 888) The Scholar Gipsy 215 Beddoes, Thomas Lovell (1803-1849) Dream-Pedlary 27 BiCKERSTAFFE, IsAAC There was a Jolly Miller 42 BiNYON, Laurence A Song 109 Blake, Willlam (1757-1827) From Songs of Innocence " I Night ^ 53 And did those feet in ancient time 79 The Tiger 1 20 Nurse's Song 126 Song: How Sweet I roam'd 128 Laughing Song 131 Bottomley, Gordon Netted Strawberries 121 Bridges, Robert The Windmill 168 228 INDEX OF AUTHORS Brooke, Rupert (1887-1915) The Soldier 174 Browne, William (1591-1643) Spring Morning 49 Browning, Robert (1812-1889) Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 23 The Pied Piper of Hamelin 93 Song from Pippa Passes" 127 Burns, Robert (1759-1796) John Anderson my Jo 170 The Banks 0' Doon 190 A Red, Red Rose 192 Byron, George Gordon, Lord (1788-1824) The Isles of Greece 87 Campbell, Thomas (i 777-1 844) Lord Ullin's Daughter 4fi Campion, Thomas (?-i6i9) Jack and Joan 17 The Man of Life Upright 109 Carew, Thomas (iS98(?)-i639(?) ) He that loves a rosy cheek 80 Now that Winter 's gone los Song 191 Chatterton, Thomas (1752-1770) Roundelay 129 Chesterton, G. K. The Donkey 119 Clare, John (i 793-1 864) Little Trotty Wagtail 2 The Beanfield 108 The Thrush's Nest 116 Autumn 210 Collins, William (1721-1759) Ode 79 Cory, William (i 823-1892) Heraclitus 194 Cowley, Abraham (1618-1667) A Wish S6 INDEX OF AUTHORS 229 CowPER, William (173 i- 1800) Epitaph on a Hare 122 Cunningham, Allan (1784-1842) A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea I43 Davies, W. H. Raptures 7 Leisure 55 The Moon 178 DE LA Mare, Walter Nicholas Nye 6fJ Arabia 183 DoBELL, Sydney (1824-1874) A Chanted Calendar 42 Drayton, Michael (i563(?)-i63i) Daffodil 60 Drinkwater, John Blackbird lO Old Crow 59 In Lady Street 131 Mrs. Willow 173 Drummond, William (1585-1649) . The World a Game 92 Ferguson, Samuel (1810-1886) The Lapful of Nuts I06 Fletcher, John (1579-1625) Evening Song 5* Pan lOS Gales, R. L. The Temptation of Saint Anthony* 171 Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson The Dancing Seal I16 The Ice Cart 169 Goldsmith, Oliver (1728-1774) An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 5 The Deserted Village 150 Gosse, Edmund With a Copy of Hcrrick 184 230 INDEX OF AUTHORS Graves, Robert Star Talk 179 Gray, Thomas (1716-1771) On a Favourite Cat 3 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 205 Greene, Robert (i56o(?)-i592) Menaphon's Roundelay £1 M^sia's Song 82 Hardy, Thomas The Oxen I25 Hawker, Robert Stephen (1803-1875) And shall Trelawny die? I4 Herbert, George (1593-1633) The Elixir 77 Herrick, Robert (1591-1674) To Daffodils 6 To the Lark 124 The Mad Maid's Song 138 His Prayer to Ben Jonson l8l To his Dear God 185 To Meadows I98 A Thanksgiving to God, for his House 203 Heywood, Thomas (?-i65o(?) ) Pack, Clouds, away 71 Hodgson, Ralph Stupidity Street 8 The Bells of Heaven 78 Time, you Old Gipsy Man 81 Hogg, James (1770-183 5) A Boy's Song 45 Hood, Thomas (1799-1845) Ruth 44 Past and Present 57 HoRNE, Richard Henry (1803-1884) The Plough 166 JoNsoN, Ben (1573-1637) The Perfect Life 84 INDEX OF AUTHORS 231 Keats, John (1795-1821)