F 805 .8 L2 x BANCROFT LIBRARY THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA -=? U ^=^ fi./A. p. p. C ENGLISH BEING ^4 COLLECTION OF SHOBTEB CLASSIC POEMS, FROM CHAUCER TO TENNYSON. Jewels live-words long That on the stretched fore-finger of all Time Sparkle forever. Tennyson.— 77//> Princes* Las Yegas; New Mexico. Pollege Press 1884. Jn& z>$a>n0t0ffi*^t0n ofciitrx? IK *T Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2007 with funding from Microsoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/classicenglishpoOOIasvrich ve's Service Southwell, S. J. Lost Days V. Rossetti Lucy Wordsworth May-time . Chaucer 96 129 65 103 102 44 94 84 50 14 116 116 16 29 78 12 101 90 49 53 104 95 115 25 124 80 123 24 37 121 108 32 107 81 76 13 126 106 91 79 52 89 125 43 112 100 Memory Landor ny Minstrel's Song The Chatterton 80 Mother-lore; Montgomery - .... 105 M' Pherson's Farewell Burnt 80 Musical Instrument, A E.B.Browning - - - -138 My Captain Whitman 113 My Heart's in the Highlands Burns 133 My Native Land O'R-illy 13: O Breathe not his name Moore. 108 Ode to a Grecian Urn Keats 83 Ode to Autumn Keafs ... ... 77 Ode— How sleep the brave. Collins. 128 On First Opening Chapman's Homer Keats 139 On the receipt oi my Mother's Picture Cowper 98 Passions, The Collins 1(9 Po;is< roBO. II Milton 71 Pillar olthe Cloud. The..- Card. Newman - - - -105 Piping down the Valleys Blake 9 Oua < nrsum Ventus Clough 48 Rebecca's Hymn Scott 38 Recollections Swinlume 14 Knth Hood 13(5 she walks in beauty Byron - - 134 Song lor St. Cecilia's Day. A, liryden 10 Song— Gather ye Rosebud* He'rruk 15 Under The Greenwood Tree Shakespeare 95 M —When 1 am dead C. Q. Rnssetti - - - - 97 Sonnet— Sad in our youth A.dVere 114 " —Shall I compare thee Shakespeare 115 ,, — Sweet is the rose Spenser 137 ,, —When to the sessions Shakespeare 08 Spring Beaumont and Fletcher - - 1 33 World is too much with us, The Wordsworth 35 Stanzas to Augusta Byron 87 St. Monica M.Arnold 24 Stormy Petrel, The Barry Cornwall - - - - 120 Thanatopsis Bryant 33 To Lucasta Lor dace 124 To Our Blessed Lady Wordsworth 114 To the Skylark Shelley 40 To Thomas Moore Byron 51 Ulysses Tennyson 117 Vexilla Regis, ....Anonymous 36 Vigil of Montserrat, The Prout 135 Virtue Herbert 132 Wake A gain ! Kinasley 47 We are Seven Wordsworth- - 30 When the lamp is shattered Shelley 75 Wood Spurge, The D.Rossetti 52 ^*>FJIEtPIPEI^ Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a elond 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 : " 80 I piped he wept to hear. " 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 vanished from my sight; And T plucked a hollow reed. And T made a rural pen, And I stained the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Kvery child may joy to hear. Will 'am Blake 10 From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began ; When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay, And would not have her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead ! Then cold and hot, and moist and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. Prom harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began : From harmony to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran The diapason closing full in man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell ! When .lubal struck the chorded shell, His listeniug brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell, To worship that celestial sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passions cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpets loud clangor Kxcites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alar a, s. The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, Hark ! the foes come; Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat! A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DA V. The soft complaining fluty iii dying notes discovers The woes of helpless lovers. Those dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic, indignation, Depth of pains, and height of passsion Foe the fair, disdainful dame. But O, what art can teach, What human voice can reach, The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs ahove. Orpheus could lead the savage race ; And trets uproottd left tilth" place, Sequacious of the lyre, But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher; When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared Mistaking earth for heaven. As from the power of sacrtd lays The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blessed above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die. And Music shall out tune the sky. John Dkydkn 1 2 <-DflFFGDIh;S-:= I wandered lonly as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hill*, 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 the 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 when my heart with pleasure tills, And dances with the datfodills. William Wordsworth. 13 On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery. Hut redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'T is morn, scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Hhout in their sulphurous canopy, I4 HOHENUNDEN. The combat deepens. On ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Thomas Camp a \.u •:B^E^K:BI^E/iK:BI^E7IK-.- Break, break, break. On thy cold gray stone, O sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that are in me. O well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play I O well fjr the sailor lad That he sings in his boat on the bay ! And the stately ships goe on, To the haven under the hill ; But O for touch of a vanished hand. And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. ALIBEI) TSfXYH V '5 *WSeeitftECTI8$5« Years upon years, and tiia flame of love's high altar Trembles and sinks, and sense of listening ears Heeds not the sound it heard of love's blithe psalter Years upon years. Only the sense of a heart that hearkens hears, Louder than draems that assail and doubts that palter, ♦Sorrow that sleeps, and that wakes ere sundown peers. Wakes, that the heart may behold, and yet not falter, Faces of children as stars unknown of, spheres Seen but of love, that endure though all things alter, Years upon years. Algernon Charles Swinburne* Gather ye rosebuds while you may, Old time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow may be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run And nearer he's to setting. The age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer ; But being spent, the worse and worst Times still succeed the former. Robert Herrick. i6 God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all: A Woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chase befall. To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way : The child inay rue that is unborn The hunting of that day. The stout earl of Northumberland A Vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days did take— The chiefest harts in Cbavy-Chase To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay; He sent Eail Percy present word fffe would prevent his spot*. The English earl, not fearing that. Did to the woods resort. With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All Chosen men of might , Full well they knew in time of need To altt their shafts aright. On Monday they began to hunt As day-light did appear : The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran Chasing the fallow deer; C11EVY-CNASE 17 And long Def5ro high noon they had A hundrod fat bucks slain ; Then having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again. The hounds ran -wiftiy through the woods, The nimble deer to take, That with their eries the hills and dales An eeho shrill did make; Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deer ; Quoth h",'\Harl Douglas promised This day to meet me here; But If 1 thought he would hot come, No 1 n ger w o u 1 d I s t ay ; ' ' With that a brave'yoUug gentleman Thus to the earl did say : "Lo. 'yonder dujh Earl Douglas come, His men in armor bright ; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight; All men of pleasant Teviotdale, . Fast bV the river Tweed ; " . ' , "Then cease your spjrti, "Earl Percy said, And take your bows with speed ; And now with me, my countrymen, Your coura go forth ad van ce .; For never was there champion yet, In 8 otland or In France, ; f That ever did on horseback come, B u t i f m y h ap.it w ere , . . I durst encounter man for man, • With him to break a spear." 3 1 8 CIIEVY-CIIASE Earl Douglas on his milk-whit? steed, Most ike a baron hold, Rode foremost of his e nnpany, Whose armor shone like gold. "Show me, "said he, "whose men you he" That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer." The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy he— Who said, "We list not to declare, Nor show whose men we be : "Yet will we spend our dearest blood Thy chiefest harts to slay." Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say : "Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall die ; I know thee well, an earl thou art — Lord Percy, so am I. But trust me, Percy, pity it were, And great offense, to kill Any of these our guiltless men, For they have done no ill. Let you and me the battle try, And set our men aside " "Accursed be he, "Earl Percy said, "By whom this is denied." Then stepped a gallant squire forth, Witherington was his name, Who said,"I would not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame, CHEVY-CHASE. 19 "That e'er my captain fought on foot. And I stood looking on. You two be earb," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone ; "I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand ; While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand." Our English archers bent their bows — Their hearts were good and true ; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew, Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, As chieftain stout and good ; As valiant captain, all unmoved, The shock he firmly stood. His host he parted had in three, As leader ware and tried ; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bore down on every side. Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound ; But sill our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground. And throwing straight their bows away, They grasped their swords so bright; And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light. They closed full fast on every side- No slackness there was found ; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground. CM /aSjC. At last tJb jse two S'; >ut carls did m^el ; Like captaina of,great might, Like lions wode, they laid on lode, And made a cruel fight. They fought until they both did sweat, With s wo ds of tempered st--.'l. Until the blood, Ijke drops of rain, r rhey trickling down. did feel. "Yield thee. Lord Percy, "Doug as .said ; "In faith T will thee bi.iflg Where thou shalt high advanced be l>y James, our Scottish king. u Thy ransom I v.'ill freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see." . : • , "No, Douglas, Vsaitti ; Eail Percy then, ''Thy proffer I do scorn ; I wiil not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born." With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English how, i Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow; Who never spoke more words than these "Fight on, ray merry men all ; For why, ray life is at an end ; Lord Percy sees ray fall." Then leaving life/ Earl Percy took Thexlead man by the hand ; And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my land. CHEVY-CHASE. 2 i "In truth my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake ; For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance did never take." A knight amongst the Scots there was Who saw Earl Douglas die, Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Earl Percy. Sir Hugh Mountgomery was he called, Who, with a spear full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed. Ran fiercly through the fight ; And past the English archers all, Without a dread of fear ; And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust hl« hateful spear ; So thus did both these nobles die, Whose courage none could stain. An English archer then perceived The noble earl was slain. Against Sir Hugh Mountgomery Then right his shaft he set, Ami the gray goose wing that wa» thereon In his heart's blood was wet. This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun : For when they rung the evening-bell, The battle scarce was done. And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, (rood Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount. 22 CHEVY-CHASE. For Witherington my heart is wo That ever he slain should be, For when his legs were hewn in two, He knelt and fought on his knee. And with Earl Douglas there was slain Sir Hugh Mountgomery, Sir Charles Murray, that from the field One foot would never flee. Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too— His sister's son was he ; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, But saved he could not be. And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die : Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly. Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty- three ; The rest in Chevy-Chase were slain, Under the greenwood tree. Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail ; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail. Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away : They kissed the dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay. u Oh heavy news,"King James did say ; "Scotland can witness be I have not any captain more Of such account as he." CHE VY- CHA SE. 2 3 Like tidings to King Henry came Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy-Chase: « "Now God be with him, "said our king, "Since 'twill no better be . I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he : "Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say But I will vengeance take : I'll be revenged on them all, For brave Earl Percy's sake." This vow full well the king performed After at Humbledon ; In one day fifty knights were slain, With lords of high renown ; And of the best ,of small account, Did many hundreds die : Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chase, Made by Earl Percy. God save the king, and bless this land, With plenty, joy, and peace ; And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease ! Anonymous. -•t •i-FL8WEI?SvWI¥pOTvKRai¥-> Prune thou thy words ; the thoughts coutrol That o'er thee swell and throng ;— They will condense within thy soul, And change to purpose strong. But he who lets his feelings run In soft luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every Woe. Faith's meanest deed more favour bears, Where hearts and wills are weighed, Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, Which bloom their hour, and fade. Jons IIenky Newman. ->*gf.TP0]^IC/I!^ 11 Ah, could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be !— Care not for that, and lay me where I fa 1 ! Everywhere heard will be the judgment call ; But at God's altar, oh ! remember me." Thus Monica, and died in Italy. Yet fervent had her longing been, through all Her course, for home at last, and burial With her own husband, by the Libyan Sea. Had been ! but at the end, to her pure soul All tie with all beside seem'd vain and cheap, And union before God the only care. Matthew Arnold. -5 <-CJHH*CJITO]H*. ... , The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; t.J 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, Have where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tiuklings lull the distant folds;; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon comp ain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign. Beneath : those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever 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 toshare. 26 ELEG V WRITTEN IN 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 bowed the Woods b-eujath their sturdy stroke S Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple aouals of thj poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour ; The piths of glory l?al l>Jb t> thj gravj. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vau] The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honours 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 swayed r Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre ; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol ; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Pull many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 27 Home village Hampden, that, wih dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; ♦Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruiu to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy to mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenious 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 learned to stray ; Along the cool, seque tered vale of life They kept the noisless tenour of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unletterd 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 resigned, Left the warm precincts of the chreeful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 2 g BIBGY 'WRITTEN LV On some fond breast the parting soul relies,. Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, Who, mindful of the unhonoured dead. Dost in these lines their artless tales relate ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : — "Oft have I 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 fjot 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, woful-wan, iike one forlorn, Or craved with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the customed 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; Approach aud read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved < n the stone beneath you aged thorn " A CO UNTR Y CH UR CHVARD. 29 THE EPITAPH* Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bouuty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; He gave to misery, (all he had), a tear, He gained from heaven('t was all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailites from their dread abode,— (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Thomas Guay> •fCjniiDpOM In my poor mind it is most sweet to muse Upon the days gone by ; to act in thought Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope, Down which the child would roll ; to pluck gay flowers. Make posies in the sun, Which the child's hand (Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled), Would throw away, and straight take up again, Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn Bound with so playful and so light a foot, That the pressed daisy scarce declined her head. Charles Lamb. 3° A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage girl : She was eight years old, she said ; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad ; Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be ?" '•How many ? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they ? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we ; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea ; "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother ; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be. " WE ARE SE VEN. 3 \ Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we ; Two of us in the churchyard lie Beneath the churchyard tree," "You run about, my little maid; Your limbs they are alive ; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five," "Their graves are green, they may be seen, The little maid replied ; "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem ; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. "And often after sun-set, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. "The first that died was Sister Jaue; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain ; And then she went away. "So in the churchyard she was laid ; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies bv her side." 5 2 WE ARE SE VEN. "How many are you, then, "said I, "If they are two in heaven ?" Quick was the little maid's reply ! "O Master, we are seven." "But they are dead ; those two are dead ! Their spirits are in heaven ! 'T was throwing words away ; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven." William Wordsworth. I like that ancient Saxon phrase whi h calls The burial-ground God's-Acre ! It is just ; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the seeping dust. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts .Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest/ when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a 'fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth ; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 33 •*¥flOT?ePSIJ5* To him who in the 'ove of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language ; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour comes like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart — Go forth, under the open sky, and list To nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depth of air — Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid With many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth t) be resolved to earth agiiri ; And, lost each human tra,ce, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements— To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 5 THANATOPSIS. 34 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good — Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between — The venerable woods— rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ;and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning : traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet, the dead are there ; And millions iu the solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. r J he gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years— matron, and maid, 35 THANATOPSIS. And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, — Shall one by one be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. 80 live, that when thy summons eomes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William Cullen Bkyaxt. **J38fl*NE¥fc 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-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; For this, fur every thing, we are out of tune : It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; Ho 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 Wokdswobth. 36 -MtVK^IIil£^-M^EGI3 : +H£- The royal banners forward go, The cr ss shines forth in mystic glow, Where He in flesh, our flesh who made, Our sentence bore r our ransom paid ; Where deep for us the spear was dyed r Life's torrent rushing from His side, To wash us in that precious flood Where mingled water flowed and blood. Fulfilled is all that David told lu true prophetic song of old: Amidst the nations, God, saith he, Hath reigned and triumphed from a tree. O tree of beauty, tree of light ! O tree with royal purple dight ! Elect on whose triumphal breast Those holy limbs should fiud their rest I On whose dear arms, so widely fluug, The weight of the world's ransom hung— The price of human kind to pay, And spoil the spoiler of his prey. To Thee, eternal three in one, Let homage meet by all be done, Whom by the cross Thou dost restore, Preserve and govern evermore. Amen. VENANTIUS FOIITUNATCB. Anonymous Translation. 37 +F8M)I]SG*TflE*HIie<3Kj8;+ 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 string 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, And hover o'er the smiling face Of these pastures ; where they come, Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore from such danger lock Every one his loved flock ; Aud let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come like a scout From the mountain, and, ere day, Bear a lamb or kid away ; Or the crafty, thievish fox, Break upon your simple flocks. To rescue yourself from these, Be not too secure in ease ; So shall you good shepherds prove, And deserve your master's love. Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers And soft silence fall in numbers On your eyelids. So farewell : Thus I end my evening knell. Beaumont and Fletcher. *HEBE0C7nS>H¥|I]«- FBOM 'IVANHOF." When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the laud of bandage came, Her father's God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night, Arabia's crimsoued sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen ; And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No poteuts now our foes amaze — Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, And thou hast left them to their own. But, present still, though now unseen, When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen, To temper the dec ji tail ray. And O, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be th)U, lor g-s uttering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light! Our harps we left by Babel's streams — The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, trump, and horn. But thou hast said, the blood of goats, The flesh of rams, I will not prize — A contrite heart, and humble thoughts, Are mine accepted sacrifice. Silt WiL TEll SC >TT. 39 -:>GITOK0PPE1^7ipvCI^ICKE'F<- Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the field of June — Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass ! O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong , One the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine : both, though small, are strong At your clear hearts ; and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song — In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth. Leigh Hunt. >GOT3pePPEI^7ip *CHICKEF* Thk poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead In summer luxury,— he has never done With his delights ; for, when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never. On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. John Keats. 40 -M:TOT¥pTSKYL'/IRK:f^- Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of tire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the setting sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run ; Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale, purple even Melts around thy flight ; Iiike a star of heaven, In the broad daylight, Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the. arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed. TO THE SKYLARK. 41 What thou art we know not ; What is most like thee? From rainbow-clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Hinging hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not; Like a high-born maiden, In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bow r er ; Like a glow-worm go'den, In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view; Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and fresh, and clear, thy music doth surpass. 4* TO THE SKYLARK. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine ; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine, Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt— A thing whereiu we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What tields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain ? With thy clear, keen joy and Langour cannot be ; Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee ; Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream ; Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest though t. Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear ; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. TO THE SKYLARK. Better than all measures Of delightful sound ; Better than all treasures That in books are fjund, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground. Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. I'eecy Bvsshe Shelley. 43 ^Mg¥->DHYg> The lost days of my life until to day, What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat- Sown once for food but trodden into clay? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay? Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The throats of men in hell, who thirst alway? I do not see them here : but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. I am thyself, — what hast thou done to me ? And I— and I— thyself : (lo! each one saith,) And thou thyself to all eternity ! Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 44 MoTHEB of the Fair Delight, Thou handmaid perfect in God's sight, Now sitting fourth beside the Three, Thyself a Women-Trinity,— Being a daughter born to God, Mother of Christ from stall to rood, And spouse unto the Holy Ghost :— Oh wheu our need is uttermost, Think that to such as death may strike Thou once wert sister sisterlike ! Thou headstone of humanity, Gromdstone of the great Mystery, Fashioned like us, yet more than we ! Mind'st thou not (when June's heavy breath Warmed the long days in Nazareth,) That eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might live One faint night more amid the sands? Far off the trees were as pale wands Aga ; nst the fervid sky : the sea Sighed further off eternally As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps in God's secret ways : Until a folding sense, like prayer, Which is, as God is, everywhere, Gathered about thee ; and a voice 8poke to thee without any noise, Being of the silence :— "Hail," it said, "Thou that art highly favored ; The Lord is with thee here and now ; Blessed among all women thou." AVE. 45 Ah ! knew'st thou of the end, when first That Babe was on thy bosom nursed?— Or when He tottered round thy thy knee Did thy great sorrow dawn on thee ?— - And through His boyhood, year by year Eating with Him the passover Didst thou discern confusedly That holier sacrament, when He, The bitter cup about to quaff, Hhould break the bread and eat thereof?- Or came not yet the knowledge, even Till on some day forecast in heaven His feet passed through thy door to press Upou His Father's business? Or still was God's high secret kept? Nay, but I think the whisper crept Like growth through childhood. Work and play, Things common to the course of day, Awed thee with meanings unfulfill'd; And all through girlhood, something stilPd Thy senses, like the birth of light, When thou hast trimmed thy lamp at night Or washed thy garments in the stream ; To whose white bed had come the dream That He was thine and thou wast His Who feeds among the field-lilies. O solemn shadow of the end In that wise spirit long contained! O awful end ! and those unsaid Long years when It was Finished ! Miud'st thou not, (when the twilight gone Left darkness in the house of John,) Between the naked window-bars That spacious vigil of the stais ! — For thou, a watcher even as they, Wouldst rise from where throughout the day 46 AVE. Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor; And, finding the fixed terms endure Of day and night which n.*ver brought Sounds of His coming chariot, Wouldst lift through cloud-waste uuexplorM Those eyes that said, "How long, O Lord?*' Then that diciple whom He loved Well heeding, haply would be moved To ask thy blessing in His name; And that one thought in both, the same Though silent, then would clasp ye round To weep together, — tears long bound, Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. Yet, "Surely I come quickly, '"— so He said, from life and death gone home. Amen : even so, Lord Jesus, come ! But oh ! what human tongue can speak That day when death was sent to break From the tir'd spirit, like a veil, Its covenant with Gabriel Endured at length unto the end? What human thought can apprehend That mystery of motherhood When thy Beloved at length renewed The sweet communion severed, — His left hand underneath thy head And His right hand embracing thee? — Lo ! He was thine, and this is He ! Soul, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, That lets me see her standing Where the light of the Throne is bright? Unta the left, unto the right, The cherubim, arrayed, conjoint, Float inward to a golden point, And from between the seraphim The glory issues for a hymn. A VE. 47 O Mary Mother, be not loth To listen,— thou whom the stars clothe, Who seest and raayst not be seen ? Hear us at last, O Mary Queen? Into our shadow bend thy face, Bowing thee from thy secret place, O Mary Virgin, full of grace? Dante Gabriel BOMSTA. Wake again, Teutonic father-ages, Speak again, beloved primeval creeds; Flash ancestral spirit from \our pages, Wake the greenly age to noble deeds. Tell u3 how, of old, our saintly mothers Schooled themselves by vigil, fast, and prayer; Learned to love as Jesus loved before them, While they bore the cross which poor men beai\ Tell us how our stout crusading fathers Fought and died for God, and not for gold : Let their love, their faith, their boyish daring, Distance-mellowed, gild the days of old. Tell us how the ceaseless workers, thronging, Angel-tended, round the convent-doors, Wrought to Christian Faith and holy order Savage hearts alike and barren moors Ye who built the churches where we worship, Ye who framed the laws by which we move Fathers, long belied and long forsaken, Oh, forgive the children of your love! Charles KingsleV. 4 8 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay With canvas drooping, side by side, Two towers of sail at dawn of day Are scarce long leagues apart descried. When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, And all the darkling hours they plied, Nor dreamed but each the selfsame seas By each was cleaving, side by side : E'en so, — but why the ta'e reveal Of those whom, year by year unchanged, Brief absence joined anew to feel, Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? At dead of night their sails were filled, And onward each rejoicing steered ;— Ah ! neither blame, for neither willed Or wist what first with dawn appeared. To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain, Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, Through winds and tides one compass guides To that and your own pelves be true. But O blithe breeze ! and O great seas! Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again,— Together lead them home at last. One port, methought, alike they sought,— One purpose bold where'er they fare; O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there! Arthur Hugh Clough. 49 The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue waves roll nightly on deap Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but onca heaved, and for ever grew still ! And there lay the st^d with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breatj-i of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifoed, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols ara broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsniote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! QpORGJt OOBDON BfROS. s° Here in this leafy place, Quiet, he lies, Cold : , with his sightless face Turned to the skies ; 'T is but another dead ;— All 3 T ou can say is said. Carry his body hence, — Kings must have slaves; Kings climb toerainence Over men's graves. So this man's eye is dim ; — Throw the earth over him What was the white you touched, There at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died ; Message or wish, may be: — Smooth out the folds and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled ? — Only the tremulous Words of a child : — Prattle, that had for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His — her dead father's —kiss, Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. "Marguerite. " BEFORE SEDAN. 51 Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain? Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain ! If the grief died !— But no :— Death will not have it so. Austin Dobson, My boat is on the snore, And my bark is on the sea; 15 ut before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate ! Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hat'i springs that may be won. Were't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'T is to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be, — Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore ! Geokge Gordon ByhoN. The wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill : I had walked on at the wind's will, — I sat now, fjr the wind was still. Between my knees my forehead was,— My lips, drawn in, said not Alas! My hair was over in the grass, My naked ears heard the day pass. My eyes, wide open, had the run Of some ten weeds to fix upon ; Amoug those few, out of the sun, The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one. From perfect grief there need hot he Wisdom or even memory : One thing then learnt remains to me,— The woodspurge has a cup of tnree. Dante Gabbiel Rossetti -*M6J»f> The night has a thousand eyes, The day but one ; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When its love is done. Francis W. Bourdildn. 53 <-M3rDESEI^ED+VII[Ii?iGE'> BWKET Auburn ! loveliest village of tbe plain, Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering b ooms delayed. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth when every sport could please' How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene! How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that toppad the neighouriug hill, The hawthorn-bush, with seats L)3neath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made! How often have I blessed (he coming day, When toil remitting lent its turn to play, And all the village train, f om labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the ol 1 surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And s eights 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 tittered round the place ; The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those look- reprove,— These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please; 5 4 THE DESRR TED VILLAGE. These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled • Sweet smiliug village, loveliest of the lawn. Thy sports are Hid, and all thy charms withdrawn : Amidst thy bowers the tyraut's hand is s^en, And deso ation saddens all thy green ; One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a 'tillage stints th3 T smiling plain; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But, choked the sedges, works its weary way; Along thy gladts, a solitary guest, The hollow s.mnding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walk's the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Bunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall, And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the laud. Ill fares the land, to hastening 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 destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's grief began, \Vhen every rood of ground, maintained its man ; For him light Labour spread her wholesomi 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 altered ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land and dispossess the swaiu ; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, And every want to luxurv allied, t;iE DESERTED VILLAGE. 55 And every pang that f A\y pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful spjrts that graced the peaceful scene, Lived in each look, and brightened all the green, — These far departing, seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and nanners 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 ruined grounds, And, mauy a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew', Rememberance wakes, with all her busy train, Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wandering? 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 ; 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-learned 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, [ still had hopes, my long vexation past, 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 blest is 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 ! 56 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. l^or 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 later end, Angels around btfriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way; And, all his prospects brightening to the last. His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close. Up yonder hill the village murmur rose; There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below ; The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that lowed to meet their young; The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose fr jih school ; The watch-dog's voic. i that bayed the whisp3riug wind, And t':e loud laugh that sp;;kj the vacant mind, — These all in sweet c;>n fusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made, But now the sounds of population fail; No cheerful mur i.urs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, But a I the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but yon widowed, solitary thiug, That feebly bends beside the plashy spring; She wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, To strip the brook with mantling crtsses spread, To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; She only left of al! 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 , THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 57 There, where a few torn shrubs the plane 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 wished to change, his place ; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise His house was known to all the vagrant train. He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, Sate by his Are, and talked the night away ; Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how field? were won. Pleased with hisguests, the good man learned 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 leaned to Virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed 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 dimayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control, Despair aud anguish fled the struggling soul ; 7 58 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Comfort came d.jwn the trembling wrttch to raise, A id Liis \\b.< filt Tin * a a jlks wh'.sp \.d praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place ; Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around this pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; E'en children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ; 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 blossomed furze unprofltably gay, There in his noisy mansion, skilled 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 learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; 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 cipher too; Lands he could measure, times and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 59 I11 arguing too, the parson owned his skill, For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still, While words of learned length and thundering 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 triumphed is forgot. — Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, Low lies th it house where nut-brown draughts inspired, Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale we; t round. Imagination fondly stops to trace The parlour splendours of that festive place, — The whitewashed wall; the nicely sanded floor; The varnished clock that ticked behind the door; The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers bv day ; The pictures placed for ornament and use ; The twelve good rules ; the royal game of goose ; The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. Vain, transitory splendour! could not all Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall? Obscure it silks, nor shall it more impart Au hour's importance to tne 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 ponderous strength, and lean to hear; THE DESERTED ULLAGE, The host himself no longer shall be fjund Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prcst, Shall kiss thy cup to pays 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 th.3 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, TJnenvied, unmolested, uncouflned : But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the fr?aks of wanton wealth arrayed, — In these, ere tri tiers half their wish obtain, The toiling pleasure sickens iut > pain ; And e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, The heart, distrusting asks if this be joy. Ye friends l > truth, ye statesmen, who survey The rich man's joys increas », the poor's decay, 'T is yours to judge, how wiie 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 grounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds: The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth; His seat, where solitary sports are seen, Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; THE DESER TED VILLA QE. 6 1 Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies: While thus the land, adorned for pleasure all, In barren sp'endour feebly waits the fall. As some fair f jmale unadorned and plain, Secure to pk ase while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes, But when those charms are past, — 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 betrayed, In nature's simplest chara;s at first arrayed, But verging t> 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 strayed 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 each joy 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; Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, There the thick gibbet glooms beside the way. 6 2 THE DESER TED VILLA GE. The dome where Pleasure holds the midnight reign, Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; Tumultuous grandeur crowds tho 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 shivering female lies. She once, perhaps, iu village plenty blest, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest ; 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, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, With heavy heart deplores the 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, Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go, Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. Far different there from all that charmed .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 poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 63 Where Crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men more murderous still than they; While oft in whirls the mad tornado ties, 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 sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven ! what sorrow's gloomed that parting day That called them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, And t ok a long farewell, and wished in vain For seats like these beyond the western main ; And shuddering still tofacc 4 the distant deep, Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. The good old sire the first prepared to go To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe; But for himself in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. His only daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent weiiu next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for her father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose; And kiirsed her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And clasped them close in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief In all the silent man iness of grief. O Luxury! thou curst 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. 64 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated rua9S of rank, unwieldy woe; Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound. Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is beguu, And half the bu iuess of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sal- That idly waiting flaps with every 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 ail 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 O, where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors 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 possest Though very poor, may still be very blest ; THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 6 5 That trades proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ; While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. t LIVKK GdlDSMITH. Hence, loathed melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Miduight bom, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night raven sings ; There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou goddess fair and free, In heaven ycleped Euphrosyne, And, by men, heart-easing Mirth ; Whom lovely Venus, at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore ; Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful Jollity, — Quips and cranks and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek, — Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter, holding both his sides. Come ! and trip it, as you go, 9 66 V ALLEGRO. On tho ight fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with t ee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty ; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unproved pleasures free, — To hear the lark begin his flight. And singing startle the dull Night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweet-brier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine; While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or baren door, Stoutly struts his dames before, Oft lisning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering more, From the side of some hoar hill Through the high wood echoing shrill ; Sometimes walking, not unseen, B/ hedgerow elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Robed in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, Whilst the landscape round it measures L ALLEGRO. 67 Russet lawns, and fallow gray, Where the nibbling flocks do stray, — Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest, — Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks ahd rivers wide. Towers of battlements it sees Bosomed high on tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighbouring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Cordon and Thyrsis, met, Are of their savory dinner set Of herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses: And then in haste her bower she leaves, With Thestyl's to bind the sheaves; Or if the earlier season lead, To the tanned haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight The upland hamlets will invite' When the merry bell ring round, At the jocund rebeks sound To many a youth and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail ; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale With stories told of many a feat : How fairy Mab the junkets eat, — She was pinched and pulled, she said, And he, by friar's lantern led; Tells how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 68 L ALLEGRO. His shadowy Hail had thrashed the eorn That ten day-labourers could not end ; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretched out all the chimney's lengtn. Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And, crop-full, out of doors he flings Ere the first cock in his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon lulled asleep. Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knight- and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold, — With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, aud judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear. And pomp and feast aud revelry, With masque, and antique pageantry, — Such sights as youthful poet< dream On summer eves by haunted stream ; Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweet st Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever, against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydiau airs, Married to immortal verse, — Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and gidd\ r cunning The melting voice through mazes running, V ALLEGRO. 69 Untwisting all the chains that tie The hiddeu soul of harmony, — That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear Sneh strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. Milton. >*JS0NP¥W£- 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 draw an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And w r eep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe, And moan the expense of many a vanished 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. SHAKESPE .RE. 7° When the lamp is shattered The light in the dust lies dead ; When the eloud is scattered, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remembered not ; When the lips have spokeu, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp aud the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute, — No song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruined cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest ; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possessed. O Love who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high ; Bright reason will mock thee Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come. Percy Bysshe Shelley. 7> Hence, vain deluding joys, The brood of Folly without father bred! How little you bestead, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams, The fiekle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess, sage and holy ! Hail, divinest melancholy! Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore, to our weaker view, O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue, — Black but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's prize above The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended ; Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore, — His daughter she (in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, IL PENSEROSO. All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable 9toleof cyprus-lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Come, but keep thy wouted state, With even step, and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes; There held in holy passion still, Forget thyself to marble, till With a sad, leaden, downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast ; And join with the calm Peace, and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing ; And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: But first and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, — The cherub Contemplation ; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustomed oak. Sweet bird, that shun'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy ! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even-song. And, missing thee, I walk unseen On the dry, smooth-shaven green, To behold the wandering moon Riding near the highest noon, Like one that had been led astray 1L PENSEROSO. 73 Through the heaven's wide pathless way; And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat cf rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound Over some wide-watered shore, ♦Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or if the air will not permit, Home still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, — Far from all resort of mirth, Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm, To bless the doors from nightly harm ; Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out- watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere The spirit of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshy nook ; And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent With planet or with element. Sometimes let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tales of Troy divine, Or what (though rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskined stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musseus from his bower ! Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 10 74 IL PENSEROSO. Such notes as, warbled to the string-, Drew iron tears from Pluto's cheek, And made hell grant what love did seek I Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold, — Of Camball, and of Algarsife, — And who had Canace to wife, That owned the virtuous ring and glass, — And of the wondrous horse of brass, On which the Tartar king did ride ! And, if aught else great bards beside In sage and solemn tunes have sung, — Of tourneys and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus, Night, oft see me in my pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, — Not tricked and frounced, as she w»« wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kerchiefed in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or ushered with a shower still When the gust hath blown nis till, Ending in the rustling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring, To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heaved stroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye, IL PENSEROSO. 75 While the bee with honeyed thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, JEutice the dewy -feathered Sleep ; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings, in airy stream Of lively portraiture displayed. Softly on my eyelids laid: And, as I wake, aweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some Spirit for mortals good, Or the unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due* feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antic pillars massy proof, And storied windows, richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow To the full- voiced quire below, In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience do attain To something iike prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, And I with thee will choose to live. Milton. 76 *:• Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland lass I Reaping and singing b<- herself; Stop here or gently pass ! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melanc' oly s'rain ; Oh 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, or may be again ? Whate'er the theme the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending ; 1 saw her singing at her work And o'er her sickle bending ; — I listened 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. 77 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 thateh-eves run To bend with apples the mossed 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'er-brimmed 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-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reaped furrow sonnd asleep, Drowsed 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 dead across a brook ; Or by a cider press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the sougs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them— thou hast thy music too : Where barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the the stubble-plains with rosy hue: Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river shallows, 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 redreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. John Kiats. 7« When the hounds of spring are on winter's truces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assuaged for Itylus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamour of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees and cling? Oh that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, Fire or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as song of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the south-west wind and the west wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins ; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins ; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins. CHOR US FROM «A TALANTA" 79 The fall streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and from flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnnt-root. AXt'iKBKOX Charlks Swinburne, Life ! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or when we met, I own to me 's a secret yet. But this I know: when thou art fled, Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so yaluless shall be As all that then remaine of me. Life! we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather 'Tis hard to part when friends ara dear ; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time ; 8ay not Good-night, — but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning. Anna Lktitia Barbauld. 8o Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the hour That awakens the night-song of mirth in yotr bower, Then think of your friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. His griefs may return, not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain, But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while lingering with you ; And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul happy friends ! shab be with you that night- Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles ; Too blest if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, Some kind voice bad murmured, "I wish he were here! " Let Fate do her worst, theTe are relies of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy ! Which come in the night-time os sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled ; You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. Thomas Moore. 8i He who died at Azan sends This to comfort all his friends; Faithful friends! It lies, I know, Pale and white and cold as snow : And ye say, " Abdullah's dead ! »» Weeping at the feet and head I can see your falling tears, I can hear your sighs and prayers ; Yet I smile and whisper this : I am not the thing you kisg. Cease your tears and, and let it lie; It was mine— it was not I. Sweet friends ! what the women lave For i's last bed of the grave, Is a hut which lam quitting, Is a garment no more fitting, Is a cage from which, at last, Like a hawk my soul hath pas-ed; Love the inmate, not the room, The wearer, not, the garb; the plume Of the falcon, not the bars That kept him from the splendid stars Loving friends ! be wise, auddry Straightway every weeping eye. , What ye lift uppn the bier Is not worth a wistful tear. 'Tis an empty sea-shell, one Out of which the pearl has gone. The shell is broken, it lies there; The pearl, >the all, the soul, is hor-e. n 8 2 HE II NO DIED A T AZAN. "Titan enrthern jar whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid That treasure of his treasury, A mind that loved him : let it lie! Let the shard he earth's once more, Since the gold shines in the store! Allah glorious! Allah good! Now Thy world is understood ; Now the long, long wonder ends ! Yet ye weep, my erring friends, While the man whom ye call dead, In uuspoken hliss instead, Lives and loves you ; lost, 'ti< true, By such light as shines for you ; But, in the light you cannot see, Of unfulfilled felicity, In enlarging paradise Lives a life that never dies. Farewell, friends ! yet not farewell — Where I am ye too shall dwell. I am gone before your face. A moment'? time, a little space. When you come where I have stept, Ye will w T onder why ye wept; Ye will know, by wise love taught, That here is all and there is naught. Weep a while, if ye are fain, Sunshine still must follow rain, Only not at death ; for death, Now I know T , is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life which is of all life centre. Be ye certain, all seems love, Viewed from Allah's throne above! Be ye stout of heart and come TIE WHO DIED A T AZAN. fc Bravely onward to your home! La Allah ilia Allah ! yea I Thou love diviue! Thou love alway ! He that died at Azaii gave This to those who made his grave. Edwin A.unoi.d. Thou still unfaded bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of silence aud slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme ! What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of the both, In Tempe or the dales of A ready? What men or gods are these? what maidens loath ? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy ? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter ; therefore, ye soft pipes play on — Not to the sensual ear, but more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone ! Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal ; yet do not grieve— She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; For ever wilt thou love, and sne be fair ! Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu : And happy melodist, unwearied" For ever piping songs for ever new ; 8 4 ODE TO A GRECIAN URN. More happy love ! more happy, happy love I For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting and for ever young", All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken Hanks with garlands direst? What little town by river or sea-shore, Or mountain-built With peaceful citadel, Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? And, little town, thy streets for evermore Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. O Attic shape! Fair attitude ! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed ! Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought . As doth eternity. Cold pastoral ! When old age shall this generation w.iste, Tho-ii shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than oUrs, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st •'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"— that is all Ye know on earth, and al\ ye need to know. JbflX Kkai> ^EBTIBY-I 4> On parents' knees, a naked, new-born child, Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled : So live, that, sinking in thy last long sleep, Thou then mayst smile while all around thee wci \< From th« Sanscrit of Oalii>aha ? bj Sib Witliam Joneh. *5 •'Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destinie! M'Pherson's time will not be long On yonder gallows-tree." Sae rantingly, sae wantingly, Sae daunting ty gaed he ; He play'd a spring, and dantfd, it round, Below the gallows-tree. "O, what is death but parting breath ? On many a bloody plain I've dar'd his face and in this place I scorn him yet again! "Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword ; And there 'd no a man in all Scotland, But I'll brave him at a word. u I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife; I die by treacheric : It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenged be. "Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky ! May coward shame disdain his name, The wretch that dares not die ! " Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, S ie daunting ly gaed he ; He play ] d a sjjring, and dancd it round, Below the gwllowS'trec. Robert Burns. 86 Oh, sing unto my roundelay ! Oh, drop the briny tear with me ! Dance no more at holiday ; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow' Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note ; Quick in dance as thought can be : Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; Oh, he lies by the willow-tree ! Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below ; Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. See! the white moon shines on high ; Whiter is my true loves shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. Here upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid. MINSTREL! S SONG. 87 With my hands Til bind the briers Round his holy corse to gre ; Ouphant fairy, light your fires ; Here my body still shall be. F7iP7I3vTO:7mGag'I7I*- Though the day of my destiny's over, And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted) It shrunk not to share it with me, And the love which my spirit hath painted It never hath found but in thee* Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile that answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of thine: And when winds are at war with the ocean. As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, It is that they bear me from thee. 88 STANZAS TO A UG USTA. Though the rock of my last hope is shivered, And its fragments are sunk in the wave, Though I feel that my soul is delivered To pain— it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me: They may crush, but they shall not contemn — They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 'Tis of thee that I think, not of them. Though human, thou didst not deceive me, Though woman, £hou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou foreborest to grieve me, Though slandered, thou never couldst shake, Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, Though parted, it was not to fly, Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, Nor mute that the world might bel"e. Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, Nor the war of the many with one ; If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 'Twas folly not sooner to shun ; And if dearly that error hath cost me, And more than I once could forsee, I have found that, whatever it lost me, It could not deprive me of thee. From the wreck of the past which hath perished Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that what I most cherise^l Deserved to be dearest of all. In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wild waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee. Giobge Gordon Bxnyw. 8 9 Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west : Through all the wide border his steed was the best: And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 80 faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone ; He swam the Esk river where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 80 boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and ail ; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ; And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up ; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, "Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. 12 9 o LOCHINVAR So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin- var. " One touch to her hand, and one word to her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near ; 80 light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! "She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow, " quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong GraBmes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Sir Walter Scott. ,Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How grows in Paradise our store. Burial of the Dead. John Keble. 9 1 -^*IgIiE3-f0F*6REECE:!^- FROM ''BCS JUAN," CAKTO III. 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 Phoebus 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' " I-lands of rhe Blest. " The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For, standing on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A king sat on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born tSalamis; And ships by thous rfc at soma well-havened isle, Wbera spiu-s breathe and brighter seasons smile; ■ There sits quieseeut.on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay, — So thou, with sails how swif^! hast reached the shore " Where tempests never beat nor billows roar," And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anchored by thy side. But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed, — Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost; And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. Yet O, the thought that thou art safe, and he ! — That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. My boast is not that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; But higher for my proud pretentions rise, — The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell ! —Time, unrevoked, has run His wonted course; yet what I wished is done. By contempla ion's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again, — To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft,— Thyself removed, thy power t > soothe me left. William Cowpki: 100 fK)M '• th% cucko) an\ tlie nightingale. " The God of love,— a/*, bencdlcltc ! How mighty and how great a lord is he ! For he of low hearts can n.ake high ; of high He can make low, aud unto death bring nigh ; And hard hearts, he can make them kind and tr se. In brief, the whole of what he will he may ; Against him dare not any wight say nay ; To humble or afflict whome'er he will, To gladden or to grieve, he hath like skill ; But most his might he sheds on the eve of May For every true heart, gentle heart and free, That with him is, or thinketh so to be, Now, against May, shall have some stirring, — whether To joy, or be it some mourning: never, At another time, methinks, in like degree. For now, when they may hear the small birds' song, And see the budding leaves the branches throng, This into their remembrance doth bring All kinds of pleasure, mixed with sorrowing; And longing for sweet thoughts that ever long. And of that longing heaviness doth come, Whence oft great sickness grows of heart and home; Sick are they all for lack of this desire ; And thus in May their hearts are set on fire, So that they burn forth in great martyrdom. Geoffrey Chauceu. 101 The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, Asa feather is wafted downward From an Eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist ; A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old matters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of time. For, like the strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's, endless toil and endeavour ; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start ; io2 THE DA Y IS DONE. Who through long days of labour, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music. And the cares, that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, Aud as silently steal away. HKM'.V WaXH-WOBTB L 2CGFK' LOW. •:f-7iSPEe¥/IvJyIEDllSH-> Andromeda, by Perseus saved and wed, Hankered each day to see the Gorgon's head : Till o'er a fount he held it, bade her lean, And mirrored in the wave was safely seen That death she lived by. Let not thine eyes know Any forbidden thing itself although It once should save as well as kill : but be Its shadow upon life enough for thee. Dan ii: Gabeikl liOSSKTTI. "3 PROLOG "K TO -THE EARTULY PARADISE." Of Heaven or Hell I have 110 power to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor fjr my words shall ye forget your tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. But rather, when aweary of your mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by, Made the more mindful that the sweet days die, — Remember me a little then, I pray The idle singer of an empty day. The heavy trouble, the bewildering care That weighs us down who live and earn our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear ; fck> let me sing of names remembered, Because they, living out, can ne'er be dead, Or long time take their memory quite away From us poor singers of an emyty pay. Dreamer of dreams, born out my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory gate, Telling a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day. io 4 AN APOLOGY. Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things did sIh>w That through one window men beheld the spring, And through another saw the summer glow, And through a third the fruited vines arow. While still, unheard, butiu its wonted way, Piped the drear wind of that December day. So with this Earthly Paradise it is, If ye will read aright, and pardon me, Who strive to build a shadowy isle of bliss Midmost the beating of the steely sen. Where tossed about all hearts of men must \y* : Whose ravening monsters mighty men shall way, Not the poor singer of an empty day. William Mor.;::v The half-seen memories of childish days, When pains and pleasures lightly came and w lit; The sympathies of boy-hood rashly spent In fearful wanderings through forbidden ways ! The vague but manly wish to tread the maze Of life to noble ends ; whereon iutent, Asking to know for what man here was sent, The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze ; The firm resolve to seek the chosen end Of manhood's judgement, cautious and matur e: Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to frieixi With strength no selfish purpose can secure ; My happy lot is this, that all attend That friendship which first came, and which shall last endure. Aubrey de Vekk. IO S ^}cfp-fPIIiIi^-!.0FT!FJIE-fCl£0UD*^ Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead thou me on ! The night is dark, and I am far from home, — Lead thou me on ! Keep thou my feet ; I do not ask to see The distant scene, — one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou Shouldst lead me on : I loved to choose and see my path, hut now Lead thou me on ! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. Ho long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still Will lead me on ; O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. John, Car )Isa.l, Newm.w ^*JTOJFP^-Ii0YEf k^ A mother's love, —how sweet the name ! What is a mother's love? — A noble, pure, and tender flame, Enkindled from above, To bless a heart of earthly mould ; The warmest love that can grow cold ;— This is a mother's love. A Mother's Love. James Montgomery. 14 io6 You kiiovv we French stormed llatisbon : A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let onue my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall, "— Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy ; You hardly could suspect (So tight he kept his lips compres-sed, Scarce any blood came through,) You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. " Well, " cried he, " Emperor, by God's grac We've got you Ratisbon! The marshal 's in the market-place, And you '11 be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; hie plans Soared up again like fire. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. i o 7 The chiefs eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes : " You 're wounded! " " Nay, " his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said : " I 'm killed sire! " And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. Kobkkt Browning. The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were lied. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that onei 1 beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells ; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks To show that still she lives. Thomas Moobe. tog :-priend^iPt= A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs ; The world uncertain comes and goes, The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled, — And, after many a year, Glowed unexhausted kindliness, Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again , O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red ; All things through thee take nobler form T And look beyond the earth ; The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair. IUi.ph Waldo EmkisoN. On! breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonoured hi^ relics arc laid; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed, As the night-dew that falls on the grave o'er his head, But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps, Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps ; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep hi* memory green in our souls. Thomas Moore. 109 When music, heavenly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The passions oft, to hear her shell, Thronged around her magic cell, — Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, — Possessed bej^ond the muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined ; Till once; 't is said, when all were fired, Filled with fury, rapt, inspired, From the supporting myrtles round They snatched her instruments of sound ; And, as they oft had heard apart Each (for madness ruled the hour) Would prove his own expressive power. First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewildered laid, And back recoiled, he knew not why, E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rushed; his eyes, on fire, In lightnings owned his secret stings: In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woful measures wan Despair, Low, sullen sounds, his grief beguiled, — A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'T was sad by fits, by starts 't was wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, — What was thy delightful measure? Htill it whispered promised pleasure, THE PASSIONS. And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail ! Still would her touch the straiu prolong ; And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She called on Echo still, through all the song ; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ; And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her hair. And longer had she sung — but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose ; He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down ; And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe ! And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejec ed Pity, a!; hil* si le, Her soul-subduiug voicj applied, Yet still \\d kipt his wild, unaltered riileiV, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head. Thy numbers, Jealousy, t:> naught were fixed — Sad proof of thy distressful state ; Of differing themes the veering song was mixed ; And now it courted Love — now, raving, called on Hate. With eyes upraisad, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sate retired ; And from her wild sequestered seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul ; And, dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels joined the sound ; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; THE PASSIONS. m Or, o'er some haunted stream, with fond delay, Round a holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away. But oh ! how altered was its sprightlier tone When Cheerfulness, a nymplj of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Hor buskins gemmed with morning dew, Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung — The hunter's call, to faun and dryad known ! The oak-crowned sisters, and their cliaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green ; Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear; And Sport leapt up, and seized his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial : He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand addrest ; But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best: They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempi's vale, her native maids, Amidst the festal-sounding shades, To some unwearied minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings; Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round : Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound, And he amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odors from his d,>wy wings. O Music! sphere-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid ! Why, goddess! why, to us denied, Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre aside? As, in that loved Athenian bower, THE PASSIONS. You learned an all-commanding power, Thy mimic soul, O nymph endeared, Can well recall what then it heard ; Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art? Arise, as in that elder time. Warm, energetic, chase, sublime! Thy wonders, in that godlike age. Fill thy recording sister's page ; 'Tis said — and I believe the tale — Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage Than all which charms this laggard age — E'en all at once together found — Cecilia's mingled world of sound. Oh hid our vain endeavours cease ; Revive the just designs of Greece ! Return in all thy simple state — Confirm the tales her sons relate ! William Collins. «HittC¥*> She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there was none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Kair 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 Wordswokth. "3 () captain ! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought ia won ; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vesselgrim and daring : But O heart! heart ! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. <) Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up— for you the flag is flung— for you the bugie trills ; For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths— for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captaiu ! dear father ! This arm beneath your head ; 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 object 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. 1 1.| -Ki:S/ID -MS :O 7 JR:Y0«'F}1.«- Sad is our youth, fjr it ever is g nng, Crumbling away beneath our very feet; Bad is our life, fjr onward it is flowing In current uuperceived, because so fleet; !Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,— But tares, self sown, have overtopped the wheat; Had are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, — And still, O, still their dying breath is sWeet; And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us A nearer good to cure an older ill ; And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, Not for their sake, but His Who grants them or denies them ! AUBUEY DK Vkee. >*TOt01IR-Mi7IDY* Mother ! whose virgin bosom was uucrost; With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; Woman ! above all women glorified, Our tainted nature's solitary boast ; Purer than foam on central ocean tost ; Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast; Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, Not unforgiven the suppliant kuee might bend, As to a visible Power, in which did blend All that was mixed and reconciled in thee Of mother's love with maiden purity, Of high with low, celestial with terrene! William Wordsworth . Shall I oinpir.' tbue tj a Smnmjr's day Thou art mora lovely and more temperate ; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And Hummer's lease hath all to short a date. Sometimes too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometimes declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed But thy eternal Summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest. Ho long as men can breathe, or eyes can see So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. William Shakespzark. •*ECK&fl]SDvSIItEpE.i* In eddying course when leaves began to fly, And Autumn in her lap the store to strew, Through glens uu trod, and woods that frowned on high, Two sleeping nymphs with wonder mute I spy ! And, lo, she's gone! — In robe of dark-green hue, 'T was Echo from her sister Silence flew, For quick the hunter's horn resounded to the sky ! In shade affrighted Silence melts away. Not so her sister. Hark ! for onward still, With far-heard step, she takes her listening way, Bounding from rock to rock, and hill to hill. Ah ! mark the merry maid in mockful play With thousand mimic tones the laughing forest till ! Sir.Samukl Egerton B yoses. rid Froi " tee rniKcrpp. " The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story ; The long light shakes across the lakes, / And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes— dying, dying, dying ! O hark ! O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, further going ! O sweet and far, from cliff to scar, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes— dying, dying, dying! O love, they die in yon rich sky ; They faint on hill or field or river : Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever Blow, bugle, blow ! set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer — dying, dying, dying! Alfred Tknnyson. -5-cotse From " timer go by tcrss. " Not always fall of leaf, nor even spring, Not endless night, nor 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. Robert Southwell, S. J. "7 •*!mYSSES-> It little profits that, an ide king, By this still hearth, among- these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me, t cannot rest from travel : I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea : I am become a name ; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have 1 seen and known ; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honoured of them all ; And drunk delight of battle With my peers, Far on the ringing plains of Windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met ; Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled World, Whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. I low dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe Were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From the eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things ; and vile it Were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought* u8 ULYSSES. This is my sod, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people and through soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puff's her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old. Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; Death closes all: but something, ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The surrounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down : It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven ; that which we are, we are ; One equal temper of heroic heart?, ULYSSES. 119 Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. Alfkkd Tennyson, The mother of muses, we are taught, Is Memory ; she has left me ; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing About the summer days, my loves of old. [X THK VALK OF CHAMOUNT. Has t thou a charm to stay the morning-star Id his steep course? So long he s?ems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black — An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it. As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity ! dread and silent Mount ! I gazed on thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in prayer 1 worshipped the invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought - Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy — Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing — there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! Oh, struggling with the darkness of the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink — HYMN BEFORE S UNWISE. 1 2 7 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald — wake, oh wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad, Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, hlack, jagged rocks, For ever shattered and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? And who commanded (aud the silence came,) Here let the billows stiffen, aud have rest? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain — Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who made the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flower Of lovliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God !— -let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plaius echo^ God ! God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! 1 28 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE. Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing- peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through t'ie pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast — Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That as I rais« my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me — Rise, oh ever rise ! Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. Samuel Taylob Oolkiudge. How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their counts's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy ringers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung ; By forms unseen their dirge is sung ; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf th*t wraps their clay ; And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there ! William Collins. 129 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won By Philip's warlike son : Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound (So should desert in arms be crowned;) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair ! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre ; The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began by Jove, Who left his blissful seats above (Such is the mighty power of love ) A dagon's fiery form belied the god ; Sublime on radiant spires he rode, The listening crowd admire the lofty sound, A present deity ! they shout around ; A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound. With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god, Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. 17 > ALEXANDER'S FEAST. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung, Of Bacchus — ever fair aud ever young ; The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums : Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face : Now give tne hautboys breath. He comes ! he comes ! Bacchus ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain ; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure; Rich the treasure, Sweet the pie- sure, Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound the king grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again ; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And, while he heaven and earth defied, Changed his hand and checked his pride. He chose a mournful muse, Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius, great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And weltering in his blood ; Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed ; On the bare earth exposed he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below ; AEEXANDERS FEAST. 131 And, now and then, a sigh he stole; And tears began to flow. Now strike the golden lyre again : A louder yet, and yet a louder strain . And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark, the horrid sound Has raised up his head ; As awaked from the dead, And amazed, he stares around. Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries, See the furies arise ! See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from thir eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand ! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain, Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew. Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of the hostile gods ! The princes applaud with a furious joy ; And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy : Thais led the way, To light him to his prey, And like another Helen, fired another Troy! Thus, long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. At last divine Cecilia came, i 3 2 ALEXANDERS FEAST. lQventre99 of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before Let old Timotheus yield the prise, Or both divide the crown ; He raised a mortal to the skies, She drew an angel down. John Drydkn. -hjcYIUME*- Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky ! The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer turn his eye ! Thy root is ever in its grave— And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie ; Thy music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber never gives ; But though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. George Herbert. 33 My heart 's In the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to Ihe Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valour, the country of worth ; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow ; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud pouring floods. My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart 'r in the Highlands wherever I go. Robert Burns. -*SPRIN6*- Now the lusty spring is seen ; Golden yellow, gaudy blue, Daiutily invite the view. Everywhere, on every green, Roses blushing as they blow, And enticing men to pull; Lilies whiter than the snow ; Woodbines of sweet honey full — All love's emblems, and all cry: Gather us or we shall die ! Beaumont and Flf.tchk '34 " HEBHEW MKLODIES." She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that 's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o'er the face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek and o'er that brow So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, — A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent. Bykon. '35 ->«flETYiemTeF4D0]^I]MG0:t^- IN THE CHAPKI. OF OCR LADY OF MOMTSERRAT. When* at thy shrine, most holy maid! The Spaniard hung his votive blade, And bared his helmed brow — Not that he fear'd war's visage grim, Or that the battle-field for him Had aught to daunt, I trow : " Glory ! " he cried, n with thee I've done ! Fame! thy bright theatres I shun, To tread fresh pathways now ; To track thy footsteps, Saviour God ! With throbbing heart, witli feet unshod : Hear and record my vow. Yef, Thou shalt reign! Chain'd to thy throne, The mind of man thy sway shall own, And to its conqueror bow. Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift, And intellect its choicest gift Proudly on Thee bestow." Straight on the marble floor he knelt, And in his breast exulting felt A vivid furnace glow ; Forth to his task the giant sped, Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, And idols were laid low. India repair'd half Europe's loss : O'er a new hemisphere the Cross Shone in the azure sky ; And, from the isles of far Japan To the broad Andes, won o'er man A bloodless victory ! Francis Mahony, Father Prout. ►: • 136 W^^ She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened; such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with com. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell ; But long lashes veiled a light That had else been a 1 too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim. Thus she stood among the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks. Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home. Thomas Hood. '37 -HHja¥*JS7l!PIYE*Iflp: +:-<- It chanced to me upon a time to sail Across the Southern ocean to and fro ; And landing at fair Isles, by stream and vale Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. And months of dre imy joys, like joys In sleep, Or like a clear, calm stream o'er mossy stone, Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless sweep, And left us yearning still for lands unknown. And when found one, — for 't is not hard to find In thousand-isled Cathay another isle, — For one short noon its treasur3S filled the mind. And then again we yearned, and ceased to smile. And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or lips ; And when that all was tasted, then at last We thirsted still for draughts instead of sips. I learned from this there is no Southern land Can fill with love the hearts of Northern men. Sick minds need change ; but, when in health they stand 'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home again. And thus with me it was : the yearning turned From laden airs of cinnamon away, And stretched far westward, while the full heart burned With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief! My land, that has no peer in all the sea For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — If first to no man else, thou 'rt first to me. New loves may come with duties, but the first Is deepest yet, —the mother's breath and smiles : Like that kind face and breast where I was nursed Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles. John Boyle O'Ueilly. 18 is8 What was he doing, the great god Pan, Qowu in the reeds by the river? Spieading ruin scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, Aud breaking the golden lilies afloat Willi the dragon-fly on the river? He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep, cool bed of the river, The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies ading lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river. High on the shore sat the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river, And hacked and hewed as a great god can With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river. He cut it short, did the great god Pan, (How tall it stood in the river !) Then drew out the pith like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, Then notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sat by the river. " This is the way," laughed the great god Pan, (Laughed while he sate by the river! " The only way since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed." Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river. A MUSIC A L INSTR UMENT. 1 39 Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan, Piercing sweet by the river ! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan ! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river. Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh, as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man. The true gods sigh for the cost and the pain,— For the reed that grows never more again Asa reed with the reeds of the river. Elizabeth Babuett Bbowning. •0N-fFI^JF-Mf§0KIN6^IN¥0-fCP?IPM7IN'g<- Much have T travelled in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen ; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of oue wide expanse had I been told That deep-biowed Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken ; Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific — and his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise — Silent, upon a peak in Darien. John Keats.