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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 l!r.£c Mrs. Llewellyn Buell
 
 ft- 
 
 — ♦— HJti 
 
 SONGS 
 
 OF 
 
 Three Centuries. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 
 BOSTON: 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 1876. 
 
 -« H!^
 
 CoPYniGiiT, 1875. 
 By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 
 
 Universtty Pres<;: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge.
 
 PR 
 
 15 
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IT would be doing injustice to tlie compiler of this volume to suppose 
 that his work implied any lack of appreciation of the excellent antholo- 
 gies already published in this country. Dana's "Household Book of Poetry" 
 is no misnomer ; and the honored names of Bryant and Emerson are a suf- 
 ficient guaranty for " Parnassus " and tlie " Library of Song." With no 
 thought of superseding or even of entering into direct competition with 
 these large and valuaT)le collections, it has been my design to gather up in a 
 comparatively small volume, easily accessible to all classes of readers, the 
 wisest thoughts, rarest fancies, and devoutest hymns of the mgtrical authors 
 of the last three centuries. To use Shelley's definition of poetry, I have en- 
 deavored to give something like "a record of the best thoughts and happiest 
 moments of the best and happiest minds." The plan of my work has com- 
 pelled me to confine myself, in a great measure, to the lyrical proiluctions 
 of the authors quoted, and to use only the briefer poems of the old drama- 
 tists and such voluminous writers as Spenser, Milton, Dryden, Cowper, Pope, 
 B\Ton, Scott, Wordsworth, and the Brownings. Of course, no anthology, 
 liowever ample its extracts, could do justice to the illimitable genius of 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 It is possible that it may be thdught an undue pr(^minence lias been given 
 to the poetry of the period beginning with Cowper and reaching down to 
 Tennyson and his living contemporaries. But it must be -considered that 
 the last century has been prolific in song ; and, if Shakespeare and Milton 
 still keep their unapproachable position, " souls like stars that dwell apart," 
 there can be little doubt that the critical essayist of the twentieth century 
 will make a large advance upon the present estimate, not oidy of Cowper 
 and Burns, but of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Keats, Browning, Ten- 
 nyson, and Emerson. 
 
 It will be seen that the middle of the .sixteenth century is the earliest date 
 of my citations. The great name of Chaucer does not appear ; and some of 
 the best of the early ballad poetiy of England and Scotland has been reluc- 
 
 921417
 
 iv PREFACE. 
 
 taiitly omitted. James I., who.se Queen's Quhair lias hidden his kingly 
 crown under the poet's garland, William Dunbar, and Sackville, Earl of • 
 Dorset, may well be thought worthy of a place in any collection of English 
 vei-se, but the language and rhythm of these writers render them wellnigh 
 unintelligible to the ordinary reader. 
 
 The selections I have made indicate, in a general way, my preferences ; 
 but I have not felt at liberty to oppose my own judgment or prejudice to 
 the best critical authorities, or to attempt a reversal of the verdicts of Time. 
 It -would be too much to hope that I have, in all cases, made the best possi- 
 ble exposition of an authoi-'s productions. Judging from my own experi- 
 ence in looking over selected poems, I cannot doubt that my readers will 
 often liaA'e occasion to (]^uestion the wisdom of my choice, and regret the 
 omission.of favorite pieces. It is rarely that persons of equal capacit\' for 
 right judging can be found to coincide entirely in regard to the merits of a 
 particular pcjem. The canons of criticism are by no means fixed and infalli- 
 lile ; and the fashion of poetry, like that of the world, " passeth away." 
 Not only every age, but every reader, holds the right of private judgment. 
 It would be difficult for any literaiy inquisitor-general to render a good 
 reason for c«indemning as a heretic the man who finds the "Castle of Indo- 
 lence " pleasanter reading than the " Faerie Queene," who prefers Cowper to 
 Dryden, Scott to Byron, and Shelley to Scott, who pa.sses by Mo»re's " Lallu 
 Eookh" to take up Clough's " Bothie of Tober-na Vuolich," who thinks 
 Emerson's " Threnody " better than Milton's " Lycidas," and who would 
 not exchange a good old ballad or a song of Burns for the stateliest of 
 epics. 
 
 The considerable space which I have given to American authors will, I 
 trust, find its justification in the citations from their writings. The poetical 
 literature of our country can scarcely be said to have a longer date than that 
 of a single generation. As a matter of fact, the very fathers of it are still 
 living. It really commenced witli Bryant's " Thanatopsis " and Dana's 
 " Buccaneer." The grave, philosophic tone, chaste simi>licity of language, 
 freedom of versification, and freshness and truth of illustration, which 
 marke<l the former poem, and the terse realism of the '' Buccaneer," with 
 its stern pictures of life and nature drawn with few strokes sharp and 
 vigorous as those of Betzsch's outlines, left the weak imitators of an artificial 
 school without an audience. All further attenqits to colonize the hills and 
 pastures of New England from old mythologies wei'e abandoned ; our boys 
 and girls no longer figured in impossible pastorals. If we have no longer 
 andiitious Columbiads and C'on([uests of Canaan, we have at least truth and 
 nature, wit ami wisdom, in Bryant's " Bol)ert of Lincoln," Emerson's " Hum- 
 blflM'c," Lowell's " Courtin'," an.l " The One-Hoss Shay " of Holmes. 
 
 In dealing with contemporary writers I liavi' found myself embarra-ssed by
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 the very large number of really noticeable poems, many of which, although 
 •in my own estimation vastly better than those of some of the old versifiers 
 whose age and general reputation have secured them a place in this volume, 
 I have been compelled to omit solely from lack of space. The future gleaner 
 in the fields over which I have passed will doubtless find many an ungar- 
 iiered sheaf quite as well worth preserving as these I have gathered within 
 the scanty limits of my compendium. The rare humorists of our time, espe- 
 cially such poets as Holmes and Lowell, can be only partially represented 
 in these necessarily brief selections. 
 
 It may be observed that the three divisions of the book do not strictly 
 correspond to the headings which indicate them, — the first, for instance, 
 beginning before Shakespeare and ending somewhat after Milton. It is dif- 
 ficidt to be quite exact in such classifications ; and as it seemed desirable to 
 make their number as small as possible, I trust the few leading names men- 
 tioned may serve to characterize the periods they accompany with a suffi- 
 cient degree of accuracy. Pope was doubtless the great master of what is 
 sometimes spoken of as artificial verse, shaping the mould of poetic thought 
 for his own and the succeeding generation ; but as Dryden stands in point 
 of time nearer to the colossal name which closes the first period of English 
 song, he has been chosen as a representative of the second, in connection and 
 contrast with Burns, who, in his vigorous rebound from the measured pomp 
 of rhymed heroics to the sturdiest and homeliest Scottish simplicity, gave to 
 the modern lyric its inspiration, striking for the age the musical pitch of 
 true and tender emotion, as decidedly as Wordsworth has touched for it the 
 key-note of the thoughtful harmonies of natural and intellectual beauty. 
 Tennyson undoubtedly stands at the head of all living singers, and his name 
 might well serve as the high-water mark of modern verse ; but as our vol- 
 ume gives a liberal space to American authorship, I have ventured to let 
 the name of the author of " Evangeline " represent, as it well may, the 
 present poetic culture of our English-speaking people at home and abroad. 
 
 While l)y no means holding myself to a strict responsibility as regards the 
 sentiment and language of the poems which make up this volume, and while 
 I must confess to a large tolerance of personal individuality manifesting it- 
 self in widely varying forms of expression, I have still somewhat scrupu- 
 lously endeavored to avoid in my selections everything which seemed liable 
 to the charge of irreverence or (j^uestionable morality. In this respect the 
 poetry of the last quarter of a century, with a few exceptions, has been note- 
 worthy for purity of thought and language, as well as for earnestness and re- 
 ligious feeling. The Muse of our time is a free but profoundly reverent 
 inquirer ; it is rarely found in " the seat of the scorner." If it does not 
 always speak in the prescribed language of creed and formula, its utterances 
 often give evidence of fresh communion with that Eternal Spirit whose
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 responses are never in any age or clime withheld from the devout ques- 
 tioner. 
 
 My great effort has been to make a thoroughly readable book. With 
 this in view I have not given tedious extracts from dull plays and weary 
 epics, but have gathered up the best of the old ballads and short, time- 
 approved poems, and drawn largely from contemporary writers and the 
 waifs and estrays of unknown authors. I have also, as a specialty of the 
 work, made a careful selection of the best hymns in our language. I am 
 prepared to find my method open to criticism from some quarters, but I 
 have catered not so much for the scholarly few as for the great mass of 
 readers to whose " snatched leisure " my brief lyrical selections would seem 
 to have a special adaptation. 
 
 It only remains for me to acknowledge the valuable suggestions and aid 
 I have received from various sources during the preparation of this volume, 
 and especially the essential assistance I have had from Lucy Larcom of 
 Beverly Farms, to whose services I have before been indebted in the com- 
 pilation of " Child Life." 
 
 J. G. W. 
 
 Amesburt, 9th mo., 1875.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FROM SHAKESPEARE TO MILTON. 
 
 Thought 
 
 Majesty of God 
 
 No Age content with his own Estate . . 
 
 Pleasure mixed with Pain 
 
 A Description of such a one as he would love 
 The Passionate Shepherd to his Love . . 
 
 The Nymph's Reply 
 
 The Pilgrim 
 
 The Soul's Errand 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 Lament for Astrophel (Sir Philip Sidney) 
 
 Angelic Ministry 
 
 The True Woman 
 
 From the Epithalamium 
 
 Una and the Lion 
 
 The House of Riches 
 
 The Bower of Bliss 
 
 Content and Rich 
 
 A Summer's Day 
 
 The Soul 
 
 Contentment 
 
 The Lessons of Nature 
 
 To HIS MisTiiEss, the Queen of Bohemia 
 
 The Good Man 
 
 Revenge of Injuries 
 
 From an Epistle to the Countess of Cumber- 
 land 
 
 My Mind to me a Kingdom is .... 
 Songs : 
 
 Ariel's Song 
 
 The Fairy to Puck 
 
 Lord Thomas Vaux 
 Thomas Sternhold 
 H. Howard, Earl of Surrey 
 Sir Thomas IFyalt 
 
 Christoplier Marlowe 
 Sir Walter Raleigh 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney 
 Matthew Roydon 
 Edmund Spenser 
 
 Robert Southwell 
 Alexander Hume 
 Sir John Davies 
 Thomas Nash . 
 William Drummond 
 Sir Henry Wotton 
 
 Lady Elizabeth Carew 
 
 Samuel Daniel '. 
 William Byrd 
 
 William Shakespeare 
 
 Page 
 
 3 
 
 3 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 4 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 5 
 
 .') 
 
 6 
 
 7 
 
 7 
 
 7 
 
 8 
 
 8 
 
 9 
 
 9 
 
 10 
 
 10 
 
 11 
 
 12 
 
 12 
 
 13 
 
 13 
 
 13 
 
 14 
 15 
 
 16 
 16
 
 Till 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Amiens's Son& 
 
 A Sea Dirge 
 
 HaKK ! HARK ! THE LaRK ! ... 
 
 Under the Grebnwoou-Tree . . 
 
 Dirge for Fidele 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 The Noble Nature 
 
 Song of Hesperus 
 
 On Lucy, Countess of Bedford . . 
 The Sweet Neglect ....... 
 
 How near to Good is what is Fair ! 
 Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H. . . . 
 
 Love will find out the Way . . 
 
 May-Day Song 
 
 Begone Dull Care ! 
 
 Farewell to the Fairies .... 
 
 KoBiN Goodfellow 
 
 Edom o' Gordon 
 
 Take thy Auld Cloak about thee . 
 The Barring o' the Door .... 
 He that loves a Kosy Cheek. . . 
 
 The Sirens' Song 
 
 Song 
 
 Fair and Unworthy 
 
 Music 
 
 Good-Morrow 
 
 Search after God 
 
 Sic Vita 
 
 Elegy 
 
 I 'll never love thee more . . . 
 Death the Leveller 
 
 William SJiakespeare 
 
 Ben Jonson 
 
 Unknown 
 
 Bishop Richard 
 Unknown . 
 
 Corhett 
 
 Celinda 
 
 Evening Hymn . . . 
 
 Wishes 
 
 To Althea 
 
 To Lucasta . . . . 
 To Daffodils . . . , 
 To Blossoms . . . , 
 To KEEP A true Lent , 
 
 Virtue 
 
 The Flower . . . , 
 Kest 
 
 The Bird 
 
 They are all gone 
 
 For one that hears himself much praised 
 
 Thomas Carew . 
 Williann Browne 
 
 Sir Robert Ayton . 
 William Strode . 
 Thmnas Heyivood 
 
 Henry King . . 
 
 it a 
 
 Marquis of Montrose 
 James Shirley 
 E. Herbert {Earl of Cher 
 Sir Thomas Browne 
 Richard Crashato 
 Sir Richard Lovelace 
 
 Robert Herrick 
 
 <( <( 
 
 George Herbert 
 it (( 
 
 <( (( 
 
 Henry Vaughan 
 <( (( 
 
 George Witlier 
 
 16 
 16 
 16 
 16 
 16 
 17 
 18 
 IS 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 19 
 20 
 20 
 20 
 21 
 22 
 24 
 24 
 25 
 25 
 25 
 26 
 26 
 26 
 26 
 27 
 28 
 28 
 28 
 ury) 29 
 29 
 29 
 30 
 30 
 30 
 31 
 31 
 31 
 31 
 32 
 32 
 33 
 33
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IX 
 
 Companionship of the Muse George Wither 
 
 Thoughts in a Garden Andrew Marvell 
 
 The Bermudas " " 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity John Milton . 
 
 Sonnets : 
 
 On arriving at the Age of twenty-three " " 
 
 On his Blindness " " 
 
 Prayer Thomas Elioood 
 
 Resignation Richard Baxter 
 
 In Prison ^. Sir Roger L' Estrange 
 
 Old Age and Death Edmund Waller 
 
 Of Myself Abraham Cowley 
 
 Liberty " " 
 
 34 
 3-4 
 35 
 35 
 
 38 
 38 
 39 
 39 
 39 
 40 
 40 
 41 
 
 FROM DRYDEN TO BURNS. 
 
 Song for Saint Cecilia's Day, 
 Under Milton's Picture . . 
 Character of a Good Parson . 
 
 Reason 
 
 Morning Hymn 
 
 Hymn 
 
 Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII. . 
 The Universal Prayer . . . 
 
 Happiness 
 
 Song 
 
 1687 
 
 The Painter who pleased Nobody and Every- 
 body 
 
 Careless Content 
 
 From the "Castle of Indolence" .... 
 
 A Hymn 
 
 Grongar Hill 
 
 The Braes of Yarrow 
 
 The Heavenly Land 
 
 Ye Golden Lamps of Heaven, farewell ! . 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my Soul 
 
 Love Divine, all Love excelling .... 
 
 On the Death of Dr. Levett 
 
 The Schoolmistress 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard . 
 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College 
 
 Dirge in Cymbeline 
 
 Ode to Evening 
 
 The Chameleon 
 
 From "The Deserted Village" 
 
 John Dryden . . . 
 
 . 45 
 
 <( (< 
 
 . 46 
 
 (( (< 
 
 . 46 
 
 l( C( 
 
 . 46 
 
 Thomas Ken . . 
 
 46 
 
 Joseph Addisoii . . 
 
 . 47 
 
 <( << 
 
 . 47 
 
 Alexander Pope . . 
 
 48 
 
 << (( 
 
 . 48 
 
 Allan Ramsay . . 
 
 49 
 
 John Gay .... 
 
 . 50 
 
 John Byrom . . 
 
 . 51 
 
 James Thomson . . 
 
 51 
 
 it a 
 
 52 
 
 John Dyer .... 
 
 54 
 
 William Hamilton . 
 
 56 
 
 Isaac Watts . . 
 
 57 
 
 Philip Doddridge 
 
 58 
 
 Charles Wesley . . 
 
 58 
 
 A ugustus M. Tojilady 
 
 58 
 
 Samuel Johnson . . 
 
 59 
 
 William Slienstone . . 
 
 59 
 
 Thomas Gray . . . 
 
 60 
 
 n <c 
 
 62 
 
 William Collins . . . 
 
 63 
 
 it a 
 
 64 
 
 James Merrick . . . 
 
 64 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith . . . 
 
 65
 
 COXTENTS. 
 
 The Friar of Orders Gray Thomas Percy ... 67 
 
 Loss OF THE Royal George William Cowper ... 69 
 
 Lines to my Mother's Picture " "... 69 
 
 Mysteries of Providexce " " ... 71 
 
 Tjie Mariner's Wife William Julius Mickle 71 
 
 The Hermit James Beattie .... 72 
 
 The Dead John Langhornc ... 73 
 
 The Three Warnings Mrs. Thrale .... 73 
 
 The Sabbath of the Soul Anna L. Barhaidd . . 7i 
 
 The Death of the Virtuous, " " . . 74 
 
 Life " " . . 75 
 
 What ails this Heart o' mine ? Susanna Blamirc . . 75 
 
 To the Cuckoo John Logan .... 75 
 
 Yarrow Stream " " .... 75 
 
 Bonnie George Campbell Unknown 76 
 
 Waly, waly, but love be Bonny .... " 76 
 
 Lady Mary Ann " 77 
 
 The Boatie rows " 77 
 
 Glenlogie " 78 
 
 John Davidson " 78 
 
 Had I A Heart for Falsehood fra:\ied . . Richard B. Sheridan . 79 
 
 The Minstrel's Song in Ella Thomas Chatterton . . 79 
 
 Isaac Ashford George Crahhc .... 80 
 
 A Wish Samuel Rogers ... 81 
 
 Italian Song " " ... 81 
 
 Of a' the Aiuts the Wind can blaw . . . Robert Bm-ns .... 82 
 
 Mary Morison " " .... 82 
 
 Highland Mary " " .... 82 
 
 To Mary in Heaven " '*.... 83 
 
 A Vision " " .... 83 
 
 A Bard's Epitaph " " .... 83 
 
 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson . . " " .... 84 
 
 AuLD Robin Gray Lady Anne Barnard . 85 
 
 The Tiger William Blake ... 85 
 
 To the Muses " " ... 86 
 
 The Gowan glitters on the Sward . . . Joanna Baillie ... 86 
 
 The Land o' the Leal Lady Caroline Nairn . 86 
 
 The Soldier's Return Robert BlooTirficld . . 87 
 
 Lament for Flodden Jane Elliott .... 88 
 
 The Midges dance aboon the Burn . . . Robert Tannahill . . 88 
 
 The Braes o' Balquhither " " ... 88 
 
 To thf. Lady Anne Hamilton William R. Spencer . 89 
 
 The Dead who have died in thf. Lord . . James Glassford ... 89 
 
 Night and Death Joseph BlaiKo White . 89 
 
 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin John Leijdcn .... 90
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XI 
 
 Weitten after Eecovery fkom a Dangerous 
 
 Illness Sir Humphry Davy 
 
 Cupid grown careful George Croly . . 
 
 To THE Herb Rosemary He^iry Kirke While 
 
 To AN Early Primrose «' " " 
 
 The Star of Bethlehem '• " «' 
 
 Lines written in Richmond Churchyard, 
 
 Yorkshire Herbert Knowles . 
 
 90 
 91 
 92 
 92 
 93 
 
 93 
 
 FROM WORDSWORTH TO LONGFELLOW, 
 
 Intimations of Immortality 
 
 The Daffodils 
 
 To the Cuckoo 
 
 A Memory 
 
 She was a Phantom of Delight 
 
 Yarrow unvisited 
 
 On a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm . 
 
 Ode to Duty 
 
 To Sleep 
 
 The World 
 
 To THE River Duddon 
 
 Young Lochinvar 
 
 A Serenade 
 
 Song 
 
 Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman . . . . 
 
 The Trosachs . . . 
 
 Coronach 
 
 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 
 
 Christmas-Time 
 
 Genevieve 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Cha- 
 
 mouni 
 
 Christabel 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 The Inchcape Rock 
 
 Brough Bells 
 
 The Housekeeper 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces 
 
 Hester 
 
 When Maggy gangs away 
 
 The Rapture of Kilmeny 
 
 Fly to the Desert 
 
 The Mid Hour of Night 
 
 The Vale of Avoca 
 
 ^V^lL' 
 
 Mm Word 
 
 SWO' 
 
 rth 
 
 97 
 99 
 
 
 
 100 
 
 
 
 100 
 
 
 
 100 
 
 
 
 101 
 
 
 
 101 
 
 
 
 102 
 
 
 
 103 
 
 
 
 103 
 
 
 103 
 
 Sir Walter Scott . . 104 
 
 << t( ti 
 
 
 105 
 
 <( a a 
 
 
 105 
 
 a t< 11 
 
 
 105 
 
 6i i( << 
 
 
 105 
 
 t< <t i( 
 
 
 106 
 
 K. a a 
 
 
 107 
 
 a a a 
 
 
 107 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge 108 
 
 « «i «< 109 
 
 " " " 110 
 
 Eobert Southey 
 
 
 
 117 
 117 
 
 << << 
 
 
 
 118 
 
 Charles Lamb 
 
 
 
 120 
 120 
 
 t( It 
 
 
 
 120 
 
 James Hogg . 
 
 
 
 121 
 121 
 
 Thomas Moore 
 
 
 
 123 
 124 
 
 << 
 
 (( 
 
 
 
 124
 
 Xll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 THOU WHO DKY'ST THE MoTIRNER's TeAR 
 
 Thou art, God ! 
 
 She walks in Beauty 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib . . . 
 
 The Lake of Geneva 
 
 Mont Blanc 
 
 The Immortal Mind 
 
 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples 
 
 To a Skylark 
 
 One Word is too often profaned . . . 
 
 The Eve of Saint Agnes 
 
 The Common Lot ......... 
 
 Forever avith the Lord 
 
 Prayer 
 
 "Whilst Thee I seek 
 
 There was Silence in Heaven .... 
 
 To a bereaved Mother 
 
 Lament 
 
 The Last Man 
 
 Glenara 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter . 
 
 Hymn to the Flowers 
 
 Address to an Egyptian Mummy . . . 
 
 A Ghost at Noon 
 
 Forest Worship 
 
 Corn-Law Hymn 
 
 If thou WERT BY MY SiDE 
 
 Not ours the Vows 
 
 An Angel in the House 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . . . 
 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . . 
 Thou hast sworn by thy God .... 
 She's gane to dwall in Heaven . . . 
 
 The Evening Cloud 
 
 From the Recesses 
 
 Hymn 
 
 The Bucket 
 
 After a Summer Shower 
 
 Mariner's Hymn 
 
 The Soul's Defiance 
 
 0, WHY SHOULD THE SpiRIT OF MoRTAL liE 
 PROUD ? 
 
 The Jackdaw of Rheims 
 
 Mv Like is like the Summer Rose . . . 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore .... 
 
 Thomas Moore . . . 
 
 124 
 
 H i< 
 
 124 
 
 George Gordon (Lord By roi 
 
 ) 125 
 
 it it ti t( 
 
 125 
 
 t( <( i( (( 
 
 126 
 
 (( ti a a 
 
 126 
 
 it (( i( (f 
 
 126 
 
 Percy Bysslie Slielley . 
 
 127 
 
 a it it 
 
 127 
 
 << (( (( 
 
 128 
 
 John Keats .... 
 
 129 
 
 James Montgomery . . 
 
 135 
 
 << <( 
 
 135 
 
 <c << 
 
 . 136 
 
 ffclcn Maria Williams 
 
 . 136 
 
 Unknown 
 
 . 136 
 
 John Quincy Adams . 
 
 . 137 
 
 Walter Savage Landor 
 
 . 137 
 
 Thomas Campbell . . 
 
 . 138 
 
 (< (1 
 
 . 138 
 
 (( <( 
 
 . 139 
 
 Horace Smith . . . 
 
 . 140 
 
 ti it 
 
 . 141 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott . . . 
 
 . 142 
 
 it it 
 
 . 142 
 
 it i( 
 
 . 143 
 
 Reginald Hcher . . 
 
 . 143 
 
 Bernard Barton . . 
 
 . 144 
 
 Leigh Hunt .... 
 
 . 144 
 
 (( (( 
 
 . 144 
 
 Allan Cunningham . . 
 
 144 
 
 it (( 
 
 145 
 
 (< (( 
 
 . 145 
 
 John Wilson . . . 
 
 146 
 
 Sir John Bowring . . 
 
 . 146 
 
 (( (C it 
 
 . 146 
 
 Samuel Woodworth , 
 
 . 147 
 
 Andrews Norton . . 
 
 . 147 
 
 Caroline Bowles Southcy 
 
 , 148 
 
 Lavinia Stoddard . . 
 
 148 
 
 William Knox . . . 
 
 . 149 
 
 Richard H. Barham . 
 
 . 150 
 
 Richard Henry Wilde 
 
 1.-2 
 
 CJiarlcs Wolfe ... . 
 
 . 152
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XIU 
 
 d 
 
 Sweet Home John Howard Payne 
 
 The Childe's Destiny Felicia Hcmans . 
 
 Kindred Hearts " " 
 
 Markiage Maria Brooks . 
 
 May James G. Percival 
 
 To Seneca Lake ...<.< 
 
 The Fall, of Niagara John G. C. Brainan 
 
 Epithalamium " " " 
 
 The Memory of the Heart .... Daniel Webster . . . 
 
 The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake . 
 
 Passing away Johii Pierpont . . . 
 
 To CONOllESS " " ... 
 
 Jeanie Morrison William Motherwell . 
 
 The Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood . . . 
 
 Morning Meditations " " ... 
 
 Song " "... 
 
 Ruth " " ... 
 
 Hymn of Nature W. B. 0. Peahody . . 
 
 I WOULD not live alway W. A. Muhlenberg. . 
 
 The Irish Emigrant Lady Dufferin . . . 
 
 The Belle of the Ball Winthrop M. Pracd . 
 
 Love and Friendship William Legcjctt . . 
 
 A Health Edward Coate Pinkney 
 
 Burns Fitz-GreeneHalleck 
 
 On a Portrait of Red Jacket ... " " 
 
 Sonnet . . . William Lloyd Garrison 
 
 Ambition Johii Neal 
 
 Pilgrim Song George Lnnt . 
 
 The Family Meeting Charles Sprague 
 
 Our Mary Henry f^colt Riddell 
 
 The Forging of the Anchor .... Samuel Ferguson . 
 
 The Bells of Shan don Francis Mahony {Father P, 
 
 Unseen Spirits Nathaniel Parker Willis 
 
 FuoM Melanie " " " 
 
 BiNGEN on the Rhine Caroli-ne Elizabeth Norton 
 
 The Sabbath Edward Lord Lyttmi . 
 
 Faith Frances Anne Kemble . 
 
 Hymn John Sterling 
 
 Labor Frances S. Osgood 
 
 The Present Heaven .. . , 
 To the Painted Columbine, 
 
 Evening Song 
 
 Morning 
 
 Inward Music 
 
 Saviour ! whose Mercy 
 
 Jones Very 
 
 Thomas -Miller 
 John KeVe . 
 
 Sir Robert Grant 
 
 mil 
 
 153 
 1.53 
 154 
 154 
 
 155 
 155 
 155 
 156 
 156 
 156 
 157 
 158 
 159 
 160 
 160 
 161 
 161 
 162 
 162 
 163 
 163 
 165 
 165 
 165 
 166 
 163 
 163 
 168 
 169 
 169 
 170 
 f) 171 
 172 
 172 
 173 
 174 
 175 
 175 
 175 
 176 
 176 
 177 
 177 
 178 
 178
 
 XIV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Trust Dean of Canterbury . . 
 
 A Petition to Time B.W. Procter {Barry Coiiiwall) 
 
 A PuAYEu IX Sickness " " " 
 
 TiiE BnooKsiDE Eichard Monckton Milnes 
 
 The Men of Old 
 
 The Palm and the Pine " " " 
 
 Tibbie Inolis Mary Howitt. . 
 
 The Departure of the Swallow . . William Howitt 
 
 Lucy's Flittin' William Laidlaw 
 
 Summer Days Unknown , . . 
 
 Losses Frances Broivne . 
 
 We are Brethren a' Robert Nicoll 
 
 The Island Richard U. Dana 
 
 The Pirate " " " 
 
 The Si'ectre Horse " " " 
 
 To A Waterfowl William Cullcn Bryant 
 
 Thanatopsis " " " 
 
 The Death of the Flowers .... " " " 
 
 To THE Fringed Gentian " " " 
 
 The B.\ttle-Fiei.d 
 
 From "The Eivulet" " " " 
 
 The Burial of Love 
 
 The Sleep El izuhcfh Barrett Broiniing 
 
 Bertha in the Lane ....... " " " 
 
 A Musical Instrument " " " 
 
 Cowper's Grave 
 
 At the Church Gate 
 
 Mariana 
 
 "Break, break, break ! " .... 
 
 Memory 
 
 Doubt 
 
 The Larger Hope 
 
 Garden Song 
 
 Bugle Song 
 
 The Apology Ralph Waldo Emerson 
 
 To Eva 
 
 Thine Eyes .still shone 
 
 Each and All 
 
 The Problem 
 
 Boston Hymn 
 
 The Soul's Prophecy 
 
 The Bells 
 
 Evelyn Hope 
 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra 
 
 Tin: Ldsr Leader 
 
 William MakcjKcice Thack 
 Alfred Tennyson . 
 
 << 
 
 
 
 Edgar A. Foe . 
 Robert Browning 
 
 cray 
 
 179 
 
 179 
 179 
 181 
 ISO 
 180 
 181 
 182 
 182 
 183 
 184 
 184 
 185 
 186 
 185 
 187 
 187 
 188 
 189 
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 193 
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 195 
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 196 
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 199 
 199 
 199 
 200 
 200 
 200 
 201 
 202 
 202 
 203 
 204 
 207
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XV 
 
 Paul Revehe's Ride Henry JF. Longfellow 
 
 Maidenhood " 
 
 A Psalm of Life •' 
 
 Resignation <' 
 
 Santa Filomena " 
 
 Hawthorne " 
 
 To-day and To-morrow Gerald Massey . . 
 
 The Grave by the Lake John G. JVhitticr . 
 
 My Birthday " «< 
 
 The Vanishers " " 
 
 In School-Days " " 
 
 Laus Deo ! " " 
 
 The Eve of Election " " 
 
 The Touchstone William Allingham 
 
 Small Beginnings Charles Mackay . . 
 
 Tubal Cain " « . . 
 
 The Living Temple Oliver Wendell Uohncs 
 
 Dorothy Q " " << 
 
 The Voiceless *' " " 
 
 Robinson of Leyden   " " " 
 
 The Deacon's Masterpiece " " " 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus •' '• " 
 
 Under the Violets " " " 
 
 The Heritage Jaw cs Russell Lowell 
 
 New England Spring " " " 
 
 The Courtin' " " " 
 
 Ambrose " " " 
 
 After the Burial " " " 
 
 Commemoration Ode ......... " " " 
 
 The Alpine Sheep Maria White Lowell 
 
 Campanile de Pisa .' . . Thomas W. Parsons 
 
 Ox A Bust of Dante '. . . " "• 
 
 Wishing John G. Saxe . . 
 
 Sleep and Death " " . . 
 
 A still Day in Autumn Sarah Helen Whiima 
 
 The Settler Alfred B. Street . 
 
 Knowing Christopher P. Cranch 
 
 Sleepy Hollow William E. Channing 
 
 From "A Tribute to a Servant" . . . Julia Ward Hou-e . 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic .... " " " . 
 
 Inspiration H. D. Thoreau . . 
 
 Milton's Prayer in Blindness .... Elizabeth Lloyd Howel, 
 
 The Burial of Moses C. F. Alexander 
 
 Christmas Hymn E. H. Sears . . 
 
 The Way, the Truth, and the Like . . Theodore Parker 
 
 207 
 
 209 
 
 209 
 
 210 
 
 211 
 
 211 
 
 212 
 
 212 
 
 214 
 
 215 
 
 215 
 
 216 
 
 216 
 
 217 
 
 218 
 
 218 
 
 219 
 
 219 
 
 220 
 
 221 
 
 221 
 
 223 
 
 223 
 
 224 
 
 224 
 
 225 
 
 226 
 
 227 
 
 228 
 
 229 
 
 230 
 
 231 
 
 232 
 
 232 
 
 233 
 
 234 
 
 234 
 
 235 
 
 235 
 
 236 
 
 236 
 
 237 
 
 237 
 
 238 
 
 239
 
 XVI CONTENTS. 
 
 The Will of God Frederic William Faher . 239 
 
 The Right must wix " " " . 239 
 
 Seen and Unseen David A. JVnsson . . . 240 
 
 All's well " "... 241 
 
 llOYALTY " " ... 241 
 
 The Kingdom of God Eichard Cheneinx Trench 241 
 
 The New Sinai Arthur Hugh Clough , , 242 
 
 From the "Bothie of Tobeu-Navuolich " " '< «< _ _ 243 
 
 The Stream of Life " " " . . 243 
 
 Qua Cursum Ventus " " " . . 244 
 
 The Golden Sunset Samuel Longfclloic . . . 244 
 
 Quiet from God Unknown 244 
 
 The Love of God Eliza Scudder .... 245 
 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee Sarah F. Adams ... 245 
 
 My Times are in Thy Hand Anna L. Waring . . . 246 
 
 Caxa James Freeman Clarke . 246 
 
 The Inner Calm Horatius Bonar .... 247 
 
 The Master's Touch " " .... 247 
 
 Up Above W. Alexander .... 247 
 
 The other World Harriet Beecher Stoioc . . 248 
 
 may I join the Choir Invisible ! . . Mrs. Lewes {George Eliot) 248 
 
 The Three Fishers Charles Kingsley . . . 249 
 
 The Sands of Dee " " ... 243 
 
 A Myth " " ... 250 
 
 Coming Home Dinah Mulock Craik . . 250 
 
 Too Late " " " . . 250 
 
 Outward Bound " " " . . 250 
 
 Until Death Unknown 251 
 
 Why thus longing ? Harriet Winsloio Scwall . 251 
 
 Woman Coventry Patmore . . . 252 
 
 The Chase . " " ... 252 
 
 The Lover " " ... 253 
 
 The Shepherd-Boy Lctitia E. Landon . . . 253 
 
 Death and the Youth " " ... 254 
 
 The Sisters Auhreij Dc Vere . . . 254 
 
 Krumley Alice Carey 254 
 
 The Sure AVitness " " 255 
 
 Her last Poem " " 255 
 
 Field Preaching Phebc Carey 256 
 
 Nearer Home " " 256 
 
 Peace " " 257 
 
 Keith of Ravelsion Sydney Dobcll .... 257 
 
 KvENTiDE Thomas Burbridge . . . 258 
 
 Tiir, Iconoclast Hose Terry Cooke . . . 258 
 
 "It is moke blessed" " " " ... 259
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XVll 
 
 Love 
 
 Indian Namks 
 
 Eternal Light 
 
 "Wordsworth 
 
 The Burial of the Dane . , . . 
 
 The Mountains 
 
 An Oriental Idyl 
 
 The Voyagers 
 
 The Song of the Camp 
 
 The Poet of To-day 
 
 Lady Barbara 
 
 The Terrace at Berne . . . ^ , 
 
 Urania 
 
 The Last "Word . 
 
 The Artist 
 
 Bertha 
 
 The Upright Soul 
 
 Lassie ayont the Hill ! . . . . 
 
 Hymn for the Mother 
 
 An Angel's "Visit 
 
 After Death 
 
 Weary 
 
 The Sunflower 
 
 Vespers 
 
 Charity 
 
 The Meeting "Waters 
 
 "When the Grass shall cover me . 
 
 Again 
 
 A Strip of Blue 
 
 By the Fireside . 
 
 Down the Slope 
 
 The two "Worlds 
 
 Sunlight and Starlight . . . . 
 "I will abide in thine House" 
 
 Over the River 
 
 Judge not 
 
 Friend Sorrow 
 
 The Closing Scene 
 
 The High Tide on the Coast of 
 
 Lincolnshire 
 
 Seven Times Four 
 
 Seven Times Seven 
 
 Before the Rain 
 
 After the Rain 
 
 PiscATAQUA River 
 
 Anne C. {Lynch) Botta 
 Lifdia H. Sicjourncy 
 William H. Furncss 
 James T. Fields 
 Henry Howard Broivnell 
 Bayard Taylor . . 
 
 S. J. Lipjnncott (G-race 
 Alexander Smith . 
 3Iattlieiu Arnold 
 
 Robert Lord Lytton . 
 Anne Whitney . 
 J. H. Perkins . 
 George Macdonald . 
 
 Eliza Sproat Turner 
 
 Christina Eossetti . 
 (I i( 
 
 Dora Greenicell . 
 
 Elizabeth H. Whitticr 
 << (( 
 
 Unknown .... 
 
 Lucy Larcom . . 
 it (< 
 
 Charlotte P. Hawes 
 
 Uiiknoivn .... 
 
 Adeline D. T. Whitne 
 a (< (( 
 
 Nancy A. W. Priest 
 Adelaide A. Procter 
 
 259 
 260 
 260 
 260 
 261 
 262 
 262 
 262 
 263 
 
 Greenivood) 263 
 264 
 265 
 266 
 266 
 266 
 268 
 269 
 270 
 270 
 271 
 272 
 272 
 272 
 273 
 273 
 273 
 273 
 274 
 274 
 275 
 276 
 276 
 277 
 277 
 277 
 273 
 
 Tho7nas Bicchana7i Read 
 
 Jean Ivgelow 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aid rich 
 
 279 
 
 230 
 282 
 232 
 233 
 383 
 283
 
 XVlll CONTENTS. 
 
 The Gkern G.vome Robert Buchanan 284 
 
 The DooiisTEP E. C. Stedman 285 
 
 Pan in Wall Stkeet " " 285 
 
 A Match Ahjernon Charles Swinhumc . 286 
 
 Never again II. H. Stoddard 287 
 
 Landward " " 287 
 
 November . " " 287 
 
 At Sea J. T. Trowbridge 287 
 
 In the Defences E. A. Allen {Floreiux Percy) . . 288 
 
 Our Heroes Edna Dean Proctor 389 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier George H. Boker 290 
 
 The House in the Meadow . . . Louise Cliandlcr Moulton . . . 2C0 
 
 The Late Spring " " " ... 291 
 
 In June Kora Perry 291 
 
 After the Ball " " 292 
 
 The Jester's Sermon G. JF. Thornbury 293 
 
 Climbing Annie Fields 294 
 
 Coronation Helen Hunt 294 
 
 The Way to sing " " 295 
 
 The Sea-Limits Dante Gabriel Rossetti . . . . 295 
 
 A Summer Day Celia Thaxter 295 
 
 Submission " " 296 
 
 March William Morris 297 
 
 The Crickets Harriet McEwen Kimball . . 297 
 
 All's well " " " ... 298 
 
 The Survivors Harriet JF. Preston .... 298 
 
 In the Sea Hiram Rich 298 
 
 Concha Francis Bret Harte 299 
 
 Dickens in Camp " " " 30i 
 
 The Puritan Lovers Annie D. Green {Marian Douglas) 302 
 
 Before the Gate JFilliam D. Howells . . . . 303 
 
 My old Kentucky Nurse . . . . S. M. B. Piatt 303 
 
 The Old-fashioned Choir . . . . B. F. Taylor 304 
 
 Mazzini Laura C. Redden 304 
 
 Unawares " " 305 
 
 A Woman's Love John Hay 305 
 
 On the Bridge of Sighs .... Elizabeth Stuart Phelps . . . 306 
 
 All the Rivers " " " .... 306 
 
 White underneath Rebecca S. Palfrey 307 
 
 Listening for God JFilliam C. GanvM .... 307 
 
 God knoweth Unknown 307 
 
 A Song of Trust John JF. Chadwick .... 308 
 
 Pre-existence Paul H. Hayne 309 
 
 From the Woods " " 309
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Ballad of the Brides of Quair. . . . 
 
 Spring in Carolina 
 
 Tacking Ship off Shore 
 
 Hereafter 
 
 Song 
 
 AZRAEL 
 
 From "Walker in Nicaragua" . . . . 
 
 Sunrise in Venice 
 
 Different Points of View 
 
 Birch Stream 
 
 Driving Home the Cows 
 
 Waiting 
 
 The Secret of Death 
 
 Fate 
 
 The Petrified Fern 
 
 Unseen 
 
 The Quiet Meeting 
 
 Midwinter 
 
 Definitions 
 
 Ready 
 
 A Bird's Ministry 
 
 What is the Use ? 
 
 Abraham Lincoln 
 
 Hymn to Christ 
 
 The Blue and the Gray 
 
 The Statue 
 
 Waiting 
 
 In the Mist 
 
 The Morning Street 
 
 Dawn 
 
 The Sower 
 
 The Dance 
 
 Come to me, Dearest 
 
 The Music-Lesson of Confucius .... 
 
 Mine Own 
 
 Urvasi 
 
 The Fisherman's Funeral 
 
 On recrossing the Rocky Mountains in 
 Winter, after many Years ... . 
 
 July Dawning 
 
 The Fisherman's Summons 
 
 Work 
 
 Two Moods 
 
 Song of a Fellow-Worker 
 
 Isa Craig Knox . . . 
 Henry Timrod . . . 
 Walter F. Mitchell . . 
 Harrut Prescott Spofford 
 
 William Winter 
 Joaquin Miller , 
 
 Unknown .... 
 Anna. Boynton Averill 
 Kate Patnam Osgood 
 Lizzie G. Parker 
 Unknown .... 
 John A. Dorgan 
 Mary Bolles Bi-anch 
 Unknown .... 
 Harriet 0. Nelson . 
 W. J. Linton . . 
 
 Margaret J. Preston 
 it t( 
 
 Erastus W: Ellsworth 
 Unknown .... 
 Mrs. Miles . . . 
 F. M. Finch . . . 
 Unknoivn .... 
 John Burroughs 
 Sarah Woolsey . . 
 John James Piatt . 
 Richard W. Gilder 
 
 William Bell Scott 
 
 Joseph Brennan . 
 
 Charles G. Leland . 
 << (( 
 
 Helen Barron Bostwick 
 Unknown .... 
 
 Mary N. Prescott . 
 Arthur ffShaughncssy 
 
 310 
 
 311 
 
 311 
 
 312 
 
 313 
 
 313 
 
 313 
 
 314 
 
 314 
 
 315 
 
 316 
 
 316 
 
 317 
 
 318 
 
 318 
 
 318 
 
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 320 
 
 320 
 
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 321 
 
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 325 
 
 326 
 
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 327 
 
 327 
 
 328 
 
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 329 
 
 329 
 
 330 
 
 331 
 
 333 
 
 334 
 
 334 
 
 335 
 335 
 336 
 337 
 337 
 337
 
 XX CONTENTS. 
 
 A Song Mrs. Knox 338 
 
 A Cycle C. Brooke 339 
 
 Italy. A Prophecy Archdeacon Uare . . . 339 
 
 In Memoriam Unknoim 340 
 
 TiiE Blackbird Frederick Tenniison . . 340
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Page 
 . 137 
 
 . 245 
 
 ADAMS, JOHN QTJINCY. 
 Bereaved Mother, To a . 
 
 ADAMS, SARAH F. 
 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee 
 
 ADDISON, JOSEPH. 
 
 Hymn *' 
 
 Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII. . • 47 
 
 ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. 
 
 After the Rain ^»'i 
 
 Before the Rain ^'^ 
 
 Piscataqua River -'O'J 
 
 ALEXANDER, C. F. 
 Burial of Moses, The 
 
 . 237 
 
 ALEXANDER, W. 
 
 Up Above ''*' 
 
 ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS (FLORENCE 
 PERCY). 
 In the Defences ^oo 
 
 ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. 
 
 Touchstone, The . 
 
 ARNOLD, MATTHEW. 
 
 Last Word, The .... 
 » Terrace at Berne, The 
 Urania 
 
 217 
 
 . 266 
 
 . 265 
 
 . 263 
 
 AVERILL, ANNA BOYNTON. 
 
 Birch Stream 315 
 
 AYTON, SIR ROBERT. 
 Fair and Unworthy 
 
 BAILLIE, JOANNA. 
 
 The Gowan glitters on the Sward . 
 
 BARBAULD, ANNA L. 
 
 Death of the Virtuous, The 
 
 Life 
 
 Sabbath of the Soul, The . 
 
 BARIIAM, RICHARD H. 
 
 Jackdaw of Rheims, The . . 
 
 BARNARD, LADY ANNE. 
 
 Auld Robin Gray .... 
 
 BARTON, BERNARD. 
 Not ours the Vows 
 
 BAXTER, RICHARD. 
 
 Resignation 
 
 26 
 
 86 
 
 74 
 75 
 74 
 
 150 
 85 
 
 144 
 39 
 
 BEATTIE, JAMES. 
 
 Hermit, The t^ 
 
 Page 
 BLAKE, WILLIAM. 
 
 Muses, To the 86 
 
 Tiger, The 85 
 
 BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. 
 
 What ails this Heart o' mine ? . .75 
 
 BLOOMFIELD, ROBERT. 
 
 Soldier's Return, The . . . . 8( 
 
 BOKER, GEORGE H. 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier 290 
 
 BONAR, HORATIUS. 
 
 Inner Calm, The 24 < 
 
 Master's Touch, The ... 247 
 
 BOSTWICK, HELEN BARRON. 
 
 Urvasi 334 
 
 BOTTA, ANNE C. (LYNCH). 
 
 Love 259 
 
 BO WRING, SIR. JOHN. 
 
 From the Recesses 146 
 
 Hymn 146 
 
 BRAINARD, JOHN G. C. 
 
 Epithalamium 156 
 
 Fall of Niagara, The . . . .155 
 
 BRANCH, MARY B0LLE3. 
 
 Petrified Fern, The 318 
 
 BRENNAN, JOSEPH. 
 
 Come to me. Dearest .... 330 
 
 BROOKE, C. „^ 
 
 Cycle, A 339 
 
 BROOKS, MARIA. 
 
 Marriage . . . • • • • 154 
 
 BROWNE, FRANCES. 
 
 Losses .....•• 184 
 
 BROWNE, SIR THOMAS. 
 
 Evening Hymn 29 
 
 BROWNE, WILLIAM. 
 
 Sirens' Song, The 25 
 
 Song 25 
 
 BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. 
 
 Burial of the Dane, The . . . .261 
 
 BROWNING, EIJZABETH BARRETT. 
 
 Bertha in the Lane .... 191 
 
 Cowper's Grave 194 
 
 Musical Instrument, A . . . l-'3 
 Sleep, The 190
 
 XXll 
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS. 
 
 BR0\V\TXO, ROBERT. 
 Kvi'lvii Hope 
 Lost"Leuaer, The . 
 Kubbi BfU Ezra . 
 
 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. 
 
 B:ittle-FicM, The . 
 
 Burial of Love, The 
 
 Death of the Flowers, The 
 
 FrinncJ Gentian, To the 
 
 Thanatopsis 
 
 "The Rivulet,"' From. 
 
 Waterfowl, To a . 
 
 BOCIIANAX, ROBERT. 
 
 (.ireen Gnome, The .... 
 
 BURNS, ROBERT. 
 
 BanFs Epitaph, A . . . . 
 Elejiv on Captain Matthew Henderson 
 Highland Mar^- . . . 
 Mary in Heaven, To . . , 
 
 Mary Morison 
 
 Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw . 
 Vision, A 
 
 BURBIDGE, THOMAS. 
 
 Eventide 
 
 203 
 207 
 204 
 
 189 
 190 
 188 
 189 
 187 
 190 
 187 
 
 BURROUGHS, JOHN. 
 Waiting . 
 
 284 
 
 83 
 84 
 82 
 83 
 82 
 82 
 83 
 
 258 
 
 327 
 
 BYRR, WILLI A:«, 
 
 My Mind to me a Kingdom is 
 
 BYROM, .lOIIN. 
 Careless Content 
 
 C.\MrBELL, THOMAS. 
 
 Glenara .... 
 
 L;i.<t Man.The 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 
 
 CANTERBURY, DEAN OP. 
 
 Trust 
 
 . 15 
 . 61 
 
 1,33 
 133 
 139 
 
 CAREW, LADY ELT7ABETH. 
 
 Revenge of Injuries 
 
 CAREW, THOMAS. 
 
 He that loves a rosy Check 
 
 CAREY, ALICE. 
 
 Her L"\st Poem . 
 Kruniley .... 
 .'Jure Witness, The 
 
 CAREY, THERE. 
 Field I'rearhing 
 Nearer Home 
 Peace .... 
 
 . 179 
 . 13 
 . 25 
 
 . 255 
 
 . 254 
 
 . 255 
 
 CHAnWK'K, .lOIIN W. 
 Song of Trust, A 
 
 CHANNINO, WILLIAM E. 
 
 fleepy Hollow . 
 
 (•HATTERTO>-, THOMAS. 
 
 Minstrer.H .''ong in Ella, The . 
 
 CLARKE, .TAMES FREEMAN. 
 Cana 
 
 256 
 
 256 
 
 308 
 
 235 
 
 79 
 
 246 
 
 CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. 
 
 " Bofhie of Tober-Navuolich," From the 243 
 
 NewSinni. The 242 
 
 Hun f'ursuni Ventus .... 244 
 Stream of Life, The . . .243 
 
 COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. 
 
 Chn.stabel 110 
 
 Genevieve 1U8 
 
 Hymn before Suurise in the Vale of 
 Chamouni 109 
 
 COLLINS, WILLIAM. 
 
 Dirge in ("imbeline 63 
 
 Evening, Ode to 64 
 
 COOKE, ROSE TERRY 
 
 Iconoclast, The 258 
 
 " It is more blessed"' .... 259 
 
 CORBETT, BISHOP RICH.\RD. 
 
 Farewell to the Fairies .... 20 
 
 COWLEY, ABRAU.\M. 
 
 Liberty 41 
 
 Of myself 40 
 
 COWPER, "iVILLTAM. 
 
 My Mother's Picture, Lines to . . 09 
 
 My.steries of Providence . . . .71 
 
 Royal George, Loss of the ... 69 
 
 CRABBE, GEORGE. 
 
 Isaac Ashford SO 
 
 CRAIK, DINAH MULOCK. 
 
 Coming Home ..... 2.50 
 
 Outward Bound 250 
 
 Too Late 250 
 
 CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER P. 
 
 Knowing 234 
 
 CRASHAW, RICH.UID. 
 
 ^Vishes 29 
 
 CROLY, GEORGE. 
 
 Cupid grown careful . . . .91 
 
 CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN. 
 
 A wet Sheet and .a Howing Sea . . 144 
 
 She 's gane to dwall in Heaven . . 145 
 
 Thou hast sworn by thy God . . 145 
 
 DANA, RICHARD H. 
 
 Island, The 185 
 
 Pirate, The 185 
 
 Spectre Horse, The 186 
 
 DANIEL, SAMUEL. 
 
 From an Epistle to the Countess of Cum- 
 berland 14 
 
 DAVIBS, SIR JOHN. 
 
 Soul, The 11 
 
 DAVY, SIR inrMPHRY. 
 
 Written after Recovery from a Dangerous 
 . Illness 90 
 
 DOBELL, SYDNEY. 
 
 Keith of Ravclston 
 
 DODDRIDGE, PHILIP. 
 
 Y'e golden Lamps of Heaven, farewell ' . 
 
 DORGAN, JOHN A. 
 Fato . 
 
 DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN. 
 American Flag, The 
 
 DRUMMOND, WILLIAM 
 
 Lessons of Nature, The . 
 
 DRYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 Character of a Good Par.son . 
 Reason .... 
 
 Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 
 Under Milton's Picture 
 
 257 
 
 58 
 
 318 
 
 156 
 
 12 
 
 46 
 46 
 45 
 46
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XX 111 
 
 DUFFERIN, LADY. 
 Irish Emirgant, The 
 
 DYER, JOHN. 
 Grongar Hill . 
 
 163 
 
 54 
 
 143 
 142 
 142 
 
 ELLIOTT, EBENEZER. 
 Corn-Law Hymn 
 Forest Worship . 
 Ghost at Noon, A . 
 
 ELLIOTT, JANE. 
 
 Lament for Elodden . . . .88 
 
 ELLSWORTH, ERASTUS W. 
 
 What is the Use ? 321 
 
 ELWOOD, THOMAS. 
 Prayer 
 
 EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. 
 
 Apology, The 199 
 
 Boston Hymn 
 Each and All . 
 Problem, The 
 Soul's Prophecy, The 
 Thine Eyes still shone 
 
 39 
 
 201 
 200 
 200 
 202 
 
 200 
 
 To Eva : . 199 
 
 FABER, FREDERIC WILLIAM. 
 
 The Right must win .... 239 
 The Will of God 239 
 
 FERGUSON, SAMUEL. 
 
 Forging of the Anchor, The . . . 170 
 
 FIELDS, ANNIE. 
 
 Climbing 294 
 
 FIELDS, .TAMES T. 
 
 Wordsworth 260 
 
 FINCH, F. M 
 
 Blue and the Gray, The . 
 
 FURNESS, WILLIAM H. 
 
 Eternal Light . . . '. 
 
 GANNETT, AVILLIAM C. 
 Listening for God . 
 
 . 326 
 . 260 
 
 . 307 
 
 GARRISON, WILLIAM LLOYD. 
 
 Sonnet 168 
 
 GAY, JOHN 
 
 The Painter who pleased Nobody and 
 Everybody 50 
 
 GILDER, RICHARD W. 
 
 Dawn ....... 328 
 
 The Sower 329 
 
 GLASSFORD, JAMES. 
 
 The Dead who have died in the Lord 
 
 GOLDSJIITH, OLIVER. 
 
 " The Deserted Village," From 
 
 GORDON, GEORGE (LORD BYRON). 
 Destruction of Sennacherib, The 
 Immortal Mind, The 
 Lake of Geneva, The . . . . 
 Mont Blanc . . . ». 
 She walks in Beauty . . . . 
 
 GRANT, SIR ROBERT. 
 Saviour ! whose mercy 
 
 89 
 
 65 
 
 125 
 126 
 126 
 126 
 125 
 
 178 
 
 GRAY, THOMAS 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 60 
 Ode on a distant Prospect of Eton College 62 
 
 GREEN, ANNIE D (MARIAN DOUGLAS). 
 
 Puritan Lovers, The .... 302 
 
 Sunflower, The 
 
 Vespers .... 
 
 . 272 
 
 . 273 
 
 HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. 
 
 Burns 
 
 Red Jacket, On a Portrait of 
 
 . 165 
 . 166 
 
 HAMILTON, WILLIAM. 
 Braes of Yarrow, The 
 
 . 56 
 
 HARE, ARCHDEACON. 
 Italy. A Prophecy 
 
 . 339 
 
 HARTE, FRANCIS BRET. 
 
 Concha 
 
 Dickens in Camp 
 
 . 299 
 301 
 
 HAWES, CHARLOTTE P. 
 Down the Slope . ' . 
 
 . 276 
 
 HAY, JOHN. 
 
 Woman's Love, A . 
 
 . 305 
 
 HAYNE, PAUL H. 
 
 From the Woods . 
 Pre-existence .... 
 
 . 309 
 . 339 
 
 HEBER, REGINALD. 
 
 If thou wert by my Side . 
 
 . 143 
 
 HEMANS, FELICIA. 
 
 Childe"s Destiny, The . 
 Kindred Hearts . 
 
 . 1C3 
 . 154 
 
 HERBERT, EDWARD (EARL OF 
 BURY). 
 
 Celinda 
 
 CIISR- 
 
 . 29 
 
 HERBERT, GEORGE. 
 Flower, The 
 
 Rest 
 
 Virtue 
 
 31 
 
 . 32 
 
 . . 31 
 
 HERRICK, ROBERT. 
 
 Blossoms, To ... 
 Daffodils, To . . . 
 To keep a True Lent 
 
 . 31 
 
 30 
 
 . 31 
 
 HEYWOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 Good-Morrow .... 
 Search after God. 
 
 . 26 
 26 
 
 HOGG, JAMES. 
 
 Rapture of Kilmeny, The . 
 When Maggy gangs away 
 
 . 121 
 . 121 
 
 HOLMES, OLWER WENDELL. 
 
 Chambered Nautilus, The . 
 Deacon's Masterpiece, The 
 
 Dorothy Q 
 
 Living Temple, The 
 Robinson of Leyden . 
 Under the Violets . 
 Voiceless, The 
 
 . 223 
 . 221 
 
 . 219 
 . 219 
 
 . 221 
 . 223 
 
 . 220 
 
 HOOD, THOMAS. 
 
 Morning Meditations 
 
 Ruth 
 
 Song 
 
 Song of the Shirt, The. 
 
 . 160 
 
 . 161 
 
 . 161 
 
 . 160 
 
 HOWARD, HENRY, EARL OF SURREY. 
 No Age content with his own Estate 
 
 HOWE, JULIA WARD. 
 
 " A Tribute to a Servant," From 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic 
 
 HOWELL, ELIZABETH IjLOYD. 
 Milton's Prayer in Blindness . 
 
 . 235 
 236 
 
 . 237
 
 XXIV 
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS. 
 
 HOAVELLS, TTnXIAM D. 
 
 Before the Gate 303 
 
 nOWITT, MARY. 
 
 Tibbie Inf-Us 181 
 
 HOWITT, WILLIAM. 
 
 Departure of the Swallow, The . . 182 
 
 HUME, ALEXANDER. 
 
 Summer's Day, A 10 
 
 HUNT, HELEN. 
 
 t'orouation 294 
 
 M'aj- to sing, The .... 293 
 
 HUNT, LEIGH. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . 144 
 An Angel in the Uouf e .... 144 
 
 rXGELOW, .IE.\N. 
 
 Uijrh Ti 'e on the Coast of Lincolnshire, 
 
 The 280 
 
 Seven Times Four .... 282 
 Seven Times ii-even 282 
 
 JOHNSON, SAMUEL. 
 
 Death of Dr. Levett, On the . . .59 
 
 JON?ON, BEN. 
 
 Eijitapli on Elizabeth L. 11. . . in 
 
 How near to Good is what is Fair! . . 19 
 
 Noble Nature, The .... IS 
 
 On Lucy, Countess of Bedford . . 19 
 
 Song of Hesperus .... 18 
 
 Sweet Neglect, The 19 
 
 KEATS, .lOIIN. 
 
 Saint Agues, The Eve of. . • .129 
 
 KEBLE, JOHN. 
 
 Inward Music 1T8 
 
 Morning In 
 
 KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNTl. 
 
 Faith 175 
 
 KEN. THOMAS. 
 
 Morning Hymn 46 
 
 KLMBALL, HARRIET McEWEN. 
 
 All "s Well 298 
 
 Crickets, The 297 
 
 KING, HENRY. 
 
 Elegy 28 
 
 Sic Vita 27 
 
 KINGSLEY, CHARLES. 
 
 Myth, A 250 
 
 Sands of Dee, The .... 249 
 Three Fishers, The 249 
 
 KNOWLE.*, IIERBKRT 
 
 Lilies written in Richmond Churchyard, 
 Yorkshire 93 
 
 KNOX, ISA CRAIG. 
 
 Brides of Quair, The Ballad of the . . 310 
 
 KNOX, MRS. 
 
 Song, A 338 
 
 KNOX, WILLIAM. 
 
 O, why should the Spirit of Mortal be 
 proud? 149 
 
 LAIDLAW, WILLIAM. 
 
 Lucy 's Flittiu" 182 
 
 LAMB, CHARLES. 
 
 Hester 
 
 Housekeeper, The . 
 
 Old Familiar Faces, The . 
 
 LANDON, LETITIA E. 
 Death and the Youth . 
 Shepherd-Boy, The . . 
 
 LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. 
 Lament 
 
 LANGHORNE, JOHN. 
 
 Dead, The .... 
 
 LARCOM, LUCY. 
 
 By the Fireside ... 
 Strip of Blue, A . • . 
 
 LEGGETT, WILLIAM. 
 
 Love and Friendship . 
 
 LELAND, CHARLES G. 
 
 Mine Own .... 
 The Music-Lesson of Confucius 
 
 L'ESTRANGE, SIR ROGER. 
 In Prison .... 
 
 LEWES MRS. (GEORGE ELIOT). 
 O may 1 join the Choir invisible ! . 
 
 LEYDEN, JOHN. 
 
 Ode to an Indian Gold Coin . 
 
 LINTON, W. J. 
 
 Definitions 
 
 Midwinter 
 
 LIPPINCOTT, SARA J. (GRACE GREEN- 
 WOOD). 
 Poetof To-day, The 
 
 LOGAN, JOHN. 
 
 Cuckoo, To the .... 
 Y'arrow Stream .... 
 
 LONGFELLOW, HENRY W. 
 
 Hawthorne 
 
 Maidenhood .... 
 
 Paul Kevere's Ride .... 
 Psalm of Life, A . 
 
 Resignation ..... 
 Santa Filomena .... 
 
 LONGFELLOW, SAMUEL. 
 Golden Sunset, Tlie 
 
 LOVELACE, SIR RICHARD 
 
 Althea,To 
 Lucasta, To 
 
 LO^VELL, JAMES RUSSELL 
 After the Burial 
 AmI)rose 
 
 Commemoration Ode 
 Courtin", The 
 Heritage, The . 
 New England Spring . 
 
 LOWELL, MARIA WHITE 
 Alpine Sheep, The . 
 
 LUNT, GEORGE. 
 Pilgrim Song . 
 
 LYTTOX, EDWARD LORD 
 Sabbath, The . 
 
 LYTTOX, ROBERT LORD. 
 
 Artist, The 
 
 120 
 120 
 120 
 
 254 
 253 
 
 137 
 
 73 
 
 275 
 274 
 
 165 
 
 .s;i3 
 
 331 
 
 39 
 
 248 
 
 . 90 
 
 320 
 320 
 
 263 
 
 75 
 75 
 
 211 
 
 209 
 £07 
 £09 
 210 
 211 
 
 244 
 
 80 
 30 
 
 227 
 
 226 
 228 
 2i5 
 '.24 
 2L4 
 
 229 
 
 168 
 
 174 
 
 266
 
 LIST OF AUTHOES. 
 
 XXV 
 
 MACDOXAIiD, GEORGE. 
 Ilyiuu for t'je Mother . 
 Lassie ayont the Hill I 
 
 MACKAY, CHARLES. 
 
 femall BcRinnings . 
 Tubal Caia . 
 
 270 
 270 
 
 MAHONY, FRANCIS (PATHER PROUT). 
 Bellsof Shandon, Tlie . . . . 
 
 MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER. 
 
 Passionate Shepherd to his Love, The . 
 
 MARVELL, ANDREW. 
 
 Bermudas, The 
 
 Thoughts in a Garden . 
 
 MASSEY, GERALD. 
 
 To-day and To-morrow . 
 
 218 
 
 218 
 
 171 
 
 MERRICK, JAMES. 
 Chameleon, The 
 
 MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. 
 Mariner's Wife, The 
 
 MILES, MRS. 
 
 Hymn to Christ 
 
 MILLER, JOAQUIN. 
 Sunrise in A'enice 
 " Walker in Nicaragua," From 
 
 MILLER, THOMAS. 
 
 Evening Song .... 
 
 MTLNES, RICHARD MONCKTON (I. 
 HOUGHTON). 
 Brookside, The 
 
 Men of Old, The .... 
 Palm and the Pine, The 
 
 MILTON, JOHN. 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity . 
 Sonnets . . . .   
 
 MITCHELL, WALTER F. 
 Tacking Ship off Shore . 
 
 MONTGOMERY, JAMES. 
 Common Lot, Tlie . 
 Forever with tlie Lord 
 Prayer 
 
 MONTROSE, MARQUIS OF. 
 I '11 never love thee more 
 
 MOORE, THOMAS. 
 
 Fly to the Desert . . . 
 Mid Hour of Night, The . 
 
 Thou who dry'st the Mourner's Tear . 
 Vale of Avoca, The .... 
 Thou art, God! . 
 
 MORRIS, WILLIAM. 
 March ... 
 
 MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. 
 
 Jeanie Morrison 
 
 MOULTON, LOUISE CIMNDLER. 
 House in the Meadow, The 
 Late Spring, The 
 
 MUHLENBERG, AV. A. 
 
 1 would not live alway . . 
 
 NAIRN, LADY CAROLINE. 
 Land o' the Leal, The 
 
 NASH, THOMAS. 
 
 Contentment .... 
 
 35 
 
 34 
 
 212 
 64 
 71 
 
 325 
 
 314 
 313 
 
 177 
 
 ORD 
 
 180 
 180 
 181 
 
 35 
 
 38 
 
 311 
 
 135 
 135 
 133 
 
 28 
 
 123 
 124 
 124 
 124 
 . 124 
 
 297 
 
 , 159 
 
 . 290 
 291 
 
 , 162 
 
 . 86 
 
 , 12 
 
 NEAL, JOHN. 
 
 Ambition 168 
 
 NELSON, HARRIET 0. 
 
 Quiet Meeting, The .... 319 
 
 NICOLL, ROBERT. 
 
 We are Brethren a' 184 
 
 NORTON, ANDREWS. 
 
 After a Summer Shower .... 147 
 
 NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH. 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine .... 173 
 
 OSGOOD, FRANCES S. 
 
 Labor 175 
 
 OSGOOD, KATE PUTNAM. 
 
 Driving Home the Cows .... 316 
 
 O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR. 
 
 Song of a Fellow- Worker . . . 337 
 
 PALFREY, REBECCA S. 
 
 White Underneath 307 
 
 PARKER, LIZZIE G. 
 
 Waiting 316 
 
 PARKER, THEODORE. 
 
 The Way, the Truth, and the Life . . 239 
 
 PARSONS, THOMAS W. 
 
 Campanile de Pisa 230 
 
 On a Bust of Dante .... 23L 
 
 PATMORE, COVENTRY. 
 
 Chase, The 252 
 
 Lover, The 253 
 
 Woman 252 
 
 PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. 
 
 Sweet Home 153 
 
 PEABODY, W. B. O. 
 
 Hymn of Nature 162 
 
 PERCIVAL, JAMES G. 
 
 May 155 
 
 Seneca Lake, To . . . . . 155 
 
 PERCY, THOMAS. 
 
 Friar of Orders Gray, The . . .67 
 
 PERKINS, J. H. 
 
 Upright Soul, The 269 
 
 PERRY, NORA. 
 
 After the Ball 292 
 
 In June 291 
 
 PHELPS, ELIZABETH STUART. 
 
 All the Rivers 306 
 
 On the Bridge of Sighs . . . .306 
 
 PIATT, JOHN JAMES. 
 
 The Morning Street . . . .328 
 
 PIATT, S. M. B. 
 
 My Old Kentucky Nurse . . .303 
 
 PIERPONT, JOHN. 
 
 Congress, To 158 
 
 Passing Away 157 
 
 PINKNEY, EDWARD COATE. 
 
 Health, A 165 
 
 POE, EDGAR A. 
 
 Bells, The 202 
 
 POPE, ALEXANDER. 
 
 Happiness ...... 48 
 
 Universal Prayer, The . . . .48
 
 XXVI 
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS. 
 
 PRAED, WTN-TimOP MACKWORTH. 
 
 Belle of the Ball, The . . . .163 
 
 PRESCOTT, MARY N. 
 
 Two Moods 337 
 
 Work 337 
 
 PRESTOX, HARRIET W. 
 
 Survivors, The 298 
 
 PRESTON, MARGARET J. 
 
 Ready 
 
 Bird's Ministry, A . . . 
 
 PRIEST, NANCY A. W. 
 Over the River 
 
 PROCTER, ADELAIDE A. 
 Friend Sorrow 
 Judse Not 
 
 321 
 
 334 
 
 277 
 
 278 
 . 278 
 
 PROCTER, BRYAN AVALLER (BARRY 
 CORNWALL). 
 Petition to Time, A .... 
 
 Prayer in Sickness, A . 
 
 PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN. 
 
 Our Ueroes 
 
 179 
 179 
 
 289 
 
 RALEIGH, SIR WALTER. 
 
 Nvniph's Rcplv, The .... 5 
 
 Pilgrim, The " 5 
 
 Soul's Errand, The .... 5 
 
 RAMSAY, ALLAN. 
 
 Song 49 
 
 ■READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN. 
 
 Closing Scene, The 279 
 
 REDDEN, LAURA C. 
 
 Mazzini 304 
 
 Unawares . 
 
 RICH, HIR.OI. 
 In the Sea 
 
 RIDDELL, HENHY SCOTT. 
 Our ^lary 
 
 ROGERS, SAMUEL. 
 
 Italian Song . . 
 Wish, A . . . 
 
 ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. 
 Sea-Limits, The 
 
 ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA. 
 After Death ... 
 Weary 
 
 272 
 272 
 
 ROYDON, MATTHR"'. 
 
 Lament for Astrophel (Sir Philip Sidney) 7 
 
 SAXE, .TOHN G. 
 
 Sleep and Death .... 
 Wishing ...... 
 
 SCOTT, SIR WALTER. 
 
 Christmas-Time . . . . 
 
 Coronach 
 
 Hebrew Mnid, Hymn of the . 
 Imprisoned Huntsman, Lay of the 
 Serenade, A 
 
 SCUDDER, ELIZA. 
 
 Love of God, The . 
 
 SEARS, E. II. 
 
 Christmas Hymn 
 
 SEWALL, HARRIET WINSLOW. 
 
 Why thus longing ? . 
 
 SHAKESPEARE, 
 
 Songs 
 Sonnets 
 
 WILLIAM. 
 
 305 
 
 298 
 
 169 
 
 81 
 81 
 
 295 
 
 SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. 
 
 One Word is too often profaned . 
 
 Skylark, To a 
 
 Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples 
 
 SHENSTONE, WILLIAM. 
 
 Schoolmistress, The .... 
 
 SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRTNSLEY. 
 Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed 
 
 SHIRLEY, JAMES 
 
 Death the Leveller 
 
 SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 SIGOURNEY. LYDIA H. 
 
 Indian Names 
 
 SMITH, ALEXANDER. 
 
 Lady Barbara 
 
 SMITH, HORACE. 
 
 Egyptian Mummy, Address to an 
 Hymn to the Flowers . . . . 
 
 SOUTHEY, CAROLINE BOWLES. 
 
 Mariner's Hymn 
 
 SOUTIIEY, ROBERT. 
 
 Brough Bells 
 
 Inchcape Rock, The .... 
 Stanzas ....... 
 
 SOUTHWELL, ROBERT. 
 Content and Rich . 
 
 245 
 
 238 
 
 251 
 
 16 
 17 
 
 128 
 127 
 127 
 
 59 
 
 79 
 
 28 
 
 6 
 
 260 
 
 264 
 
 141 
 
 140 
 
 148 
 
 118 
 117 
 117 
 
 10 
 
 Pong .... 
 Trosachs, The. 
 Young Lochinvar 
 
 SCOTT, WILLIAM BELL. 
 Dance, The 
 
 232 
 . 2.32 
 
 . 107 
 
 lor, 
 . 107 
 
 105 
 . 1(15 
 
 105 
 . 105 
 
 104 
 
 .329 
 
 SPENCER, WILLIAM R. 
 
 Lady Anne Hamilton, To the 
 
 SPENSER, EDMUND. 
 
 Angelic Ministry . . . , 
 
 Bower of Bliss, The 
 
 " The Epithalaniiiiiii," From . 
 
 House of Riches, The . 
 
 True Woman, The . 
 
 Una and the Lion 
 
 SPOFFORD, H.VRRIET PRESCOTT. 
 
 Hereafter 
 
 Song 
 
 SPRAGUE, CH.\RLES. 
 I Family Meeting, The 
 
 I STEDMAN, F. C. 
 
 I Doorstep, The .... 
 
 I Pan in Wall Street . 
 
 j STERLING, JOHN. 
 
 Hymn 
 
 312 
 313 
 
 1C9 
 
 285 
 
 2S5 
 
 .STERNHOLD, THOMAS. 
 
 Majesty of God 
 
 STODDARD, LAVINIA. 
 The Soul's Defiance 
 
 175 
 
 3 
 
 148
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XX vn 
 
 STODDARD, R. H. 
 Landward . 
 Never Again . 
 November . 
 
 STREET, ALFRED B. 
 
 Settler, The . 
 
 STRODE, WILLIAM. 
 Music 
 
 STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. 
 Other World, The . 
 
 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES 
 Match, A .... 
 
 TANNAIIILL, ROBERT. 
 
 Braes o' Balquhither, The 
 
 Midges dauce aboon the Burn, The 
 
 TAYLOR, BAYARD. 
 
 Mountains, Tlie .... 
 Oriental Idyl, An . . . 
 Song of the Camp, The 
 Voyagers, The 
 
 TAYLOR, B. F. 
 
 Old fashioned Choir, The 
 
 TENNYSON, ALFRED. 
 
 " Break, break, break 1 " 
 
 Bugle Song 
 
 Doubt .... 
 
 Garden Song . 
 
 Larger Hope, The 
 
 Mariana .... 
 
 Memory 
 
 From 
 
 TENNYSON, FREDERICK. 
 Blackbird, The 
 
 THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. 
 
 At the Church Gate 
 
 THAXTER, CELIA. 
 Submission . 
 Summer Day, A 
 
 THOMSON, JAMES 
 
 " The Castle of Indolence, 
 Hymn, A 
 
 THOREAU. H. D. 
 
 Inspiration .... 
 
 THORNBURY, G. W. 
 Jester's Sermon, The 
 
 THRALE, MRS. 
 
 Three Warnings, Tho 
 
 TIMROD, HENRY. 
 
 Spring in Carolina . 
 
 TOPLADY, AUGUSTUS M. 
 
 Love divine, all Love excelling 
 
 TRENCH. RICHARD CHENEVIX. 
 
 Kingdom of God, The 
 
 TROWBRIDGE, J. T. 
 
 At Sea 
 
 TURNER, ELIZA SPROAT. 
 
 Angel's "Visit, An . 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 Abraliam Lincoln . 
 Again .... 
 Barring o' the Door, The 
 Begone dull Care 1 
 
 287 
 287 
 287 
 
 234 
 
 26 
 
 248 
 
 283 
 
 88 
 88 
 
 262 
 262 
 263 
 262 
 
 , 304 
 
 198 
 199 
 197 
 
 , 198 
 197 
 
 , 195 
 19J 
 
 340 I 
 
 195 j 
 
 296 
 . 295 
 
 , 51 
 52 
 
 . 286 
 
 . 293 
 
 . 73 
 
 . 311 
 
 . 58 
 
 . 241 
 
 . 287 
 
 . 271 
 
 . 324 
 
 274 
 
 . 24 
 
 20 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 Boatie rows, The 
 
 Bonnie George Campbell . 
 
 Different Points of View . 
 
 Edom o' Gordon 
 
 Fisherman's Funeral, The 
 
 Fisherman's Summons, The 
 
 Glenlogie 
 
 God knoweth 
 
 In Memoriam . 
 
 John Davidson . 
 
 July dawning . 
 
 Lady Mary Ann . 
 
 Love will find out the Way 
 
 May-Day Song .... 
 
 On recrossing the Rocky Mountain, 
 
 Winter, after many Years . 
 Quiet from God . 
 Robin Goodfellow . 
 Secret of Death, The . 
 Statue, The .... 
 Summer Days 
 
 Take thy auld Cloak about thee 
 There was Silence in Heaven 
 Two Worlds, The . 
 Unseen .... 
 
 Until Death .... 
 Waly, waly, but Love be bonny 
 When the Grass shall cover me 
 
 VAUGHAN, HENRY. 
 
 Bird, The .... 
 They are all gone 
 
 VAUX, LORD THOMAS. 
 
 Thought .... 
 
 VERE, AUBREY DE. 
 
 Sisters, The 
 
 VERY, JONES. 
 
 Painted Columbine, To the 
 Present Heaven, The 
 
 WALLER, EDMUND. 
 
 Old Age and Death . 
 
 WARING, ANNA L. 
 
 My Times are in Thy Hand 
 
 WASSON, DAVID A. 
 
 All 's Well .... 
 Royalty .... 
 Seen and Unseen . 
 
 WATTS, ISAAC. 
 
 Heavenly Land, The 
 
 WEBSTER, DANIEL. 
 
 Memory of the Heart, The 
 
 WESLEY, CHARLES. 
 
 Je.sus, Lover of my Soul . 
 
 WHITE, HENRY KIRKE. 
 Early Primrose, To an 
 Herb Rosemary, To the . 
 Star of Bethlehem, The 
 
 WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO. 
 
 Night and Death 
 
 WHITMAN, SARAH HELEN. 
 
 A Still" Day in Autumn . 
 
 WHITNEY, ADELINE D. T 
 " I will abide in tliine House 
 Sunlight and Starliglit . 
 
 77 
 
 76 
 
 314 
 
 22 
 
 ,334 
 
 33;3 
 
 78 
 
 307 
 
 340 
 
 78 
 
 335 
 
 77 
 
 19 
 
 20 
 
 335 
 244 
 
 21 
 317 
 32:3 
 183 
 
 24 
 135 
 276 
 318 
 251 
 
 76 
 273 
 
 32 
 33 
 
 . 254 
 
 . 176 
 . 176 
 
 . 40 
 
 . 246 
 
 . 241 
 
 . 241 
 
 . 240 
 
 . 57 
 . 156 
 
 . 58 
 
 92 
 
 . 92 
 
 93 
 
 . 89 
 
 .233 
 
 277 
 . 277
 
 XXVlll 
 
 LIST OF AUTHORS. 
 
 WUITNEY, ANNE. 
 Bertha . 
 
 ■\V1IITTIER, ELIZABETH H. 
 
 Charity 
 
 Meeting Waters, The . 
 
 WIIITTIEIl, JOHN G. 
 Etc of Election, The . 
 Grave by the l.ake, The . 
 In School-Days .... 
 Laus Deo 1 . . . . 
 My Birthday .... 
 The Aanishers .... 
 
 WILDE, RICUAIID HENRY. 
 
 My life is hke the Summer Rose 
 
 ■WaLLIAMS, HELEN MARIA. 
 Whilst Thee I seek . 
 
 WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. 
 " Molauie," From 
 Unseen Spirits 
 
 WILSON, JOHN. 
 
 Evening Cloud, The 
 
 WINTER, WILLIAM. 
 
 A'/rael . . . . • 
 
 WITHER, GEORGE. 
 
 Conipanionshi]) of the Muse . 
 For one that hears huuself much 
 
 . 268 
 
 . 273 
 273 
 
 216 
 . 212 
 
 215 
 . 216 
 
 2U 
 . 215 
 
 . 152 
 
 . 136 
 
 172 
 . 172 
 
 . 146 
 
 . 313 
 
 . 34 
 praised 33 
 
 WOLFE, CHARLES. 
 
 Burial of Sir John Moore, The 
 
 WOODWORTH, SAMUEL. 
 
 Bucket, The . . . • 
 
 WOOLSEY, SARAH. 
 
 In the Mist . . . • 
 
 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. 
 
 Cuckoo, To the . . . • 
 Daffodils, The .... 
 Intimations of Immortality 
 
 Memory, A 1*-'*^ 
 
 Ode to Duty 1"'-^ 
 
 Peele Castle in a Storm, On a Picture of 101 
 
 . 152 
 . 147 
 ..327 
 
 100 
 99 
 97 
 
 River Duddon, To the 
 She was a Phantom of Delight 
 Sleep, To ... . 
 World, The .... 
 Yarrow Unvisited . • 
 
 103 
 100 
 103 
 103 
 101 
 
 WOTTON, SIR HENRY. 
 
 Good Man, The 
 
 To his Mistress, the Queen of Bohemia 
 
 WYATT, SIR THOMAS. 
 
 A Description of such a one as he would 
 
 love . • • _• • 
 Pleasure mixed with Pain . . • 
 
 13 
 13 
 
 4 
 4
 
 FROM SHAKESPEARE TO MILTON.
 
 From Shakespeare to Milton. 
 
 -ooJ^^OO- 
 
 LOED THOMAS VAUX. 
 
 [1510-1557.] 
 
 THOUGHT. 
 
 When all is done and said, 
 
 In the end this shall you find : 
 He most of all doth bathe in bliss 
 
 That hath a quiet mind ; 
 And, clear from worldly cares, 
 
 To deem can be content 
 The sweetest time in all his life 
 
 In thinking to be spent. 
 
 The body subject is 
 
 To tickle Fortune's power. 
 And to a million of mishaps 
 
 Is casual every hour ; 
 And Death in time doth change 
 
 It to a clod of clay ; 
 When as the mind, which is divine, 
 
 Runs never to decay. 
 
 Companion none is like 
 
 Unto the mind alone, 
 For many have been harmed by speech, — 
 
 Through thinking, few, or none. 
 Fear oftentimes restraineth words. 
 
 But makes not thoughts to cease ; 
 And he sj)eaks best, that hath the skill 
 
 When for to hold his peace. 
 
 Our wealth leaves us at death, 
 
 Our kinsmen at the grave : 
 B)it yirtues of the mind unto 
 
 The heavens with us we have ; 
 Wherefore, for virtue's sake, 
 
 I can be well content 
 The sweetest time of all my life 
 
 To deem in thinkiug spent. 
 
 THOMAS STERNHOLD. 
 
 [Died IS49-1 
 MAJESTY OF GOD. 
 
 The Lord descended from above, 
 And bowed the heavens most high, 
 
 And underneath his feet he cast 
 The darkness of the sky. 
 
 On cherubim and seraphim 
 
 Full royally he rode. 
 And on the wings of mighty winds 
 
 Came flying all abroad. 
 
 He sat serene upon the floods. 
 Their fury to restrain ; 
 
 And he 
 
 For evermore shall reign 
 
 as sovereign Lord and King, 
 
 HENRY 
 
 EARL OF 
 
 HOWARD, 
 SURREY. 
 
 [I5IS-IS47-] 
 
 NO AGE CONTENT WITH HIS OWN 
 ESTATE. 
 
 Laid in my quiet bed. 
 
 In study as I were, 
 I saw within my troubled head 
 
 A heap of thoughts appear. 
 
 And every thought did show 
 
 So lively in mine eyes. 
 That now I sighed, and then I smiled, 
 
 As cause of thoughts did rise.
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 I saw the little boy, 
 
 111 thouglit liow oft that he 
 Did wisli of God, to scape the rod, 
 
 A tall young man to be. 
 
 The young man eke that feels 
 His bones with pains o]iprest. 
 
 How he would be a rich old man, 
 To live and lie at rest : 
 
 The rich old man that sees 
 
 His end draw on so sore. 
 How he would be a boy again, 
 
 To live so much the more. 
 
 Whereat full oft I smiled. 
 
 To see how all these three, 
 From boy to man, from man to boy. 
 
 Would chop and change degree : 
 
 And musing thus, I think. 
 
 The case is very strange. 
 That man from wealth, to live in woe, 
 
 Doth ever seek to change. 
 
 Thus thoughtful as I lay, 
 
 I saw my withered skin. 
 How it doth show my dented thews. 
 
 The tlesh was worn so thin ; 
 
 And eke my toothless chaps. 
 
 The gates of my right way. 
 That opes and shuts as I do speak, 
 
 Do thus unto me say : 
 
 " The white and hoarish hairs. 
 
 The messengers of age. 
 That show, like lines of true belief, 
 
 That this life doth assuage; 
 
 " Bid thee lay hand, and feel 
 
 Them hanging on my chin. 
 The which do write two ages past. 
 
 The third now coming in. 
 
 " Hang up, therefore, the bit 
 Of tliy young wanton time; 
 
 And thou that tlierein beaten art. 
 The happiest life define." 
 
 Whereat I sighed, and said, 
 
 " Farewell my wonted joy ! 
 Truss u]) thy i>a<k, and trudge from me, 
 
 To every little boy ; 
 
 " And tell them thus from me. 
 
 Their time most happy is, 
 If to their time they reason had. 
 
 To know the truth of this." 
 
 SIR THOMAS WYATT. 
 [1503 - 1542-] 
 
 PLEASURE MIXED WITH PAIN. 
 
 Venomov's thorns that are so sharp and 
 keen 
 Bear flowers, we see, full fresh and 
 fair of hue : 
 Poison is also put in medicine, 
 
 And unto man his health doth oft 
 renew. 
 The fire that all things eke consumeth 
 clean. 
 May hurt and heal : then if that this 
 be true, 
 I trust some time my harm may be my 
 
 health. 
 Since every woe is joined with some 
 wealth. 
 
 A DESCRIPTION OF SUCH A ONE AS 
 HE WOULD LOVE. 
 
 A FACE that should content me wondrous 
 
 well, 
 Should not be fair, but lovely to behold 
 With gladsome cheer, all grief for to ex- 
 
 With sober looks so would I that it 
 
 should 
 Speak without words, such words as 
 
 none can tell ; 
 The tress also should be of crisped gold. 
 With wit and these, might chance I 
 
 might be tied, 
 And knit again with knot that should 
 
 not slide. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. 
 
 [1564- 1593.] 
 
 THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS 
 LOVE. 
 
 Come live with me, and be my love. 
 And we will all the jileasures juove, 
 That valleys, groves, and hills and fields, 
 Wood or steepy mountain yields. 
 
 And Vc will sit upon the rocks, 
 Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing mailrigals. 
 
 And I will make thee beds of roses, 
 And a thousand fragrant }(osies ; 
 A cap of Howers and a kirtle. 
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle ; 
 
 A gown made of the finest wool. 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
 fair lined slippers for the cold. 
 With buckles of the purest gold ; 
 
 A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 AVith coral clasps and amber studs : 
 And if these pleasures may thee move, 
 Come live with me, and be my love. 
 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and 
 
 sing, 
 For thy delight, each May-morning: 
 If these delights thy mind may move. 
 Then live with me, and be my love. 
 
 SIR WALTER RALEIGH. 
 
 [1552-1618.] 
 
 THE NYMPH'S REPLY. 
 
 If all the world and love were young. 
 And truth in eveiy shepherd's tongue, 
 These pretty pleasures might me move 
 To live with thee, and be thy love. 
 
 Time drives the flocks from field to fold, 
 Wlien rivers rage and rocks grow cold; 
 And Philomel beeometh dumb. 
 The rest complain of cares to come. 
 
 The flowers do fade, and wanton fields 
 To wayward winter reckoning yields ; 
 A honey tongue, a heart of gall, 
 Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall. 
 
 Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses, 
 Thy cap, tliy kirtle, and thy posies, 
 Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. 
 In folly ripe, in reason rotten. 
 
 Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. 
 Thy coral clasps and amber studs, — 
 All these in me no means can move 
 To come to thee and be thy love. 
 
 But could j'outh last, and love still breed, 
 Had joys no date, nor age no need. 
 Then these delights my mind might move 
 To live with thee and be thy love. 
 
 THE PILGRIM. 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
 My statt" of faith to walk upon ; 
 My scrip of joy, immortal diet; 
 My bottle of salvation ; 
 M}' gown of glory (hope's true gauge), 
 And thus I '11 take my pilgrimage. 
 i^)lood must be my body's 'balmer, 
 Whilst my soul, a quiet Palmer, 
 Travelleth towards the land of Heaven; 
 No other balm will there be given. 
 Over the silver mountains. 
 Where .spring the nectar fountains, 
 There will I kiss the bowl of bliss, 
 And drink mine everlasting fill 
 Upon every milken hill ; 
 My soul will be a-dry before. 
 But after, it will thirst no more. 
 Then, by that happy, blissful day. 
 
 More peaceful pilgrims I shall see. 
 That have cast off their rags of clay, 
 
 And walk apparelled fresh, like me. 
 
 THE SOUL'S ERRAND. 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest. 
 
 Upon a thankless errand ! 
 Fear not to touch the best. 
 
 The truth shall be thy warrant : 
 Go, since I needs must die. 
 And give the world the lie. 
 
 Go, tell the court it glows. 
 
 And shines like rotten wood ; 
 Go, tell the church it shows 
 
 What 's good, and doth no good : 
 If church and court reply. 
 Then give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell potentates they live 
 
 Acting by others' actions ; 
 Not loved unless they give. 
 
 Not strong but by their factions; 
 If potentates reply. 
 Give potentates the lie. 
 
 Tell men of high condition 
 That rule affairs of state,
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Their purpose is ambition, 
 Their prai'tiee only hate : 
 And if they once reply, 
 Then give thein all the lie. 
 
 Tell them that Lrave it most, 
 
 They beg ibr more by spending, 
 W ho in their greatest cost. 
 
 Seek nothing but commending : 
 iVnd it' they make reply. 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell zeal it lacks devotion, 
 
 Tell love it is but lust, 
 Tell time it is but motion, 
 Tell Hesh it is but dust : 
 And wish them not reply. 
 For thou must give the lie. 
 
 Tell age it daily wasteth. 
 
 Tell honor how it alters, 
 Tell beauty how she blasteth, 
 Tell favor how she falters : 
 And as they shall reply, 
 Give every one the lie. 
 
 Tell wit how much it wrangles 
 In tickle points of niceness ; 
 Tell wisdom she entangles 
 Herself in over-wiseness : 
 And when they do reply. 
 Straight give them both the lie. 
 
 Tell physic of her boldness, 
 Tell skill it is pretension. 
 Tell charity of coldness, 
 Tell law' it is contention : 
 And as they do reply. 
 So give them still the lie. 
 
 Tell fortune of her blindness, 
 
 Tell natuie of decay, 
 Tell friendship of unkindness, 
 Tell justice of delay : 
 And if they will reply, 
 Then give them all the lie. 
 
 Tell arts they have no soundness. 
 
 But vary in' esteeming; 
 Tell schools tiipy want profoundness, 
 And stand too much on seeming : 
 If arts and schools rej)ly. 
 Give arts and schools the lie. 
 
 Tell faith it 's ncd the city ; 
 Tell how the country erreth ; 
 
 Tell, manhood shakes off jiity ; 
 Tell, virtue least preferreth : 
 And if they do reply, 
 Spare not to give the lie. 
 
 So when thou hast, as I 
 
 Coinnjandcd thee, done blabbing, 
 Although to give the lie 
 
 Deserves no less than stabliing, 
 Yet stab at thee who will, 
 No stab the soul can kill. 
 
 SIR PHILIP SIDXEY. 
 
 [1554-1586.] 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 With how sad steps, Moon ! thou 
 
 climb' st the skies, 
 How silently, and with how wan a face ! 
 What may it be, that even in heavenly 
 
 place 
 That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries ? 
 Sure, if that long with love acquainted 
 
 eyes 
 Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's 
 
 case ; 
 I read it in thy looks, thy languished grace 
 To me that feel the like thy state descries. 
 Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, 
 Is constant love deemed there but want 
 
 of wit ? 
 Are beauties thereasproud ashcre they be ? 
 Do they above love to be loved, and yet 
 Those lovers scorn whom that love doth 
 
 possess ? 
 Do they call virtue there ungratefulness ? 
 
 Come, Sleep, Sleep, the certain knot 
 
 of peace. 
 The baiting-jdace of wit, the balm of woe. 
 The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's 
 
 release. 
 The indilfcrent judge between the high 
 
 and low. 
 With shield of proof shield me from out 
 
 the prease 
 Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth 
 
 throw ; 
 
 make in me those civil wars to cease! 
 
 1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so.
 
 MATTHEW KOYDON. — EDMUND SPENSEK, 
 
 Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest 
 
 bed; 
 A chamber deaf to noise and blind to 
 
 light ; 
 A rosy garland, and a weary head. 
 And if these things, as being thine by right, 
 Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in 
 
 me 
 Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see. 
 
 -♦ — • 
 
 MATTHEW PtOYDON. 
 
 LAMENT FOR ASTROPHEL (SIR PHILIP 
 SIDNEY). 
 
 You knew, — who knew not Astrophel ? 
 
 That I should live to say I knew, 
 And have not in possession still ! — 
 Things known permit me to renew. 
 Of him you know his merit such 
 I cannot say — you hear — too much. 
 
 Within these woods of Arcady 
 
 He chief delight and pleasure took ; 
 And on the mountain Partheny, 
 Upon the crystal liquid brook, 
 The muses met him every day, — 
 Taught him to sing, and write, and 
 say. 
 
 When he descended down the mount 
 His personage seemed most divine; 
 A thousand graces one might count 
 Upon his lovely, cheerful eyne. 
 
 To hear him speak, and see him 
 
 smile. 
 You were in Paradise the while, 
 
 A sweet, attractive kind of grace ; 
 
 A full assurance given by looks ; 
 Continual comfort in a face ; 
 
 The lineaments of gospel books : 
 I trow that countenance cannot lie 
 AVhose thoughts are legible in the eye. 
 
 Above all others this is he 
 
 Who erst approved in his song, 
 That love and lionor might agree, 
 And that pure love will do no wrong. 
 Sweet saints, it is no sin or blame 
 To love a man of virtuous name. 
 
 Did never love so sweetly breathe 
 In any mortal breast before ; 
 
 Did never muse inspire beneath 
 A poet's brain with finer store. 
 
 He wrote of love with high conceit 
 And beauty reared above her height. 
 
 EDMUND SPENSER. 
 
 [ISS3-IS99-] 
 
 ANGELIC MINISTRY. 
 
 AxD is there care in Heaven? And is 
 
 there love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creaturesbase, 
 That may compassion of their evils move ? 
 There is, — else much more wretched 
 
 were the case 
 Of men than beasts : but the exceed- 
 ing grace 
 Of highest God, that loves his creatures so. 
 And all his works with mercy doth em- 
 brace. 
 That blessed angels he sends to and fro. 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his 
 wicked foe ! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
 To come to succor us that succor want ! 
 How oft do they with golden pinions 
 
 cleave 
 The flitting skies, like flying pursuivant, 
 Against foul fiends to aid us militant ! 
 They for us fight, they watch and duly 
 
 ward, 
 And their bright squadrons round about 
 
 us plant ; 
 And all for love and nothing for reward ; 
 0, why should heavenly God to men 
 
 have such regard ? 
 
 THE TRUE WOMAN. 
 
 Thrice happy she that is so well assured 
 Unto herself, and settled so in heart, 
 That neither will for better be allured, 
 Ne fears to worse with any chance to start, 
 But like a steady shi]) doth strongly ])art 
 The raging weaves, and keeps her course 
 
 aright ; 
 Ne ought for tempest doth from it depart, 
 Ne ought for fairer weather's false de- 
 light.
 
 8 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Such self-assurance need not fear the 
 
 spite 
 Of grudging foes, ne favor seek of friends ; 
 But in the stayof herown steaiUast might, 
 Neither to one lu'iself or other bends. 
 Most happy she that most assured doth 
 
 rest. 
 But he most happy who sucli one loves 
 
 best. 
 
 FROM THE EPITHALAMIITM. 
 
 Open the tenqde-gates unto my love. 
 Open them •wide that she may enter in. 
 And all the posts adorn as doth behove, 
 And all the pillars deck with garhmd.s 
 
 trim, 
 For to receive this saint with honor due, 
 That Cometh in to you. 
 "With trembling steps and humble rev- 
 erence . 
 Sh? Cometh in before the Almighty's view, 
 or lier, ye virgins ! learn obedience, 
 When so ye conn; into these holy places. 
 To humble your proud faces. 
 Bring her up to the high altar, that she 
 
 may 
 The sacred ceremonies there partake. 
 The which do endless matrimony make; 
 And let the roaring organs loudly play 
 The praises of the Lord, in lively notes, 
 The whiles witli hollow throats 
 The choristers the joyous anthems sing. 
 That all the woods may answer, and 
 their echo ring. 
 
 Behold whiles r.he before the altar stands, 
 'Hearing the holy i)riest that to her s])eaks. 
 And blesses herwith his twohn[)py hands, 
 How red the roses Hush up in her (dieeks ' 
 And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil 
 
 stain. 
 Like crimson dyed in grain, 
 That even the angels, which continually 
 Al)out the sacred altar do remain, 
 Forget their .service, and about her fly, 
 Oft peeping in her face, that seems more 
 
 fair 
 The more they on it stare ; 
 But her sad eyes, sti)l fastened on the 
 
 ground. 
 Are governed with goodly modesty, 
 That suffei> not one look to glance awry, 
 AVhich may let in a little thought un- 
 sound. 
 Why blusli ye, Love ! to give to me your 
 hand, 
 
 The pledge of all your band ? 
 Sing, ye sweet angels I Alleluia sing, 
 That all the woods may answer, and your 
 echo ring. 
 
 UNA AND THE LION. 
 
 One day, nigh weaiy of the irksome way. 
 From her unhasty beast she did alight ; 
 And on the grass her dainty limbs did lay 
 In secret shadow, far from all men's sight ; 
 From her fair head her fillet she undight , 
 And laid her stole a.side : her angel's hice, 
 As the great eye of heaven, shined bright. 
 And made a sunshine in a shady jilace; 
 Did never mortal eye behold such heav- 
 enly grace. 
 
 It fortuned, out of the thickest wood, 
 A ramping lion rushed suddenly, 
 Huiiting full greedy after savage blood; 
 Soon as the royal virgin he did spy. 
 With gajting mouth at htr ran gieedily, 
 Tohaveat once devoured her tendeicoi'.se ; 
 But to the prey when as he drew nioie 
 
 His bloody rage assuaged with remor.se. 
 And, with the sight amazed, foigot his 
 furious force. 
 
 Instead thereof he kissed her weary feet. 
 And licked her lily hands with iawning 
 
 tongue. 
 As he her wronged innocence did weet. 
 O how can beauty master the most strong, 
 And sim]ile truth subdue avenging wi-ong I 
 Whose yielded jiiide and pioud submis- 
 sion. 
 Still dreading death, when she had 
 
 marktkl long. 
 Her heart 'gan melt in great compassioji. 
 And drizzling tears did shed for pure 
 atlection. 
 
 The lion would not leave her desolate, 
 But with her went along, as a strong 
 
 guard 
 Of her chaste person, and a faithful mate 
 Ofher sadtroubles, and misfortuneshard. 
 Still, when she slept, he kept both watch 
 
 and ward ; 
 And, when shewaked, hewaited diligent, 
 With humble ser\ice to her will pre- 
 pared : 
 Fromher faireyes hetook commandment, 
 And ever by her looks conceived her in- 
 tent.
 
 EDMUND SPENSER 
 THE HOUSE OF RICHES. 
 That house's form within was rude and 
 
 9 
 
 strong, 
 Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift, 
 From whose rough vault the ragged 
 
 breaches liung 
 Embossed with massy gold of glorious 
 
 gift, 
 And with rich metal loaded every Hft, 
 That heavy ruin they did seem to threat ; 
 And over them Arachne high <lid lift 
 Her cunning web, and spread her subtle 
 
 iiet, 
 Enwrapped in foul smoke and clouds 
 
 more black than jet. 
 
 Both roof, and floor, and walls, were all 
 of gold, 
 
 But overgrown with dust and old de- 
 cay, 
 
 And hid in darkness, that none could 
 behold 
 
 The hue thereof: for view of cheerful 
 day 
 
 Did never in that house itself display, 
 
 But a faint shadow of uncertain light ; 
 
 Such as a lamj) whose life does fadeaway ; 
 
 Or as the Moon, clothed with cloudy 
 night. 
 
 Does show to him that walks in fear and 
 sad atfright. 
 
 In nil that room was nothing to be seen 
 
 But huge great iron chests, and coHers 
 strong, 
 
 All barred with douljle bends, that none 
 could ween 
 
 Them to enforce by violence or wrong; 
 
 On every side they i)laced were along. 
 
 But all the ground with sculls was scat- 
 tered 
 
 Anddeadmen'sbones, which round about 
 were flung ; 
 
 Whose lives, it seemed, whilome there 
 were shed. 
 
 And their vile carcasses now left unburied. 
 
 THE BOWER OF BLISS. 
 
 Tn VAiK the most dainty paradise on ground 
 
 Itself doth ofier to his sober eye, 
 
 In which all pleasures plenteously 
 
 abound, 
 And none does others' happiness envy ; 
 
 The painted flowers, the trees upshoot- 
 ing high, 
 
 The dales for shade, the hills for breath- 
 ing space. 
 
 The trembling groves, the crystal run- 
 ning by ; 
 
 And that which all fair works doth most 
 aggrace. 
 
 The art, which all that wrought, ap- 
 peared in no place. 
 
 One would have thought (so cunningly 
 the rude 
 
 And scorTied parts were mingled with the 
 fine) 
 
 That nature had for wantonness ensued 
 
 Art, and that art at nature did re- 
 pine ; 
 
 So striving each the other to under- 
 mine, 
 
 Each did the other's work more beautify ; 
 
 So ditlering both in wills, agreed in 
 tine : 
 
 So all agreed through sweet diversity, 
 
 This garden to adorn with all variety, 
 
 Eftsoons they heard a most melodious 
 
 sound. 
 Of all that might delight a dainty ear. 
 Such as at once might not on living 
 
 ground. 
 Save in this paradise be heard elsewhere : 
 Right hard it was for wight which did 
 
 it hear. 
 To read what manner music that might 
 
 be: 
 For all that pleasing is to living ear. 
 Was there consorted in one harmony ; 
 Birds, voices, instruments, winds, wa- 
 ters, all agree. 
 
 The joyous birds, shrouded in cheerful 
 
 shade, 
 Their notes unto the voice attempered 
 
 sweet ; 
 The angelical soft trembling voices made 
 To the instruments divine respondence 
 
 meet ; 
 The silver sounding instruments did 
 
 meet 
 With the base niurnmr of the water's 
 
 fall : 
 The water's fall with difTerence discreet. 
 Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did 
 
 call : 
 The gentle warbling wind low answered 
 
 to all.
 
 10 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 IIOBERT SOUTinVELL. 
 
 [1560-1595-] 
 
 CONTENT AND RICH. 
 
 I DAVKT.i, in grace's courts, 
 
 Kinichi'd with virtue's rights ; 
 Faith guides my wit, love h-ads my will, 
 
 Hope all my mind delights. 
 
 • 
 In lowly vales I mount 
 
 To jileasure's highest pitch, 
 5[y sini])le dress sure honor brings, 
 
 Aly poor estate is rich. 
 
 My conscience is my crown. 
 Contented thoughts my rest ; 
 
 My heart is hajipy in itself; 
 My bliss is in my breast. 
 
 Enough, I reckon wealth ; 
 
 A mean, the surest lot. 
 That lies too high for base contempt, 
 
 Too low for envy's shot. 
 
 ;My wishes are but few, 
 
 AH easy to fullil ; 
 I make the limits of my power 
 
 The bounds unto my will. 
 
 I have no hopes but one, 
 
 Which is of heavenly reign : 
 Eil'eets attained, or not desired, 
 
 All lower hopes refrain. 
 
 I feel no care of coin, 
 
 Well-doing is my wealth : 
 My mind to me an empire is, 
 
 While grace affordeth health. 
 
 I clip high-cliTubing thoughts, 
 The wings of .swelling jaide : 
 
 Their fate is worst, that from the height 
 Of greater honor slide. 
 
 Silk sails of largest size 
 
 The storm doth soonest tear : 
 
 1 bear so low and .small a sail 
 As freeth me from fear. 
 
 I wrestle not with rage 
 
 While fury's Hame doth burn ; 
 
 It is in vain to stop the stream 
 Until the tide doth turn. 
 
 But when the flame is out. 
 And ebbing wrath doth end, 
 
 I turn a late-enraged foe 
 Into a quiet friend; 
 
 And, taught with often proof, 
 
 A tempered calm I tind 
 To be most solace to itself, 
 
 Best cure for angry mind. 
 
 Spare diet is my fare, 
 
 My clothes more fit than fine ; 
 I know I feed and clothe a foe 
 
 That, pampered, would repine. 
 
 I envy not their hap 
 
 Whom favor doth advance : 
 
 I take no pleasure in their pain 
 That have less happy chance. 
 
   To rise by others' fall 
 I deem a losing gain : 
 All states with otheis' ruins built 
 To ruins run amain. 
 
 No change of fortune's calms 
 Can cast my comforts down : 
 
 When fortune smiles, 1 smile to think 
 How quickly she will frown ; 
 
 And when, in froward mood, 
 
 She proved an angry foe. 
 Small gain 1 found to let her come. 
 
 Less loss to let her go. 
 
 ALEXANDER HUME. 
 
 [About 1599.] 
 A SUMMER'S DAY. 
 
 Thk time so tranquil is and clear, 
 That nowhere sliall ye find, 
 
 Save on a high and barren hill. 
 An air of passing wind. 
 
 All trees and simples, great and small, 
 
 That balmy leaf do bear. 
 Than they were painted on a wall, 
 
 No more they move or stir. 
 
 The ships becalmed upon the ,seas, 
 Hang up their sails to dry ; 
 
 The herds, beneath tlie leafy fri-ees, 
 Aniong the flowers they lie.
 
 SIR JOHN DAVIES. 
 
 11 
 
 Great is the calm, for evprywhere 
 The wind is settliiif^ down : 
 
 The smoke goes upright in the air, 
 From every tower and town. 
 
 What pleasure, then, to walk and see, 
 
 Along a river clear, 
 Tiie perfect form of every tree 
 
 AVithin the deep appear : 
 
 The bells and circles on the waves, 
 
 From leaping of the trout ; 
 The salmoTi from their creels and caves 
 
 Come gliding in and out. 
 
 sure it were a seemly thing, 
 
 While all is still and calm, 
 The praise of God to play and sing, 
 
 With trnmpet and with shalm ! 
 
 All laborers draw home at even, 
 
 And can to others say, 
 "Thanks to the gracious God of heaven. 
 
 Who sent this summer day." 
 
 SIR JOHN DAVIES. 
 
 [1570- 1626.] 
 
 THE SOUL. 
 
 Again, how can she hut immortal be. 
 When with the motions of both will 
 and wit 
 
 She still aspireth to eternit}'^, 
 
 And never rests till she attaiji to it ? 
 
 AVater in conduit-pipes can rise no higher 
 Than the well-head from whence it tirst 
 dotli spring : 
 Then, since to eternal God she doth as- 
 pire, . 
 She cannot be but an eternal thing. 
 
 " All moving things to other things do 
 move 
 Of the same kind, which shows their 
 nature such " ; 
 So earth falls down, and fire doth mount 
 above, 
 Till both their proper elements do 
 touch. 
 
 And as the moisture which the thirsty 
 earth 
 Sucks from the sea to fill her empty 
 veins. 
 From out her womb at last doth take a 
 birth, 
 And runs a lymph along the grassy 
 plains : 
 
 Long doth she stay, as loth to leave the 
 land 
 From whose soft side the first did issue 
 make ; 
 She tastes all places, turns to everj' hand, 
 Her flowery banks unwilling to for- 
 sake. 
 
 Yet Nature so her streams doth lead and 
 carry, 
 As that her course -doth make no final 
 stay. 
 Till she herself unto the Ocean marry. 
 Within whose watery bosom first she 
 lay.   
 
 Even so the soul, which in this earthly 
 mould 
 The spirit of God doth secretly in- 
 fuse, 
 Because at first she doth the earth be- 
 hold, 
 And only this material world she views. 
 
 At first her mother Earth she holdeth 
 dear, 
 And doth embrace the world, and 
 woildly things. 
 She flies close by the ground and hovers 
 here, 
 And mounts not up with her celestial 
 
 Yet under heaven she cannot light on 
 aught 
 That with her heavenly nature doth 
 agree ; 
 She cannot rest, she cannot fix her 
 thought. 
 She cannot in this world contented be. 
 
 For who did ever yet, in honor, wealth. 
 Or pleasure of the sense, contentment 
 find? 
 AVho ever ceased to wish when he had 
 wealth ? 
 Or having w-isdom was not vexed in 
 mind ?
 
 12 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Tlien as a hee, which among weeds doth 
 fall, 
 Which sccni sweet flowers with lustre 
 fresh and gay, 
 She lights on that and this, and tasteth 
 all; 
 But pleased with none, doth rise and 
 sour away. 
 
 So when the soul finds here no true con- 
 tent, 
 And like Noah's dove can no sure 
 footing take. 
 She doth return from whence she first 
 was sent, 
 And flies to Him that first her wings 
 did make. 
 
 So while the virgin soul on earth doth 
 stay. 
 She, wooed and tempted in ten thou- 
 sand ways. 
 By these great i)0wers which on the earth 
 bear sway. 
 The wisdom of the world, wealth, 
 pleasure, praise : 
 
 With these sometimes she doth her time 
 beguile, 
 These do by fibs her fajitasy possess; 
 But she distastes them all within a while, 
 And in the sweetest finds a tedious- 
 ness ; 
 
 But if upon the world's Almighty King 
 She once doth fix her humble, loving 
 thougiit ; 
 Who by his picture drawn in every thing. 
 And sacred messages, her love hath 
 sought ; 
 
 Of him she thinks she cannot think too 
 much ; 
 This honey tasted still, is ever sweet ; 
 The pleasure of her ravished thought is 
 such. 
 As almost here she with her bliss doth 
 meet. 
 
 But when in heaven she shall his essence 
 see. 
 This is her sovereign good, and perfect 
 bliss, 
 
 There is she crowned with garlands of 
 content ; 
 There doth she manna eat, and nectar 
 drink : 
 That presence doth such high delights 
 present, 
 As never tongue could spe.ak, nor 
 heart could think. 
 
 THOMAS KASE 
 
 [1564-1600.] 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 I NF.VKU loved ambitiously to climb, 
 Or thrust my hand too far into the hre. 
 To be in heaven sure is a blessed thing. 
 But, Atlas-like, to juo]) heaven on one's 
 
 back 
 Cannot but be more labor than delight. 
 Such is the state of men in honor plac ed : 
 They are gold vessels made for servile 
 
 uses ; 
 High trees that, keep the weather from 
 
 low houses. 
 But cannot shield the tempest from them- 
 selves. 
 I love to dwell betwixt the hills and dales, 
 Neither to be so great as to be envied. 
 Nor yet so poor the world should pity me. 
 
 WILLIAM DPtUMMO^l). 
 
 [1585-1649.] 
 
 THE LESSONS OF NATURE. 
 
 Of this fair volume which we Woild do 
 
 name 
 If we the sheets and leaves could turn 
 
 with care. 
 Of him who it corrects, and did it frnme, 
 We clear might read the art and wisdom 
 
 rare: 
 
 Find out his power which wildest powers 
 dotli tame. 
 
 Her longings, wishings, hopes, all fin- His proviilem-o extending evej-ywhere, 
 
 ished be, 
 
 Her joys are full, her motions rest in 
 this. 
 
 His justice which proud rebels doth not 
 
 spare. 
 In every page, no period of the same.
 
 SIR HENRY WOTTON. — LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 
 
 13 
 
 But silly we, like foolish children, rest 
 Well pleased with colored vellum, leaves 
 
 of gold, 
 Fair dangling ribbons, leaving what is 
 
 best. 
 On the great writer's sense ne'er taking 
 
 hold; 
 
 Or if by chance we stay our minds on 
 
 aught. 
 It is some pictui'e on the margin wrought. 
 
 Sm HENRY WOTTOK 
 
 [iS68 - 1639.] 
 
 TO HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF 
 BOHEMIA. 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night, 
 
 That poorly satisfy our eyes 
 More by your number than your light ! 
 
 You connnon people of the skies ! 
 
 What are you, when the sua shall rise? 
 
 Yon curious .chanters of the wood, 
 
 That warble forth dame Nature's lays, 
 
 Thinking your voices understood 
 
 By your weak accents ! what 's your 
 
 praise 
 When Philomel her voice shall raise ? 
 
 You violets that first appear, 
 
 By your pure purple mantles known. 
 Like the ])roud virgins of the year, 
 
 As if the spiing were all your own ! 
 
 What are you, when the rose is blown ? 
 
 So, when my mistress shall be seen 
 In form and beauty of her mind ; 
 
 By virtue first, then choice, a Queen ! 
 Tell me, if she were not designed 
 The eclipse and glory of her kind ? 
 
 THE GOOD MAN. 
 
 How happy is he born and taught, 
 Tliat serveth not another's will ; 
 
 Whose armor is his honest thought, 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ! 
 
 W^hose passions not his masters are, , 
 Whose soul is still jjrepared for death, 
 
 Untied unto the worldly care 
 
 Of public fame, or private breath ; 
 
 Who envies none that chance doth raise; 
 
 Or vice ; who never understood 
 How deepest wounds are given by praise ; 
 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 
 
 Who hath his life from rumors freed. 
 Whose conscience is Iiis strong ivtreat ; 
 
 Wliose state can neither Hatterers feed. 
 Nor ruin make oppressors grept ; 
 
 AVho God doth late and early pray, 
 Moie of his grace tlian gifts to lend ; 
 
 And entertains the harmless day 
 With a religious book or friend : 
 
 This man is freed from servile bands, 
 Of ho])e to rise, or fear to fall ; 
 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 LADY ELIZABETH CAREW. 
 
 [About 1613.] 
 
 REVENGE OF INJURIES. 
 
 The fairest action of our human life 
 Is scorning to revenge an injury ; 
 
 For who forgives without a further strife, 
 His adversary's heart to him doth ti(^ ; 
 
 And 't is a fii'mer conquest truly said. 
 
 To win the heart, than overthrow the head. 
 
 If we a worthy en?my do find. 
 
 To yield to worth it must be nolily done ; 
 But if of baser metal be his mind. 
 
 In base revenge there is no honor won. 
 Who would a worthy courage overthrow ? 
 And who would wrestle with a worthless 
 foe? 
 
 We say our hearts are great, and cannot 
 
 yield; 
 Because they cannot yield, it proves 
 
 them poor : 
 Great hearts are tasked beyond their 
 
 ])Ower but seld ; 
 The weakest lion will the loudest roar. 
 Truth's school for certain doth this same 
 
 allow ; 
 High-heartedness doth sometimes teach 
 
 to bow.
 
 14 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 A noble heart dotli teach a virtuous 
 scorn : — 
 To scorn to owe a dutv^ overlong ; 
 To scorn to be for benefits forborne ; 
 
 To scorn to lie ; to scorn to do a wrong ; 
 To scorn to bear an injury in mind ; 
 To scorn a free-born heart slave-like to 
 bind. 
 
 But if for wrongs we needs revenge must 
 
 have, 
 Then be our vengeance of the noblest 
 
 kind. 
 Do we his body from our fury save, 
 And let our hate prevail against his 
 
 mind? 
 What can 'gainst him a greater vengeance 
 
 be, 
 Than nuike his foe more worthy far than 
 
 he? 
 
 SAMUEL DAMEL. 
 
 [1562-1619] 
 
 FROM AN EPISTLE TO THE COUNT- 
 ESS OF CUMBERLAND. 
 
 He that of such a height hath built his 
 
 mind, 
 And reared the dwelling of his thoughts 
 
 so strong. 
 As neither fear nor hope can shake the 
 
 frame 
 or liis resolved powers; nor all the wind 
 Of vanity or malice jiierce to wi'ong 
 His settled j)eace, oi' to disturb the same : 
 "What a fair seat hath he, from whence he 
 
 may 
 The bountlless wastes and wilds of man 
 
 survey ? 
 
 And with how free an eye doth he look 
 
 rlown 
 T^pon these lower regions of turmoil? 
 Where all the storms of passions mainly 
 
 beat 
 On flesh and blood: where honor, power, 
 
 renown, 
 Are only gny afflictions, golden toil; 
 Wiiere greatness stands uj)on as feeble 
 
 feet, 
 As frailty (loth ; and only great doth seem 
 To little minds, who do it so esteem. 
 
 He looks upon the mightiest monarch's 
 
 wars 
 But only as on stately robberies ; 
 Where evermore the fortune that prevails 
 Must be the right : the ill-succeedingmais 
 The fairest and the best faced enterjuise. 
 Great pirate I'ompey lesser pirates ([uails : 
 Justice, he sees (as if seduced), still 
 Consi)ires with jiower, whose cause must 
 
 not be ill. 
 
 And whilst distraught ambition com- 
 passes. 
 
 And is encompassed ; whilst as cralt de- 
 ceives, 
 
 And is deceived : whilst man doth ransack 
 man, 
 
 And builds on blood, and rises by distress ; 
 
 And the inheritance of desolation leaves 
 
 To great-expecting hopes : lie looks theie- 
 on. 
 
 As from the shore of peace, with unwet 
 eye, 
 
 And bears no venture in impiety. 
 
 Thus, madam, fares that man, that hath 
 
 prepared 
 A rest for iiis desii-es ; and sees all tilings 
 Beneath him ; and hath learned this book 
 
 of man, 
 Full of the notes of frailty ; and compared 
 Tlie best of gloiy witli lier sufferings : 
 I\y whom, I see, you labor all you can 
 To plant yourheart ; andset your thoughts 
 
 as near 
 His glorious mansion, as your powers can 
 
 bear. 
 
 Which, madam, are so soundly fashioned , 
 By that clear judgment, that hath carried 
 
 you 
 Beyond the feeble limits of your kinil, 
 As they can stand against the strongest 
 
 head 
 Passion can make ; inured to any hue 
 The world can cast : it cannot cast that 
 
 mind 
 Out of her form of goodness, that dotli see 
 Both what the best and worst of earth 
 
 can be. 
 
 Which makes, that whatsoever here be- 
 falls. 
 
 You in the region of yourself remain : 
 
 Where no vain breath of the impudent 
 molests 
 
 That hath secured within the brazen walls
 
 WILLIAM EYED. 
 
 15 
 
 Of a. clear conscience, that (without all 
 stain) 
 
 Eises in peace, in innocency rests ; 
 
 Whilst all that Malice from without pro- 
 cures 
 
 Shows her own ugly heart, hut hurts not 
 yours. 
 
 And whereas none rejoice more in revenge, 
 Than women use to do ; yet you well 
 
 know, 
 That wrong is hetter checked hy being 
 
 contemned. 
 Than heiiig pursued ; leaving to him to 
 
 avenge. 
 To whom it appertains. WHierein j'oi; show 
 How worthily your clearness hath con- 
 demned 
 Base malediction, living in the dark, 
 That at the rays of goodness still doth 
 bark. 
 
 Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
 The centre of this world, about the which 
 These revolutions of disturbances 
 Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
 Predominate : whose strong eftects are 
 
 such, 
 As he must bear, being powerless to re- 
 dress : 
 And that unless above himself he can 
 Erect himself, how poor a thing is man. 
 
 WILLIAM BYRD. 
 
 [1540- 1623.] 
 
 MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. 
 
 My mind to me a kingdom is ; 
 
 Such perfect joy therein I find 
 As far exceeds all earthly bliss 
 
 That God or Nature hath assigned ; 
 Though mucli I want that most would 
 
 have. 
 Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 
 
 Content I live ; this is my stay, — 
 I seek no more than may suffice. 
 
 I press to bear no haughty sway ; 
 
 Look, what I lack my mind supplies. 
 
 Lo ! tlius 1 triumph like a king. 
 
 Content with that my mind doth bring. 
 
 I see how plenty surfeits oft, 
 And hasty climbers soonest fall; 
 
 I see that such as sit aloft 
 
 Mishap doth threaten most of all. 
 
 These get with toil, and keeji with fear ; 
 
 Such cares iny mind could never bear. 
 
 No princely pomp nor- wealthy store. 
 
 No force to win the victory. 
 No wily wit to salve a sore, 
 
 No shape to win a lover's ej^e, — 
 To none of these 1 yield as thrall ; 
 For why, my mind despiseth all. 
 
 Some have too much, yet still they crave ; 
 
 1 little have, yet seek up more. 
 They are but poor, though much they 
 have ; 
 
 And I am rich with little store. 
 They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; 
 They lack, 1 lend ; they pine, 1 live. • 
 
 I laugh not at another's loss, 
 1 grudge not at another's gain ; 
 
 No worldly wave my mind can toss; 
 I brook that is another's bane. 
 
 I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend ; 
 
 I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. 
 
 I joy not in no earthly bliss; 
 
 I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw ; 
 For care, I care not what it is ; 
 
 I fear not fortune's fatal law ; 
 My mind is .such as may not move 
 For beauty bright, or force of love. 
 
 I wish but what I have at will ; 
 
 I wander not to seek for more ; 
 I like the plain, I climb no hill; 
 
 In greatest storms I sit on shore. 
 And laugh at them that toil in vain 
 To get what must be lost again. 
 
 I kiss not where I wish to kill ; 
 
 I feign not love where most I hate ; 
 I break no sleep to win my will ; 
 
 I wait not at the mighty's gate. 
 I scorn no jioor, 1 fear no rich ; 
 I feel no want, nor have too much. 
 
 The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; 
 
 Extremes are counted worst of all ; 
 The golden mean betwixt them both 
 
 Doth surest sit, and I'ears no fall ; 
 Tills is my choice ; for why, I find 
 No wealth is like a quiet mind.
 
 16 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 .;My wealth is health and perfect ease; 
 
 My tuiiscieiice ch-ar iny ehiel' def euce ; 
 I never seek by bribes to i)lease, 
 Nor by desert to give otteiice. 
 Titus do I live, thus will 1 die ; 
 "Would all did so as well as i ! 
 
 AVILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 [1564- 1616.] 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 ARIEL'S SONG. 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there lurk I ; 
 111 a cowslip's bell I lie; 
 There I couch when owls do cry; 
 Oh the bat's back I do Hy. 
 After summer merrily, 
 "Jlerrily, merrily, shall I live now, 
 Under the blossom that hangs on the 
 bough. 
 
 THE FAIRY TO PUCK. 
 
 Over hill, over dale. 
 
 Thorough bush, thorough brier, 
 
 Over park, over pale. 
 
 Thorough flood, thorough fire, 
 
 1 do wander everywhere. 
 
 Swifter than the moon's sphere. 
 
 And 1 serve the Fairy Queen, 
 
 To dew her orbs upon the green ; 
 
 The cowslips tall her pensioners be, 
 
 In their gold coats spots you see, — 
 
 Those be rubies, fairy favors; 
 
 In those freckles live their savors. 
 
 I must go seek some dew-drops here. 
 
 And hang a jn-arl in every cowslip's ear. 
 
 AMIEX.S'S SOXG. 
 
 Bt.ow, blow, thou winter wind, 
 Thou art not .so unkind 
 
 As man's ingratitude ; 
 Thy tooth is not so keen, 
 Because thou art not seen, 
 
 Altliough thy breath be rude. 
 
 Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
 That dost not bite so nigh 
 As benefits forgot : 
 
 Though thou the waters worp, 
 Thy sting is not so sharji 
 As friend remembered not. 
 
 A SEA DIRGE. 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies : 
 
 Of his bones are coral made ; 
 Those are pearls that were his eye.s : 
 
 Nothing of him that doth fade. 
 But doth suffer a sea-change 
 Into something rich and strange. 
 Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
 Hark ! now I hear them, — 
 
 Ding, dong, bell. 
 
 HARK! HARK! THE LARK! 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate 
 sings, 
 
 And Phttbus 'gins arise. 
 His steeds to water at those springs 
 
 On chaliced flowers tiiat lies; 
 And winking ]\Iaiy-buds begin 
 
 To ope their golden eyes ; 
 With everything that pretty bin ; 
 
 My lady sweet, arise. 
 
 UNDER THE GREENWOOD-TREE. 
 
 Undeu the greenwood-tree 
 Who loves to lie with me, 
 And tune his merry note 
 Unto the sweet bird's throat, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither; 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy, 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 Who doth ambition shun. 
 And loves to live i' the sun. 
 Seeking the food he eats, 
 And j)leased with what he gets, 
 Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
 Here shall he see 
 No enemy. 
 But winter and rough weather. 
 
 DIRGE FOR FIDELE. 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun, 
 Nor the furious winter's rages; 
 Thou thy worldly task hast done. 
 Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages ;
 
 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 17 
 
 Golden lads and j^irls all must, 
 
 As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the fVown o' the great, 
 Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; 
 Care no more to clothe, and eat ; 
 To thee the reed is as the oak : 
 The sceptre, learning, physic, must 
 All follow this, and come to dust. 
 
 Fear no more the lightning flash, 
 Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone ; 
 Fear not slander, censure rash ; 
 Thou hast finished joy and moan : 
 All lovers young, all lovers must 
 Consign to thee, and come to dust. 
 
 No exorciser harm thee ! 
 Nor no witchcraft charm thee! 
 Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! 
 Nothing ill come near thee ! 
 Quiet consummation have ; 
 And renowned be thy grave. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 When in disgrace with fortune and 
 men's eyes, 
 
 I all alone beweep my outcast state. 
 
 And trouble deaf heaven with my boot- 
 less cries. 
 
 And look upon myself, and curse my fate. 
 
 Wishing me like to one more rich in 
 hope. 
 
 Featured like him, like liim with fi lends 
 jtossessed, 
 
 Desiring tliis man's art, and that man's 
 scope. 
 
 With what I most enjoy contented least ; 
 
 Yet in these thoughts myself almost de- 
 spising, 
 
 Haply I think on thee, — and then my 
 state 
 
 (Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 
 From sullen earth) sings hymns at heav- 
 en's gate ; 
 For thy sweet love remembered, such 
 
 wealth brings. 
 That then I scorn to change my state 
 with kings. 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent 
 
 thought 
 I summon up remembrance of •things past, 
 I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, 
 
 And with old woes new wail my dear 
 
 time's waste: 
 Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. 
 For precious friends hid in death's date- 
 less night. 
 And weep afresh love's long-since-can- 
 celled woe. 
 And moan the expense of many a van- 
 ished 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. 
 
 That time of year thou mavst in me be- 
 hold 
 
 AVhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do' 
 hang 
 
 Upon those boughs which shake against 
 the cold, 
 
 Bai'e ruined choirs, where late the sweet 
 birds sang. 
 
 In me thou seest the twilight of such day. 
 
 As after snnstit fadeth in the west, 
 
 Which by and by black night dotli take 
 away. 
 
 Death's second self, that seals up all in 
 rest. 
 
 In me thou seest the glowing of such 
 fire. 
 
 That on the ashes of his youth doth lie. 
 
 As the dcatli-bod whereon it must ex- 
 pire. 
 
 Consumed with that which it was nour- 
 ished by. 
 This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy 
 
 love more strong, 
 To love that well which thou must 
 leave erelong. 
 
 They that have power to hurt and will 
 do none. 
 
 That do not do the thing they most ilo 
 show. 
 
 Who, moving others, are themselves as 
 stone, 
 
 Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow ; 
 
 They riglitly do inherit heaven's graces. 
 
 And husljand nature's riches from ex- 
 pense ;
 
 18 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Tliey are the lords and owners of their 
 
 i'aces, 
 OtluMS but stewards of tlicir excellence. 
 The suninier's flower is to the summer 
 
 sweet, 
 Though to itself it only live and die ; 
 15ut it' that flower with base infection 
 
 meet. 
 The basest weed outbraves his dignity: 
 For sweetest things turn sourest by 
 
 their deeds ; 
 Lilies that fester smell far worse than 
 weeds. 
 
 Ai,AS, 'tis true, I havegone hereand there. 
 And made myself a motley to the view. 
 Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap 
 
 what is most dear, 
 Made old offences of affections new. 
 ^lost true it is, that 1 have looked on 
 
 truth 
 Askance and strangely ; but, byall above. 
 These blenches gave my heart another 
 
 youth, 
 And worse essays proved thee my best of 
 
 love. 
 Now all is done, save what shall have no 
 
 enii: 
 Mine appetite I never more will grind 
 On newer proof, to try an older fiiend, 
 A Ood in love, to whom I am confined. 
 Then give me welcome, ne.xt my heaven 
 
 the best. 
 Even to thy pure and most most loving 
 
 breast. 
 
 Lk.t me not to the marriage of true minds 
 Admit impediment,s. Love is not love 
 "WMiich alters when it alteration finds. 
 Or bends with the remover to remove; 
 O no; it is an ever-ti.xed mark. 
 That Jooks on teni]iests, and is never 
 
 shaken ; 
 It is the star to every wandering bark, 
 Whose worth's unknown, although his 
 
 height b(! taken. 
 Love 's not Time's fool, though rosy lips 
 
 and clieeks 
 Within his bending sickle's compass 
 
 come ; 
 Love alters not with his brief hours and 
 
 weeljs, 
 But bears it ovtt even to the edge of doom. 
 If this be error, and upon me provt-d, 
 I never writ, nor no man ever loved. 
 
 No ! Time, thou shalt not boast that I 
 
 do change : 
 Thy pyramids built up with newer might 
 To me are nothing novel, nothingstrange ; 
 They are but dressings of a former sight. 
 Our dates are brief, and theiefore we 
 
 admire 
 What thou dost foist upon us that is old ; 
 And rather make them lioni to our desire. 
 Than think that we before have heard 
 
 them told. 
 Thy registers and thee I both defy, 
 Not wonderingatthepresentnortliepast ; 
 For thy records and what we see do lie, 
 Made more or less by thy continual haste : 
 This I do vow, and this shall ever be, 
 I will be true, despite thy scythe and 
 
 thee. 
 
 BEN JONSON. 
 
 [1574- 1637.] 
 
 THE NOBLE NATURE. 
 
 It is not growing like a tree 
 In bulk, doth make man better be ; 
 Or standing long an oak, three hundred 
 
 year. 
 To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : 
 A lily of a day 
 Is fairer far in Jfay, 
 Although it fall and die that night, — - 
 It was the ])lant and flower of Light. 
 In small juopoitions we just beauties see ; 
 And in short measures life may peif'ect be. 
 
 SONG OF HESPERUS. 
 
 QuF.EN, and huntress, chaste and fair, 
 Now the sun is laid to sleep, 
 Seated in thy silver chair, 
 State in wonted manner keep : 
 Hesperus entreats thy light, 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 Earth, let not thy envious shade 
 
 Dare itself to interpose ; 
 
 Cynthia'a shining orb was made 
 
 Heaven to clear, when <lay did close : 
 P)!ess us then with wished sight, 
 Cioddess excellently bright.
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 19 
 
 Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 
 
 And thy crystal shining quiver ; 
 
 Give unto the Hying hart 
 
 Space to breathe, how short soever : 
 Thou that niakest a day of night, 
 Goddess excellently bright. 
 
 ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. 
 
 This morning, timely rapt with holy fire, 
 I thought to form unto my zealous Muse, 
 What kind of creature I could most desire. 
 To honor, serve, and love ; as poets use, 
 I meant to make her fair, and free, and 
 wise. 
 Of greatest blood, and yet more good 
 than great ; 
 I meant the day-star should not brighter 
 rise. 
 Nor lend like influence from his lucent 
 seat. 
 I meant she should be courteous, facile, 
 sweet, 
 Hating that solemn vice of greatness, 
 pride ; 
 I meant each softest virtue there should 
 meet, 
 Fit in that softer bosom to reside. 
 Only a learned and a manly soul 
 
 I fiurposed her; that should, with 
 
 even powers. 
 
 The rock, the spindle, and the shears 
 
 control 
 
 Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. 
 
 Such when I meant to feign, and wished 
 
 to see. 
 My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that 
 was she. 
 
 THE SWEET NEGLECT. 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest, 
 
 As you were going to a feast: 
 
 Still to be powdered, still perfumed : 
 
 Lady, it is to be presumed, 
 
 Though art's hid causes are not found. 
 
 All is not sweet, all is not sound. 
 
 (Hve me a look, give me a face, 
 
 That makes simplicity a grace ; 
 
 Kobes loosely flowing, hair as free : 
 
 Such sweet neglect more taketh me, 
 
 Than all the adulteries of art, 
 
 That strike mine eyes, but not my heart. 
 
 HOW NEAR TO GOOD IS WHAT IS FAIR ! 
 
 How near to good is what is fair ! 
 
 Which we no sooner see, 
 But with the lines and outward air 
 
 Our senses taken be. 
 We wish to see it still, and prove 
 
 What ways we may deserve ; 
 We court, we praise, we more than love, 
 
 We are not grieved to serve. 
 
 EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. 
 
 WouLDST thou hear what man can say 
 
 In a little? — reader, stay ! 
 
 Underneath this stone doth lie 
 
 As much beauty as could die, — 
 
 Which in life did harbor give 
 
 To more virtue than doth live. 
 
 If at all she had a fault. 
 
 Leave it buried in this vault. 
 
 One name was Elizabeth, — 
 
 The other, let it sleep with death. 
 
 Fitter wliere it died to tell, 
 
 Than that it lived at all. Farewell ! 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 [Before 1649.] 
 LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WATT. 
 
 Over the mountains. 
 
 And under the waves, 
 Over the fountains. 
 
 And under the graves, 
 Under floods which are deepest, 
 
 Which Neptune obey. 
 Over rocks which are steepest. 
 
 Love will find out the way. 
 
 Where there is no place 
 
 For the glow-worm to lie. 
 Where there is no place 
 
 For the receipt of a fly, 
 Where the gnat dares not venture, 
 
 Lest hersidf fast she lay, 
 If Love come he will enter. 
 
 And find out the way. 
 
 If that he were hidden. 
 And all men that are, 
 
 Were strictly forbidden 
 That place to declare;
 
 20 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 "Winds that have no abidings, 
 
 Pitying their dehiy, 
 Would come and bring him tidings, 
 
 And direct him the way. 
 
 If the earth shouLl part him, 
 
 He would gallop it o'er ; 
 If the seas sliould o'erthwart him, 
 
 He would swim to the shore. 
 Should his love become a swallow, 
 
 Through the air to stray, 
 Love will lend wings to follow, 
 
 And will lind out the way. 
 
 There is no striving 
 
 To cross his intent, 
 There is no contriving 
 
 His plots to prevent ; 
 But if once the message greet him, 
 
 Tiiat his true love doth stay. 
 If death should come and meet him, 
 
 Love will find out the wav. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 [Before i68g.] 
 
 MAY-DAY SONG. 
 
 Remember us poor Mayers all! 
 
 And thus do we begin 
 To lead our lives in righteousness, 
 
 Or else we die in sin. 
 
 We have lieen rambling all the night, 
 
 And almost all the day ; 
 And now letunied back again. 
 
 We have brought you a branch of ]May. 
 
 A branch of May we have brought you. 
 And at your door it stands: 
 
 It is but a sp)out, 
 
 l)Ut it's well budded out 
 By the work of our Lord's hands. 
 
 Tlie heavenly gates are open wide. 
 
 Our paths are beaten plain ; 
 And if a man be not too far gone, 
 
 He may return again. 
 
 The moon shines bright, and the stars 
 give a light, 
 A little before it is day; 
 So God bless you all, lioth great and 
 small, 
 And send you a joyful May ! 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 [Before 1649.] 
 BEGONE DTJIX CARE I 
 
 Begone dull care ! 
 
 1 prithee begone from me : 
 Begone dull care ! 
 
 Thou and 1 can never agree. 
 Long while thou hast been tarrying here, 
 
 And fain thou wouldst me kill ; 
 But i' faith, dull care. 
 
 Thou never shalt have thy will. 
 
 Too much care 
 
 Will make a j'oung man gi'ay ; 
 Too much care 
 
 Will turn an old man to clay. 
 My wife shall dance, and 1 will sing, 
 
 So merrily ])ass the day; 
 For 1 Jiold it is the wisest thing, 
 
 To drive dull cart; away. 
 
 Hence, dull care, 
 
 I '11 none of thy company ; 
 Hence, dull care. 
 
 Thou art no pair for me. 
 We '11 hunt the wild boar 
 wold, 
 
 So merril)'^ ]iass the day ; 
 And then at night, o'er a cheerful bowl, 
 
 We '11 drive dull care away. 
 
 through the 
 
 BISHOP RICHARD CORBETT. 
 [1582- 1635.] 
 
 FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES. 
 
 FAnKW'ELL rewards and fairies ! 
 
 Good housewifes now may say, 
 For how foul sluts in dairies 
 
 Do fare as well as they. 
 And though they swee[) tiieir hearths no 
 less 
 
 Than maids were wont to do ; 
 Yet who of late, for cleanlii^ess, 
 
 Finds sixpence in her shoe? 
 
 Lament, lament, old Abbey.s, 
 
 The fairies' lost command; 
 They did but*changi' jniests' liabies. 
 
 But some have ciianged your land ; 
 And all your childicn sprang from thence 
 
 Are now grown Puritans ;
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 21 
 
 Who live as changelings ever since, 
 For love of your domains. 
 
 At morning and at evening both, 
 
 You merry were and glad, 
 So little care of sleep or sloth 
 
 These pretty ladies had ; 
 AVhen Tom came home from labor, 
 
 Or Cis to milking rose, 
 Then merrily went their tabor. 
 
 And nimbly went their toes. 
 
 Witness those rings and roundelays 
 
 Of theirs, which yet remain. 
 Were footed in Queen Mary's days 
 
 On many a grassy plain ; 
 But since of late Elizabeth, 
 
 And later, James came in. 
 They never danced on any heath 
 
 As when the time hath been. 
 
 By which we note the fairies 
 
 Were of the old profession. 
 Their songs were Ave-Maries, 
 
 Their dances were procession: 
 But now, alas ! they all are dead, 
 
 Or gone beyond the seas ; 
 Or farther for religion fled ; 
 
 Or else they take their ease. 
 
 A tell-tale in their company 
 
 They never could endure, 
 And whoso kept not secretly 
 
 Their mirth, was punished sure ; 
 It was a just and Christian deed, 
 
 To pinch such black and l)lue : 
 0, how the commonwealth doth need 
 
 Such justices as you ! 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 [Before 1649 ] 
 
 ROBIN GOODFELLOW. 
 
 Fuo.M Oheron, in fairy-land. 
 
 The king of ghosts and shadows there, 
 Mad Eobin I, at his command, 
 
 Am sent to view the night-sports here. 
 What revel rout 
 Is kept about. 
 In evei'y corner where I* go, 
 I will o'ersee. 
 And merry be, 
 And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 More swift than lightning can I (ly 
 
 About this airy welkin soon, 
 And, in a minute's space, descry 
 
 Each thing that "s done below the moon. 
 There 's not a hag 
 Or ghost shall wag. 
 Or crv, 'ware goblins ! where I go ; 
 But Robin I 
 Their feasts will spy, 
 And send them home with ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Whene'er such wanderers I meet. 
 
 As from tlieir lught-sports they trudge 
 home, 
 With counterfeiting voice I greet. 
 And call them on with me to roam : 
 Through woods, through lakes ; 
 Throttgh bogs, through l)rakes; 
 Or else, unseen, with them I go. 
 All in the nick. 
 To play some trick. 
 And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Sometimes I meet them like a man. 
 
 Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; 
 And to a horse I turn me can. 
 
 To trip and trot about them round. 
 
 But if to ride 
 
 My back they stride, 
 More swift than wind away I go, 
 
 O'er hedge and lands, 
 
 Through jiools and ponds, 
 I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 When lads and lasses merry be, 
 
 With possets and with junkets fine; 
 Unseen of all the comyiany, 
 
 I eat their cakes and sip their wine ! 
 And, to make sport, 
 ' I putf and snort : 
 And out the candles I do blow : 
 The maids I kiss, 
 They shriek — Who's this? 
 I answer naught but ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Yet now and then, the maids to please. 
 
 At midnight I card up their wool ; 
 And, while they sleep and take their 
 ease. 
 With wheel to threads their flax I pull. 
 I grind at mill 
 Their malt up still; 
 I dress their hemp ; I spin their tow ; 
 If any wake. 
 And would me take, 
 I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho !
 
 22 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTUKIES. 
 
 "WhtMi any noed to borrow aught, 
 
 We Il'iuI them wli;it thi-y do r(>qinre : 
 And for t\u'. use demand we naught ; 
 Our own is all we do desire. 
 1 1' to repay 
 They do delay, 
 Abroad amongst them then I go. 
 And night hy night, 
 I them atliiglit, 
 With pinehiugs, dreams, and ho, ho, 
 ho! 
 
 When lazy qiieans liave naught to do, 
 
 But study how to cog and lie; 
 To niak(; dtshate and mischief too, 
 'Twixt one anotlier secretly : 
 1 mark their gloze, 
 And it disclose 
 To tliem whom they have wronged so : 
 When I have done 
 I get me gone. 
 And leave them scolding, ho, ho, 
 ho! 
 
 When men do traps and engines set 
 
 in loopholes, wliere the vermin creep. 
 Who from tlu-ir folds and houses g(;t 
 Their ducks and geese, and lambs and 
 sheep ; 
 I spy the gin, 
 And enter in. 
 And seem a vermin taken so; 
 But when they there 
 Approach me isear, 
 I lea}) out laughing, ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 Iieyday guise ; 
 
 By wells and rills, in meadows green. 
 
 We 7iightly dainc our 
 And to our fairy king and ((Ueen, 
 
 We eliant our moonlight minstrelsies. 
 
 When larks 'gin sing, 
 
 Away we fling ; 
 And balies new -horn steal as we go ; 
 
 And elf in bed 
 
 We leave in stead. 
 And wend us laughing ho, ho, ho ! 
 
 From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I 
 
 Tims nightly revelled to and fro; 
 And for my ]uanks men call me by 
 Tlie name (if itobiu Ooodfcllnw. 
 
 Fiends, ghosts, and s])rites, 
 
 Wlio haunt tlie niglits, 
 The liags and goblins do me know; 
 
 And beldames old 
 
 My feats have told, 
 So vale, vale ; lio, ho, ho I 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 [Before 1649.] 
 EDOM O' GORDON. 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas, 
 
 When the wind l)lew shrill and cauld, 
 Said Kdom 0' Gordon to his men, 
 
 " We maun draw to a hauld. 
 
 " And whatna hauld sail we draw to. 
 
 My merry men and me? 
 We will gae to tlui house of the Rodes, 
 
 To see that fair ladye." 
 
 The lady stood on her castle wa', 
 Beheld baith dale and down; 
 
 Thei'e she was aware of a host of men 
 Came riding towards the town. 
 
 "0 see ye not, my merry men a', 
 
 see ye not what I sec ? 
 Methinks I see a host of men ; 
 
 1 marvel who they be." 
 
 She weened it had been her lovely lord, 
 
 As he cam' riding hame ; 
 It was the traitor, Edom o' Gordon, 
 
 Wha recked nor sin nor shame. 
 
 She had nae sooner buskit her.sell. 
 
 And putten on her gown. 
 Till Edom o' Gordon an' his men 
 
 Were round about the town. 
 
 They had nae sooner supper set, 
 
 Nae sooner said the grace. 
 But Edom o' Gordon an' his men 
 
 Were lighted about the place. 
 
 The lady ran up to her tower-head. 
 
 As fast as she could hie. 
 To see if by her fair si)ecches 
 
 She could wi' him agree. 
 
 " Come doun to me, ye lady gay, 
 Come doun, come doun to me ; 
 
 This night sail ye Hg within mine arms. 
 To-morrow my luidc; sail be." 
 
 " 1 winna come down, ye fause Gordon, 
 I winna come down to thee; 
 
 I winna forsake my ain dear lord, — 
 And he is na far frae me."
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 23 
 
 " Gie ovvre your house, ye lady fair, 
 
 Gie owre your house to me ; 
 Or I sail burn yoursell therein, 
 
 But aud your babies three." 
 
 " I winna gie owre, ye fause Gordon, 
 
 To nae sic traitor as thee ; 
 And if ye burn my ain dear babes, 
 
 My lord sail mak' ye dree. 
 
 "Now reach my pistol, Glaud, my man, 
 And charge ye weel my gun ; 
 
 For, but an I pierce that bluidy butcher. 
 My babes, we been undone !" 
 
 She stood upon her castle wa', 
 
 And let twa bullets flee : 
 She missed that bluidy butcher's heart, 
 
 And only razed his knee. 
 
 "Set fire to the house !" quo' fause Gordon, 
 
 Wud wi' dule and ire : 
 "Fause ladye, ye sail rue that shot 
 
 As ye burn in the fire ! " 
 
 ' ' Wae worth, wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! 
 
 I paid ye weel your fee ; 
 Why }iu' ye out the grund-wa' stane, 
 
 Lets in the teek to me ? 
 
 "And e'en wae worth ye, Jock, my man ! 
 
 1 paid ye weel your hire ; 
 Why pu' }'e out the grund-wa' stane, 
 
 To me lets in the fire?" 
 
 " Ye paid me weel my hire, ladye, 
 
 Ye paid me wf^el my fee : 
 But now I 'm Edom o' Gordon's man, — 
 
 Maun either do or dee." 
 
 then bespake her little son, 
 
 Sat on the nurse's knee : 
 Says, "0 mither dear, gie owre this house, 
 
 For the reek it smothers me." 
 
 " I wad gie a' my goud, my bairn, 
 
 Sae wad I a' my fee. 
 For ae blast o' the western wind, 
 
 To blaw the reek frae thee." 
 
 then bespake her daughter dear, — 
 She was baith jimp and sma' : 
 
 " row' me in a pair o' sheets. 
 And tow me o'er the wa' !" 
 
 They row'd her in a pair o' sheets. 
 And tow'd her owre the wa' ; 
 
 But on the point o' Gordon's spear 
 She gat a deadly fa'. 
 
 bonnie, bonnie was her mouth. 
 And cherry were her cheeks, 
 
 And clear, clear was her yellow hair, 
 AVhereon the red blood dreeps. 
 
 Then wi' his spear he turned her owre ; 
 
 gin her face was wan ! 
 
 He said, "Ye are the first that e'er 
 
 1 wished alive again." 
 
 He cam' and lookit again at her ; 
 
 gin her skin was white ! 
 
 " I might hae spared that bonnie face 
 To hae been some man's delight." 
 
 " Busk and boun, my merry men a'. 
 For ill dooms I do guess ; — 
 
 1 cannot look on that bonnie face 
 
 As it lies on the grass." 
 
 " Wha looks to freits, my master dear. 
 
 Its freits will follow them ; 
 Let it ne'er be said that Edom o' Gordon 
 
 Was daunted by a dame." 
 
 But when the ladye saw the fire 
 
 Come flaming o'er her head. 
 She wept, and kissed her children twain. 
 
 Says, " Bairns, we been but dead." 
 
 The Gordon then his bugle blew. 
 
 And said, " Awa', avva' ! 
 This house o' the liodes is a' in a flame ; 
 
 1 hauld it time to ga'." 
 
 And this way lookit her ain dear lord, 
 
 As he came owre the lea ; 
 He saw his castle a' in a lowe, 
 
 Sae far as he could see. 
 
 " Put on, put on, my wighty men, 
 
 As fast as ye can dri'e ! 
 For he that 's hindmost o' the thrang 
 
 Sail ne'er get good o' me." 
 
 Then some they rade, and some they ran, 
 Out-owre the grass and bent ; 
 
 But ere the foremost could win up, 
 Baith lady and babes were brent. 
 
 And after the Gordon he is gane, 
 
 Sao fast as he might dri'e ; 
 And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blude 
 
 He 's wroken his fair ladye.
 
 24 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 T'NKNOWN. 
 
 TAKE THY AULD CLOAK ABOUT THEE. 
 
 In \viiit(T, when the rain rained caiilil, 
 
 And IVti.st anil snow were on tlie hill, 
 Ami I'oreas with his blasts sae baiild 
 
 Was thiiat'ninj; all our kye to kill; 
 Then Hell, my wife, wha loves not strife, 
 
 She said to me right hastilie, 
 "(Jet np, gademan, save Crummie's life, 
 
 And take thy auld cloak about thee ! 
 
 "Cow Crummie is a useful cow. 
 
 And she is come of a good kin' ; 
 Aft has she wet the bairnies' mou', 
 
 And I am laith that she should pine : 
 Get uji, gudeman, it is fu' time ! 
 
 The sun shims frae the lift sae hie; 
 Sloth never made a gracious end, — 
 
 l!ae, take tliy auld cloak about thee !" 
 
 " My cloak was once a gude gray cloak, 
 
 When it was litting for my wear; 
 IJut now it 's seantly worth a groat. 
 
 For I hae worn 't this thirty year : 
 Let 's sjiend the f^car that we hae won, 
 
 We little ken the day wc '11 dee ; 
 Then I '11 be proud, .since I hae sworn 
 
 To hae a new cloak about me." 
 
 " In iliiys when our King Robert reigned. 
 
 His breeches cost but half a crown; 
 He s:ud they were a groat too dear, 
 
 An<l ea'd the tailor thief and loun. 
 Hi- was the king that woie the crown, 
 
 And thou the man of low decree : 
 It 's pride i)nts a' the country down, 
 
 Sae take thy auld cloak about thee !" 
 
 "O r.ell, my wife, why dost thou (lout? 
 
 Now is now, and then was then. 
 Seek anywhere the woild tliroughout. 
 
 Thou ken'st not clowns from gentle- 
 men. 
 They are clad in black, green, yellow, 
 and gray, 
 
 Sae fai- above their ain ilegree : 
 (hire in my life I 'II do as liny. 
 
 For I '11 liave a new cloak abotit me." 
 
 •Mliideman, I wot it's thirty year 
 Sin" we <lid am- anither ken. 
 
 And we hae had at ween us twa 
 Of lails and boniue la.sses ten ; 
 
 Now they are wonn'n grown and men, 
 I wish and pray weel may they be: 
 
 If thou wilt prove a good luishand. 
 E'en take thy auld cloak about thee." 
 
 Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, 
 
 But she will rule me if she can : 
 And oft, to lead a quiet life, 
 
 I 'm forced to yield, though I 'm gude- 
 man. 
 It 's }iot for a man with a W'oman to 
 threa])e 
 
 Unless he first give o'er the plea : 
 As we began so will we leave. 
 
 And 1 '11 take my auld cloak about me. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE BARRING O' THE DOOR. 
 
 It fell about the JIartinnias time, 
 
 And a f^ay time it was than, 
 When our gudewife got puddings to 
 make. 
 
 And she Boiled them in the pan. 
 
 The wind sae cauld blew east and north, 
 
 It blew into the floor:. 
 Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, 
 
 " Gae out and bar the door ! " 
 
 " My hand is in my huswif's kap, 
 
 Gudcmnn, as ye may .see; 
 An' it should nae be barred this hundred 
 year. 
 
 It 's no be barred for me." 
 
 They made a paction 'tween them twa, 
 
 They made it firm and sui-e. 
 That the first word whae'er should speak 
 
 Should rise and bar the door. 
 
 Then by there came twa gentlemen 
 
 At twelve o'clock at night ; 
 And thev could neither see house nor 
 hall. 
 
 Nor coal nor candle light. 
 
 And first they ate the white puddings, 
 And then tlicy ate the black ; 
 
 Thougli nnickle thought the gudewife to 
 hersel', 
 Yet ne'er a word .she spak'. 
 
 Then said the one unto the other, 
 "Here, man, tak' ye my knife !
 
 THOMAS CAREW. — WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 
 25 
 
 Do j'e tak' aff the auld man's beard, 
 And 1 '11 kiss the gudewife." 
 
 " But there 's nae water in the house, 
 And what shall we do tlian?" 
 
 " WJiat ails ye at the puddiu' broo 
 That boils into the pan?" 
 
 O, uj) then started our gudeman, 
 
 And an angry man was he : 
 " Will ye kiss my wife before my een, 
 
 And scaud me wi' puddin' bree ? " 
 
 Then up and started our gudewife, 
 Gied three skips on the floor : 
 
 "Gudeman, ye 've spoken the foremost 
 word, — 
 Get up and bar the door ! " 
 
 THOMAS CAREW. 
 
 [1589-1639.] 
 
 HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek. 
 
 Or a coral lip admires. 
 Or from starlike eyes doth seek 
 
 Fuel to maintain liis fires ; 
 As old Time makes these decay. 
 So his flames must waste away. 
 
 But a smooth and steadfast mind. 
 Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 
 
 Hearts witli equal love combined, 
 Kindle never-dying fires; — 
 
 Where these are not, I despi;e 
 
 Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. 
 
 WILLIAM BROWNE. 
 
 [1590- 1645.] 
 
 THE SIRENS' SONG. 
 
 Steer hither, steer your winged pines. 
 
 All beaten mariners : 
 Here lie undiscovered mines, 
 
 A prey to passengers : 
 
 Perfumes far sweeter than the best 
 That make the phojnix nrn and nest : 
 
 Fear not your ships. 
 Nor any to oppose you save our lips : 
 
 But coTue on sliore. 
 Where no joy dies till love has gotten 
 
 more. 
 
 For swelling waves our panting breasts, 
 Where never storms arise. 
 
 Exchange ; and be awhile our guests : 
 For stars, gaze on our eyes. 
 
 The compass, love shall hourly sing. 
 
 And, as he goes about the ring. 
 We will not miss 
 
 To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love ? 
 
 Hearken then awhile to nie, 
 And if such a woman move 
 
 As I now shall versifv. 
 Be assured, 't is she, or none, 
 That 1 love, and love alone. 
 
 Nature did her so much right, 
 As she scorns tlie help of art. 
 
 In as many virtues dight 
 As e'er yet embraced a heart. 
 
 So much good so truly tried, 
 
 Some for less were deified. 
 
 Wit she hath, without desire 
 
 To make known how much she hath ; 
 And lier anger flames no higher 
 
 Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 
 Full of pity as may be. 
 Though perhaps not so to me. 
 
 Reason masters every sense. 
 
 And her virtues grace her birth : 
 
 Lovely as all excellence. 
 
 Modest in her most of mirth : 
 
 Likelihood enougli to prove 
 
 Only worth could kindle love. 
 
 Such she is ; and if you know 
 Such a one as I have sung, — 
 
 Be she brown, or fair, or so, 
 
 That she be but somewhile young, — 
 
 Be assured, 't is she, or none, 
 
 That I love, and love alone.
 
 26 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 SIR ROBERT AYTOK 
 
 [1370-163S.] 
 
 FAIR AND UNWORTHY. 
 
 I i)0 rf)iifcss tlioii 'rt siiKiotli ami fair, 
 Ami I iiiigiit liiive gone near to love 
 thee, • 
 Had I not found the liglitest prayer 
 Tliat lijis eonld speak, had power to 
 move thee : 
 r>iit I lan ii't thee now alone, 
 As worthy to be loved by none. 
 
 I do eonfess tliou 'rt sweet ; yet find 
 Thee such an unthiift of thy sweets, 
 
 Tliy favors are but like the wind, 
 Tliat kisses everytiiing it meets; 
 
 And since thou canst with mop' than one, 
 
 Thou 'rt worthy to be kissed by none. 
 
 The niorninfj rose that untouched stands 
 Anned with lier briers, how sweetly 
 snii'ils I 
 But jilucked and strained tlnough ruder 
 hands, 
 No more her sweetness with her rlwells, 
 But scent and beauty both are gone. 
 And leaves fall from her, one by one. 
 
 Such fate, erelong, will thee betide. 
 When thou hast handled been 
 awhile, — 
 
 Like sere liowers to be thrown aside : 
 And I w ill sigh, while sonn' will smile, 
 
 To see thy love for more than one 
 
 Hath brought thee to be loved by none. 
 
 AVILLIAM STRODE. 
 [1600- 1644.) 
 
 MTJSIC. 
 
 i.t'M, me, lull me, charming air! 
 
 .My senses rock with wonder sweet: 
 Like snow on wool tiiy fallings are ; 
 Soft, like II spirit's, are thy feet! 
 (Jricf who iifi'd fear 
 'I'liat Imtli an ear? 
 ])owM let liim lie 
 And slumbering ilie, 
 And change ids sou! for hurmony! 
 
 THOMAS HEYWOOD. 
 
 (About 1640.] 
 
 GOOD-MORROW. 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcome day, 
 
 With night we banish sorrow; 
 Sweet air, blow soft ; mount, larks, aloft. 
 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 Wings from the wind to please her mind. 
 
 Notes from the lark I 'il borrow ; 
 Biril, prune tliy Aving ; nightingale, sing. 
 
 To give my love good-morrow. 
 
 Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast ; 
 
 Sing, birds, in every furrow ; 
 And from eadi hill let music slirill 
 
 Give my lair love good-morrow. 
 Blackbiiil and thrusli in every bush. 
 
 Stare, linnet, and cock-s| ariow ; 
 You pretty elves, among yourselves, 
 
 Sing my fair love good-morrow. 
 
 SEARCH AFTER GOD. 
 
 I SOUGHT thee round about, thou my 
 God ! 
 In thine abode. 
 I said unto the earth, "Speak, art thou 
 lie?" 
 She answered me, 
 "I am not." 1 incpiireil of creatures all. 
 
 In general, 
 Contained therein. They with one voice 
 
 ])roclaim 
 That none amongst them challenged such 
 a name. 
 
 I a.sked the seas and all tlie deeps below, 
 
 My God to know ; 
 I asked the reptiles and whatever is 
 
 In the abyss, — 
 Even from tlie shrimp to the leviathan 
 
 IiKpiiry ran ; 
 Hut in those deserts which no line can 
 
 sound. 
 The God I sought for was not to be found. 
 
 I asked the air if that were he ! but lo ! 
 
 It told me "No." 
 I frjim the towering eagle to the wren 
 
 Demanded then 
 If any feathered fowl 'mongst them were 
 su<'h ; 
 
 But they all, much
 
 HENRY KING. 
 
 27 
 
 Offended with my question, in full choir, 
 Answered, "To find tliy God thou must 
 look higher." 
 
 I asked the heavens, sun, moon, and 
 stars ; but they 
 Said, " We obey 
 The God thou seek est." I asked what 
 eye or ear 
 Could see or hear, — • 
 What in the world I might descry or 
 know 
 Above, below; 
 With an unanimous voice, all these things 
 
 said, 
 " We are not God, but we by him were 
 made." 
 
 I asked the world's great universal mass 
 
 If that God was; 
 Which with a mighty and strong voice 
 replied. 
 As stupefied, — 
 " I am not he, man ! for know that I 
 
 By him on high 
 Was fashioned first of nothing ; thus 
 
 instated 
 And swayed by him by whom I was 
 created." 
 
 I sought the court ; but smooth-tongued 
 flattery there 
 Deceived each ear ; 
 In the thronged city there was selling, 
 buying. 
 Swearing, and lying; 
 I' the country, craft in simpleness ar- 
 rayed, 
 And then I snid, — 
 " Vain is ray search, although my pains 
 
 be great ; 
 Where my God is there can be no deceit." 
 
 A scrutiny within myself I then 
 
 Even thus began : 
 " man, what art thou ? " What more 
 could I say 
 
 Than dust and clay, — 
 Frail, mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast, 
 
 Tliat cannot last ; 
 Enthroned to-day, to-niori'ow in an urn, 
 Formed from that earth to which I must 
 return ? 
 
 I asked myself what this great God might 
 be 
 That fashioned me. 
 
 I answered : The all-potent, sole, im- 
 mense. 
 Surpassing sense ; 
 Unspeakable, inscrutable, eternal. 
 
 Lord over all ; 
 The only terrible, strong, just, and true, 
 Wlio hath no end, and no beginning 
 knew. 
 
 He is the well of life, for he doth give 
 
 To all that live 
 Both breath and being ; he is the Creator 
 
 Both of the water, 
 Earth, air, and tire. Of all things that 
 subsist 
 He hath the list, —   
 Of all the heavenly host, or what earth 
 
 claims. 
 He keeps the scroll, and calls them by 
 their names. 
 
 Arid now, my God, by thine illumining 
 grace, 
 Thy glorious face 
 (So far forth as it may discovered be) 
 
 Methinks I see ; 
 And though invisible and infinite. 
 
 To human sight 
 Thou, in thy mercy, justice, truth, ap- 
 
 pearest, 
 In which, to our weak sense, thou comest 
 nearest. 
 
 0, make us apt to seek and quick to find, 
 
 Thou, God, most kind ! 
 Give us love, hope, and faith, in thee to 
 trust, 
 Thou, God, most just! 
 Remit all our offences, we entreat, 
 
 ]Most good ! most great ! 
 Grant that our willing, though unworthy 
 
 quest 
 May, through thy grace, admit us 
 'mongst the blest. 
 
 HENRY KING. 
 
 [isgi- 1669.] 
 
 SIC VITA. 
 
 liiKE to the falling of a star. 
 
 Or as the flights of eagles are ; 
 
 Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, 
 
 Or silver drops of morning dew ;
 
 28 
 
 tSONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Or like .1 wind that chafes tlie flood, 
 Or bubbk's whicli on water stood : 
 Even such is man, whose borrowed light 
 Is straight called in, and jiaid to-night. 
 Tlic wind blows out, the bubble dies; 
 The spring entombed in autumn lies; 
 Tin' dew dries up, the star is shot ; 
 The llight is past, — and man forgot. 
 
 ELEGY. 
 
 Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed, 
 
 Never to be disijuieted ! 
 
 My last good night ! Thou wilt not wake 
 
 Till I thy fate shall overtake; 
 
 Till age, or grii-f, or sickness must 
 
 Marry my body to tliat dust 
 
 It so nuicli loves, and till the room 
 
 My heart keeps empty in thy tomb. 
 
 Stay for me there ! I will not fail 
 To meet thee in that hollow vale. 
 And think not much of my delay: 
 1 am already on the way. 
 And follow thee with all the speed 
 Desire can make, or sorrow breeti. 
 Each minute is a short degree, 
 Ami every hour a stej) towards thee. 
 At night, when 1 betake to rest, 
 Next morn 1 rise neaier my west 
 <^f life, almost by eight hours' sail, 
 Th;in wlien sleep breathed liisdrowsygale. 
 Thus from the sun my vessel steers. 
 And niy day's cotnpass downward bears: 
 Nor labor I to stem the tide 
 Through which to thee I swiftly glide. 
 
 'T is true, with shame and giief 1 yielil, 
 Thou, like the van, first took'st the field. 
 And gotten hast the victory, 
 In tlins adventuring to die- 
 Before me, whose more years might crave 
 A just preeedi-nce in the grave. 
 r>ut hark I my pulse, like n soft drum, 
 Heats my approneh, tells thee I come: 
 .\nd slow howeVr my marches be, 
 I shall at last sit down by thee. 
 
 The thoui;ht of tills liids me go on, 
 
 And wait my dissolution 
 
 ^Vith hope iind conifort. Dear, forgive 
 
 Tlie erinie, I am ennteni to live 
 
 Divided, with but half a he;irt, 
 
 Till wc shall meet, and never part. 
 
 MARQUIS OF MOXTPtOSE. 
 
 [1612-1650.] 
 
 I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE. 
 
 Mv dear and only love, I pray 
 
 That little world of thee 
 Be .governed by no other sway 
 
 But purest monarchy : 
 For if confusion have a part. 
 
 Which virtuous souls a])hor, 
 I '11 call a synod in my heart. 
 
 And never love thee more. 
 
 As Alexander I will reign, 
 
 And I will reign alone ; 
 My thoughts did evermore disdain 
 
 A rival on my throne. 
 He either fears his fate too much. 
 
 Or his deserts are small. 
 Who dares not ]>ut it to the touch, 
 
 To gain or lose it all. 
 
 JAMES SHIELEY. 
 
 [1396- 1666.] 
 
 DEATH THE LEVELLER. 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 
 
 Are shadows, not substantial things; 
 There is no armor against fate ; 
 Death lays his icy hand on kings : 
 Sceptre and crown 
 !Must tumble down. 
 And in the dust be eijual made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 Some men with swords may reap the field, 
 And ]ilaiit fresh laurels where they 
 kill; 
 But their strong nerves at last must yield ; 
 They tame but one another still : 
 Early or late 
 They stoop to fate, . 
 Andnnistgiveup their murmuring breath 
 When they, pale captives, creep to death. 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow ; 
 
 Then boast nomore your mighty deeds ; 
 Up«in Death's purple altar now 
 
 See where the victor- victim bleeds:
 
 SIR THOMAS BROWNE. RICHARD CRASHAW. 
 
 29 
 
 Your heads must come 
 
 To the cold tomb ; 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. 
 
 EDAVARD HERBERT, (EARL OF 
 CHEP^BURY.) 
 
 [1581-1648] 
 
 CELINDA. 
 
 Walkixg thus towards a pleasant grove, 
 
 Which did, it seemed, in new delight 
 
 The pleasures of the time unite 
 
 To give a triumph to their love, — 
 
 They stayed at last, and on the grass 
 
 Eeposed so as o'er his breast 
 
 She bowed her gracious head to rest, 
 
 Such a weight as no burden \\as. 
 
 Long their fixed eyes to heaven bent, 
 
 Unchanged they did never move, 
 
 As if so great and pure a love 
 
 No glass but it could represent. 
 
 " These eyes again thine eyes shall see, 
 
 Thy hands again these hands infold. 
 
 And all chaste pleasures can be told. 
 
 Shall with us everlasting be. 
 
 Let then no doulit, Celinda, touch. 
 
 Much less your fairest mind invade ; 
 
 Were not our souls immortal made, 
 
 Our equal loves can make them such." 
 
 SIR THOMAS BROAVNE. 
 [1605 -1682.] 
 
 EVENING HYMN. 
 
 The night is come ; like to the day, 
 Depart not thou, gieat God, awav. 
 Let not my sins, black as the night, 
 Eclipse the lustre of thy light. 
 Keep in my horizon : for to me 
 The sun makes not the day, but thee. 
 Thou whose nature cannot sleep. 
 On my temples sentry keep: 
 Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes. 
 Whose eyes are open while mine close. 
 Let no dreams my head infest 
 But such as Jacob's temples blest. 
 
 Whilst I do rest, m}^ soul advance ; 
 
 Make my sleej) a holy trance : 
 
 That I may, my rest being wrought, 
 
 Awake into some holy thought, 
 
 And with as active vigor run 
 
 My course, as doth the nimbly sun. 
 
 Sleep is a death ; 0, make me try, 
 
 By sleeping, what it is to die : 
 
 And as gently lay my head 
 
 On my grave as now my bed. 
 
 Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 
 
 Awake again at last with thee. 
 
 And thus assured, behold I lie 
 
 Securely, or to wake or die. 
 
 These are my drowsy days ; in vain 
 
 I do now wake to sleeji again : 
 
 0, come that hour when I shall never 
 
 Sleep thus again, but wake forevei". 
 
 RICHARD CRASHAW. 
 
 [1605- 1650.] 
 
 WISHES. 
 
 Whoe'er she be. 
 
 That not impossible She 
 
 That shall command my heart and me ; 
 
 Where'er she lie. 
 
 Locked up fi'om mortal eye 
 
 In shady leaves of destiny, 
 
 Till that ripe birth 
 
 Of studied Fate stand forth. 
 
 And teach her fair steps to our earth ; 
 
 Till that divine 
 
 Idea take a shrine 
 
 Of crystal flesh, through which to shine ; 
 
 — Meet you her, my Wishes, 
 
 Bespeak her to my blisses. 
 
 And be ye called, my absent kisses, 
 
 I wish her beauty 
 
 That owes not all its duty 
 
 To gaudy tire, or glist'ring shoe-tie : 
 
 Something more than 
 
 Taffeta or tissue can. 
 
 Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
 
 30 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 A dice that 's Lest 
 
 Hy its own beauty drest, 
 
 And can alone connnand the rest : 
 
 A face made up 
 
 Out of no otlier shop 
 
 Tliun what Nature's white hand sets ope. 
 
 Sydnciau showers 
 Of sweet diseouise, whose powers 
 Can crown old AVinter's head with flow- 
 ers. 
 
 Whate'er delight 
 
 Can make day's forehead bright 
 
 Or give down to the w ings of night. 
 
 Soft silken hours, . 
 
 Open suns, siiady bowers ; 
 
 'Bove aj[l, nothing within that lowers. 
 
 Days, that need borrow 
 
 No part of their good morrow 
 
 P'rom a fore-spent night of sorrow : 
 
 Days, that in spite 
 
 Of darkness, by the liglit 
 
 Of a clear mind are day all night. 
 
 Life, that dares send 
 A oiiallenge to his end ; 
 And when it conies, says, " Welcome, 
 friend." 
 
 I wish her store 
 
 Of worth may leave her poor 
 
 Of wishes ; and I wish — no more. 
 
 — Now, if Time knows 
 
 That Her, whose radiant brows 
 
 "Weave them a garland of my vows ; 
 
 Her that dares be 
 
 What these lines wish to see: 
 
 I seek no further, it is She. 
 
 'T is She, and here 
 
 Lo ! I unclothe and clear 
 
 My wi.shes' cloudy character. 
 
 Such worth as this is 
 Sliull fix my (lying wishes. 
 And determine them to kisses. 
 
 I,et her full glorv. 
 
 My fancies, fly before ye; 
 
 Be ye my fictions: — but her story. 
 
 SIR RICHARD LOVELACE. 
 
 [1618-1658.] 
 
 TO ALTHEA. 
 
 When love with unconfined AA-ings 
 
 Hovers within my gates. 
 And my divine Altliea brings 
 
 To whis])er at my grates ; 
 When I lie tanglwl in her hair, 
 
 And fctteicd to her eye, 
 The birds that wanton in the air 
 
 Know no such liberty. 
 
 Stone walls do not a ]irison make, 
 
 Nor iron liais a cage ; 
 Jlind.s innocent and (piiet take 
 
 That for a hermitage : 
 If I have freedom in ni}' love, 
 
 And in my soul am free, — 
 Angels alone that soar above 
 
 Enjoy such liberty. 
 
 TO LUCASTA, 
 
 Tf.i.l me not, sweet, I am unkind, 
 
 That from the nunnery 
 Of thy chaste breast, and quiet mind. 
 
 To war and arms 1 fly. 
 
 True : a new mistress now I chase, 
 
 The first foe in the field ; 
 Ami with a sti'onger faith embrace 
 
 A sword, a horse, a shield. 
 
 Yet this inconstancy is such. 
 
 As you too shall adore ; 
 I could not love thee, dear, so much. 
 
 Loved I not honor more. 
 
 ROBERT HERRICK. 
 
 [1591-1674.] 
 
 TO DAFFODILS. 
 
 Fair Daffodils, we w-eep to see 
 You haste away so soon : 
 
 As yet the early-rising sun 
 Has not attained his noon ; 
 Stay, stay,
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 
 31 
 
 Until the hasting day 
 
 Has run 
 But to the even song ; 
 And, having prayed together, we 
 Will go with you along. 
 
 "We have short time to stay as you, 
 
 We have as short a spring ; 
 As quick a growth to meet decay. 
 As you, or anything. 
 We die, 
 As your hours do, and dry 
 
 A way 
 Like to the summer's rain. 
 Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 
 Ne'er to be found again. 
 
 TO BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 
 
 Why do ye fall so fast? 
 
 Your date is not so past, 
 But you may stay yet here awhile, 
 
 To blush and gently smile, 
 And go at last. 
 
 What ! were ye born to be 
 
 An hour or half's delight. 
 And so to bid good-niglit? 
 
 'T was pity Nature brought ye forth 
 Merely to siiow your worth. 
 And lose you quite. 
 
 But you are lovely leaves, where we 
 May read how soon tilings have 
 Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 
 
 And after they have shown their pride, 
 
 Like you, awhile, they glide 
 
 Into the grave. 
 
 TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. 
 
 Is this a fast, to keep 
 The larder lean, 
 And clean 
 From fat of veals and sheep? 
 
 Is it to quit the dish 
 
 Of flesh, yet still 
 To fill 
 The platter high with fish? 
 
 Is it to fast an hour. 
 Or rag'd to go, 
 Or show 
 A downcast look, and sour? 
 
 No : 't is a fast to dole 
 
 Thy sheaf of wheat, 
 And meat, 
 Unto the hungry soul. 
 
 It is to fast from strife, 
 From old debate 
 And hate ; 
 To circumcise thy life. 
 
 To show a heart grief-rent ; 
 To starve thy sin. 
 Not bin : 
 And that 's to keep thy Lent. 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT. 
 [1593-1633.] 
 
 VIRTUE. 
 
 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 wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its grave. 
 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
 A box wliere sweets compacted lie, 
 My music shows ye have your closes. 
 And all must die. 
 
 Onlj' a sweet and virtuous soul. 
 Like seasoned timber, never gives; 
 But though the whole world turn to coal. 
 Then chiefiy lives. 
 
 THE FLOWER. 
 
 How fresli, Lord, how sweet and 
 clean 
 Are thy returns ! e'en as the flowers in 
 spring; 
 To which, besides their own demesne, 
 The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure 
 bring. 
 Grief melts away 
 Like snow in May, 
 As if there were no such cold thing.
 
 32 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Who would have thought my shnv- 
 elh'd lieart 
 Could havL- recovered greenness ? It was 
 gone 
 Quite under ground ; as flowers depart 
 To see tlu-ir mother-root, when they have 
 111 own ; 
 Wlicre they together, 
 All tlie hard weather, 
 Dead to the ^world, keep house un- 
 known! 
 
 These are thy wonders, Loni of power. 
 Killing and quickening, bringing down 
 to hell 
 And up to heaven in an hour; 
 Making a diiniing ol' a passing bell. 
 We say amiss. 
 This or that is : 
 Thy word is all, if we could spell. 
 
 O that I once past changing were. 
 Fast in thy Paradise, where no flower 
 can wither ! 
 ^lanv a spring 1 shoot up fair 
 Ollering at heaven, growing and groan- 
 ing thither ; . 
 Nor doth my flower 
 Want a spring-shower. 
 My sins and I joining together. 
 
 But while I grow in a straight line, 
 Still upwards bent, as if heaven were 
 mine own. 
 Thy anger comes, and I decline : 
 What frost to that ? wliat pole is not the 
 zone 
 Wliere all things burn. 
 When thou dost turn. 
 And the least frown of thine is shown ? 
 
 And now in age I bud again. 
 After so many deaths I live and wiite ; 
 I once more smell the dew and rain, 
 And relish versing : my only Light, 
 It cannot be 
 That I am he 
 On whom thy tempests fell all night. 
 
 Tliesp are thy wonders, Lord of love, 
 To make us see we are l)iit flowers that 
 glide ; 
 Which when we once can find and 
 . prove, 
 Thou hnst a garden for us, where to bide. 
 Who would be morn, 
 Swelling through store, 
 Forfeit their Paradise by tlieir pride. 
 
 REST. 
 
 When God at first made man, 
 Having a glass of blessings standing by, 
 "Let us," said he, "pour on him all we 
 
 can : 
 Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie. 
 
 Contract into a span." 
 
 So strength first made a way ; 
 Then beauty flowed; then wisdom, honor, 
 
 ]iieasure : 
 When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
 Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure. 
 
 Rest in the bottom lay. 
 
 " For if I should," said he, 
 " Bestow this jewel also on my creature. 
 He would adore my gifts instead of me, 
 And restin nature, not the God of nature ; 
 
 So both should losers be. 
 
 "Yet let him keep the rest. 
 But keepthem with repining restlessness : 
 Let him be rieli and weary, that at least, 
 If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
 
 May toss him to my breast." 
 
 HENRY YAUGHAN. 
 
 [1614 -1695.] 
 
 THE BIRD. 
 
 Hither thou com'st. The busy wind 
 
 all night 
 Blew through thy lodging, where thy 
 
 own' warm wing 
 Thy pillow was. Many a sullen storm, 
 For which coaise man seems nuuli tlie 
 fitter born. 
 Plained on thy bed 
 And liarndess head ; 
 
 And now, as fresh and cheerful as the 
 
 light, 
 Tliy little heart in early hymns doth sing 
 I'nto tliat Providence whose unseen arm 
 Curbed them, and clothed thee well and 
 
 warm. 
 All things thirt be praise Him ; and had 
 Their lesson' taught them when first 
 
 made. 
 
 So hills and valleys into singing break ; 
 And tliough poor stones have neither 
 speech nor tongue,
 
 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 33 
 
 While active winds and streams both run 
 
 and speak, 
 Yet stones are deep in admiration. 
 Thus praise and prayer here beneath the 
 
 sun 
 ^lake lesser mornings, when the great 
 
 are done. 
 
 For each inclosed spirit is a star 
 
 Iiiliglitning his own little sphere, 
 Whose light, though fetcht and borrowed 
 fioni far. 
 Both mornings makes and evenings 
 there. 
 
 But as these birds of light make a land 
 glad. 
 Chirping their solemn matins on each 
 
 tree ; 
 So in the shades of night some dark 
 fowls be. 
 Whose heavy notes make all that Iiear 
 them sad. 
 
 The turtle then in palm-trees mourns. 
 While owls and satyrs howl ; 
 
 The ]ileasant land to brimstone turns. 
 And all her streams grow foul. 
 
   
 
 Brightness and mirth, and love and faith, 
 
 all Hy, 
 Till the day-spring breaks forth again 
 
 from high. 
 
 THEY ARE ALL GONE. 
 
 They are all gone into the world of light, 
 
 And I alone sit lingering here ! 
 Their very memory is fair and bright, 
 And my sad thoughts doth clear. 
 
 It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, 
 
 Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
 Or those faint beams in which this hill 
 is drest 
 After the sun's remove. 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glory, 
 
 Whose light doth trample on my days ; 
 My days, which are at best but dull and 
 hoary. 
 Mere glimmering and decays. 
 
 i» 
 holy hope ! and high humility, — 
 High as the heavens above ! 
 
 These are your walks, and you have 
 showed them me 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 
 Dear, beauteous death, — the jewel of the 
 just, — 
 Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 
 What mysteries do lie beyond th}- dust, 
 Could man outlook tliat mark ! 
 
 He that hath found some fledged bird's 
 Tiest may know. 
 At first sight, if the bird be flown ; 
 But what fair dell or grove he sings in 
 now, 
 That is to him unknown. 
 
 And yet, as angels in some brighter 
 dreams 
 Call to the soul when man doth sleep, 
 So some strange thoughts transcend our 
 wonted themes. 
 And into glory peep. 
 
 If a star were confined into a tomb. 
 Her captive flames must needs burn 
 tliere ; 
 But when the hand that lockt her up 
 gives room. 
 She'll shine through all the sphere. 
 
 Father of eternal life, and all 
 
 (treated glories under thee ! 
 Resume thv spirit from this world of 
 thrail 
 Into true liberty ! 
 
 Either disperse these mists, which blot 
 and fill 
 My perspective still as they pass; 
 Or else remove me hence unto that hill 
 Where I shall need no glass. 
 
 GEORGE WITHER. 
 
 [15S8-1667.] 
 
 FOR ONE THAT HEARiS HIMSELF 
 MUCH PRAISED. ' 
 
 My sins and follies, Lord ! by thee 
 
 From others hidclen are, 
 That such good words are spoke of me, 
 
 As now and then I hear ;
 
 34 
 
 SONGS OF TIinEE CENTUKIES. 
 
 For sure if othersi knew nic such, 
 
 Such iis iiiysult" 1 know, 
 I fsliould h^ivf liccii ilispniised as much 
 
 As 1 am inai.sc'il iiuw. 
 
 Tlic jiraiso, therefore, wliieh I liave heard, 
 
 l)(liglits not so my iniml. 
 As those thiii<js make my heart afeard, 
 
 Wliieh ill myself I find: 
 And I hud rather to he blamed, 
 
 So I Were lilameless made, 
 Tliaii for much virtue to be famed, 
 
 \\ lull 1 IK) virtues had. 
 
 Tliouph shiiiders to an innocent 
 
 Sometimes (h) bitter grow, 
 Their bitterness inocuies content. 
 
 If clear liiiiiseif lie know. 
 And when a virtuous man hath erred, 
 
 If jiraised himself lie hear. 
 It makes him f,'rieve, and more afeard, 
 
 Tliaii it he slandered were. 
 
 Lord ! therefore make my heart upright, 
 
 A\ hate'er my deeds do seem ; 
 And ii,;,diteous rather in thy sight, 
 
 Tliaii in til'- world's esteem. 
 A til] if alight good ajjpear to he 
 
 In any act of mine. 
 Let thaiiklulness be found in me, 
 
 And all the praise be thine. 
 
 COtlPANIONSHIP OF THE MUSE. 
 
 She doth tell me where to borrow 
 Comfort in the midst of sorrow; 
 Makes the desolatest place 
 To her jncsetice be a grace. 
 And the lilackest discontents 
 r.e her fairest ornaments. 
 Ill my former days of l)li.ss, 
 Her divine .skill taught me this. 
 That from everything I .saw 
 I could .some invention draw, 
 And raise pleasure to her height, 
 Through the meanest object's .sight, 
 I>y tlie murmur of a spring. 
 Or tlie least bnngii's ru.stleing. 
 IW a dai.sy, who.se leaves sjiread, 
 Shut when Titan goes to bed; 
 f)r a shady bush or tree, 
 She could more iiifii.se in nie. 
 Than all nature's beauties can 
 Jn some other wiser man. 
 
 By her help I also now 
 Make this churlish place allow 
 Some things that may sweeten glad- 
 ness. 
 In the very gall of .sadness. 
 The dull loneness, the black shade, 
 That these hanging vaults have made; 
 The strange music of the waves, 
 Beating on these hollow caves; 
 This black den which rocks emboss, 
 Overgrown with eldest moss ; 
 The rude portals that give light 
 More to terror than delight; 
 This my chamber of neglect, 
 Walled about with disrespect, — 
 From all these, and this dull air, 
 A fit object for des2)air, 
 She hath taught me by her might 
 To draw comfort and delight. 
 Therefore, thou best earthly bliss, 
 I will cherish thee for this. 
 Poe-sy, thou sweet'.st content 
 That e'er heaven to mortals lent : 
 Though they as a trille leave thee. 
 Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive 
 
 thee ; 
 Though thou be to them a scorn, 
 That to naught but earth are horn, — 
 Let my life no longer l)e 
 Than I am in love with thee ! 
 
 ANDREW MArtYELL. 
 
 [1620- 1678.] 
 
 THOUGHTS IN A GARDEN. 
 
 How vainly men themselves amaze, 
 To win the jialm, the oak, or bays : 
 And their incessant labors see 
 Crowned from some single lierh or 
 
 tree, 
 Whose short and narrow-verged .shade 
 Does jirudeiitly tlieir toils upbraid; 
 While all the flowers and trees do 
 
 close. 
 To weave the garlands of rejiose. 
 
 Fair Quiet, have I found thee here. 
 And Innocence, thy si.ster dear? . 
 Jlistaken long, I sought you then 
 In busy com]ianies of men. 
 Your .sacred plants, if here below, 
 Only among these plants will grow.
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 35 
 
 Society is all hut rude 
 To this delicious solitude. 
 
 No white nor red was ever seen 
 So amorous as this lovely green. 
 Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, 
 Cut in these trees their mistress' name. 
 Little, alas, they know or heed, 
 How far these beauties her exceed ! 
 Fair trees I where'er your barks I wound, 
 No name shall but your own be found. 
 
 Wliat wondrous life is this I lead ! 
 Eipc ap])les drop about my head. 
 Tlie luscious clusters of the vine 
 Upon my mouth do crush their wine. 
 The nectarine, and curious ])each. 
 Into niy hands themselves do reach. 
 Stumbling on melons, as I pass, 
 Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass, 
 ileanwhile the mind from pleasure less 
 Withdraws into its liappiness, — 
 Tlie mind, that ocean where each kind 
 Does straight its own I'esemblance lind; 
 Yet it creates transcending these, 
 Far other worlds and other seas; 
 Annihilating all that 's made 
 To a green tliought in a green shade. 
 Here at the fountain's sliding foot. 
 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, 
 Casting the body's vest aside. 
 My soul into the boughs does glide ; 
 There, like a bird, it sits and sings,' 
 Then whets and claps its silver \nngs. 
 And, till prepared fi)r longer flight,^ 
 "Waves in its plumes the various light. 
 
 Such was the happy garden state, 
 While 7nan there walked without a 
 
 mate: 
 After a jilace so pure and sweet, 
 AVhat otiier help could yet be meet ! 
 But 't was beyond a mortal's share 
 To wander solitary there : 
 Two paradises are in one, 
 To live in paradise alone. 
 
 How well the skilful gardener drew 
 Of flowers and herbs this dial new ! 
 Wlu-re, from above, the milder sun 
 Does through a fragrant zodiac run : 
 And, as it works, the industrious bee 
 Computes its time as well as we. 
 ]low could such sweet and wholesome 
 
 hours 
 Be reckoned, but with herbs and flow- 
 ers? 
 
 THE BERMUDAS. 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride 
 In the ocean's bosom unespied. 
 From a small boat that rowed along. 
 The listening winds received this sono- : 
 " What should we do but sing His praise 
 That led us through the watery maze 
 Where he the huge sea monsteVs racks. 
 That lift the deep upon their backs. 
 Unto an isle so long unknown. 
 And yet far kinder than our own ? 
 He lands us on a grassy stage. 
 Safe from the storms and prelates' rage. 
 He gave us this eternal sprnig 
 Which here enamels everythino-, 
 And sends the fowls to us in care. 
 On daily visits through the air. 
 He hangs in shades the orange bright, 
 Like golden lamps in a green night, 
 And does in the ])omegranates close 
 Jewels more rich than Ormus shows. 
 He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
 .And throws the melons at our feet. 
 With apples, plants of such a price. 
 No tree could ever bear them twice. 
 With cedars, chosen by his hand, 
 From Lebanon he stores the land ; 
 And makes the hollow seas that roar, 
 Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
 He cast (of which we rather boast) 
 Tlie gospel's pearl upon our coast ; 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 A temple where to sound his name. 
 0, let our voice his pi'aise exalt, 
 Till it arrive at heaven's vault, 
 Which then perhajis rebounding may 
 Echo beyond the Mexic bay." 
 
 Thus sang they in the English boat 
 A holy and a cheerful note ; 
 And all the way, to guide their chime. 
 With falling oars they kept the time. 
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 [1608- 1674.] 
 
 HYMN ON THE NATIVITY. 
 
 It was the winter wild. 
 While the heaven-born child 
 
 All meanly wrapt in the rude manger 
 lies; 
 Nature, in awe of him,
 
 30 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 
 
 Hail iloflVd her gaudy trim, 
 
 Willi hergrcat Master so to sympathize : 
 It Wiif^ 110 season then for her 
 To wanton with the sun, her lusty para- 
 mour. 
 
 Only with siieeches fair 
 
 She wooes the gentle air. 
 
 To hi^Je her guilty front with innocent 
 snow ; 
 
 Anil on her naked shame, 
 
 Tolhite with sinful blame, 
 
 The saintly veil of maiden-white to 
 throw ; 
 
 Confounded, that her Maker's eyes 
 
 Should look so near upon her foul deform- 
 ities. 
 
 ]')Ut he, her fears to cease. 
 
 Sent down tlie meek-eyed Peace : 
 
 She, crowned with olive green, came 
 
 softly sliding 
 r)own througli the turning sphere. 
 His rrady harliinger, 
 
 ^Vith turtle wing the amorous clouds 
 
 dividing; 
 An4, waving wide' her myrtle wand. 
 She strikes a universal peace through sea 
 
 and land. 
 
 No war or battle's sound 
 "Was heaiil the world around : 
 
 The idle spear and shield were high up- 
 hung; 
 The liooki'd chariot stood 
 I'nstaiiicd with hostile lilood; 
 
 The trumjiet spake not to the armed 
 throng; 
 Ami kings sat .still with awful e^-e. 
 As if thry surely knew their sovereign 
 lord was l>y. 
 
 But peaceful was the night, 
 "Will rein the Prince of Light 
 
 His ri'ign of jieaceupontheearth began : 
 The winds, with wontler whist, 
 Smoothly the waters kissed, 
 
 Wliispfiing new joys to the mild ocean, 
 ^Vlio now hath ipiiti' forgot to lave, 
 ^Vllll(• birds of liilm sit brooding on the 
 ehamied wave. 
 
 The stars, with deep amaze. 
 Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, 
 
 Bi'ndiiig one way their juecious influ- 
 eiire ; 
 And will not take their flight, 
 
 For all the morning light, 
 
 Or Lucifer had oftea warned them 
 thence ; 
 But in their glimmering orbs did glow, 
 Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid 
 them go. 
 
 And, though the shady gloom 
 Had given day her room. 
 
 The sun himself withheld his wonted 
 S])eed, 
 And hid his head for shame. 
 As his inferior flame 
 
 The new-enlightened world no more 
 should need ; 
 He saw a greater sun apjiear 
 Than his bright throne, or burning axle- 
 tree, coidd bear. 
 
 The shepherds on the lawn. 
 
 Or ere tlie point of dawn, 
 Sat simjily chatting in a rustic row ; 
 
 Full little thought they then 
 
 That the mighty Pan 
 
 Was kindly come to live with them be- 
 low ; 
 
 Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep. 
 
 Was all that did their silly thoughts so 
 busy keep. 
 
 "When such music sweet 
 
 Their hearts and ears did greet. 
 
 As never was by mortal fingers strook, 
 Divinely warbled voice 
 Answering the stiinged noise, 
 
 As all their souls in blissful rapture 
 took : 
 The air, such pleasure loath to lose. 
 With thousand echoes still prolongs each 
 heavenly close. 
 
 Nature, that heard such sound, 
 Beneath the liollow round 
 
 Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region 
 thrilling, 
 Now was alnmst won. 
 To tliink her part was done. 
 
 And that her reign had here its last 
 fulfilling; 
 She knew such hannony alone 
 Could hold all heaven and earth in happier 
 union. 
 
 At la.st surrounds their sight 
 A globe of circular light, 
 
 That with long beams the shame-faci'd 
 night arrayfd ; 
 The helmed cherubim,
 
 JOHN MILTON. 
 
 37 
 
 And swordecl seraphim, 
 
 Are seen in glittering ranks with wings 
 
 displayed, 
 Harping iu loud and solemn quire, 
 With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's 
 
 Uew-born heir. 
 
 Such music as 't is said 
 Before was never made, 
 
 But when of old the sons of morning 
 
 sung. 
 While the Creator great 
 His constellations set, 
 
 And the well-balanced world on hinges 
 
 hung, 
 And cast the dark foundations deep. 
 And bid .the weltering waves their oozy 
 
 channel keep. 
 
 Eing out, ye crj'stal spheres. 
 Once bless our human ears. 
 
 If ye have power to touch our senses so ; 
 And let your silver chime 
 Move in melodious time ; 
 
 And let the bass of Heaven's deep organ 
 l)low ; 
 And, with your ninefold harmony, 
 Make up full concert to the angelic sym- 
 phony. 
 
 For, if such holy song 
 Enwrap our fancy long. 
 
 Time will run back, and fetch the age 
 
 of gold ; 
 And speckled Vanity 
 Will sicken soon and die. 
 
 And leprous Sin will melt from earthly 
 
 mould ; 
 And Hell itself will pass away. 
 And leave her dolorous mansions to the 
 
 peering day. 
 
 Yea, Truth and Justice then 
 Will down return to men. 
 
 Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories 
 
 wearing, 
 Mercy will sit between. 
 Throned in celestial sheen, 
 
 With radiant feet the tissued clouds 
 
 down steering ; 
 And H(!aven, as at some festival, 
 Will open wide the gates of her high 
 
 palace hall. 
 
 But wisest Fate says no. 
 This must not yet be so ; 
 
 The balie yet lies in smiling infancy, 
 That on the bitter cross 
 
 Must redeem our loss, 
 
 So both himself and us to glorify : 
 Yet first, to those ycliaiued in sleep. 
 The wakeful trump of doom must thunder 
 through the deep, 
 
 Vv''ith such a horrid clang 
 As on Mount Sinai rang, 
 
 While the red fire and smouldering 
 
 clouds outbrake ; 
 The aged earth agliast, 
 With terror of that blast. 
 
 Shall from the surface to the centre 
 
 shake ; 
 When, at the world's last session, 
 The dreadful Judge in middle air shall 
 
 spread his throne. 
 
 And then at last our bliss. 
 Full and peifect is. 
 
 But now begins ; for, from this happy 
 day. 
 The old dragon, underground. 
 In straiter limits bound, 
 
 Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; 
 .'Vnd, wroth to see his kingdom fail. 
 Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. 
 
 The oracles are dumb ; 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 
 Runs through the arched roof in words 
 
 deceiving. . 
 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 Can no more divine. 
 
 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos 
 
 leaving. 
 No nightly trance, or breathed spell. 
 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the 
 
 prophetic cell. 
 
 The lonelj' mountains o'er, 
 And the resounding shore, 
 
 A voice of weeping heard and loud 
 lament ; 
 From haunted spring and dale. 
 Edged with poplar pale, 
 
 The parting Genius is with sighing sent ; 
 With flower-inwoven tresses torn, 
 The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled 
 thickets mourn. 
 
 In consecrated earth. 
 And on the holy hearth. 
 
 The Lars and Lemures mourn with mid- 
 night plaint. 
 In urns and altars_ round,
 
 38 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 A drear and dyinfj sound 
 
 AllVi^'lits the Flanit'ns at their service 
 
 quaint; 
 And the ehill inarlile st-ems to sweat, 
 While eaeh ]i(!culiar power loivgoes his 
 
 wonted seat. 
 
 IVor and ]?aalim 
 Forsake tlieir temples dim 
 
 With that twice-battered God of Pales- 
 tine ; 
 And mooned Ashtaroth, 
 Heaven's queen and mother liotli, 
 
 Now sits not girt with tapers' holy 
 sliine ; 
 The Libyae Hammon shrinks liis horn ; 
 In vain tiie Tvrian maids their wounded 
 Thannnuz mourn. 
 
 And sullen Moloeh, fled, 
 Hath left in shadows dread 
 
 His burning idol all of blackest hue: 
 In vain with cymbals' ring 
 They call the grisly king, 
 
 In dismal danee about the furnace blue : 
 The brutish gods of Nile as fast, 
 Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. 
 
 Nor is Osiris seen 
 
 In Meinpliian grove or green, 
 
 Tram))iiiig the unshowercd grass with 
 lowings Igud ; 
 Nor ran lie In- at rest 
 Witiiin liis saer('(l chest, 
 
 Nauglit but profoundest hell can be his 
 shroud ; 
 In vain with timbrelled anthems dark 
 The salilc-stoleil sorcerers bear his wor- 
 shipped ark. 
 
 He feels from Judah's land 
 The dri'aded infant's hand, 
 "The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky 
 
 eyne; 
 Nor all th(! gods lieside 
 Longer dare al)ide. 
 
 Not Typhon huge ending in snaky 
 
 twine; 
 Our balie, to show his Godhead true. 
 Can in his swaddling liands control the 
 
 damned crew. 
 
 Troop to the infernal jail. 
 
 Each fettered ghost slips to his several 
 
 grave ; 
 And the yellow-skirted fays 
 Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their 
 
 moon-loved maze. 
 
 Rut see, the Virgin blest 
 
 Hath laid her bal>e to rest ; 
 
 Time is our tedious song should here 
 have ending : 
 
 Heaven's youngest-teemed star 
 
 Hath fixed her polished car. 
 
 Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp 
 attending ; 
 
 And all about the courtly stable 
 
 Bright-harnessed angels sit in order ser- 
 viceable. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 ON ARRIVING AT THE AGE OF TWENTY- 
 THREE. 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief 
 of youth. 
 Stolen on his wing my three-and-twen- 
 
 tieth year! 
 My hasting days lly on with full cai'eer. 
 But my late spring no bud or blossom 
 showeth. 
 Perhaps my semblance might deceive the 
 truth. 
 That 1 to manhood am arrived so near. 
 And inward ripeness doth much less 
 
 ajipear. 
 That some more timely-happy spirits 
 endu'th. 
 Yet, be it, less or more, or soon or slow. 
 It shall be still in strictest measure even 
 To that same lot, howevermeaii orlijoh, 
 Toward which Time leads me, and the 
 will of Heaven ; 
 All is, if 1 have grace to use it so. 
 As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. 
 
 So, when the sun in b«il. 
 Curtained with cloudy nd. 
 
 Pillows his ihin n|Miii an orient wave, 
 The Hocking .shadows pale 
 
 ON HIS BLINDNESS. 
 
 WnKN I consider how my light is spent, 
 Ere half my days in "this dark woild 
 
 and wide. 
 
 And that one talent, wdiich is death to 
 hide. 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul 
 
 more bent 
 To serve therewith*my Maker, and present
 
 THOMAS ELWOOD. — SIR ROGER l'ESTRANGE. 
 
 39 
 
 My true account, lest he returning 
 
 chide ; 
 "Doth God exact day-labor, light 
 
 denied?" 
 I fondly ask : but Patience, to prevent 
 That murmur, soon replies, " God doth 
 
 not need 
 Either man's work or his own gifts : \who 
 
 best 
 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him 
 
 best : his state 
 Is kingly ; thousands at his bidding 
 
 speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without 
 
 rest; 
 They also serve who only stand and 
 
 wait." 
 
 THOMAS ELWOOD. 
 [1639- 1713.] 
 
 PKAYER. 
 
 Unto the glory of thy Holy Name, 
 Eternal God ! whom I l)oth love and fear. 
 Here bear I witness that I never came 
 Before thy throne and found thee 
 
 loath to hear, 
 But, ever ready with an open eir. 
 And though sometimes thou seem'st thy 
 
 face to hide 
 As one that hath his love withdrawn 
 
 from me, 
 'Tis that my faith may to the full be 
 
 tried. 
 And I thereby may only better see 
 How weak I am when noO upheld by 
 
 Thee. 
 
 RICHARD BAXTER. 
 
 [1615- 1691.] 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 Lord, it belongs not to my care, 
 
 Whether I die or live : 
 To love and serve thee is my share. 
 
 And this thy grace must give. 
 If life be long, I will be glad. 
 
 That I may long obej' ; 
 If short, yet why should I be sad 
 
 To soar to endless day ? 
 
 Christ leads me through no darker rooms 
 
 Than he went tlirough before ; 
 He that into God's kingdom comes 
 
 Must enter by his door. 
 Come, Lord, when grace has made me 
 meet 
 
 Thy blessed face to see ; 
 For if thy work on earth be sweet, 
 
 What will thy glory be ? 
 
 Then shall I end my sad complaints. 
 
 And weary, sinful days; 
 And join with the triumphant saints 
 
 That sing Jehovah's praise. 
 ]\Iy knowledge of that life is small, 
 
 The eye of faith is dim ; 
 But 't is enough that Christ knows all, 
 
 And I shall be with him. 
 
 SIR ROGER L'ESTRANGE. 
 
 [1616- 1704.] 
 
 IN PRISON. 
 
 Beat on, proud billows ; Boreas, blow ; 
 Swell, curled waves, high as Jove's 
 roof ; 
 Your incivility doth show 
 
 That innocence is tempest proof; 
 Though surly Nereus frown, my thoughts 
 
 are calm ; 
 Then strike. Affliction, for thy wounds 
 are balm. 
 
 That which the world miscalls a jail 
 
 A private closet is to me ; 
 Whilst a good conscience is my bail. 
 
 And innocence my liberty: 
 Locks, bars, and solitude together met. 
 Make me no prisoner, but an anchoret. 
 
 I, whilst I wisht to be retired. 
 
 Into this private room was turned; 
 
 As if their wisdoms had conspired 
 The salamander should be burned ; 
 
 Or like those sophists, that would drown 
 a hsh, 
 
 I am constrained to suffer what I wish. 
 
 The cynic loves his povertj' ; 
 
 The pelican her wilderness; 
 And 't is the Indian's pride to be 
 
 Naked on frozen Caucasus :
 
 40 
 
 SONGS OF THREE ©EXTURIES. 
 
 Contentment cannot smart ; stoics Ave 
 
 see 
 ilake torments easier to their apathy. 
 
 Tlii-se iiiMiiaclcs upon my arm 
 I as my mistress' Cavors wear; 
 
 Ami For to kt'e[) my ankles warm 
 1 have some iron shaekles there: 
 
 Tiiese walls are but my garrison ; this cell, 
 
 ^Vhieh men call jail, doth prove my cit- 
 adel. 
 
 I 'm in the cabinet lockt \yi, 
 
 Like some liii,'h-prize(l margarite, 
 
 Or, like the Great Mogul or Pope, 
 Am cloistered up tioin public sight : 
 
 IJetiredni-ss is a piece of majest}', 
 
 And thus, proud sultan, I 'ni as great as 
 thee. 
 
 Here sin for want of foo<l must starve, 
 Where tempting objects are not .seen; 
 
 And these stioug walls do only serve 
 To keep vice out, and keep me in : 
 
 ^lalice of late 's grown charitable sure ; 
 
 I 'm not committed, but am kept secure. 
 
 • 
 So he that struck at Jason's life. 
 
 Thinking t' have made his purpose 
 sure, 
 By a malicious friendly knife 
 
 Did only wound him to a cure. 
 Jlaliee, I see, wants wit; for what is 
 
 meant 
 ilischief, ofttimes proves favor by the 
 event. 
 
 Have you not seen the nightingale, 
 \ ]>risoner like, eoojit in a cage. 
 How doth she chant her wonted tale, 
 
 In that her narrow hermitage? 
 Even then her charming meloily doth 
 
 jirove 
 That all her bars are trees, her cage a 
 grove. 
 
 I nni that bii-d, whom they combine 
 
 Thus to deprive of liberty; 
 I'ut though they do my corps confine, 
 
 Yet maiigre hate, my soul is free: 
 And tliougji immured, yet can 1 chirp, 
 
 and sing 
 Disgrace to rebels, glory to my king. 
 
 ily soul is free as ambient air. 
 
 Although my baser jiart 's immured, 
 
 Whilst loyal thoughts do still repair 
 
 T' accompany my solitude : 
 Although rebellion do my body bind. 
 My king alone can captivate my mind. 
 
 EDMUND WALLER. 
 
 [1605- 1687.] 
 
 OLD AGE AND DEATH. 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give 
 
 o'er ; 
 So calm are we when passions are no 
 
 more. 
 For then we know how vain it was to 
 
 boast 
 Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. 
 
 Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
 
 Conceal that emptiness which age de- 
 scries. 
 
 The soul's dark cottage, battered and 
 decayed. 
 
 Lets in new light through chinks that 
 time has made. 
 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men become. 
 As they draw near to their eternal home. 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once 
 
 they view, 
 That stand upon the threshold of the 
 
 new. 
 
 ABRAHAM COWLEY. 
 
 [1618-1667.] 
 
 OF MYSELF. 
 
 This onlv grant me, that my means may 
 
 lie 
 Too low for envy, for contempt too high. 
 
 Some honor I would have, 
 Not from gieat deeds, but good alone; 
 The unknown are better than ill known; 
 
 Rumor can op(^ the grave. 
 Ae(piaint;uiee I would have, but when't 
 
 depends 
 Not on the number, but the choice, of 
 
 friends.
 
 ABKAflAM COWLEY. 
 
 41 
 
 Books should, not business, entertain 
 
 the light, 
 And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the 
 
 night. 
 My house a cottage more 
 Than palace ; and should fitting be 
 For all my use, no luxury. 
 
 My garden painted o'er 
 With Nature's hand, not Art's; and 
 
 pleasures yield, 
 Horace might envy in his Sabine field. 
 
 Thus would I double my life's fading 
 
 space ; 
 For he that runs it well twice runs his 
 race. 
 And in this true delight. 
 These unbought sports, this hapjiy state, 
 I would not fear, nor wisli, my fate; 
 
 But boldly say each night. 
 To-morrow let my sun his beams display, 
 Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to- 
 day. 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 Where honor or where conscience does 
 
 not bind, 
 No other law shall shackle me ; 
 Slave to myself I will not be : 
 Nor shall my future actions be confined 
 By my own present mind. 
 Who by resolves and vows engaged does 
 
 stand 
 For days that yet belong to Fate, 
 Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his 
 
 estate 
 Before it falls into his hand. 
 The bondman of the cloister so 
 All that he does receive does always owe ; 
 And still as time co»nes in, it goes away. 
 Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. 
 Unhappy slave ! and pupil to a bell ! 
 Which his hour's work, as well as hours, 
 
 does tell ! 
 Unhappy to the last, the kind releasing 
 
 kneU.
 
 FROM DRYDEN TO BURNS.
 
 From Dryden to Burns. 
 
 -00>*^0«- 
 
 JOHN DRYDEN. 
 
 [1631-1701.] 
 
 SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY, 1687- 
 
 From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 
 Tins universal frame began : 
 "When Nature underneath a heap 
 Of jarring atoms lay, 
 And could not heave her head, 
 
 The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
 Arise, ye more tluin dead ! 
 
 Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry 
 In order to their stations leap. 
 And music's power obey. 
 
 From 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 Jubal struck the chord(d shell 
 His listening 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 liollow of that shell 
 That spoke so sweetlj^ and so well. 
 What passion cannot music raise and quell? 
 
 The trumpet's loud clangor 
 
 Excites us to arms. 
 With shrill notes of anger 
 
 And mortal alarms. 
 The double double double beat 
 
 Of the thundering drum 
 
 Cries,' " Hark ! the foes come ; 
 Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat ! " 
 
 The soft complaining flute 
 In dying notes discovers 
 The woes of liopeless lovers. 
 Whose dirge is whispered by the war- 
 bling lute. 
 
 Sharp violins proclaim 
 Their jealous pangs and desperation. 
 Fury, frantic indignation. 
 Depth of pains, and heiglit of passion. 
 
 For the fair, disdainful dame. 
 
 But 0, 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 above. 
 
 Orpheus could lead the savage race. 
 And trees upi-ooted left their place. 
 
 Sequacious of the lyre : 
 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder 
 higher 
 
 When to her 
 
 vocal breath was 
 
 given. 
 An angel heard, and straight appeared, — 
 Mistaking earth for heaven ! 
 
 GRAND CHORUS. 
 
 As from the power of sacred lays 
 
 The spheres began to move. 
 And sung the gieat Creator's praise 
 
 To all the blest above ; 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 Tliis crumbling pageant shall devour, 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
 Tlie dead shall live, the living die, 
 And music shall untune the sky.
 
 46 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 UNDER MILTON'S PICTURE. 
 
 Three Poets, in three distant ages born, 
 Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. 
 The first in loftiness of thought sur- 
 
 ]iassed ; 
 The next in majesty ; in bnth the last. 
 The force of Natnre could no further go ; 
 To make a third, she joined the former 
 
 two. 
 
 CHARACTER OF A GOOD PARSON. 
 
 A PAHISH priest was of the pilgrim 
 
 train ; 
 An awful, reverend, and religious man. 
 His eyes ditiused a venerable grace, 
 And charity itself was in his face. 
 Eich was his soul, though his attire was 
 
 poor 
 (As God hath clothed his own ambassa- 
 dor) ; 
 For such, on earth, his blessed Redeemer 
 
 bore. 
 Of sixty years he seemed ; and well might 
 
 la.st 
 To sixty more, but that he lived too fast. 
 Refined lumself to soul, to curb the sense. 
 And made almost a sin of ab.-;tinence. 
 Yet had his aspect nothing of severe, 
 But suchafaci- as promised him sincere. 
 Nothing reserved or sullen was to see ; 
 But sweet regards, antl pleasing sanctity. 
 Mild was his accent, and his action free. 
 AVith eloquence innate his tongue was 
 
 armed ; 
 Though harsh the precept, yet the peo- 
 ple charmed. 
 For, letting d(jwn the golden chain from 
 
 high, 
 He drew his audience ujiward to the sky ; 
 And oft with holy hymns he charmed 
 
 their ears 
 (A music more melodious than the 
 
 spheres); 
 For David left him, when he went to rest. 
 His lyre ; and after him he sung the 
 
 best. 
 He bore his gi-eat commission in his look ; 
 But sweetly tcmiiered awe, and softened 
 
 all he s])nke. 
 He preached the joys of heaven and pains 
 
 of liell, 
 And warned the sinner with becoming 
 
 zeal ; 
 But on eternal mercy loved to dwell. 
 
 He taught the gospel rather than the 
 
 law; 
 And forced himself to drive.; but loved 
 
 to draw. 
 F.or feaj'but freezes minds ; but love, like 
 
 heat. 
 Exhales the sonl sublime, to seek her 
 
 native seat. 
 To threatsthe stubborn sinneroft is hard, 
 Wrapped in his crimes, against the 
 
 storm prepared ; 
 But when the milder beams of mercy 
 
 He melts, and throws his cumbrous cloak 
 away. 
 
 Lightning and thunder (heaven's artil- 
 lery) 
 
 As harbingers before the Almighty fly : 
 
 Tho.se but proclaim his style, and di.sap- 
 ])ear ; 
 
 The stiller sounds succeed, and God is 
 there. 
 
 REASON. 
 
 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and 
 
 stars 
 To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, 
 Is reason to the soul : and as on high, 
 Tiiose rolling fires discover but the sky, 
 Not light us here ; so reason's glim mer- 
 ging ray 
 "Was lent, not to assur(> our doubtful way. 
 But guide us upward trf a better day. 
 And as tho.se nightly tapers di-sajipear 
 When day's bright lord ascends our 
 
 hemisphere ; 
 So pale grows reason at religion's sight, — 
 So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural 
 light. 
 
 THOMAS KEN. 
 
 [I637-I7II.] 
 
 MORNING HTiMN. 
 
 Aavake, my soul, and with the sun 
 Thy daily course of duty run ; 
 Shake off dull .sloth, and joyful rise 
 To pay thy morning sacrifice. 
 
 Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart, 
 And with the angels bear thy part,
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 47 
 
 Wlio all night long unwearied sing 
 High praises to the eternal King. 
 
 All praise to Thee, who safe hast kept, 
 And hast refreshed me whilst 1 slept ; 
 Grant, Lord, when 1 from death shall 
 
 wake, 
 T may of endless light partake. 
 
 Lord, I my vows to thee renew ; 
 Disperse my sins as morning dew ; 
 Guard my first springs of thought and 
 
 will. 
 And with thyself my spirit fill. 
 
 Direct, control, suggest, this day, 
 All I design, or do, or say ; 
 That all my powers, with all their might,- 
 Li thy sole glory may unite. 
 
 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow ; 
 Praise him, all creatures here below ; 
 Praise him above, ye heavenly host; 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. 
 
 guide. 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON. 
 
 [1672-1719.] 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 How are thy servants blest, Lord ! 
 
 How sui'e is their defence ! 
 Eternal Wisdom is theii ^ 
 
 Their helji Omnipotence. 
 
 In foreign realms and lands remote, 
 
 Supj)orted by thy care. 
 Through burning climes I passed unhurt, 
 
 And breathed in tainted air. 
 
 Thy mercy sweetened every toil. 
 
 Made every region please ; 
 The hoary Alpine hills it warmed, 
 
 And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 
 
 Think, my soul, devoutly think. 
 
 How, with aflVighted eyes, 
 Tliou saw'st the wide extended deep 
 
 In all its horrors rise. 
 
 Confusion dwelt in every face. 
 
 And fear in every heart ; 
 When waves on waves, and gulfs on gulfs, 
 
 O'ercame the pilot's art. 
 
 Yet then from all my griefs, Lord, 
 
 Thy mercy set me free, 
 Whilst in the confidence of prayer, 
 
 My faith took hold on thee. 
 
 For, though in dreadful whirls we hung. 
 
 High on the broken wave, 
 I knew thou wert not slow to hear, 
 
 Nor impotent to save. 
 
 The storm was laid, the winds retired 
 
 Obedient to thy will ; 
 The sea, that roared at thy command, 
 
 At thy command was still. 
 
 In midst of dangers, fears, and death, 
 
 Thy goodness 1 '11 adore. 
 And praise thee for thy mercies past, 
 
 And humbly hope for more. 
 
 My life, if thou preserv'st my life, 
 
 Thy sacrifice shall be ; 
 And death, if death must be my doom, 
 
 Shall join my soul to thee. 
 
 PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XXHI. 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare. 
 And feed me with a sheplierd's care ; 
 His j^resence shall my wants supply, 
 And guard me with a watchful eye ;~ 
 My noonday walks he shall attend. 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint. 
 Or on the thirsty mountain pant, 
 To fertile vales and dewy rneads 
 My weary, wandering steps he leads, 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 Though in the paths of death I tread, 
 With gloomy horrors overspread. 
 My steadfast heart shall fear no ill ; 
 For thou, Lord, art with me still : 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid, 
 And guideme through the dreadful shade. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way, 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray. 
 Thy bounty shall my wants beguile. 
 The barren wilderness shall smile, 
 With sudden greens and herbage crowned, 
 And streams shall murmur all around.
 
 48 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 ALEXA^TER POPE. 
 
 [1688-1744.] 
 
 THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. 
 
 Father of all ! in every age, 
 
 In every elinie adored,. 
 By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! 
 
 Thou great First Cause, least understood. 
 
 Who all my sense confined 
 To know but this, that thou art good. 
 
 And that myself am blind ; 
 
 Yet gave me, in this dark estate. 
 
 To see the good from ill ; 
 And, binding nature fast in fate, 
 
 Left free the human will. 
 
 What conscience dictates to be done. 
 
 Or warns me not to do. 
 This teach me more than hell to shun, 
 
 That more than heaven pursue. 
 
 What blessings thy free bounty gives 
 
 Let me not cast away ; 
 For God is paid when man receives : 
 
 To enjoy is to obey. 
 
 Yet not to earth's contiacted span 
 Thy goodness let me bound. 
 
 Or think thee Lord alone of man, 
 When thousand worlds are round. 
 
 Let not this weak, unknowing hand 
 Presume thy bolts to throw. 
 
 And deal damnation round the land 
 On each I judge thy foe. 
 
 If I am right, thv grace impart 
 
 Still in the rigiit to stay ; 
 If I am wrong. O, teach my heart 
 
 To find that better way ! 
 
 Save me alike from foolish pride. 
 
 Or imj)ious discontent, 
 At auglit thy wisdom has denied. 
 
 Or auglit thy goodness lent. 
 
 Tench me to feel another's woe. 
 
 To liide the fault I see ; 
 Tb:it mercy I to others show. 
 
 That mercy show to me. 
 
 Mean thonch 1 ani, not wholly so. 
 Since quickened by thy breath ; 
 
 0, lead me wheresoe'er I go, 
 Through this day's life or death. 
 
 This day be bread and peace my lot; 
 
 All else beneath the sun 
 Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, 
 
 And let thy will be done ! 
 
 To thee, whose temple is all space, — 
 Who.se altar, earth, sea, .skies, — 
 
 One chorus let all beings raise ! 
 All Nature's incense rise ! 
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 HAPPiNES.s ! our being's end and aim ! 
 
 Good, i>leasure, ease, content ! whate'er 
 thy name ; 
 
 That something still, which promjits the 
 eternal sigh ; 
 
 For which we bear to live or dare to 
 die ; 
 
 Which still so near us, yet beyond us 
 lies, 
 
 O'erlooked, seen double by the fool, and 
 wise. 
 
 Plant of celestial seed ! if dropped be- 
 low. 
 
 Say, in what mortal soil thou dcigii'st to 
 grow ? 
 
 Fair opening to .some court's ])ropitious 
 shrine, 
 
 Or deep with diamonds in the flaming 
 mine ? 
 
 Twined • v ith the wreaths Parnassian 
 laurels yield. 
 
 Or reaped in iron harvests of the field ? 
 
 Wheie grows ?— Mhere grows it not? 
 If vain our toil. 
 
 We ought to blame the culture, not the 
 soil : 
 
 Fixed to no spot is happiness sincere, 
 
 'Tis nowhere to be found, or every where. 
 Ask of the learned the way, the learned 
 are blind ; 
 
 This bids to .serve, and that to shun man- 
 kind : 
 
 Some place the bliss in action, some in 
 ease ; 
 
 Those call it pleasure, and contentment 
 these : 
 
 Some, sunk to beasts, find pleasure end 
 in pain ; 
 
 Some, swelled to gods, confess e'en vir- 
 tue vain : 
 
 Or indolent, to each extreme they fall, —
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 49 
 
 To trust in everything, or doubt of all. 
 
 Who thus define it, say they more or less 
 
 Tlian tliis, that ha]ipiness is Iiappiness ? 
 
 Take nature's patli, and mad opinion's 
 leave ; 
 
 All states can reach it, and all heads con- 
 ceive ; 
 
 Obvious her goods, in no extremes thev 
 dwell ; 
 
 There needs but thinking right and 
 meaning well ; 
 
 And mourn our various portions as we 
 J)! ease. 
 
 Equal is common sense and common ease. 
 
 Remember, man, "The Universal Cause 
 
 Acts not by partial, Viut by general laws" ; 
 
 And makes what happiness we justly 
 call 
 
 Subsist not in the good of one, but all. 
 
 There 's not a blessing individuals jind. 
 
 But st)me way leans and hearkens to the 
 kind ; 
 
 No bandit fierce, no tyrant mad with 
 pride, 
 
 No caverned hermit rests self-satisfied : 
 
 Wlio most to shun or hate mankind }ire- 
 tend. 
 
 Seek an admirer, or wouM fix a friend : 
 
 Abstract what others feel, wliat others 
 think, 
 
 All y)leasures sicken, and all glories sink : 
 
 Each has his share ; and who would 
 more obtain 
 
 Shall find the ])leasure pays not half the 
 pain. 
 
 Order is Heaven's first law ; and, this con- 
 fessed, 
 
 Some are, and must be, greater than the 
 rest, 
 
 More rich, more wise : but who infers 
 from hence 
 
 That such are happier shocks all common- 
 sense. 
 
 Heaven to mankind impartial we confess, 
 
 If all are equal in their hajipiness : 
 
 But mutual wants this happiness in- 
 crease ; 
 
 All nature's difference keeps all nature's 
 yjeace. 
 
 Condition, circumstance, is not the thing; 
 
 Bliss is the same in subject or in king. 
 
 In who obtain defence or who defend. 
 
 In him who is or him who finds a friend ; 
 
 Heaven breathes through every member 
 of the whol(! 
 
 One common blessing, as one common 
 soul. 
 
 But fortune's gifts if each alike possessed. 
 
 And all were e(pial, must not all con- 
 test ? 
 
 If then to all men happiness was meant, 
 
 God in externals could not jjlace con- 
 tent. 
 Fortune her gifts may variously dis- 
 j.ose. 
 
 And these be happy called, unhappy 
 tiiose ; 
 
 But Heaven's just balance equal will ap- 
 pear, 
 
 "While those are placed in hope, and 
 these in fear ; 
 
 Not present good or ill, the joy or curse. 
 
 But future views of better or of worse. 
 
 O sons of earth, attempt ye still to 
 rise. 
 
 By mountains piled on mountains, to the 
 skies ? 
 
 Heaven still with laughter the vain toil 
 surveys, 
 
 And buries madmen in the heaps they 
 raise. 
 Know, all the good that individuals 
 find. 
 
 Or God and nature meant to mere man- 
 kind. 
 
 Reason's wliole pleasure, ajl the joys of 
 sense, 
 
 Lie in tliree words, health, peace, and 
 competence. 
 
 ALLAN RAMSAY. 
 
 [1685-1758.] 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Fakewell to Lochaber, farewell to my 
 
 Jean, 
 Where heartsome with thee I have mony 
 
 a day been : 
 To Lochaber no more, to Lochaber no 
 
 more. 
 We '11 maybe return to Lochaber no 
 
 more. 
 These tears that I shed they are a' for 
 
 my dear. 
 And not for the dangers attending on 
 
 weir ; 
 Though borne on rough seas to a far 
 
 bloody shore. 
 Maybe to return to Lochaber no mor» !
 
 50 
 
 SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Tliougli hunicanes rise, and rise every 
 
 wind, 
 No teini)est can eciual the storm in my 
 
 mind ; 
 Thougli loudest of thunders on louder 
 
 waves roar, 
 That 's iiaetliing like leaving my love on 
 
 tile shore. 
 To leave thee behind me my heart is sair 
 
 pained, 
 But by ease that 's inglorious no fame 
 
 ean be gained : 
 And beauty and love's the reward of the 
 
 brave ; 
 And I maun deserve it before I can crave. 
 
 Then glory, mj- Jeany, maun plead my 
 
 exiHise ; 
 Since honor commands me, how can I 
 
 refuse ? 
 AVithout it I ne'er ean have merit for 
 
 thee. 
 And losing thy favor I 'd better not be. 
 I gae then, my lass, to win honor and 
 
 fame, 
 And if I should chance to come gloi'ious 
 
 liame, 
 I 'II bring a heart to thee with love run- 
 ning o'er. 
 And then 1 11 leave thee and Lochaber 
 
 no more. 
 
 JOTIX GAY. 
 [1688-1732.] 
 
 THE PAES'TER WHO PLEASED NOBODY 
 AND EVERYBODY. 
 
 Xest men suspect your tale untrue, 
 Keep probability in view. 
 The travi'Ili-r, leajiing o'er those bounds, 
 The credit of his book confounds. 
 "Who with liis tongue hath annies routed 
 Makes even his real courage doubted : 
 l>ut tlnttery never seems absurd ; 
 Thr tlatt<'red always lakos your word: 
 Impossiliilitics seeTii just ; 
 Tlicy take the strongest ]ii'aise on trust, 
 liypei bides, though ne'er so great, 
 "Will still come sliort of .self-conceit. 
 
 So very like a. painter drew. 
 That every eye tlie pictun- knew; 
 He hit complexion, feature, air, 
 
 ! So just, the life itself was there. 
 ; No Hatteiy with his colors laid. 
 To bloom restored the faded maid ; 
 He gave each muscle all its strength. 
 The nioutli, the chin, the nose's length. 
 His honest pencil touched with truth. 
 And marked the date of age and youth. 
 He lost his friends, his jjractice failed; 
 Truth should not always be revealed; 
 In du.sty piles his pictures lay, 
 I For no one sent the .second pay. 
 Two bustos, fraught with every grace, 
 A Venus' and Apollo's face. 
 He placed in view ; resolved to please, 
 Whoever sat, he drew from these. 
 From these corrected ever}' feature. 
 And spirited each awkward creature. 
 All things Avere set ; the hour was 
 come. 
 His pallet ready o'er his thumb. 
 My lord appeared ; and seated riglrt 
 In proper attitude and light, 
 The painter looked, he sketched the 
 
 ]>iece, 
 Tlien dij>i)eil his pencil, talked of Greece, 
 Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air ; 
 "Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there 
 Might well a Raphael's hand require. 
 To give them all their native fire ; 
 The features fraught Mith sense and 
 
 wit, 
 You "11 grant are very hard to hit ; 
 But yet with patience yon shall view 
 As much as paint and art can do. 
 Observe the work." ily lord rejilied : 
 " Till now I thought my mouth was 
 
 wide ; 
 Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; 
 Dear sir, for me, 't is I'ar too young." 
 "Oh ! pardon me," the artist cried, 
 "In this the painters must det-ide. 
 The piece even common eyes must strike, 
 I warrant it extrenudy like." 
 
 Jly lord examined it anew ; 
 No looking-glass seemed half so true. 
 A lady came ; with borrowed grace 
 He from his Venus formed her face. 
 Her lover ]iraised the painter's art; 
 So like the picture in his heart ! 
 To every age .some charm he lent ; 
 Even beauties were almost content. 
 Through all the town his art they praised; 
 His custom grew, his price was raised. 
 Had lie the real likeness .shown. 
 Would any man tlie ]ticture own ? 
 P)Ut when tlius ]iiip])i]y he wrought, 
 Each found the likeness in his thourjlit.
 
 JOHN BYROM. — JAMES THOMSON, 
 
 51 
 
 JOHN BYROM. 
 
 [1691-1763.] 
 
 CARELESS CONTENT. 
 
 I AM content, I do not cave, 
 
 W'dg as it will the world for me ; 
 
 "When fuss and fret was all luy fare, 
 It got no ground as I could see : 
 
 So wlien away my caring went, 
 
 1 counted cost, and was content. 
 
 AVith more of thanks and less of thought, 
 I strive to make my matters meet ; 
 
 To seek what ancient sages sought. 
 Physic and food in sour and sweet : 
 
 To take what passes in good part, 
 
 And keep the hiccups from the heart. 
 
 With good and gentle-humored hearts, 
 I choose to chat where'er 1 come, 
 
 Whate'er the subject be that starts ; 
 But if I get among the glum, 
 
 I hold my tongue to tell the truth. 
 
 And keep my breath to cool my broth. 
 
 For chance or change of peace or pain. 
 For Fortune's favor or her frown, 
 
 For lack or glut, for loss or gain, 
 I never dodge nor up nor down ; 
 
 But swing what way the ship shall sAvim, 
 
 Or tack about with e<jual trim. 
 
 I suit not where I shall not speed. 
 Nor trace the turn of every tide ; 
 
 If simple sense will not succeed, 
 I make no bustling, but abide; 
 
 For shining wealth or scaring woe, 
 
 I force no friend, I fear no foe. 
 
 Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, 
 Of they 're i' the wrong, and we 're 
 i' the right, 
 
 I shun the rancors and the routs ; 
 And wishing well to every wight, 
 
 Whatever tui'n the matter takes, 
 
 I deem it all but ducks and drakes. 
 
 With whom I feast I do not fawn, 
 Nor if the folks should flout me, faint ; 
 
 If wonted welcome be withdrawn, 
 I cook no kind of a comjilaint : 
 
 With none disposed to disagree, 
 
 But like them best who best like me. 
 
 Not that I rate myself the rule 
 
 How all my betters should behave ; 
 
 But fame shall find me no man's fool, 
 
 Nor to a set of men a slave : 
 I love a friendship free and frank, 
 And hate to hang upon a hank. 
 
 Fond of a true and trusty tie, 
 1 never loose where'er I link ; 
 
 Though if a business budges by, 
 I talk thereon just as I think ; 
 
 My word, my work, my heart, my hand. 
 
 Still on a side together stand. 
 
 If names or notions make a noise, 
 Whatever hap the question hath. 
 
 The point impartially 1 poise, 
 
 And read or write, but without wrath; 
 
 For should I burn, or break my brains, 
 
 Pray, who will pay me for my pains ? 
 
 I love my neighbor as myself, 
 
 Myself like him too, by his leave ; 
 
 Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf 
 Came I to crouch, as I conceive : 
 
 Dame Nature doubtless has designed 
 
 A man the monarch of his mind. 
 
 Now taste and try this temper, sirs ; 
 
 Mood it and brood it in your breast ; 
 Or if ye ween, for worldly stirs, 
 
 That man does right to mar his rest, 
 Let me be deft, and debonair, 
 1 am content, I do not care. 
 
 JAMES THOMSOK 
 
 [1700- 1748.] 
 
 FROM THE " CASTLE OP INDOLENCE." 
 
 I\ lowly dale, fast by a river's side. 
 With woody hill o'er hill encompassed 
 
 round, 
 A most enchanting wizard did ainde, 
 Than whom a friend more fell is no- 
 where found. 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of grouml : 
 And there a season atween June gnd 
 
 May, 
 Half pranked with spring, witli sum- 
 mer half imbrowncnl, 
 A listless climate made, where, sooth 
 to say. 
 No living wight could work, nor cared 
 even for play.
 
 52 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Was naught around but images of rest : 
 
 Sleep-sootliing groves, and quiet lawns 
 between ; 
 
 And tiowery beds that slumberous iu- 
 tluence kest, 
 
 Fiom poiniies breathed; and beds of 
 l)lea;sant green, 
 
 Where never yet was creeping crea- 
 ture seen. 
 
 Meantime unnumbered glittering 
 streandets j)layed, 
 
 And hurled everywhere their waters 
 sheen ; 
 
 That, as they bickered through the 
 sunny glade. 
 Though restless still themselves, a lull- 
 ing murnmr made. 
 
 Joined to the jirattle of the purling 
 
 rills. 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the 
 
 vale. 
 And flocks loud bleating from the dis- 
 tant hills. 
 And vacant shepherds piping in the 
 
 dale ; 
 And now and then sweet Philomel 
 
 would wail. 
 Or stoek-doves plain amid the forest 
 
 deep, 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing 
 
 gale ; 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did 
 
 keep; 
 Yet all these sounds yblent incUued all 
 
 to sleep. 
 
 Full in the passage of the vale above, 
 A sable, silent, solemn forest stood. 
 Where naught but shadowy forms was 
 
 seen to move, 
 As Idlesse fancied in her dreamymood : 
 And u)) the hills, on either side, a 
 
 wood 
 Of blackening pines, aye waving to 
 
 and fro, 
 Sent forth a sleepy horror through the 
 
 blood ; 
 And where this vallev winded out bi'- 
 
 low, 
 Tlie iiniiiMUring main was heard, and 
 
 M-incly heard, to flow. 
 
 A i>leasingland of drowsy-head it was. 
 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that 
 pass. 
 
 Forever Hushing round a summer sky : 
 
 There eke the soft delights, that witcli- 
 ingly 
 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the 
 breast, 
 
 And the calm pleasures, always hov- 
 ered nigh ; 
 
 But whate'er smacked of noj'ance or 
 unrest 
 Was far, far off expelled fi'om this deli- 
 cious nest. 
 
 A HYMN. 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Fa- 
 ther, these 
 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling 
 year 
 
 Is full of thee. Forth in the jileasing 
 spiing 
 
 Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and 
 love. 
 
 Wide Hush the fields; the softening air 
 is balm ; 
 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest 
 smiles; 
 
 And every sense, and every heart, is joy. 
 
 Then comes thy glory in the summer 
 months. 
 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then 
 thy sun 
 
 Shoots full jieifection through the swell- 
 ing year ; 
 
 And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder 
 speaks, 
 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling 
 eve, 
 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow-whis- 
 pering gales. 
 
 Tliy bounty shines in autumn nncon- 
 fined. 
 
 And spreads a common feast for all that 
 lives. 
 
 In winter awful thou ! with clouds and 
 storms 
 
 Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tem- 
 pest rolled. 
 
 Majestic darkness! On the whirlwind's 
 wing, 
 
 Riding suldime, thou bid'st tlie woiM 
 (idore, 
 
 Of dreanjs that wave bei'ore the half- i And humblest nature with thy northern 
 shut eye : 1 blast.
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 53 
 
 Mysterious round ! what skill, what 
 force divine, 
 
 Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, 
 
 Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind 
 art. 
 
 Such beauty aijd beneficence combined ; 
 
 Shade, unperceived, so softening into 
 slxade ; 
 
 And all so forming an harmonious M'hole ; 
 
 That, as they still succeed, thev^ ravish 
 still. 
 
 But wandering oft, with brute uncon- 
 scious gaze, 
 
 Man marks not thee, marks not the 
 mighty hand. 
 
 That, ever busy, wheels the silent 
 spheres ; 
 
 "Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steam- 
 ing, thence 
 
 The fair profusion that o'erspreads the 
 spring ; 
 
 Flings from the sun direct the flaming 
 day; 
 
 Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests 
 forth ; 
 
 And, as on earth this grateful change 
 revolves, 
 
 With transport touches all the springs 
 of life. 
 Natnre, attend! join every living soul. 
 
 Beneath the spacious temple of the sky. 
 
 In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise. 
 
 One general song ! To him, ye vocal 
 gales, 
 
 Breathe soft, whose spirit in your fresh- 
 ness breathes : 
 
 0. talk of him in solitary glooms ; 
 
 Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely wav- 
 ing pine 
 
 Fills the brown shade with a religious 
 awe! 
 
 And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar, 
 
 Who shake the astonished world, lift 
 high to heaven 
 
 The impetuous song, and say from whom 
 you rage. 
 
 His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trem- 
 bling rills ; 
 
 And let me catch it as I muse along. 
 
 Ye headlong torrents, rapid and pro- 
 found ; 
 
 Ye softer floods, that lead the humid 
 maze 
 
 Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, 
 
 A secret world of wonders in thyself, 
 
 Sound his stupendous praise, whose 
 greater voice 
 
 Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings 
 
 fall. 
 Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, 
 
 and tlowt-rs. 
 In mingled clouds to him, whose suir 
 
 exalts, 
 Whose breath perfumes you, and whose 
 
 pencil paints. 
 Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to 
 
 him ; 
 Breathe your still song into the reaper's 
 
 heart. 
 As home he goes beneath the joyous 
 
 moon. 
 Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth 
 
 asleep 
 Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest 
 
 beams. 
 Ye constellations, while your angels 
 
 strike. 
 Amid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. 
 Great source of day ! best image here 
 
 below , 
 Of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, 
 From world to world, the vital ocean 
 
 round. 
 On Nature write with every beam his 
 
 praise. 
 The thunder rolls : be hushed the pros- 
 trate world ; 
 While cloud to cloud returns the solemn 
 
 hymn. 
 Bleat out afresh, ye hills; j'e mossy 
 
 rocks, 
 Retain the sound ; the broad res]iousive 
 
 low. 
 Ye valleys, raise ; for the great Shep- 
 herd reigns, 
 And his unsuffering kingdom yet will 
 
 come. 
 Ye woodlands all, awake : a boundless 
 
 song 
 Burst from the groves; and when the 
 
 restless day. 
 Expiring, lays the warbling world asleej), 
 Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, 
 
 charm 
 The listening shades, and teach the night 
 
 his praise. 
 Ye chief, for whom the whole creation 
 
 smiles. 
 At once the head, the heart, and tongue 
 
 of all. 
 Crown the great hymn! in swarming 
 
 cities vast, 
 Assembled men to the deep organ 
 
 join
 
 54 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 The long-resounding voice, oft breaking 
 
 clear, 
 At solemn pauses, through the swelling 
 
 bass ; 
 Ami, as each mingling flame increases 
 
 eacli, 
 In one united ardor rise to heaven. 
 Ur it" you rather clioos(! the rural sliade, 
 And find a fiine in every sacred grove. 
 There let tlie shepherd's flute, the vir- 
 gin's lay. 
 The pionipting scrapli, and the poet's 
 
 lyre, 
 Still sing the God of seasons, as they 
 
 roll. 
 For me, when I forget the darling 
 
 theme, 
 "Whether the blossom blows, the summer 
 
 ray 
 Russets the plain, inspiring autumn 
 
 gleams. 
 Or winter rises in the blackening east. 
 Be my tongue mute, my fancy paint no 
 
 more. 
 And, dead to jov, forget my heart to 
 
 beat ! 
 Should fate coinmand mc to the far- 
 thest verge 
 Of the green eartli, to distant barbarous 
 
 climes, 
 Kivers unknown to song, — where first 
 
 the sun 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or liis .setting 
 
 beam 
 Flames on tlie Atlantic isles, — 't is 
 
 nauglit to me : 
 Since God is ever ]>resent, ever felt, 
 In the void waste, as in tlie city full ; 
 And wliere he vital breathes, theie must 
 
 be joy. 
 AVhen even at last the solemn hour shall 
 
 come. 
 And wing ni\' mystic flight to future 
 
 Worlds, 
 I clieeilul will obey; tliere, with new 
 
 ] lowers, 
 Will rising wonders sing: I cannot go 
 "Where IJiiiversid hove not smiles ;ironnd, 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, anil all their 
 
 suns ; 
 From seeming evil still educing good, 
 .\nil better thence again, and better 
 
 still. 
 In infinite progi-ession. Hiit I lose 
 Myself in him, in light inetliible ! 
 Gome then, expressive Silence, muse his 
 
 praise. 
 
 JOnX DYER. 
 
 [1700-1758.] 
 
 GRONGAR HILL. 
 
 Sii.F.XT nymph, with curious eye! 
 Who, the purple eve, dost lie 
 On the mountain's lonely van. 
 Beyond the noise of busy man. 
 Painting fair the form of things, 
 "While the yellow linnet sings. 
 Or the tuneful nightingale 
 Gharms the forest with her tale, — 
 Gome, with all thy various hues. 
 Gome and aid thy sister Muse. 
 Now, while Phiebus, riding high, 
 Gives lustre to tlie land and sky, 
 Grongar Hill invites niy song, — 
 Draw the landseajie bright and strong; 
 Grongar, in who.se mossy cells 
 Sweetly musing Quiet dwells ; 
 Grongar, in whose silent shade, 
 For the modest JIuscs made, 
 So oft I have, the evening still, 
 At the fountain of a rill. 
 Sat U[ion a flowery bed, 
 With my hand beneath my head, 
 AVhile strayed my eyes o'er Towy's 
 
 flood. 
 Over mead and over wood, 
 From house to house, from hill to liill. 
 Till Gontem})lation had her fill. 
 
 About his checkered sides 1 wind, 
 And leave his brooks and meads be- 
 hind. 
 And groves and grottos where I la\', 
 And vistas shooting beams of day. 
 Wide and wider sjircads tlu- vale. 
 As circles on a smooth canal. 
 The mountains rounil, unhappy fate ! 
 Sooner or later, of all height, 
 Witlulraw their summits from the skies, 
 And lessen as the others rise. 
 Still the jirospect wider spreads. 
 Adds a thousand woods and meads; 
 Still it widens, wiilens still, 
 And sinks tlie newly risen hill. 
 
 Now I gain the mountain's brow; 
 What a landscape lies below ! 
 No clouds, no va|iors intervene; 
 But the gay, the open scene 
 Does the face; of Nature .show. 
 In all the lines of lu-aven's bow ! 
 .And, swelling to embrace the light, 
 Sjireads around beneath the sight. 
 
 Old castles ou the cliifs arise,
 
 JOHN DYER. 
 
 bo 
 
 Proudly towering in the skies ; 
 Kushiiig from the woods, the spires 
 Seem tVoni hence ascending fires ; 
 Half his beams Ajiollo sheds 
 On the yellow mountain-heads, 
 Gilds the fleeces of the liocks, 
 And glitters on the broken rocks. 
 
 Below me trees unnumbered rise, 
 Beautiful in various dyes : 
 The gloomy pine, the poplar blue. 
 The yellow beech, the sable yew. 
 The slender fir that taper grows, 
 The sturdy oak with broad-spread 
 
 boughs ; 
 And lieyoud the purple grove, 
 Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love! 
 Gaudy as the opening dawn. 
 Lies a long and level lawn, 
 On which a dark hill, steep and high, 
 Holds and charms the wandering eye. 
 Deep are his feet in Towy's Hood : 
 His sides are clothed with waving 
 
 wood. 
 And ancient towers crown his brow, 
 Tiiat cast an awful look below ; 
 "Whose ragged walls the ivy creeps, 
 And with her arms from falling keeps ; 
 So both a safety from the wind 
 In mutual dependence find. 
 'T is now the raven's bleak abode ; 
 'T is now the apartment of the toad ; 
 And there the fox securely feeds; 
 And there the poisonous adder bi-eeds. 
 Concealed in ruins, moss, and weeds; 
 AVhile, ever and anon, there fall 
 Huge heaps of hoary mouldered wall. 
 Yet Time has seen, — that lifts the low 
 And level lays the lofty brow, — 
 Has seen this broken pile complete, 
 Big with the vanity of state. 
 But transient is the smile of Fate ! 
 A little rule, a little sway, 
 A sunbeam in a winter's day. 
 Is all the ]iroud and mighty have 
 Between the cradle and the grave. 
 
 And see the rivers how they run. 
 Through woods and meads, in shade and 
 
 sun, 
 Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, — 
 Wave sueceeiiing wave, they go 
 A various journey to the deep. 
 Like human life to endless sleep! 
 Thus is Nature's vesture wrought, 
 To instrncn our wandering thought: 
 Thus she dresses green and gay, 
 To disperse our (-ires away. 
 
 Ever charming, ever new. 
 
 When will the landscape tire the view ! 
 
 The fountain's fall, the river's How ; 
 
 The woody valleys, warm and low ; 
 
 3'he wind}' sunnnit, wild and high, 
 
 Roughly rushing on the sky ; 
 
 The pleasant seat, the ruined tower. 
 
 The naked rock, the shady bower ; 
 
 The town and village, dome and farm, — 
 
 Each gives each a double charm, 
 
 As pearls upon an Ethiop's arm. 
 
 See on the mountain's southern side. 
 Where the jirospect opens wide, 
 Where the evening giUls the tide ; 
 How close and small the hedges lie ! 
 What streaks .of meadow cross the 
 
 eye ! _ 
 A step methinks may pass the stream, 
 So little distant dangers seem ; 
 So we mistake the Future's face. 
 Eyed through Hope's deluding glass; 
 As yon summits, soft and fair. 
 Clad in colors of the air. 
 Which to those who journey near. 
 Barren, brown, and rough ajipear; 
 Still we tread the same coarse way, 
 The present 's still a cloudy da}^. 
 
 0, may I with mystdf agree. 
 And never covet what I see ; 
 Content me with an humble shade. 
 My passions tamed, my wishes laid ; 
 •For while our wishes wildly roll, 
 We banish (juiet from the soul : 
 'T is thus the busy beat the air. 
 And misers gather wealth and care. 
 
 Now, even now, my joys run high, 
 As on the mountain-turf I lie; 
 While the wanton Zephyr sings, 
 And in the vale perfumes his wings ; 
 While the waters murmur deep; 
 While the slie]iherd charms his sheep; 
 While the birds unbounded fi}'. 
 And with music fill the sky, 
 Now, even now, my joys run high. 
 
 Be full, ye courts ; be great who 
 will ; 
 Search for Peace with all your skill : 
 Open wide the lofty door, 
 Seek her on the niai-ble floor. 
 In vain you search ; she is not there ! 
 In vain you search the domes of Care ! 
 Grass and flowers Quiet treads. 
 On the meads and mountain-heads. 
 Along with Pleasure, close allied. 
 Ever by each other's side ; 
 And often, by the murmuring riH, 
 Hears the thrush, while all is still 
 Within the groves of Grougar Hill.
 
 56 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 AVILLIAM HAMILTON. 
 
 [1704- 1754.] 
 
 THE BRAES OF YARROW. 
 
 Bl'SK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny 
 
 biiile. 
 
 Husk ye, busk ye, mjMvinsonie marrow I 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, niy hoiiny bcmny biicb-, 
 
 And tliiuk nae niair ou the Braes of 
 
 Yarrow. 
 
 ' ' Wliere gat ye that bonny bonny bride ? 
 
 When- f^at ye that winsome marrow?" 
 1 gat liei' where I dareua weil be seen, 
 
 Bu'lngthe birksonthe Braesof Yarrow. 
 
 AVeep not, weep not, my bonny bonny 
 bride. 
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome 
 marrow ! 
 Nor let thy heart lament to leave 
 
 Pu'ingthe birkson the Braesof Yarrow. 
 
 "Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny 
   bride? 
 "Why does she weeji, thy winsome 
 marrow ? 
 And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen, 
 Pu'in<< tlie birks on the Braes of Yar- 
 row?" 
 
 Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, 
 maun she weep, 
 Lang maun she weeji with dule and sor- 
 row. 
 And lang maun I nae mair weil be .seen, 
 Pu'ingthe birkson tlie Ihaes of Yarrow. 
 
 For she has tint her lover lover dear. 
 Her lover deal', the eaus(^ of soriow, 
 
 And I hae slain the corneliest swain 
 That e'er pn'ml birks on the Braes of 
 Yain'ow. 
 
 AVliv runs tliy stream, Yarrow, Yarrow, 
 ri'd { ' 
 \Vliy on tliy braes heaid the voiee of 
 sorrow ? 
 And wliy yon nielan<'liolious weeds 
 Hung on tlie bonny birks of Yarrow? 
 
 AVhat 's yonder Hoats on the rueful rueful 
 tlu.le? 
 What's yfijider lloat.s? U dule and 
 sorrow I 
 
 'T is he, th(i eomelv swain I slew 
 Upon the dulel'ul Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Wash, 0, wash his wounds, his wounds in 
 
 tears, 
 
 His wounds in tears with dule and 
 
 sorrow, 
 
 And wrap his lind)s in mourning weeds, 
 
 And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters 
 sad. 
 
 Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, 
 And weep around irt waeful wise, 
 
 H is helpless fate ou the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 Curse 3'e, curse ye his useless nselessslntdd. 
 My arm that wrouglit the deed of son ow, 
 
 The fatal spear that pierced his breast. 
 His comely breast, on the Braes of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 Did T not warn thee not to lo'e. 
 
 And warn from tight, but to my sorrow ; 
 
 O'er rashly bauld a strongei' arm 
 
 Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green 
 grows the glass. 
 
 Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan, 
 Fair hangs the ajiple fine the rock. 
 
 Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. 
 
 Flows Yarrow sweet ? as sweet, as sweet 
 flows Tweed, 
 
 As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, 
 As sweet smells on its braes the birk. 
 
 The apple frae the rock as mellow. 
 
 Fair was thy love, fair fairindeed thy love. 
 In flowery bands thou him didst fi'tter; 
 
 Tiiough he was fairand weil beloved again, 
 Than me he never lo'ed thee better. 
 
 Busk ye, then busk, my bonny bonny 
 bride, 
 l^usk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ! 
 Bu.sk ve, and lo'e me on the banks of 
 "Tweed, 
 And think nae mair on the Braes of 
 Yarrow. 
 
 "How can I busk a bonny bonny bride, 
 How can I busk a winsome marrow, 
 
 How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed, 
 That slew my love on the Braes of Yar- 
 row ?
 
 ISAAC WATTS. 
 
 57 
 
 "0 Yarrow fields! may never never rain 
 Nor (lew thy tender blossoms cover, 
 
 For there was basely slain my love, 
 My love, as lie had not been a lover. 
 
 " The boy put on his robes, his robes of 
 green. 
 
 His purple vest, 't was my ain sewing ; 
 All! wretched me! I little little kenned 
 
 He was in these to meet his ruin. 
 
 "The boy took out his niilk-wliite milk- 
 wliite steed, 
 
 Unheedful of my dule and sorrow, 
 But e'er the to-fall of the night 
 
 He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 "Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful da}' ; 
 
 I sang, my voice the woods returning, 
 But lang ere night the spear was ilowu 
 
 That slew my love, and left me mourn- 
 ing. 
 
 "What can my barbarous barbarous fa- 
 ther do. 
 But with his cruel rage pursue me? 
 My lover's blc^d is on thy spear, 
 
 How canst thou, barbarous man, then 
 woo me ? 
 
 "ilv happy sisters may be, maybe proud ; 
 
 With cruel and ungentle scoffin. 
 May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes 
 
 My lover nailed in his coffin. 
 
 "My brother Douglas may upbraid, up- 
 braid. 
 And strive with threatening words to 
 move me. 
 My lover's blood is on thy spear, 
 
 How canst thou ever bid me love thee ? 
 
 "Yes, yes, prepare the bed, thebedof love, 
 With bridal sheets my body cover, 
 
 Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door. 
 Let in the expected husband lover. 
 
 "But who the expected husband hus- 
 band is? 
 His hands, methinks, are bathed in 
 slaughter. 
 Ah me I what ghastly spectre 's yon. 
 Comes in his pale shroud, bleeding 
 after? 
 
 ' ' Pale ashe is, here lay him, lay him down, 
 O, lay his cold head on my pillow ; 
 
 Take aff, take alf these bridal weeds. 
 And crown my careful head with willow. 
 
 " Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best 
 beloved, 
 
 0, could my warmth to life restore thee ! 
 Ye 'd lie all night between my breasts. 
 
 No youth lay ever there before thee. 
 
 "Pale pale, indeed, lovelylovely youth, 
 
 Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter, 
 And lie all night between my breasts, 
 . No youth shall ever lie there after." 
 
 Return, return, mournful mournful 
 bride, 
 
 Eeturn and dry thy useless sorrow : 
 Thy lover heeds naught of thy sighs. 
 
 He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. 
 
 ISAAC WATTS. 
 
 [1674- 1748.] 
 
 THE HEAVENLY LAND. 
 
 There is a land of jmre delight, 
 Where saints immortal reign ; 
 
 Infinite day excludes the night, 
 And pleasures banish pain. 
 
 There everlasting spring abides, 
 And never-withering flowers ; 
 
 Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
 This heavenly land from ours. 
 
 Sweet fields bej'ond the swelling flood 
 Stand dressed in living green ; 
 
 So to the Jews old Canaan stood. 
 While Jordan rolled between. 
 
 But timorous mortals start and shrink 
 
 To cross this narrow sea, 
 And linger shivering on the brink. 
 
 And fear to launch away. 
 
 0, could we make our doubts remove, 
 These gloomy doubts that rise. 
 
 And see the Canaan that we love 
 With unbeclouded eyes, — 
 
 Could we but climb where Moses stood, 
 And view the landscape o'er. 
 
 Not Jordan's stream, nor death's cold 
 flood. 
 Should fright us from the shore.
 
 58 
 
 SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 rniLIP DODDIUDGE. 
 
 > 
 
 [1702- 1751.] 
 
 YE GOLDEN LAMPS OF HEAVEN, 
 FAREWELL ! 
 
 Ye golden liiinps of lii'avcn, farewell, 
 
 With all your feeljle light ! 
 Farewell, thou ever-ehaiigiiig moon, 
 
 Pale empress of the night ! 
 
 And thou, refulgent orb of day, 
 
 In l)righter tlanies ariayed ; 
 My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, 
 
 No more demantls thy- aid. 
 
 Ye stars are but the shining dust 
 
 Of nn* divine abode ; 
 The pavement of those heavenly courts 
 
 Wliere 1 shall see my God. 
 
 There all the millions of his saints 
 
 Shall in one song unite ; 
 And each the bliss of all shall view, 
 
 With iuhuite delight. 
 
 CHARLES WESLEY. 
 
 [1708-1788.] 
 
 JESUS, LOVER OF MY SOUL. 
 
 Jesus, lover of my soul, 
 
 Let me to thy bosom fly, 
 While the nearer waters roll, 
 
 AVhile the tempest still is high: 
 Hide me, my Saviour, hide, 
 
 Tii! tile storm of life be past; 
 Safe into the haven guide, 
 
 0, receive my soul at last ! 
 
 Other refuge have I none, 
 
 Hangs my Indpless soul on thee; 
 Leave, ah I leave me not alone, 
 
 Still sujipoit and comfort me: 
 All my trust on tiu^e is stayed. 
 
 All my li(dp from thee 1 bring; 
 Cover my defenceless head 
 
 AVith the shadow of thy wing. 
 
 Thnu, O Christ, art all 1 want; 
 
 More tlian all in thee I lind : 
 liaise tlie fallen, clii'er the faint, 
 
 Heal the sick, and lead tlie blind ; 
 
 Just and holy is thy name, 
 I am all unrighteousness; 
 
 False and full of sin 1 am, 
 
 Thou art full of truth and grace. 
 
 Plenteous grace with thee is found, 
 
 (iiaee to cover all my sin ; 
 Let the healing streams abound, 
 
 Make and keep me puie within : 
 Thou of life the fountain art ; 
 
 Freely let me take of thee ; 
 Spring thou up within my heart, 
 
 Kise to all eternity. 
 
 AUGUSTUS M. TOrLADY. 
 
 [1740- 1778.] 
 
 LOVE DIVINE, ALL LOVE EXCELLING. 
 
 Love divine, all love excelling, 
 
 Joy of heaven to earth come down ; 
 Fix in us thy humble dwelling. 
 
 All thy faithful mercies crown ; 
 Jesus, thou art all compassion ! 
 
 Pure, unliounded love thou art;* 
 V^it us with thy salvation. 
 
 Enter eveiy trembling heart. 
 
 Breathe, 0, breathe thy loving Sjiirit 
 
 Into every troubled breast; 
 Let us all in thee inherit. 
 
 Let us find, the ])romised rest; 
 Take away the h)ve of sinning, 
 
 Alpha and Omega be ; 
 End of faith, as its beginning, 
 
 Set our hearts at liberty. 
 
 Come, almighty to deliver. 
 
 Let us all thy life receive; 
 Suddenly return, and never. 
 
 Never more thy temples leave : 
 Thee we would be always blessing, 
 
 Serve thee as thy hosts above ; 
 Pray and praise thee without ceasing, 
 
 Glory in thy precious love. 
 
 Finish then thy new creation, 
 
 Pure, unspotted may we be; 
 Let us see thy great salvation 
 
 Perfectly restored by thee : 
 Changed from gloi'y into glory. 
 
 Till in heaven we take our ])laee ! 
 Till we east our crowns before thee. 
 
 Lost in woudei-, love, and praise.
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. — WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 
 
 59 
 
 SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 [1709-17S4.] 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF DR. LEVETT. 
 
 CoxDEMXED to hope's delusive inine, 
 As on we toil from day to day, 
 
 By sadden blasts, or slow decline, 
 Our social comforts drop away. 
 
 Well tried through many a varying year, 
 See Levett to the grave descend, 
 
 Officious, innocent, sincere. 
 Of every friendless name the friend. 
 
 Yet still he fills affection's eye, 
 Obscurely wise and coarsely kind; 
 
 Xor, lettered arrogance, deny 
 Thy praise to merit unrefined. 
 
 When fainting nature called for aid. 
 And hovering death prepared the 
 blow. 
 
 His vigoi'ous remedy displayed 
 
 The power of art without the show. 
 
 In misery's darkest cavern known. 
 His useful care was ever nigh, 
 
 Where hopeless anguish poured his groan, 
 Aud lonely want retired to die. 
 
 No summons mocked by chill delay. 
 No petty gain disdained by piide; 
 
 The modest wants of every day 
 The toil of every day supplied. 
 
 His virtues walked their narrow round. 
 Nor made a pause, nor left a void ; 
 
 And sure the Eternal blaster found 
 The single talent well employed. 
 
 The busy day, the peaceful niglit, 
 Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; 
 
 His frame was firm, his powers were 
 bright. 
 Though n o w his eightieth j'ear was n igh. 
 
 Then with no fiery throbl)ing pain. 
 No cold gradations of decay. 
 
 Death broke at once tlie vital chain, 
 And freed his soul the nearest way. 
 
 WILLIAM SHENSTONE. 
 
 [1714-1763.] 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 Her cap, far whiter than the driven 
 
 snow. 
 Emblem right meet of decency does 
 
 yield : 
 Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I 
 
 tiowe. 
 As is the harebell that adorns the 
 
 field : 
 And in her hand, for sceptre, she does 
 
 wield 
 Tvvay birchen sprays; with anxious 
 
 fear entwined, 
 With dark distrust, aud sad repent- 
 ance filled : 
 And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction 
 
 joined. 
 And fury uncontrolled, and chastisement 
 
 unkind. 
 
 A russet stole was o'er her shoulders 
 
 thrown ; 
 A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air : 
 'T was simple russet, but it was her 
 
 own ; 
 'T was her own country bred the flock 
 
 so fair, 
 'T was her own labor did the fleece 
 
 prepare ; 
 And, sooth to say, her pupils, ranged 
 
 around, 
 Through pious awe, did term it passing 
 
 ra re ; 
 For they in gaping Avonderment 
 
 abound, 
 And think, no doubt, she been the great- 
 est wight on ground. 
 
 Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her 
 
 truth, 
 Ne pompous title did debaneh her ear; 
 Goody, good-woman, gossip, n' aunt 
 
 forsooth, 
 Or dame, the sole additions she did 
 
 hear ; 
 Yet these she challenged, these she 
 
 held right dear : 
 Ne would esteem him act as niought 
 
 behove, 
 Who should not honored eld with these 
 
 tevere :
 
 '60 
 
 SONGS OF TUREE CENTURIES. 
 
 For never title yet so mean could 
 prove, 
 But there was eke a mind which did that 
 title love. 
 
 One ancient hen she took delight to 
 
 feed, 
 The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
 Which, ever and auou, impelled by 
 
 need. 
 Into her school, begirt with chickens, 
 
 came ! 
 Such favor did her past deportment 
 
 claim : 
 And, if Neglect had lavished on the 
 
 ground 
 Fragment of bread, she would collect 
 
 the same ; 
 For well she knew, and quaintly could 
 
 exjwund. 
 What sin it were to waste the smallest 
 
 crumb she found. 
 
 Herbs too she knew, and well of each 
 
 could speak 
 That iu her garden sipped the silverj' 
 
 dew ; 
 "Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy 
 
 streak ; 
 But herbs for use, and physic, not a 
 
 few. 
 Of gray renown, within those borders 
 
 grew : 
 The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
 Fresh bauni, and niarygold of cheerful 
 
 hue; 
 The lowly gill, that never dares to 
 
 climb ; 
 And more I fain would sing, disdaining 
 
 here to rhyme. 
 
 Yet euphrasy may not be left nnsunj^, 
 That gives dim eyes to wander leagues 
 
 around. 
 And pungent radish, biting infant's 
 
 tongue. 
 And plantain ribbed, tliat heals the 
 
 reaper's wound, 
 And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's 
 
 posy found. 
 And lavender, whose spikes of azure 
 
 bli'om 
 Sliall be, erewhile, in arid bundles 
 
 l)ound, 
 To lurk amidst the labors of her loom. 
 And crown her kercliiefs clean with 
 
 mickle rare perfume. » 
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 [1716-1771.] 
 
 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
 CHURCHYARD. 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. 
 The lowing herd wiudsslowly o'er the lea ; 
 The ploughman homeward plods his 
 
 weary way. 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to 
 
 me. 
 
 Now f. des the glimmering landscape on 
 
 the sight. 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning 
 
 flight, 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant 
 
 folds ; 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower 
 
 The mo))ing owl does to the moon com- 
 plain 
 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret 
 bower. 
 
 Molest her ancient solitarj' reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew- 
 tree's shade. 
 
 Where heaves the turf in many a moul- 
 dering 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 sliall rouse them from their 
 lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth 
 
 shall burn, 
 Or busy housewife 7>ly her evening care; 
 No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
 Or climb liis knees the envied kiss to 
 
 share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
 Their furiow oft the stubborn glebe has 
 broke ;
 
 THOMAS GRAY. 
 
 61 
 
 How jocund did they drive their team 
 
 alield ! 
 How bowed the woods beneath their 
 
 sturdy stroke ! 
 
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 
 
 smile 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, , 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er 
 
 gave, 
 Await alike the inevitable hour; —   
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the 
 
 fault, 
 If memory o'er their tomb no trophies 
 
 raise. 
 Where through the long-di'awn aisle and 
 
 fretted vault 
 The jiealing anthem swells the note of 
 
 praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
 
 breatli ? 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of 
 
 Death? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial 
 
 fire; 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have 
 
 swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 
 
 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample 
 
 jiage. 
 Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er 
 
 unroll ; 
 Cliill Penury repressed their noble rage. 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean 
 bear ; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush un- 
 seen. 
 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that with daunt- 
 less breast 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 
 
 Some mute, inglorious Milton here may 
 rest ; 
 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his coun- 
 try's blood. 
 
 The applause of listening senates to com- 
 mand, 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 
 To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. 
 And read their histoi'y in a nation's eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed 
 
 alone 
 Their growing virtues, but their crimes 
 
 confined ; 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 
 
 throne. 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth 
 
 to hide. 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous 
 
 shame, 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
 With incense kindled at the Muse's 
 
 flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble 
 
 strife 
 Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; 
 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their 
 
 way. 
 
 Yet even these bones from insult to pro- 
 tect. 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncoutli rhymes and shapeless 
 sculpture decked, 
 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by the 
 
 unlettered Muse, 
 The place of fame and eleg}' supply; 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who, to dumb forgetful ness a prey. 
 This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned. 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful 
 
 day. 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look be- 
 hind ? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul 
 relies. 
 
 Some pious drops the closing eye re- 
 quires ;
 
 62 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 E'en from the lomh the voice of Nature 
 
 flies, 
 E'en in our aslies live tlieir wonted fires. 
 
 For thee, wlio, mindful of the unhon- 
 ored dead, 
 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale re- 
 late ; 
 
 If chanee, hy lone!}' contemplation led, 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy 
 fate, 
 
 Haplysome hoary-headed swain may say : 
 ' ' Oft iia ve we seen liimat the jieefi of dawn, 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; 
 
 "There at the foot of yonder nodding 
 
 beech, 
 That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so 
 
 high. 
 His listless length at noontide would he 
 
 stretch. 
 And pore upon the brook that babbles 
 
 by. 
 
 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in 
 scorn. 
 
 Muttering his wayward fancies, he would 
 rove ; 
 
 Now drooping, woful-wan, like one for- 
 lorn. 
 
 Or crazed with care, or crossed in hope- 
 less love. 
 
 "One morn I missed him on the cus- 
 tomed hi.l. 
 
 Along tiie heath, and near his favorite 
 tree ; 
 
 Another came, — nor yet beside tlie rill, 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was 
 he ; 
 
 "The next, with dirges due, in sad array. 
 Slow throiigli the church-way path we 
 
 saw 1dm borne; — 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) 
 
 the lay 
 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged 
 
 thorn." 
 
 THE EPITAPH. 
 
 Here rests his head upon the la]i of eartli, 
 A youth to fortune and to fame un- 
 known ; 
 
 Fair Science frowned not on his humble 
 
 birth. 
 And Melaucholyjnarked him for her own. 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sin- 
 cere ; 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
 
 He gave to IVlisery (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 frailties from their dread 
 abode : 
 
 (There they alike in trembling hope re- 
 pose,) 
 
 The bosom of his Father and his God. 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
 ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the watery glade. 
 Where gi-ateful Science still adores 
 
 Her Henry's holy shade ; 
 And ye, that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor's heights the expanse below 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey ; 
 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow- 
 ers among 
 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 His silver-winding way ! 
 
 Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain ! 
 Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 
 A stranger j^et to jiain : 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss Ijestow, 
 As, waviug fresh their gladsome wing, 
 
 AI\' weary soul they seem to soothe. 
 
 And, redolent of joy and youth. 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
 Say, Father Thames, for tliou hast seen 
 
 Full many a sprightly race. 
 Disporting on thy margent green, 
 
 The paths of pleasure; trace. 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave 
 With pliant arm thy glassy wave? 
 The caiitive liniu't which inthrall ? 
 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 
 To chase the rolling circle's speed, 
 Or urge the flying ball ?
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 63 
 
 While some, on earnest business bent, 
 
 Their mui'inuring lubors ply 
 'Gainst graver hmirs, that bring constraint 
 
 To sweeten liberty, 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reigu, 
 And unknown regions dare descry : 
 
 Still as they run, they look behind ; 
 
 They hear a voice in every wind, 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, 
 Less pleasing when possesseil ; 
 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed. 
 The sunshine of the breast. 
 
 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue. 
 
 Wild wit, invention ever new, 
 
 And lively cheer of vigor born ; 
 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night. 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light. 
 
 That fly the approach of morn. 
 
 Alas ! regardless of their doom. 
 
 The little victims play ; 
 No sense have they of ills to come, 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day ; 
 Yet see how all around them wait 
 The ministers of human fate. 
 And black ilisfortune's baleful train. 
 
 Ah ! show them where in ambush 
 stand, 
 
 To seize their prey, the niurtherous 
 band ; 
 Ah, tell them they are men ! 
 
 These shall the fury passions tear. 
 
 The vultures of the mind. 
 Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, 
 
 And Shame, that skulks behind ; 
 Or piniug Love shall waste their youth. 
 Or .Jealousy with rankling tooth. 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart ; 
 
 And Envy wan, and faded Care, 
 
 Grim-visaged, comfortless Des[)air, 
 And Sorrow's piercing dart. 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 
 • Then whirl the wi-etch from high. 
 To bitter Scorn a sacrifice. 
 
 And grinning Infamy. 
 The stings of Falsehood tliose shall try, 
 And hard Unkindness' altered eye. 
 That mo(tks the tear it forced to flovy ; 
 And k"en Remorse with blood defiled. 
 And mood}' iladness laughing wild 
 Amid severest woe. 
 
 Lo ! in the vale of years beneath 
 
 A grisly troop are seen, — 
 The painful family of Death, 
 
 More hideous than their (pieen : 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins. 
 That every laboring sinew straius. 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
 
 Lo! Povert}', to fill the- band. 
 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand ; 
 And slow-consuming Age. 
 
 To each his sufferings : all are men, 
 
 Condenmed alike to groan ; 
 The tender for another's jiain, 
 
 The unfeeling for his own. 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their 
 
 fate. 
 Since sorrow never comes too late, 
 And happiness too swiftly Hies ! 
 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. 
 
 No more ; where ignorance is bliss, 
 'T is folly to be wise. 
 
 WILLIAM COLLINS. 
 
 [1720 -1756.] 
 
 DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 
 
 Soft maids and village hinds shall bring 
 Each opening sweet of earliest bloom. 
 
 And rifle all the breathing spring. 
 
 No wailing ghost sliall dare appear 
 To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; 
 
 But shepherd lads assemble here. 
 And melting virgins own their love. 
 
 No withered witch shall here be seen. 
 No goblins lead tlieir nightly crew ; 
 
 But female fays shall haunt the green, 
 And dress thy grave with pearly dew. 
 
 The redlireast oft at evening hours 
 Shall kindly lend his little aid. 
 
 With hoary moss and gathered flowers 
 To deck the ground where thou art laid. 
 
 When howling winds and beating raiu 
 In tempest sluike the sylvan cell. 
 
 Or midst the chase upon the plain, 
 The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
 
 64 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Each lonoly scene shall thoe restore, 
 For thee the tear he duly shed ; 
 
 Beloved till life can charm no more, 
 And mourned till Pity's self he dead. 
 
 ODE TO EVENING. 
 
 If aught of oaten stop or pastoral song 
 May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy 
 modest ear. 
 Like thy own solemn springs. 
 Thy springs, and dying gales, — 
 
 nymph reserved, wliile now the bright- 
 haired Sun 
 Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy 
 skirts, 
 "With braid ethereal wove, 
 O'erliang his wavy bed : 
 
 Kow air is hushed, save where the weak- 
 eyed bat, 
 "With short, shrill shriek flits by on leath- 
 ern wing ; 
 Or where the beetle winds 
 His small but sullen horn, 
 
 • 
 
 As oft he ri.ses midst the twilight path, 
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum ; 
 Now teach me, maid composed. 
 To breathe some softened stiain. 
 
 Whose numbers, stealing through thy 
 
 darkening vale, 
 May not unseemly with its stillness suit ; 
 
 As, musing slow, I hail 
 
 Thy genial, loved return ! 
 
 For when thy folding-star aiising shows 
 His i>a]y circlet, at his warning lamp. 
 The fragrant Hours, and Elves 
 Who slept in buds the day, 
 
 And many a Nymph who wreathes her 
 
 brows with sedge, 
 And .sheds the freshening dew, and, love- 
 lier still, 
 The pensivt! Pleasures sweet, 
 Prejjare thy shadowy car. 
 
 Then let me rove some wild and heathy 
 
 scene ; 
 Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, 
 
 Whosi- \\;{]\h moif awful nod 
 
 By tiiy religious gleams. 
 
 Or, if chill, blustering winds, or driving 
 rain. 
 
 Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut 
 That from the mountain's side 
 Views wilds, and swelling floods. 
 
 And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered 
 
 spires ; 
 And hears their simple bell, and marks 
 o'er all 
 Thy dewy fingers draw 
 The gradual, dusky veil. 
 
 While Spring shall pour his showers, as 
 
 ott he wont. 
 And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest 
 Eve ! 
 Wliile Summer loves to sport 
 Beneath thy lingering light ; 
 
 While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with 
 
 leaves ; 
 Or Winter, yelling through the troublous 
 air, 
 AflVights thy shrinking train, 
 And rudely rends thy robes, — 
 
 So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, 
 Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling 
 Peace, 
 Thy gentlest influence own, 
 And love thv favorite name ! 
 
 JAMES MERRICK. 
 [1720- 1769.] 
 
 THE CHAMELEON. 
 
 Oft has it been my lot to mark 
 A ])roud, conceiteil, talking .spark, 
 With eyes that haidly served at most 
 To guard their master 'gainst a po.st; 
 Vet round the woild the blade has been. 
 To see winitever could be seen. 
 Returning from his finished tour. 
 Grown ten times perter than before ; 
 Whatever word you chance to dioii. 
 The travelled fool your mouth will stop : 
 "Sir, if my judgment you 'II allow — 
 I 've seen — and sure 1 ought to know." 
 So begs you 'd jKiy a due submission, 
 And acquiesce in his decision.
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 65 
 
 Two travellers of such a cast, 
 As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed, 
 And on their way, in friendly chat. 
 Now talked of tlii.s, and then of tliat. 
 Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other mat- 
 ter, 
 Of the chameleon's form and nature. 
 "A stranger animal," cries one, 
 "Sure never lived beneath the sun: 
 A lizard's body, lean and long, 
 A fisli's liead, a serpent's tongue, 
 Its foot with triple claw disjoined; 
 And what a length of tail behind ! 
 How slow its pace ! and then its hue — 
 Who ever saw so fine a blue?" 
 
 "Hold there," the othei' quick replies; 
 "'T is green, 1 saw it with these eyes. 
 As late with o])en mouth it lay. 
 And warmed it in the sunny raj' ; 
 Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed. 
 And saw it eat the air for food." 
 
 "I 've seen it, sir, as well as you, 
 And must again affirm it blue ; 
 At leisure I the 'oeast surveyed 
 Extended in the cooling shade." 
 
 " 'T is green, 't is green, sir, I assure 
 
 "Green !" cries the other in a fury; 
 "Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my 
 
 eyes?" 
 " 'T were nogreatloss," the friend replies ; 
 "For if they always seiwe you thus. 
 You '11 find them but of little use." 
 
 So high at last the contest ro.se, 
 From words they almost came to blows: 
 When luckily came by a third; 
 To him tiie question they referred, 
 And begged he 'd tell them, if he knew. 
 Whether the thing was green or blue. 
 "Sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your 
 
 pother ; 
 The creature 's neither one nor t' other. 
 I caught the animal last night. 
 And viewed it o'er by candlelight; 
 I marked it well, 't was black as jet — 
 You stare^hut, sirs, I 've got it yet. 
 And can produce it." — "Pray, sir, do; 
 I '11 lay my life the thing is bhie." 
 "And I '11 be sworn, that when you 've 
 
 seen 
 The reptile, you '11 pronounce himgreen." 
 "Well, then, at once to ease the doubt," 
 Replies the man, "I '11 turn him out; 
 And when before your eyes I 've set him. 
 If you don't find him black, I '11 eat him." 
 
 He said ; and full before their sight 
 Produced the beast, andlo ! — 'twas white. 
 
 Both stared ; the man looked wondrous 
 
 wise — 
 "My children," the chameleon cries 
 (Then first the creature found a tongue), 
 "You all are right, and all are wrong: 
 When next you talk of what you view. 
 Think others see as well as you ; 
 Nor wonder if you find that none 
 Prefers your eyesight to his own." 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 [1728 -1774.] 
 
 FROM "THE DESERTED VILLAGE." 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at 
 
 evening's close 
 Up yonder hill the village mxirmur rose ; 
 There, as I passsed witli 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; 
 Thenoisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool. 
 The playlul children just let loose from 
 
 school ; 
 The watch-dog's voice that bayed the 
 
 whisj)ei'ing wind, 
 And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 
 
 mind, — 
 These all in sweet confusion souglit the 
 
 shade, 
 And filled each pause the nightingale had 
 
 made. 
 But now the sounds of population fail. 
 No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in tlie 
 
 gale, 
 No busy steps the grass-grown footway 
 
 tread. 
 But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. 
 All but yon widowed, solitary thing. 
 That feebly bends beside the plashy 
 
 spring ; 
 She, wretched matron, forced in age, for 
 
 bread, 
 To strip the brook with mantling cn'ss(;s 
 
 sjnead. 
 To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn. 
 To seek her nightly shed, and weep till 
 
 morn ;
 
 66 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 She only left of all the haiTiiless train, 
 The sad historian of the pensive plain. 
 
 Near j^onder copse, where once the 
 
 garden smiled. 
 And still where many a garden flower 
 
 grows wild, 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place 
 
 disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion 
 
 rose. 
 A man he was to all the countrv^ dear. 
 And passing rich with forty poiunls a 
 
 year ; 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to 
 
 change, his place ; 
 Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power. 
 By doctrines fashioned to the varying 
 
 hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to 
 
 prize. 
 More skilled to raise the wretched than 
 
 to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant 
 
 train. 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved 
 
 their jiain ; 
 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. 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night 
 
 away ; 
 Wept o'er ids wounds, or tales of sorrow 
 
 done. 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how 
 
 ficdds were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man 
 
 learned to glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their I'aults to 
 
 scan, 
 His pity gave ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his 
 
 pride. 
 And even 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 
 
 dismayed. 
 The reverend champion stood. At his 
 
 control. 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling 
 
 soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch 
 
 to raise, 
 And his last, faltering accents whispered 
 
 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 the pious man. 
 With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran ; 
 Even children followed, with endearing 
 
 wile, 
 And plucked his gown, to share the good 
 
 man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth ex- 
 
 ])i-essed, 
 Their welfare jdeased him, and their cares 
 
 distres(T?d ; 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs, 
 
 were given, 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in 
 
 heaven. 
 As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful foim. 
 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 un profitably gay," 
 
 There, inhisnoisymansion, skilled to rule, 
 
 The village master taught hislittleschool. 
 
 ! A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
 
 1 1 knew him well, and every truant knew:
 
 THOMAS PERCY. 
 
 67 
 
 "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, circlinground, 
 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 liow much he 
 
 knew ; 
 'T was certain he could write, and cipher 
 
 too ; 
 Lands he could measure, times and tides 
 
 presage. 
 And eventhe story ran that he could gauge; 
 In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, 
 For, even though vanquished, he could 
 
 argue still ; 
 While words of learned length and thun- 
 dering sound 
 Amazed thegazingrustics 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 fume. The very spot 
 Where many a time he triumphed is for- 
 got. 
 Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on 
 
 high, 
 Where once the sign-post caught the 
 
 passing eye. 
 Low lies that house where nut-brown 
 
 draughts inspired. 
 Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil 
 
 retired, 
 Where village statesmen talked with 
 
 looks profound. 
 And news much older than their ale went 
 
 round. 
 Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
 The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
 The whitewashed wall ; the nicely sanded 
 
 floor ; 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind 
 
 the door ; 
 The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by 
 
 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 fen- 
 nel gay ; 
 
 While broken teacups, wisely kept for 
 .show, 
 
 Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a 
 row. 
 
 Vain, transitory splendors ! could not 
 
 all 
 Reprieve the tottering mansion from its 
 
 fall? 
 Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more imjiai t 
 An hour's importance to the pour man's 
 
 heart ; 
 Thither no more the peasant shall rejjair 
 To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
 No more the farmer's news, the barber's 
 
 tale. 
 No more the woodman's ballad shall pre- 
 vail ; 
 No more the smith his dusky brow sliall 
 
 clear. 
 Relax his ponderous strength, and lean 
 
 to hear. 
 The host himself no longer shall be found 
 Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
 Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
 Shall Idss the cup to pass it to the rest. 
 
 THOMAS PERCY. 
 
 [1728- 1811.] 
 
 THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray 
 Walked forth to tell his beads, 
 
 And he met with a lady fair, 
 Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. 
 
 "Now Christ thee save, thou reverend 
 friar ! 
 
 I pray thee tell to me. 
 If ever at yon holy shrine 
 
 My true-love thou didst see." 
 
 "And how should I know your true-love 
 
 From many another one?" 
 "Oh ! by his cockle hat, and staff. 
 
 And by his sandal shoon ;
 
 68 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 " But chieflj' by his face and mien, 
 
 That weie so fair to view, 
 His llaxeii locks that sweetly curled, 
 
 And eyes of lovely blue." 
 
 "0 lady, he ife dead and gone ! 
 
 Lady, he 's dead and gone ! 
 And at his head a gieen grass turf. 
 
 And at his heels a stone. 
 
 " Within these holv cloisters long 
 
 He languished, and he died. 
 Lamenting of a lady's love. 
 
 And 'jilaining of her i)ride. 
 
 " Here bore him barefaced on his bier 
 
 Six proper youths and tall ; 
 And many a tear bedewed his grave 
 
 Within }'on kirkyard wall." 
 
 "And art thou dead, thou gentle youth ? 
 
 And art thou dead and gone ^ 
 And didst thou die for lovt; of me? 
 
 Break, cruel heart of stone !" 
 
 "0, weep not, lady, weep not so; 
 
 Some ghostly comfort seek : 
 Let liot vain soirow rive thy heart. 
 
 Nor tears bedew thy cheek." 
 
 "0 do not, do not, holy fiiar. 
 
 My sorj'ow now re2>rove ; 
 For I have lost the sweetest youth 
 
 That e'er won lady's love. 
 
 " And now, alas ! for thy sad loss 
 I "11 evermore weep and sigh; 
 
 For thee I oidy wished to live. 
 For thee 1 wish to die." 
 
 "Weep no more, lady, weep no more ; 
 
 Tiiy sorrow is in vahi : 
 For violets plucked, the sweetest shower 
 
 Will nci'er make grow again., 
 
 " Our joys as winged dreams do fly ; 
 
 Why then should sorrow last? 
 Sinite grief but aggravates thy loss. 
 
 Grieve not for what is past." 
 
 "0, say not so, thou holy friar! 
 
 I pray thee say not so ; 
 For since my true-love died for me, 
 
 'T is meet my tears should flow. 
 
 " And will he never come again ? 
 Will he ne'er come again? 
 
 Ah, no ! he is dead, and laid in his grave, 
 Forever to remain. 
 
 " His cheek was redder than the rose, — 
 Tlie comeliest youth was he ; 
 
 But he is dead and laid in his grave, 
 Alas ! and woe is me." 
 
 " Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more. 
 
 Men were deceivers ever ; 
 One foot on sea and one on land, 
 
 To one thing constant never. 
 
 " Hadst thou been fond, hehadbeen false. 
 And left thee sad and heavy ; 
 
 For young men ever M'ere fickle found. 
 Since summer trees were leaiy." 
 
 "Now say not so, thou holy friai', 
 
 I I'ray thee say not so; 
 My love he had the truest heart, — 
 
 0, he was ever true ! 
 
 "And art thou dead, thou much-loved 
 youth, 
 
 And didst thou die for me? 
 Then farewell home; foivvermore 
 
 A pijgi-im I will be. 
 
 " But first upon my true-love's grave 
 
 3ly weary limbs 1 '11 lay. 
 And thrice I '11 kiss the green grass turf 
 
 That wraps his breathless clay." 
 
 "Yet stay, fair lady, rest awliile 
 
 Beneath this cloister wall ; 
 The cold wind through the hawthorn 
 blows, 
 
 And drizzly rain doth fall." 
 
 "0, stay me not, thou holy friar, 
 
 O stay me not, I pray ; 
 No drizzly rain that falls on me 
 
 Can wash my iault away." 
 
 "Yet stay, fair lady, turn again. 
 
 And dry those pearly tears ; 
 For see, beneath this gown of gray 
 
 Thy own true-love appears. 
 
 " Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, 
 
 These holy weeds 1 sought ; 
 And here, amid these lonely walls. 
 
 To end my days I thought. 
 
 " But ha})ly, for my year of grace 
 Is not yet passed away,
 
 WILLIAM COWPER. 
 
 69 
 
 Might I still hope to win thy love, 
 No longer would I stay." 
 
 "Now farewell grief, and welcome joy 
 
 Qnce more unto my heart ; 
 For since I 've found thee, lovely youth, 
 
 We nevermore will part." 
 
 WILLIAM COWPEK. 
 
 [1731- 1800.] 
 
 LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 The brave that are no more ! 
 All sunk beneath the wave 
 
 Fast by their native shore ! 
 
 Eight hundred of the brave, 
 Whose courage well was tried, 
 
 Had made the vessel heel, 
 And laid her on her side. 
 
 A land-breeze shook the shrouds 
 
 And she was overset; 
 Down went the Royal George, 
 
 With all her crew complete. 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 
 
 Brave Kenipenfelt is gone ; 
 His last sea-tight is fought, 
 
 His work of glory done. 
 
 It was not in the battle ; 
 
 No tempest gave the shock ; 
 She sprang no fatal leak, 
 
 She ran upon no rock. 
 
 His sword was in its sheath, 
 
 His fingers held the pen. 
 When Kemi)enfelt went down 
 
 With twice four hundred men. 
 
 Weigh the vessel up. 
 
 Once dreaded by our foes! 
 
 And mingle with our cup 
 The tear that England owes. 
 
 Her timbers yet are sound. 
 
 And she may float again. 
 Full (diarged with England's thunder, 
 
 And plough the distant main. 
 
 But Kenipenfelt is gone. 
 
 His victories are o'er ; 
 And he and his eight hundred 
 
 Shall plough the wave no more. 
 
 LINES TO MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 
 
 THAT those lips had language I Life 
 
 has [lasscd 
 With me but roughly since 1 heard thee 
 
 last. 
 Those lips are thine, — thy own sweet 
 
 smile 1 see, 
 The same that oit in childhood solaced 
 
 me; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,. 
 "Grieve not, my child; chase all thy 
 
 fears away !" 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 (Blest be the art that can inunortalize, 
 The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it !) here shines on me still the 
 
 same. 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 Who bid'stnie honor with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone, 
 
 But gladly, .as the precept were her own ; 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief. 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian revery, 
 -A momentary dream that thou art she. 
 My mother ! when 1 learned that thou 
 
 wast dead. 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tea is I 
 
 shed ? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just 
 
 begun ? 
 Perhaps thougav'st me, though unfelt, a 
 
 kis^; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 
 Ah, that maternal smile! it answers — 
 
 Yes. 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 And, turning from my nursei'y wiiidcnv, 
 
 drew 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 But \yas it such ? It was. Where thou 
 
 art gone, 
 Adieusandfarewellsareasonnd unknown. 
 May I but meet thee on that 2't^^>ciful 
 
 shore,
 
 70 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 The parting words slmll pass my lips no 
 
 more ! 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my 
 
 coneern, 
 Oft gave me promise of thy ((uiek return ; 
 AVliat ardently I wished 1 long believed, 
 And, disapjiointed still, wasstill deceived ; 
 By expectation every day beguiled, 
 Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and 
 
 went. 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 
 1 learned at last submission to my lot ; 
 But, though I less dejjlored thee, ne'er 
 
 forgot. 
 Where once we dwelt our name is heard 
 
 no more, 
 Children not thine have trod my nuisery 
 
 floor; 
 And where the gardener Robin, day by day. 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bawble coach, and 
 
 wrapped 
 Inscarletmautle warm, and velvetcapped, 
 'T is now become a history little known. 
 That once we called the ])astoral house 
 
 our own. 
 Hh()rt-liv(Hl i)ossession ! but the record fair. 
 That memory keeps- of all thy kindness 
 
 there. 
 Still outlives many a storm that has 
 
 efi'aced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply 
 
 traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
 That tliou mightst know me safe and 
 
 warmly laid, — 
 All this, and, more endearing still than 
 
 all, 
 Tliy constant flow of love, that knew no 
 
 fall, 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and 
 
 breaks 
 That humor interposed toooften makes, — 
 All tliis, still legible in memory's page, 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 Such honors to tliee as my numbers may ; 
 Peihaps a frail memorial, but sinceie. 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little no- 
 ticed here. 
 Could Time, his llight reversed, restore 
 
 the hours 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued 
 
 flowers, 
 The violet, the pink, and je.ssnmine, 
 1 pricked them into paper with a pin. 
 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the 
 while, 
 
 Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my 
 head, and smile,) — 
 
 Could those lew pleasant days again ap- 
 pear. 
 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish 
 them here ? 
 
 I would not trust my heart, — the dear 
 delight 
 
 Seemssoto be desired, jierhaps I might. 
 
 But no, — what here we call our life is 
 such. 
 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
 
 That 1 should ill re(|Uite thee to con- 
 strain 
 
 Thy unbound spiiit into Vonds again. 
 Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's 
 coast 
 
 (The storms all weathered and the ocean 
 crossed) 
 
 Shoots into port at some well-havened 
 isle. 
 
 Where s{iices breatlie and brighter sea- 
 sons smile ; 
 
 There sits quiescent on the Hoods, that 
 show 
 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear be-, 
 low, 
 
 While airs impregnated with incense 
 play 
 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers 
 
 gf'y. — 
 
 So thou, with sails how switt ! hast 
 reached tlie shore. 
 
 Where tempests never beat, nor billows 
 roar ; 
 
 And thy loved consort, on the dangerous 
 tide 
 
 Of life, long since has anchored by tl'y 
 side. 
 
 But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest. 
 
 Always from port withheld, always dis- 
 tressed, — 
 
 Me howling blasts drive devious, tem- 
 pest-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 0, the thought that thou ait safe, 
 and he ! — 
 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to 
 me. 
 
 My boast is not that I deduce my birth
 
 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 71 
 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the 
 
 earth ; 
 But higher far my proud pretensions 
 
 rise, — 
 The son of parents passed into the skies. 
 And now, farewell ! — Tinif, unrevoked, 
 
 has run 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is 
 
 done. 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in 
 
 vain, 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er 
 
 again, — 
 To have renewed the joys that once w^ere 
 
 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, 
 Tune has but half succeeded in his 
 
 theft, — 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me 
 
 left. 
 
 MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE. 
 
 Gor> moves in a mysterious way 
 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
 
 And rides upon the .storm. 
 
 Deep in unfathomable mines 
 
 Of never-failing skill, 
 He ti-easures up Ids bright designs, 
 
 And works his sovereign will. 
 
 Ye fearful saints, fre.sh courage take ! 
 
 The clouds ye so much dread 
 Are big with men'v, and shall break 
 
 In blessings on your head. 
 
 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
 But trust him for his grace ; 
 
 Behind a frowning providence 
 He hides a smiling face. 
 
 His purjioses will ripen fast. 
 
 Unfolding every hour; 
 The bud may have a bitter taste, 
 
 But sweet will be the flower. 
 
 Blind unlielief is sure to err. 
 And scan his works in vain ; 
 
 God is his own interpreter. 
 And he will make it plain. 
 
 WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. 
 
 [1734- 1788.] 
 
 THE MARINER'S "WTFE. 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true? 
 
 And are ye sure he 's weel ? 
 Is this a time to think o' wark ? 
 
 Mak haste, lay by your wheel ; 
 Is this the time to spin a thread, 
 
 When Colin 's at the door ? 
 Reach down my cloak, I '11 to the quay, 
 
 And see him come ashore. 
 For there 's nae luck about the house. 
 
 There 's nae luck at a' ; 
 There 's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our gudemau 's awa'. 
 
 And gie to me my bigonet, 
 
 My bishop's satin -gown ; 
 For i maun tell the baillie's wife 
 
 That Colin 's in the town. 
 My Turkey slippers maun gae on. 
 
 My stockings pearly Vilue ; 
 It 's a' to ))leasure our gudeman, 
 
 For he 's baith leal and true. 
 
 Rise, la.ss, and mak a clean fireside, 
 
 Put on the muckle pot ; 
 Gie little Kate her button gown. 
 
 And .lock his Sunday coat ; 
 And mak their shoon as black as slae.s, 
 
 Their hose as white as snaw ; 
 It's a' to please my ain gu<ieman, 
 
 For he 's been lang awa'. 
 
 There 's twa fat hens upo' the coop, 
 
 Been fed this month and mair; 
 Mak haste and thraw their necks about, 
 
 That Colin weel may fare ; 
 And mak our table neat and clean, 
 
 Let everything look braw. 
 For wha can tell how Colin fared 
 
 When he was far awa' ? 
 
 Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, 
 
 His breath like caller air; 
 His very foot has music in 't 
 
 As he comes up the stair. 
 And will I see his face again ? 
 
 And will I hear him sy)eak ? 
 I 'm downright di/zy wi' the thought, 
 
 In troth i 'm like to greet ! 
 
 The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, 
 That thirled through my heart,
 
 72 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Tliey 're a' blawn 1iy, I liae him safe, 
 Till death we'll never ))art ; 
 
 But what puts ))artiiig in my head? 
 It may be tar awa' ! 
 
 The present moment is our ain, 
 The neist we never saw. 
 
 Since Colin 's weel, and weel content, 
 
 I hae nae niair to crave ; 
 And gin I live to keep him sae, 
 
 I 'm blest aboun tlie lave. 
 And will 1 see his face again? 
 
 And will I hear him sjieak? 
 1 'ni downright dizzy wi' the thought. 
 
 In troth 1 'm like to greet. 
 For there 's nae hick about the house, 
 
 There 's nae lu(!k at a' ; 
 There 's little pleasure in the house 
 
 When our gudtman 's awa'. 
 
 JAMES BEATTIE. 
 
 [173S-1803.] 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 At the close of the day, Avhen the ham- 
 let is still, 
 
 And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness 
 prove, 
 
 When naught but the torrent is heard 
 on the hill, 
 
 And naught but the nightingale's song 
 in the grove, 
 
 'T was thus, by the cave of the moun- 
 tain afar, 
 
 While his liarp rung symjihonious, a 
 hermit began ; 
 
 No more with himself or with nature at 
 wn r, 
 
 He tliouglit as a sage, though he felt as 
 a man : 
 
 "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness 
 and woe. 
 
 W'liy, lone Philomela, that languishing 
 fall? 
 
 For spring shall return, and a lover be- 
 stow. 
 
 And sorrow no longer thy bosom inthrall. 
 
 But, if pity inspire thee, renew tlie sad 
 lay, — 
 
 !Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls 
 thee to mourn ; 
 
 0, soothe him whose pleasures like thine 
 
 pass away ! 
 Full quickly they pass, — but they never 
 
 return. 
 
 "Now, gliding remote on the verge of the 
 sky. 
 
 The moon, half extinguished, her cres- 
 cent displays ; 
 
 But lately I marked when majestic on 
 high . 
 
 She shone, and the planets were lost in 
 her blaze. 
 
 Roll on, thou fair orb, and with glad- 
 ness 2)ursue 
 
 The path that conducts thee to splendor 
 again ! 
 
 But man's faded glory what change shall 
 renew? 
 
 Ah, fool : to exult in a glory so vain ! 
 
 "'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely 
 no more. 
 
 I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn 
 not for you ; 
 
 For morn is aj>proaching your charms to 
 I'cstore, 
 
 Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glit- 
 tering with dew. 
 
 Nor yet tor the ravage of winter I mourn,— 
 
 Kind nature the embryo blossom will 
 save ; 
 
 But when shall spring visit the moulder- 
 ing urn? 
 
 0, when shall day dawn on the night of 
 the giave ? 
 
 " 'T was thus, by the glare of false science 
 betrayed, 
 
 That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to 
 blind. 
 
 My thoughts wont to roam from shade 
 OTUvard to shade, 
 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow be- 
 hind. 
 
 '0 pity, great Father of light,' then I 
 cried, 
 
 'Thy creature, who fain would not wan- 
 der fiom thee ! 
 
 Lo, hunxblcd in dust, I relinquish my 
 |iride ; 
 
 From doubt and from darkness thou only 
 canst free ! ' 
 
 "And darkness and doubt arc now flying 
 
 away ; 
 No longer I roam in coujectuie foilorn.
 
 joh;n langhoene. — mes. thrale. 
 
 to 
 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint and 
 
 astray, 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of 
 
 morn. , 
 See truth, love, and mercy in triumph 
 
 descending, 
 And nature all glowing in Eden's first 
 
 bloom ! 
 On the cold cheek of death smiles and 
 
 roses are blending, 
 And beauty immortal awakes fVoni the 
 
 tomb." 
 
 JOHN LANGHORNE. 
 
 [1735-1779] 
 
 THE DEAD. 
 
 Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold, 
 No more the smiling day shall view, 
 
 Should many a tender tale be told, 
 For many a tender thought is due. 
 
 Why else the o'ergrown ]iaths of time 
 Would thus the lettered sage ex[ilore, 
 
 With pain these crumbling ruins climb. 
 And on the doubtful sculpture pore ? 
 
 Why seeks he with unwearied toil. 
 Through Death's dim walks to urge his 
 way, 
 
 Eeclaim his long-asserted spoil, 
 And lead oblivion into day ? 
 
 'T is nature prompts, by toil or fear. 
 Unmoved, to range through Death's 
 domain ; 
 
 The tender parent loves to hear 
 Her children's story told again ! 
 
 MRS, THRALE. 
 
 [1740- 1822.] 
 
 THE THREE WARNINGS. 
 
 The tree of deepest root is found 
 liCast willing still to quit the ground; 
 'T was therefore said by ancient sages, 
 
 That love of life increased with years 
 So much, that in our latter stages, 
 
 When pains grow sliarp and sickness 
 rages. 
 The greatest love of life a^ipears. 
 This great affection to believe, 
 Which all confess, but few perceive, 
 If old assertions can't prevail. 
 Be pleased to hear a modern tale. 
 
 When sports went round, and all were 
 
 gay. 
 
 On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, 
 Death called aside the jocund groom 
 With him into another room, 
 And, looking grave, "You must," says 
 
 he, 
 "Quit your sweet bride, and come with 
 
 me." 
 "With you ! and quit my Susan's side? 
 With you!" the hapless husband cried; 
 "Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! 
 Besides, in truth, 1 'm not prepared: 
 My thou^its on other matters go ; 
 This is my wediling-day, you know." 
 
 What more he urged I have not heard, 
 
 His reasons could not well be stronger; 
 So Death the poor delinquent siiared, 
 
 And left to live a little longer. 
 Yet calling up a serious look. 
 His hour-glass trembled while he spoke. 
 "Neighbor," he said, "farewell ! no more 
 Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour ; 
 And further, to avoid all blame 
 Of cruelty upon my name, 
 To give you time for j)reparation, 
 And fit you for j^our future station, 
 Three several warnings you shall have. 
 Before you 're suTumoned to the grave ; 
 Willing for once I '11 quit my prey. 
 
 And grant a kind reprieve. 
 In hopes you '11 have no more to say, 
 But when I call again this way, 
 
 Well pleased the world will leave." 
 To these conditions both consented, 
 And parted perfectly contented. 
 
 What next the hero of our tale befell, 
 How long he lived, how wise, how well. 
 How roundly he pursued his course. 
 And smoked his pipe, and stroked his 
 horse. 
 
 The willing muse shall tell : 
 He chaffered, then he bought and sold, 
 Nor once perceived his growing old. 
 
 Nor thought of Death as near : 
 His friends not false, his wife no shrew, 
 Many his gains, his children few,
 
 74 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 He passed his hours in peace. 
 But while he viewed his wealth increase, 
 AV'hile thus along lil'e's dusty road 
 Till; lieateu track content he trod, 
 Old Time, whose liaste no mortal spares, 
 Uncalled, uidieeded, unawares, 
 
 Brought on his eightieth year. 
 And now, one night, in musing mood, 
 
 As all alone-he sate. 
 The unwelcome messenger of Fate 
 
 Once more before him stood. 
 
 Half killed with anger and surprise, 
 "So soon retuined!" Old Dodson cries. 
 "So soon, d' ye call it !" Death replies ; 
 "Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest ! 
 
 Since I was here before 
 'T is six-and-thirty years at least, 
 
 And you are now fourscore." 
 
 "So much the worse," the clown re- 
 joined; 
 "To .spare the aged would be kind: 
 However, see your search be legal; 
 And your authority, — is 't resal' 
 i,lse you are come on a fool's errand. 
 With but a secretary's warrant. 
 Beside, you promised me three warn- 
 ings. 
 Which I have looked for nights and 
 
 moinings ; 
 But for that loss of time and ease 
 I can recover damages." 
 
 "I know," cries Death, "that at the 
 best 
 I seldom am a welcome guest ; 
 But don't be captious, friend, at least: 
 I little thought you 'd still be able 
 To stump about your farm and stable: 
 Your years have run to a gieat length ; 
 I wish you jo3% though, of your strength ! " 
 
 "Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast ! 
 I have b(!en lame these four years past." 
 
 "And no great wonder," Death replies: 
 "However, you still keep your eyes; 
 And sure to .see one's loves and friends 
 For legs and arms would make amends." 
 
 "Perhaps," says Uodson, "soitmight. 
 But latterly 1 've lost my sight." 
 
 " This is a shocking tale, 't is true ; 
 But still there 's cfimfDrt left for you : 
 F.acli strives your saiiiiess to amuse ; 
 I warrant you hear all the news." 
 
 " There 's none," cries he ; and if there 
 were, 
 
 I 'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." 
 "Nay, then," the spectre stern re- 
 joined, 
 "The.se are unjustifiable yearnings: 
 If you are lame, and deaf, and blind. 
 You 've had your three sufficient 
 warnings ; 
 So come along, no more we '11 part." 
 He said, and touched him with his dart. 
 And now Old Dodson, turning pale. 
 Yields to his fate, — so ends my tale. 
 
 ANNA L. BARBAULD. ' 
 
 [1743 -1 825.] 
 
 THE SABBATH OF THE SOUL. 
 
 Sleep, .sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
 
 Of earth and folly born ; 
 Ye shall not dim the light that streams 
 
 From this celestial morn. 
 
 To-morrow w ill be time enough 
 
 To feel your harsh control ; 
 Ye .shall not violate, this day, 
 
 The Sabbath of my soul. 
 
 Sleep, .sleep forever, guilty thoughts ; 
 
 Let fires of vengeance die ; 
 And, puiged fiom sin, may I behold 
 
 A God of purity ! 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 
 
 Sweet is the scene when virtue dies! 
 
 When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
 How mildly beam the closing eyes. 
 
 How gently heaves the expiring breast ! 
 
 So fades a summer cloud away. 
 
 So sinks the gale when storms are o'er, 
 
 So gently shuts the eye of day. 
 So dies a wave along the shore. 
 
 Triumidiant smiles the victor brow, 
 Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; — 
 
 Wlieie is, O grave ! thy victory now ? 
 And where, insidious death ! thy 
 sting '{ 
 
 Farewell, oonnieting joys and f(>ars. 
 Where light antl shaile alternate dwell I
 
 SUSANNA BLAMIRE. — JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 75 
 
 How bright tlie nnchaiigiiig morn ap- 
 pears ; — 
 Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 
 
 Life's labor done, as sinks the day. 
 Light from its load the spirit Hies ; 
 
 While heaven and earth combine to say, 
 "Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! " 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art, 
 But know that thou and I must part ; 
 Aud when, or how, or where we met, 
 I own to me 's a secret yet. 
 
 l^ife! we've been long together 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy 
 
 weather; 
 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, — 
 Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear; 
 - — Then steal away, give little warning. 
 
 Choose thine own time ; 
 Say not Good Night, — but in some 
 brighter clime 
 
 Bid me Good Moining. 
 
 SUSANNA BLAMIRE. 
 [1747-1794.] 
 
 WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? 
 
 What ails this heart o' miue? 
 
 What ails this watery ee ? 
 What gars me a' turn j)ale as death 
 
 When 1 take leave o' thee? 
 When thou art far awa', 
 
 Thou 'It dearer grow to me ; 
 But change 0' place and change 0' folk 
 
 May gar thy fancy jee. 
 
 When I gae out at e'en. 
 
 Or walk at morning air, 
 Ilk rustling bush will seem to say, 
 
 I used to meet thee there. 
 Then 1 '11 sit down and cry, 
 
 And live aneath the tree, 
 And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, 
 
 1 '11 ca' 't a word frae thee. 
 
 I '11 hie me to the bower 
 That thou wi' roses tied. 
 
 And where wi' mony a blushing bud 
 
 1 strove myself to hide. 
 I '11 doat on ilka spot 
 
 Where I ha'e been wi' thee ; 
 And ca' to mind some kindly word, 
 
 By ilka burn and tree. 
 
 JOHN LOGAN. 
 
 [1748-178S.] 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! 
 
 Thou messenger of spring ! 
 Now heaven rejiairs thy lural seat, 
 
 And woods thy welcome sing. 
 
 AVhat time the daisy decks the green. 
 
 Thy certain voice we hear; 
 Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
 
 Or mark the rolling year ? 
 
 Delightful visitant! with thee 
 
 I hail the time of liowers. 
 And hear the sound of music sweet 
 
 From birds among the bowers. 
 
 The school-boy, wandering through the 
 wood 
 
 To pull the primrose gay. 
 Starts, the new voice of s[)ring to hear. 
 
 And imitates thy lay. 
 
 What time the pea puts on the bloom, 
 
 Thou Hiest thy vocal vale. 
 An annual guest in other lands, 
 
 Another spring to hail. 
 
 Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green. 
 
 Thy sky is ever clear; 
 Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 
 
 No winter in thy year ! 
 
 0, could I fly, I 'd fly with thee ! 
 
 We 'd make, with joyful wing, 
 Our annual visit o'er the globe. 
 
 Companions of the spring. 
 
 YARROW STREAM. 
 
 TiiY banks were bonnie. Yarrow stream. 
 When first on thee I met my lover; 
 Thy banks how dreary, Yari'ow stream, 
 When now thy waves his body cover !
 
 76 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Forever now, Yarrow stream, 
 Thou art to nie a stream of sorrow ; 
 For never on thy banks shall I 
 Behold my love, — the tlower of Yarrow ! 
 
 He promised me a milk-white horse, 
 To bear me to his father's bowers ; 
 He promised me a little page, 
 To scpiire me to his father's towers. 
 
 He promised me a wedding-ring. 
 The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow ; 
 Now he is wecKled to his giave, 
 Alas ! a watery grave in Yarrow ! 
 
 S^weet were his words when last we met, 
 My passion as I freely told him ; 
 Clasped in his arms, I little thought 
 That I should nevermore behold him. 
 
 Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost, — 
 It vanished with a shriek of sorrow ; 
 Thrice did the "Water Wraith ascend. 
 And give a doleful groan through Yarrow ! 
 
 His mother from the window looked, 
 AVith all the longing of a mother; 
 His little sister, weeping, walked 
 The greenwood path to meet her brother. 
 
 They sought him east, they sought him 
 
 west. 
 They sought him all the forest thorough ; 
 Tliey only saw the clouds of night, 
 They only heard the roar of Yarrow ! 
 
 No longer from thy window look, — 
 Thou hast no son, thou tender mother ! 
 No longer walk, thou lovely maid, — 
 Alas.'- thou hast no more a brother! 
 
 No longer seek him east or west, 
 No longer search the forest thorough, 
 For, murdered in the night so daik, 
 He lies a lifeless corpse in Yarrow ! 
 
 The tears sh.all never leave my cheek; 
 No other youth shall be my marrow; 
 I 'II seek thy body in the stream, 
 And thei(^ with thee I '11 sleej) in Yarrow ! 
 
 The tear ditl never leave her check : 
 No other youth became her marrow; 
 Slie found his body in the stream, 
 And with him now she sleeps in Yarrow. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL. 
 
 Hie upon Hielands, 
 
 And low upon Tay, 
 Bonnie George Campbell 
 
 Kade out on a day. 
 Saddled and bridled 
 
 And gallant rade he ; 
 Hame came his gude horse, 
 
 But never came he. 
 
 Out came his auld mither 
 
 Greeting fu' sair. 
 And out came his bonnie bride 
 
 Rivin' her hair. 
 Saddled and bridled 
 
 And booted rade he ; 
 Toom hame came the saddle, 
 
 But never came he. 
 
 " My meadow lies green. 
 
 And my corn is unshorn ; 
 My barn is to build. 
 
 And my babie 's unborii." 
 Saddled and l)ridled 
 
 And booted rade he ; 
 Toom hame came the saddle, 
 
 But never came he ! 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 "WALY, WALY, BUT LOVE BE BONNY. 
 
 0, AVALY, waly XI ]) the bank. 
 
 And waly, waly down the brae, 
 And waly, waly yon burnside. 
 
 Where I and my love wont to gae. 
 I leaned my back unto an aik. 
 
 And tliought it was a trusty tree. 
 But first it bowed, and syne it brak', 
 
 Sae my true love did lightly me. 
 
 O, waly, waly, Init love is bonny, 
 
 A little time while it is new ; 
 But when 'tis auld, it waxetli cauld. 
 
 And fades away like moiiiing dew. 
 0, wherefore should I busk my hend? 
 
 Or wherefore should I kame my hair? 
 For my true love has me forsook, 
 
 And says lie 11 never love me mair. 
 
 Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed. 
 The sheets shall ne'er be filled by me;
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 77 
 
 Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, 
 Since my true love 's forsaken me, 
 
 Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, 
 And shake the green leaves off the 
 tree? 
 
 gentle death ! when wilt thou come ? 
 For of my life I am weary. 
 
 T is not the frost that freezes fell, 
 
 Nor blowing snow's inclemency ; 
 'T is not sic eauld that makes me cry. 
 
 But mj' love's heart grown cauld to me. 
 When we came in by Glasgow town, 
 
 We were a comely sight to see ; 
 My love was clad in the black velvet, 
 
 And I mysel' in cramasie. 
 
 But had I wist, before I kissed. 
 That love had been so ill to win, 
 
 1 'd locked my heart in a case of gold. 
 
 And ])inne(l it with a silver pin. 
 And 0, if my young babe were born, 
 
 And set upon the nurse's knee, 
 And I mysel' wei'e dead and gane, 
 
 Wi' the green grass growing over me ! 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 LADY MARY ANN. 
 
 0, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the cas- 
 tle wa'. 
 
 She saw three bonnie boys playing at 
 the ba', 
 
 The youngest he was the flower amang 
 them a' : 
 My bonnie laddie's young, but he's 
 growin' yet. 
 
 "0 father, father, an' ye think it fit. 
 We '11 send him a year to the college yet : 
 We '11 sew a green ribbon round about 
 
 his hat, 
 And that will let them ken he 's to 
 
 marry yet." 
 
 Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew. 
 Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its 
 
 hue, 
 And the langer it blossomed the sweeter 
 
 it gi-ew ; 
 For the lily in the bud will be bonnier 
 
 yet. 
 
 Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout 
 
 of an aik, 
 Bonnie and blooming and .straight was 
 
 its make, 
 The sun took delight to shine foi- its 
 
 sake ; 
 And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 
 
 The summer is gone when the leaves they 
 
 were green, 
 And the days are awa' that we hae seen, 
 But far better days I trust will come 
 
 again ; 
 For my bonnie laddie 's young, but 
 
 he 's growing yet. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE BOATIE ROWS. 
 
 0, WEEL may the boatie row, 
 
 And better may she speed ; 
 And liesome may the boatie low 
 
 That wins the bairnies' bread. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows indeed; 
 And weel may the boatie row 
 
 That wins the bairnies' bread. 
 
 I coost my line in Largo Bay, 
 
 And fishes I catched nine ; 
 'T was three to boil and three to fry, 
 
 And three to bait the line. 
 The boatie lows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows indeed. 
 And happy be the lot o' a' 
 
 Wha wishes her to speed. 
 
 0, weel may the boatie row, 
 
 That fills a heavy creel. 
 And deeds us a' frae tap to tae, 
 
 And buys our parritch meal. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows, 
 
 The boatie rows, indeed, 
 And happy be the lot o' a' 
 
 That wish the boatie speed. 
 
 When Jamie vowed he wad be mine. 
 
 And wan frae me my heart, 
 0, muckle lighter grew my creel — 
 
 He swore we 'd never part. 
 The boatie rows, the boatie rows. 
 
 The boatie rows fu' weel ; 
 And muckle lighter is the load 
 
 When love bears up the creel.
 
 "8 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 My kurtcli T put npo' my head,' 
 
 And dressed iiiysel' fu liravv; 
 I trow my heart was dough and wae, 
 
 When Jamie gade awa'. 
 But weel may the boatie row, 
 
 And huky b(; her part. 
 And lightsome be tlie lassie's care 
 
 That yields an honest heart. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 GLENLOGIE. 
 
 TuREESCOKE o' nobles rade up the king's 
 
 lia', 
 But bonnie Glenlogie 's the flower o' 
 
 them a', 
 Wi' his milk-white steed and his bonnie 
 
 black e'e, 
 "Glenlogie, dear mither, Glenlogie for 
 
 me!" 
 
 "0, hand your tongue, daughter, ye '11 
 
 get better than he." 
 "0, say nae sae, mither, for that canna 
 
 be; 
 Though Doumlie is rieher and greater 
 
 than he. 
 Yet if I maun tak him, I '11 certainly 
 
 dee. 
 
 "Where will T get a bonnie boy, to win 
 
 hose and slioon. 
 Will gae to Glenlogie, and come again 
 
 nil 
 
 soon? 
 "0, here am I a bonnie boy, to win hose 
 
 and shoon, 
 Will gae to Glenlogie and come again 
 
 soon." 
 
 When he gaed to Glenlogie, 't was 
 
 " Wash and go dine" ; 
 'T was " Wash ye, n)y j»retty boy, wash 
 
 and go dine." 
 "0, 't was ne'er my father's fashion, and 
 
 it ne'er shall lie mine 
 To gar a lady's errand wait till I dine. 
 
 "But there is, Glenlogie, a letter for 
 
 thee." 
 The first line that he read, a low laugh 
 
 gave he J 
 
 The next line that he read, the tear 
 
 blindit his e'e ; 
 But the last line that he read, he gart 
 
 the table flee. 
 
 " Gar saddle the black horse, gar saddle 
 
 the bi'own ; 
 Gar saddle the swiftest steed e'er rade 
 
 frae a town" : 
 But lang ere the horse was drawn and 
 
 brought to the green, 
 0, bonnie Glenlogie was twa mile his 
 
 lane. 
 
 Wlien he came to Glenfeldy's door, little 
 mirth was there ; 
 
 Bonnie Jean's mother was tearing her 
 hair. 
 
 "Ye 're welcome, Glenlogie, ye 're wel- 
 come," said she, — 
 
 "Ye 're welcome, Glenlogie, your Jeanie 
 to see." 
 
 Pale and wan was she, when Glenlogie 
 
 gaed ben. 
 But red and rosy grew she, whene'er he 
 
 sat down ; 
 She turned awa' her head, but the smile 
 
 was in her e'e, 
 " 0, binna feared, mither, I '11 maybe no 
 
 dee." 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 JOHN DAVIDSON. 
 
 John Davidson and Tib his wife 
 Sat toastin' their taes ae niglit. 
 
 When somethin' started on the tluir 
 An' blinked by their sight. 
 
 "Guidwife!" quo' John, "did ye see 
 that mouse ? 
 Whar sorra was the cat?" 
 "A mouse?" — "Ay, a mouse." — "Na, 
 na, Guidman, 
 It wasna a mouse, 't was a rat." 
 
 "Oh, oh! Guidwife, to think ye 've been 
 
 Sae lang about the house 
 An' no to ken a mouse frae a rat ! 
 
 Yon wasna a rat, but a mouse ! " 
 
 "I've seen mair mice than you, Guid- 
 man, 
 An' what think ye o' that ?
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. — THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 79 
 
 Sae hand your tongue an' say naemair, — 
 1 tell ye 'twas a rat." 
 
 "Me baud my tongue for you, Guidwife ! 
 
 1 'U be uiaister o' this house, — 
 I saw it as plain as een could see, 
 
 An' I telt ye 't was a mouse ! 
 
 " If you 're the maister o' the house, 
 
 It"'s I'm the uiistiess o' 't; 
 An' I ken best what 's i' the house, — 
 
 Sae I tell ye 't was a rat." 
 
 ' ' Weel, weel , uid wife, gae mak the brose, 
 
 An' ca it what ye please." 
 Sae up she gat an' made the brose. 
 
 While John sat toastin' bis tae.s. 
 
 They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the 
 brose, 
 An' aye their lips pbiyed smack ; 
 They suppit an' suppit an' suppit the 
 brose 
 Till their lugs began to crack. 
 
 " Sic fules we were to fa' out, Guidwife, 
 About a mouse." — "A what ! 
 
 It 's a lee ye tell, an' I say again ^ 
 It wasna a mouse, 't was a rat. 
 
 "Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face? 
 
 My I'iiith, but ye craw croose ! — 
 I tell y(S Tib, 1 never will bear 't, — 
 
 'T was a mouse." — "'T was a rat." — 
 "'Twas a mouse." 
 
 Wi' that she struck him ower the pow. 
 
 "Ye dour auld doit, tak' that! 
 Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph !^ 
 
 'T was arat."— "'T was a mouse!" — 
 " 'T was a rat ! " 
 
 She sent the brose-cup at his heels 
 
 As he hirplcd ben the house ; 
 But he shoved out his head as he steekit 
 the door, 
 An' cried. '"T was a mouse, 't was a 
 mouse !" 
 
 Yet when the auld carle fell asleep, 
 
 She paid hiiu back for that, 
 An' roared into his sleepin' lug, 
 
 "'T was a rat, 't was a rat, 't wasarat ! 
 
 The deil be wi' me, if I think 
 
 It was a beast at all. 
 Next mornin', when she sweept the floor, 
 
 She found wee Johnie's ball ! 
 
 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHER- 
 IDAN. 
 
 [1751-1816.] 
 
 HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD 
 FRAMED. 
 
 Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 
 
 1 ne'er could injure you ; 
 For though your tongue no promise 
 claimed, 
 
 Your charms would make me true: 
 To you no soul shall bear deceit, 
 
 No stranger offer wrong ; 
 But friends iii all the aged you '11 meet, 
 
 And lovers in the young. 
 
 For when they learn that you have blest 
 
 Another with your heart. 
 They '11 bid aspiring passion rest, 
 
 And act a brother's part. 
 Then, lady, dread not here deceit. 
 
 Nor fear to sutler wrong; 
 For friends in all the aged you '11 meet, 
 
 And brothers in the young. 
 
 THOMAS CHATTERTON. 
 
 [1752- 1770.] 
 
 THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. 
 
 0, SING unto my roundelay ! 
 
 0, dro]) 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. 
 My love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Sweet his tongue as throstle's note. 
 
 Quick in dance as thought was he ; 
 Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; 
 0, he lies by the willow-tree ! 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree.
 
 80 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Hark ! the ravon flaps liis wing 
 
 In the biiered dell below ; 
 Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing 
 To the nightmares as they go. 
 My lov(! is dead, 
 Gone to his deatii-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 See ! the white moon shines on high ; 
 
 Whiter is my true-love's shroud, 
 Whiter than the morning sky. 
 Whiter tlian the evening cloud. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Here, upon my true-love's grave, 
 Shall the garish flowers be laid, 
 Kor one holy saint to save 
 All the sorrows of a maid, 
 ily love is dead. 
 Gone to his death-bed. 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 With my hands 1 '11 bind the briers 
 
 liound his holy corse to gre ; 
 Elfin-fairy, light your fires, 
 Heie my body still shall be. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Come with acorn cup and thorn, 
 
 Drain my heart's blood all away; 
 Life and all its good I scorn. 
 Dance by night, or feast by day. 
 My love is dead, 
 Gone to his death-bed, 
 All under the willow-tree. 
 
 Water-witches, crowned with reytes. 
 Bear rhe to your deadly tide. 
 
 I die — 1 come — my true-love waits. 
 Thus the damsel spake, and died. 
 
 GEOEGE CPtABDE. 
 
 [1754-1832] 
 
 ISAAC ASHFORD. 
 
 Xkxt to these ladies, but in naught 
 allied, 
 A noble jiensant, Isaac Ashfovd, died. 
 Koble he was, contemningall things mean, 
 
 His truth unquestioned and his soul 
 seiene : 
 
 Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; . 
 
 At no man's question Isaac looked dis- 
 mayed : 
 
 Shame knew him not, he dreaded no 
 disgrace ; 
 
 Truth, simple truth, was written in his 
 face ; 
 
 Yet while the serious thought his soul 
 approved. 
 
 Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he 
 loved ; 
 
 To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, 
 
 And with the firmest, had the londe.-t 
 mind. 
 
 Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, 
 
 And gave allowance wheie he needeil none ; 
 
 Good he refused witli future ill to buy, 
 
 Nor knew a joy that caused lellection's 
 sigh. 
 
 A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast 
 
 No envy stung, no jealousy distressed 
 
 (Bane of the i)oor ! it wounds their ■« eaker 
 mind 
 
 To miss one favor which their neighbors 
 find) ; 
 
 Yet far was he from stoic ])ride removed ; 
 
 He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. 
 
 I marked his action when his infant died, 
 
 And his old neigh Ixjr for oflence was tried ; 
 
 The .still tears, stealing down that fur- 
 rowed cheek. 
 
 Spoke ])ity plainer than the tongue can 
 speak. 
 
 If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar 
 pride 
 
 Who, in their base contempt, the great 
 deiide ; 
 
 Nor pride in leai-ning, though my clerk 
 agreed. 
 
 If fate should call him, Ashford might 
 succeed ; 
 
 Nor pridein rustieskill, although wekncw 
 
 Noni' his su])eiior, and his e(|nals few : 
 
 But if that spirit in his soul had place. 
 
 It was the jealous ]n-ide that shuns dis- 
 grace ; 
 
 A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained. 
 
 In sturdy lioys to virtuous labors trained ; 
 
 Pride in the power that guards his coun- 
 try's coast. 
 
 And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast ; 
 
 Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, 
 
 In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. 
 He had no party's rage, no sectary's 
 whim ;
 
 SAMUEL KOGEES. 
 
 81 
 
 Christian and countryman was all with 
 him, 
 
 True to his church he came, no Sunday- 
 shower 
 
 Kept him at home in that important hour ; 
 
 Nor his firm feet could one ])ersuadiiig sect 
 
 By the strong glare of their new light 
 direct : — 
 
 "On hope, in mine own sober light, I gaze, 
 
 But should be blind and lose it in your 
 blaze." 
 In times severe, when many a sturdy 
 swain 
 
 Felt it his pride, his comfort, tocomplain, 
 
 Isaac their wants would soothe, his own 
 would hide, 
 
 And feel in that his comfort and his pride. 
 At length he found, when seventy years 
 were run, 
 
 His strength departed and his labor done ; 
 
 When, save his honest fame, he kept no 
 more ; 
 
 But lost his wife and saw his children 
 poor. 
 
 'T was then a spark of — say not discon- 
 tent — 
 
 Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it 
 vent: 
 "Kind are your laws ('tis not to be 
 denied) 
 
 That in yon house for ruined age provide, 
 
 And they are just ; when young, we give 
 you all, 
 
 And then for comforts in our weakness 
 call. 
 
 Why then this proud reluctance to be 
 fed. 
 
 To join your poor and eat the parish- 
 bread ? 
 
 But yet I linger, loath with him to feed 
 
 Wlio gains his plenty by the sons of need : 
 
 He who, by contract, all your paupers 
 took. 
 
 And gauges stomachs with an anxious 
 look : 
 
 On some old master I could well depend ; 
 
 See him with joy and thank him as a 
 friend ; 
 
 But ill on him who doles the day's supply, 
 
 And counts our chances who at night 
 may die : 
 
 Yet help me, Heaven ! and let me not 
 complain 
 
 Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." 
 Such were his thoughts, and so re- 
 signed he gi'ew ; 
 
 Daily he placed the workhouse in his view ! 
 
 6 
 
 But came not there, for sudden was his 
 
 fate. 
 He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. 
 
 1 feel his absence in the hours of prayer. 
 And view his seat, andsighforlsaacthert' ; 
 I see no more those white locks tliinly 
 
 spread 
 Round the bald polish of that honored 
 
 head ; 
 No more that awful glance on ])layfal 
 
 wight 
 Compelled to kneel and tremble at the 
 
 sight, 
 To fold his fingers all in dread the while. 
 Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile ; 
 No more that meek and suppliant look 
 
 in prayer. 
 Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are 
 
 there : . . . . 
 But he is blest, and I lament no more, 
 A wise good man contented to be poor. 
 
 SAMUEL ROGERS. 
 
 [1763-1855.] 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill ; 
 A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear ; 
 A willowy brook that turns a mill, 
 With many a fall shall linger near. 
 
 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch 
 Shall twitter from her clay-built nest ; 
 Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
 And share my meal, a welcome guest. 
 
 Around my ivied porch shall spring 
 Each fragrant flower that drinks thi; dew ; 
 And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
 In russet gown and apron blue. 
 
 The village-church among the trees. 
 Where first our marriage- vows were given. 
 With merry peals shall swell the breeze. 
 And point with taper spire to heaven. 
 
 ITALIAN SONG. 
 
 Dear is my little native vale. 
 
 The ring-dove builds and murmurs there ; 
 
 Close by my cot she tells her tale 
 
 To every passing villager.
 
 82 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, 
 And sliMls his nuts at liberty. 
 
 In orange groves and myrtle bowers, 
 That breathe a gale of fragrance round, 
 1 charm the fairy- looted hours 
 "With my lovetl lute's romantic sound; 
 Of crowns of living laurel weave 
 For those that win the race at eve. 
 
 The shepherd's horn at break of <lay, 
 Tlie ballet ilanced in twilight glade, 
 The canzonet and roundelay 
 Sung in the silent greenwood shade : 
 These simple joys that never fail 
 Shall bind me to my native vale. 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 [1759-1796.] 
 
 OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN 
 BLAW. 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 
 
 I dearly like the west ; 
 For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
 
 The lassie I lo'e best. 
 There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 
 
 And monie a hill 's between ; 
 But day and night my fancy's Uight 
 
 Is ever wi' my Jean. 
 
 I see her in the dewy flowers, 
 
 I see her sweet and fair ; 
 I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 
 
 1 hear her charm the air; 
 There 's not a bonnie tlower that springs 
 
 By fountain, shaw, or green, — 
 There 's not a bonnie bird that sings, 
 
 But minds me o' my Jean. 
 
 MARY MORISON. 
 
 Maky, at thy window be ! 
 
 It is the wislied, the trysted hour ! 
 Those smiles and glances let me see, 
 
 That make the miser's treasure ]ioor 
 How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 
 
 A weary sla^'e frae sun to sun, 
 Could 1 tile rich reward secure. 
 
 The lovely JIary Morison. 
 
 Yestreen when to the trembling string 
 
 The dancegaed through the lighted ha'. 
 To thee my fancy took its wing, 
 
 I sat, but neither heard nor saw. 
 Though this was fair, and that was braw, 
 
 And yon the toast of a' the town, 
 I sighed, and said amang them a', 
 
 "Ye are ua Maiy Morison." 
 
 Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 
 
 Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee ? 
 Or canst thou break that heart of his, 
 
 Whase only faut is loving thee? 
 If love for love thou wilt na gie, 
 
 At least be pity to me shown ; 
 A thought ungentle canna be 
 
 The thought o' Mary Morison. 
 
 HIGHLAND MARY. 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around 
 
 The castle o' Montgomery, 
 Green be j-ourwoods, and fair your t!owcrs. 
 
 Your waters never drumlie ! 
 Thei'e simmer first unfauld her robes 
 
 And there the langest tarry ! 
 For there I took the last fareweel 
 
 0' my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, 
 
 How rich the hawthorn's 1 lossom. 
 As underneath their fragrant sliade 
 
 I clasped her to my bosom ! 
 The; golden hours on angel wings 
 
 Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
 For dear to me as light and life 
 
 Was my sweet Highland Mary. 
 
 Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace 
 
 Our ])arting was fu' tender; 
 An<l ])ledging aft to meet again. 
 
 We tore ourselves asunder; 
 But, O, fell Death's untimely frost, 
 
 That nipt my flower sue early ! 
 Now green 's thesod, and cauld'sthe clay, 
 
 That w-raps my Highland Mary ! 
 
 y)ale, pale now, those ro.sy lips 
 
 I aft hae kissed sae fondly ! 
 And closed for aye the sjiarkling glance 
 
 That dwelt on me sae kindl}'! 
 And moiddeiing now in silent dust 
 
 That lieart that lo'ed me dearly! 
 But still witliin my bosom's core 
 
 Shall live my Highland JSIary.
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 83 
 
 TO MARY IK HEAVEN. 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, 
 
 That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
 Again thou usherest in the day 
 
 My Mary from my soul was torn. 
 Mary ! dear, dei)arted shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
 
 Hearst thou the groans that rend his 
 breSst ? 
 
 That sacred hour can I forget. 
 
 Can 1 forget the hallowed grove, 
 Where by the winding Ayr we met 
 
 To live one day of parting love ? 
 Eternity will not efface 
 
 Those records dear of transports past ; 
 Thy image at our last embrace ! 
 
 Ah ! little thought we 't was our last ! 
 
 Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 
 
 O'erhung with wild woods, thickening 
 green ; 
 The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. 
 
 Twined amorous round the raptured 
 scene. 
 The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed. 
 
 The birds sang love on every sjjray. 
 Till too, too soon, the glowing west 
 
 Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 
 
 Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 
 
 And fondly broods with miser care ; 
 Time but the impression deeper makes. 
 
 As streams their channels deeper wear. 
 My Mary ! dear, departed shade ! 
 
 Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
 Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 
 
 Hear'st thou the gi-oans that rend his 
 breast ? 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 As I stood by yon roofless tower. 
 
 Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy 
 air, 
 
 W^here the howlet mournsin her ivy bower. 
 And tells the midnight moon her care. 
 
 The winds were laid, the air was still. 
 The stars they shot alang the sky ; 
 
 The fox was howling on the hill, 
 And the distant-echoing glens reply. 
 
 The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
 Was rushing by the ruined wa's, 
 
 Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
 Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 
 
 The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
 Her lights, wi' hi.ssing, eei'ie din ; 
 
 Athort the lift they start and shift, 
 Like fortune's favors, tint as win. 
 
 By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, 
 And by the moon-beam, shook, to see 
 
 A stern and stalwart ghnist arise, 
 Attired as minstrels W(jnt to be. 
 
 Had I a statue been o' stane, 
 
 His darin look had daunted nie : 
 
 And on his bonnet graved was plain, 
 The sacred posy — Libertie ! 
 
 And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
 Might roused the .slumbering dead to 
 hear; 
 
 But 0, it was a tale of woe, 
 As ever met a Briton's ear ! 
 
 He sang wi' joy his former day, 
 
 He weeping wailed iiis latter times; 
 
 But what he said it was nae play, 
 I winna ventur 't in my rhymes. 
 
 A BARD'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Is there a wliim-inspired fool, 
 Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
 Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 
 
 Let him draw near, 
 And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 
 And drap a tear. 
 
 Is there a bard of rustic song. 
 Who, noteless, steals the crowds among, 
 That weekly this area throng, 
 
 O, pass not by ! 
 But witK a frater-feeling strong. 
 
 Here lieave a sigh. 
 
 Is there a man whose judgment clear 
 Can others teach the coursH to steer, 
 Yet runs himself life's mad career, 
 
 Wild as the wave; 
 Here pause, and, thro' the starting tear, 
 
 Survey this grave. 
 
 This poor inhabitant below 
 Was quick to learn and wise to know,
 
 84 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 And keenly felt the friendly glow, 
 And Kofter flame ; 
 
 But thoughtless follie.s laid him low, 
 
 And stained his name ! 
 
 Reader, attend, — whether thy soul 
 Soars fancy's fliglits beyond the jiole, 
 Or darkling grubs this earthly hole. 
 
 In low ]mrsuit; 
 Know prudent, cautious self-control 
 
 Is wisdom's root. 
 
 ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW 
 HENDERSON. 
 
 He 's gane, he 's gane ! he 's frae us torn, 
 
 The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 
 
 Thee, Matthew, Nature's sel shall mourn 
 
 By wood and wild. 
 Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 
 
 Frae man exiled. 
 
 Ye hills, near neel)ors o' the .starns. 
 That ju'oudl}' cock your cresting cairns! 
 Ye clilfs, the haunts of sailing yearns 
 
 Wlicre echo slumlicrs ! 
 Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
 
 My wailing numbers ! 
 
 Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
 Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 
 Ye burnies, wiui|)lin down your glens, 
 
 Wi' toddlin din, 
 Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
 
 Frae lin to lin. 
 
 Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea; 
 Ye stately foxgloves fair to see; 
 Ye woodbines hanging bonnilie, 
 
 In scented bow'rs; 
 Ye roses on your thorny tree. 
 
 The first o' ilow'rs. 
 
 At dawn, when every grassy blade 
 
 Droops with a diamond at its head. 
 
 At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 
 
 r tir rustling gale, 
 Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade, 
 
 Come join my wail. 
 
 Mourn, ye W(!e songsters o' the wood; 
 Ye grouse that era]) the heather bud; 
 Ye curlews calling thro' a clud ; 
 
 Ye whistling ])lover; 
 And mourn, j-e whirring paitrick brood; 
 
 He 's gane forever ! 
 
 Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals; 
 Ye fisher herons, watching eels; 
 Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 
 
 Circling the lake ; 
 Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 
 
 Rair for his sake. 
 
 Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
 'Mang fields o' flow'ring claver gay ; 
 And when ye wing your annual way 
 
 Fiae our cauM shore. 
 Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in claj-, 
 
 Wham we deplore. 
 
 Ye howlets, frae your ivy how'r. 
 In some auld tiee, or eldritch tow'r. 
 What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 
 
 Sets up her horn, 
 Wail thro' the dr<>ary midnight hour 
 
 Till waukrife morn. 
 
 river.s, forests, hills, and plains ! 
 Oft have ye heard my canty .strains; 
 But now, what else for me remains 
 
 But tales of woe ? 
 And frae my een the drapping rains 
 
 Maun ever flow. 
 
 Mourn, Spring, thou darling of the year ! 
 Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear; 
 Thou, Sunnner, while each corny spear 
 
 Shoots up its head. 
 Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear 
 
 For him that 's dead ! 
 
 Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
 In grief thy sallow mantle tear! 
 Thou, AVinter, Inirling thro' the air 
 
 The roaring blast, 
 Wide o'er the naked a\ orkl declai-e 
 
 The worth we 've lost ! 
 
 JMourn him, thou Sun,gi-eat source of light ; 
 Mourn, Empress of the silent night !' 
 And you, ye twinkling starnics bright, 
 
 My Matthew mourn ! 
 For through your oibshe 'sta'en his flight. 
 
 Ne'er to return. 
 
 Henderson ; the man ! the biothcr! 
 And art thou gone, and gone foicvei' ! 
 And hast thou ciost that unknown river, 
 
 Life's dreary bound ! 
 Like thee, where shall I find anotlicr. 
 
 The world around >. 
 
 Go to your sculjitured tombs, ye Great, 
 In a' the tinsel trash o' state !
 
 LADY ANNE BAKNAED. — WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 85 
 
 But by thy honest turf I '11 wait, 
 
 Thou man of worth ! 
 
 And weep the ae best fellow's fate 
 E'er lav in earth. 
 
 LADY ANNE BARNAKD. 
 
 [1705-1825.] 
 
 AULD ROBIN GRAY. 
 
 When the slieep are in the fauld, and 
 
 the kye come hame, 
 And a' the weary warld to sleep are gane ; 
 The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae 
 
 my ee, 
 While my gudeman lies sound by me. 
 
 Young Jamie lo'ed me wcel, and socht 
 
 me for his bride ; 
 But saving a croun, he had naething 
 
 else beside ; 
 To male that croun a pund, my Jamie 
 
 gaed to sea ; 
 And the croun and the pund they were 
 
 baitli for me. 
 
 He hadna been gane a twelvemonth and 
 
 a day. 
 When my father brak his arm, and the 
 
 cow was stown awa : 
 My mither she fell sick, — my Jamie was 
 
 at sea, 
 And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. 
 
 My father couldna work, and my mother 
 
 couldna sj)in ; 
 I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I 
 
 couldna win ; 
 Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, 
 
 wi' tears in his ee'. 
 Said, "Jeannie, for their sakes, will ye 
 
 na marry me?" 
 
 My heart it said nay, for I looked for 
 
 Jamie back ; 
 But the wind it blew high, and the ship 
 
 it was a wrack ; 
 The ship it was a wrack — why didna 
 
 Jamie dee ? 
 Or why do I live to say, Wae 's me? 
 
 My father urged me sair : my mither didna 
 
 speak ; 
 But she lookit in my face till my heart 
 
 was like to break ; 
 
 They gied him my liand, though my 
 
 heart was in the sea ; 
 And auld Robin Gray was gudtinan to 
 
 me. 
 
 I hadna been a wife a week but only four. 
 When, mournfu'as I saton thestaneatmy 
 
 door, 
 I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coiililna 
 
 think it he. 
 Till he said, "I 'm come home, love, to 
 
 marry thee." 
 
 0, sair did we greet, and muckle say of a' ! 
 I gie'd him but ae kiss, and bade him 
 
 gang awa' : 
 I wish I were dead ! but 1 'm no like to 
 
 dee ; 
 And why do I live to cry, Wae 's me ? 
 
 I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; 
 I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad 
 
 be a sin ; 
 But I '11 do my best a gude wife to be. 
 For auld Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 
 
 WILLIAM BLAKE. 
 
 [1757-1827.] 
 
 THE TIGER. 
 
 TifiRU ! Tiger ! burning bright, 
 In the forests of the night ; 
 Wliat immortal hand or eye 
 Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? 
 
 In what distant deeps or skies 
 Burned the fire of thine eyes ? 
 On what wings dare he aspire ? 
 What the hand dare seize the iire ? 
 
 And what shoulder, and what art, 
 Could twist the sinews of thine heart ? 
 And when thy heart began to beat. 
 What dread hand ? and what dread feet ? 
 
 What the hammer, what the chain ? 
 In what furnace was thy brain ? 
 What the anvil ? what dread grasp 
 Dare its deadly terrors clasp ? 
 
 AVhen the stars threw down their spears, 
 And watered heaven with their tears,
 
 86 
 
 SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Did lie smile liis work to see ? 
 
 Did He, who made tlie Lamb, make tliee ? 
 
 Tiger ! Tiger ! biii'iiing bright, 
 In the forests of the night, 
 What immortal hand or eye 
 Dare frame thy fearful syumietry ? 
 
 TO THE MTJSES. 
 
 WnKTIlEn on Ida's shady brow 
 Or in the chambei's of tlie East, 
 
 The chambers of the sun, whieh now 
 From ancient melodies have ceased ; 
 
 Whether in Heaven ye wander fair, 
 Or the green corners of the earth. 
 
 Or the blue regions of the air, 
 
 Where the melodious winds have birth. 
 
 Whether on crystal rocks ye rove, 
 Beneath the bosom of the sea, 
 
 Wanilering in many a coral grove. 
 Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry, 
 
 How have you left the ancient lore 
 Tliat bards of old engaged in yon ! 
 
 The languid strings do scarcely move. 
 The sound is forced, the notes are few. 
 
 JOANNA BAILLIE. 
 
 [1762- 1831.] 
 
 THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE 
 SWARD. 
 
 The gowan glitters on the sward. 
 
 The lav'rock 's in tlie sky, 
 And Collie on my plaid keeps ward. 
 And time is passing by. 
 0, no ! sa(l and slow. 
 
 And lengthened on the ground ; 
 The shadow of our trysting bush 
 It wears so slowly round. 
 
 My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, 
 
 My lumbs are bleating near; 
 But still the sound that I love best. 
 Alack ! I canna hear. 
 O, no ! sad and slow. 
 
 The shadow lingers still ; 
 And like a lanely gliaist I stand, 
 And croon upon the hill. 
 
 I hear below the water roar, 
 The mill \vi' clacking din. 
 And Lucky scolding frae the door, 
 To ca' the bairnies in. 
 0, no ! .sad and slow, 
 
 Thes(! are nae sounds for me; 
 The shadow of our trysting bu.sh 
 It creeps sae drearily. 
 
 I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tarn, 
 
 A snood o' bonnie blue, 
 And promised, when our trysting cam'. 
 To tie it round her brow. 
 0, no ! sad and .slow. 
 
 The mark it winna' pass ; 
 The shadow o' that dreary bush 
 Is tethered on the grass. 
 
 now I see her on the way ! 
 
 She 's ])ast the witch's knowe ; 
 She 's climbing up the brownies brae; 
 Jly heart is in a lowe, 
 0, no ! 't is not so, 
 
 'T is glamrie I hae seen ; 
 The shadow o' that hawthorn bush 
 Will move nae mair till e'en. 
 
 My book o' grace 1 '11 try to read, 
 Though conned \vi' little skill ; 
 When Collie barks I '11 raise my head. 
 And find her on the hill. 
 0, no ! sad and .slow. 
 
 The time will ne'er be gane ; 
 The shadow o' our trysting bush 
 Is li.xed like ony stane. 
 
 * 
 
 LADY CAROLINE NAIRN. 
 
 [1766-1845.] 
 
 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. 
 
 I 'm wearin' awa', Jean, 
 Like snaw in a thaw, Jean, 
 I 'm wearin' awa' 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal. 
 There 's nae sot'I'ow there, Jean, 
 There 's neither canld nor care, Jean, 
 The day is ever fair 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 You 've been leal and true, Jean, 
 Your task is endecl noo, Jean, 
 And I '11 welcome you 
 To the Land o' the Leal.
 
 ROBEET BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 87 
 
 Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean ; 
 My soul langs to be free, Jean ; 
 And angels wait on nie 
 To the Land o' the Leah 
 
 Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, 
 She was baith gude and fair, Jean, 
 And we grudged her sair 
 
 To the Land o' the Leal ! 
 But sorrow 's self wears past, Jean, 
 And joy 's a coniin' fast, Jean, 
 The joy that 's aye to last. 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 A' our friends are gane, Jean ; 
 We 've lang been left alane, Jean ; 
 But we '11 a' meet again 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean ! 
 This world's care is vain, Jean ! 
 We '11 meet, and aye be fain 
 
 In the Land o' the Leal. 
 
 ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. 
 
 [1766- 1S23.] 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. 
 
 How sweet it was to breatlie that cooler 
 
 air. 
 And take possession of my father's chair ! 
 Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame. 
 Appeared the rough initials of my name, 
 Cut forty years before ! The same old 
 
 clock 
 Struck the same bell, and gave my heart 
 
 a shock 
 I never can forget. A short breeze 
 
 sprung, 
 And while a sigh was trembling on my 
 
 tongue. 
 Caught the old dangling almanacs be- 
 hind, 
 And up they flew like banners in the 
 
 wind ; 
 Then gently, singly, down, down, down 
 
 they went, 
 And told of twenty years that I had spent 
 Far from my native land. That instant 
 
 came 
 A robin on the threshold; though so 
 
 tame, 
 
 At first he looked distrustful, almost 
 
 shy, 
 And cast on me his coal-black steadfast 
 
 eye, 
 And seemed to say, — past friendship to 
 
 renew, — 
 "Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?" 
 While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing 
 
 still, 
 On beds of moss spread on the window- 
 sill, 
 I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen 
 Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and 
 
 green. 
 And guessed some infant hand had placed 
 
 it there, 
 And prized its hue, so exquisite, so rare. 
 Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling 
 
 rose ; 
 My heart felt everything but calm repose ; 
 I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor 
 
 years, 
 But rose at once, andbursted into tears ; 
 Then, like a fool, confused, sat down 
 
 again, 
 And thought upon the past with shame 
 
 and ]>ain ; 
 I raved at war and all its horrid cost, 
 And glory's quagmire, where the brave 
 
 are lost. ' 
 On carnage, fire, and plunder long I 
 
 mused, 
 And cursed the murdering weapons I had 
 
 used. 
 Two shadows then I saw, two voi(>es 
 
 heard. 
 One bespoke age, and one a child's ap- 
 peared. 
 In stepped my father with convulsive 
 
 start. 
 And in an instant clasped me to his iR^art. 
 Close by him stood a little blue-eyed 
 
 maid ; 
 And stooping to the child, the old man 
 
 said, 
 " Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once 
 
 again ; 
 This is your uncle Charles, come home 
 
 from S])ain." 
 The child approached, and with her 
 
 fingers light 
 Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of 
 
 sight. 
 But why thus spin my tale, — thus tedious 
 
 be? 
 Happy old soldier ! what 's the world to 
 
 me?
 
 88 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 JAXE ELLIOTT. 
 
 [17S1-1849.] 
 
 LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. 
 
 I 'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-inilk- 
 ing, 
 Lasses a' lilting befcire dawn o' day ; 
 But now they are moaning on ilka green 
 loaning — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
 away. 
 
 At blights, in the morning, nae blythe 
 lads are scorning. 
 Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ; 
 Kae daffin', nae gabbin", but sighing and 
 sabbing. 
 Ilk ane lifts her legliu and hies her 
 away. 
 
 In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths 
 now are jeering, 
 Bandsters are lyart, and rankled, and 
 gray ; 
 At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae 
 fleeching — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede 
 away. 
 
 At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers 
 are roaming 
 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to 
 
 But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her 
 dearie — 
 The Flowers of the Forest are weded 
 awaj'. 
 
 Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads 
 to the Border ! 
 The English, for ance, by guile wan 
 the day ; 
 The Flowers of the Forest, that fought 
 aye the foremost. 
 The prime of our land, are cauld in 
 the cla,y. 
 
 "We '11 hoar nae mair lilting at the ewe- 
 milking; 
 Women and bairns are heartless and 
 wae ; 
 Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan- 
 ing— 
 The Flowers of the Forest arc a' wede 
 away. 
 
 ROBERT TAMAHILL. 
 
 [1774- 1810.] 
 
 THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE 
 BURN. 
 
 TiiK midges dance aboon the burn ; 
 
 The dews begin to fa' ; 
 The paitricks down the rushy holm 
 
 Set up their e'ening ca'. 
 Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang 
 
 Eings through the briery shaw, 
 While Hitting gay the swallows play 
 
 Around the castle wa'. 
 
 Beneath the golden gloamin' sky 
 
 The mavis mends her lay ; 
 The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, 
 
 To charm the ling' ring day ; 
 While weary yaldrins seem to wail 
 
 Their little nestlings torn, 
 The merry wren, frae den to den, 
 
 Gaes jinking through the thorn. 
 
 The roses fauld their silken leaves, 
 
 The foxglove shuts its bell ; 
 The honeysuckle and the birk 
 
 Spread fragrance through the dell. 
 Let others crowd the gidily court 
 
 Of mirth and revelry. 
 The simple joys that Nature yields 
 
 Are dearer far to me. 
 
 THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. 
 
 Let us go, lassie, go. 
 
 To the braes o' Balquhither, 
 Where the blae-berries grow 
 
 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; 
 Where the deer and the I'oe, 
 
 ]>iglitly bounding together, 
 S))ort the lang summer day 
 
 On the braes o' Bahpihither. 
 
 I will twine thee a bower 
 
 By the dear siller fountain. 
 And 1 '11 cover it o'er 
 
 Wi' the flowers of the mountain; 
 I will range through the wilds. 
 
 And the deep glens sae drearie, 
 And return wi' the spoils 
 
 To the bower 0' my dearie. 
 
 When the rude wintry win' 
 Idly raves rouud our dwelling,
 
 WILLIAM R. SPENCER. — JOSEPH BLA^XO WHITE. 
 
 89 
 
 And the roar of the linn 
 
 On the night breeze is swelling, 
 So merrily we '11 sing, 
 
 As the storm rattles o'er us. 
 Till the dear shieling ring 
 
 Wi' the light lilting chorus. 
 
 Kow the summer 's in prime 
 
 Wi' the flowers richly blooming, 
 And the wild mountain thyme 
 
 A' the moorlands perfuming; 
 To our dear native scenes 
 
 Let us journey together. 
 Where glad innocence reigns 
 
 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. 
 
 WILLIAM R. SPENCEE. 
 
 [1770 -1834.] 
 
 TO THE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 
 
 Too late I stayed, forgive the crime. 
 
 Unheeded flew the hours ; 
 How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
 
 That only treads on flowers ! 
 
 What ej'e with clear account remarks 
 
 The ebbing of his glass. 
 When all its sands are diamond sparks 
 
 That dazzle as thej^ pass ! 
 
 Ah ! who to sober measurement 
 Time's happy swiftness brings. 
 
 When birds of Paradise have lent 
 Their plumage to its wings ? 
 
 JAMES GLASSFORD. 
 
 [1772- .] 
 
 THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE 
 LORD. 
 
 Go, call for the mourners, and raise the 
 
 lament, 
 Let the tresses be torn, and the garments 
 
 be rent ; 
 But weep not for him who is gone to 
 
 his rest. 
 Nor mourn for the ransomed, nor wail 
 
 for the blest. 
 
 The sun is not set, but is risen on high, 
 
 Nor long in corruption his body shall lie ; 
 
 Then let not the tide of thy griefs over- 
 flow. 
 
 Nor the music of heaven be discord below ; 
 
 Rather loud be the song, and triumphant 
 the chord. 
 
 Let us joy for the dead who have died in 
 the Lord. 
 
 Go, call for the mourners, and raise the 
 
 lament, 
 Let the tresses be torn, and the garments 
 
 be rent ; 
 But give to the living thy passion of tears. 
 Who walk in this valley of sadness and 
 
 fears ; 
 Who are pressed by the combat, in dark- 
 ness are lost. 
 By the tempest are beat, on the billows 
 
 are tossed : 
 0, weep not for those who sliall sorrow 
 
 no more. 
 Whose warfare is ended, whose trial is 
 
 o'er ; 
 Let the song be exalted, triumphant the 
 
 chord. 
 And rejoice for the dead who have died 
 
 in the Lord. 
 
 JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE. 
 
 [1775-1841.] 
 
 NIGHT AND DEATH. 
 
 Mysterioits night ! when our first par- 
 ent knew 
 Thee from report Divine, and heard thy 
 
 name. 
 Did he not tremble for this lovely frame. 
 This glorious canopy of light and blue? 
 Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew. 
 Bathed in the rays of the great setting 
 
 flame, 
 Hesperu.s, with the host of heaven, came. 
 And lo ! creation widened in man's view. 
 Who could have thought such darkness 
 lay concealed 
 Within thy beam.s, sun ! or who 
 could find, 
 ^V^lilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood 
 revealed. 
 That to such countless orbs thou 
 mad'st us blind?
 
 90 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Why do we, then, shun death with anx- 
 ious strife? 
 
 If light can thus deceive, wherefore not 
 life ? 
 
 JOHN LEYDEN. 
 
 [1775-1811.] 
 
 ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. 
 
 WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, M.^LABAR. 
 
 Sl^^ve of the dark and dirty mine ! 
 
 What vanity has brought thee here ? 
 How can I love to see thee shine 
 
 So briglit, whom I have bought so 
 dear? — 
 
 The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, 
 For twilight converse, arm in arm ; 
 
 The jaclial's shriek hursts on mine ear 
 "Whom mirth and music wont to charm. 
 
 By Cherical's dark wandering streams, 
 Whei'e cane-tufts shadow all the wild. 
 
 Sweet visions haunt mv waking dreams 
 Of Tcviot loved wliilc still a child, 
 Of castled rocks stujtendous piled 
 
 By Esk or Eden's classic wave. 
 
 Where loves of youth and friendship 
 smiled, 
 
 Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 
 Fade, dav-dreams sweet, from mejnory 
 fade! — 
 
 Theperi.shedblissof}'outh'sfir.st prime, 
 That once so bright on fancy played. 
 
 Revives no more in after time. 
 
 Far fiom my sacred natal clime, 
 I haste to an untimely grave ; 
 
 The daring thoughts that soared suli- 
 lime 
 Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. 
 
 Slave of the mine ! thy yellow light 
 
 Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. 
 A gentle vision comes by night 
 
 My lonely widowed heart to cheer ; 
 
 Her eyes are dim with many a teai-. 
 That once were guiding stars to mine : 
 
 Her fond heart throbs with many a 
 fear ! 
 I cannot hear to see thee shine. 
 
 For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, 
 ] lift a heart that loved me true ! 
 
 I crossed the tedious ocean -wave. 
 To roam in climes unkind and new. 
 The cold wind of the stranger blew 
 
 Chill on my withered heart : the grave 
 Daik and untimely met my view, — 
 
 And all for thee, vile yellow slave ! 
 
 Ha! comest.thou now so late to mock 
 
 A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, 
 Now that his frame the lightning sliot'k 
 
 Of sun-rays tipt witli death has borne? 
 
 From love, from friendship, country, 
 torn. 
 To memory's fond regrets the prey, 
 
 Vile slave, thy j^ellow dross I scorn ! 
 Go mix thee with thy kindred clay ! 
 
 SIK HUMPHRY DAVY. 
 
 [1778-1829.] 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER RECOVERY FROM 
 A DANGEROUS ILLNESS. 
 
 Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling sj'irits 
 ]iour 
 The Hames of life that bounteous na- 
 ture gives; 
 The limjnd dew becomes the rosy flower. 
 The insensate dust awakes, and moves, 
 and lives. 
 
 All .speaks of change : the renovated 
 forms 
 Of long-forgotten things arise again ; 
 The light of suns, the breath of angry 
 storms. 
 The everla.sting motions of tlie main, — 
 
 These are but 'engines of the Eternal 
 will. 
 The One Intelligence, who.se potent 
 sway 
 lias ever acted, and is acting still, 
 Whilst stars, and worlds, and systems 
 all obey; 
 
 Without whose power, the whole of mor- 
 tal tilings 
 Were dull, inert, an unharmonious 
 band. 
 Silent as are the harp's untuned strings 
 Without the touches of the poet's 
 hand.
 
 GEORGE CROLY. 
 
 91 
 
 A sacred spark created by His breath, 
 The immortal mind of man His image 
 bears ; 
 A spirit living 'midst the forms of death, 
 Oppressed but not subdued by mortal 
 cares ; 
 
 A germ, preparing in the winter's frost 
 To rise, and bud, and blossom in the 
 spring ; 
 An unfledged eagle by the tempest tossed. 
 Unconscious of his future strength of 
 wing ; 
 
 The child of trial, to mortality 
 
 And all its changeful influences given ; 
 On the green earth decreed to move and 
 die, 
 And yet by such a fate prepared for 
 heaven. 
 
 Soon as it breathes, to feel the mother's 
 form 
 Of orbed beauty through its organs 
 thrill. 
 To press the limbs of life with rapture 
 warm, 
 And drink instinctive of a living rill ; 
 
 To view the skies with morning radiance 
 bright, 
 Majestic mingling with the ocean blue. 
 Or bounded by green hills, or mountains 
 white. 
 Or peopled plains of rich and varied 
 hue; 
 
 The nobler charms astonished to behold. 
 Of living loveliness, — to see it move. 
 
 Cast in expression's rich and varied 
 mould, 
 Awakeningsympathy, compelling love; 
 
 The heavenly balm of mutual hope to 
 taste. 
 Soother of life, affliction's bliss to 
 share ; 
 Sweet as the stream amidst the desert 
 waste, 
 As the first blush of arctic daylight 
 fair ; 
 
 To mingle with its kindred, to descry 
 The path of power ; in public life to 
 shine ; 
 
 To gain the voice of popularity. 
 The idol of to-day, the man divine ; 
 
 To govern others by an influence strong 
 As that high law which moves the 
 murmuring main, 
 Raising and carrying all its waves along, 
 Beneath the full-orbed moon's merid- 
 ian reign ; 
 
 To scan how transient is the breath of 
 praise, 
 A winter's zephyr trembling on the 
 snow. 
 Chilled as it moves ; or, as the northern 
 rays. 
 First fading in the centre, whence they 
 flow. 
 
 To live in forests mingled with the whole 
 Of natural forms, whose generations 
 rise. 
 In lovely change, in happy order roll, 
 On land, in ocean, in the glittering 
 skies ; 
 
 Their harmony to trace ; the Eternal cause 
 To know in love, in reverence to adore ; 
 
 To bond beneath the inevitable laws. 
 Sinking in death, its human strength 
 no more ! 
 
 Then, as awakening from a dream of 
 pain, 
 With joy its mortal feelings to re- 
 sign ; 
 Yet all its living essence to retain. 
 The undying energy of strength divine ! 
 
 To quit the burdens of its earthly days, 
 To give to nature all her borrowed 
 powers, — 
 Ethereal fire to feed the solar rays. 
 Ethereal dew to glad the earth with 
 showers. 
 
 GEORGE CEOLY. 
 
 [1780 -i860.] 
 
 CTJPID GROWN CAREFUL. 
 
 Theke was once a gentle time 
 When the world was in its prime; 
 And every day was holiday, 
 And every month was lovely May. 
 Cupid then had but to go 
 With his purple wings and bow ;
 
 02 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 And ill blossomed vale and grove 
 Every shepherd knelt to love. 
 
 Tlien a rosy, dinijilcd cheek, 
 And a blue eye, loud and meek ; 
 And a ringlet-wreathen brow, 
 Like liyaeinths on a bed of snow : 
 And a low voice, silver sweet, 
 From a lip without deceit; 
 Only those the hearts could move 
 Of the simple swains to love. 
 
 But that time is gone and past, 
 Can the summer always last ? 
 And the swains are wiser grown. 
 And the heart is turned to stone, 
 And the maiden's rose may wither ; 
 Cupid 's fled, no man knows whither. 
 Lilt another ('ui)id 's come, 
 AVitli a brow of care and gloom: 
 Fixed ui)on the earthly mould. 
 Thinking of the sullen gold ; 
 In his hand the bow no more. 
 At his back the household store, 
 That the bridal gold must buy : 
 Useless now the smile and sigh : 
 But he wears the ])iiiion still. 
 Flying at the sight of ill. 
 
 0, for the old true-love time, 
 When the world was in its prime ! 
 
 HENRY KlIIKE AVIIITE. 
 
 [1783 -1806.] 
 
 TO THE HERB ROSEMARY. 
 
 SwEET-srENTED flower ! who "rt wont to 
 bloom 
 On .Tanuary's front severe, 
 And o"er the wintry desert drear 
 
 To waft thy waste perfume ! 
 Come, thou shnlt form my nosegay now, 
 And I will bind thee rouiul my brow; 
 
 And as I twine the mournful wreath, 
 I 'U weave a melancholy song: 
 And .sweet the strain shall be and long. 
 
 The melody nf death. 
 
 Corne, funeral flower ! who lov'st to dwell 
 With the pale coryise in lonely tomb. 
 And throw across the desert gloom 
 A sweet decaying smell. 
 
 Come, press my lips, and lie with 
 
 me 
 Beneath the lowly alder-tree. 
 
 And we will sleej) a pleasant sleep, 
 And not a care shall dare intrude, 
 To break the marble solitude 
 
 So peaceful and so deep. 
 
 And hark ! the wind-god, as he flies, 
 Moans hollow in the forest trees. 
 And sailing on the gusty breeze, 
 
 Mysterious music dies. 
 Sweet flower ! that requiem wild is 
 
 mine. 
 It warns me to the lonely shrine. 
 The cold turf altar of the dead ; 
 My grave .shall be in yon lone spot. 
 Where as I lie, by all forgot, 
 
 A dying fiagrance thou wilt o'er my 
 ashes shed. 
 
 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 
 
 Mii.D offspring of a dark and sullen 
 sire ! 
 
 Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 
 Was nursed in whirling storms, 
 And cradled in the winds. 
 
 Thee, when young Spring first questioned 
 
 Winter's sway. 
 And dared th(! sturdy blusterer to the 
 flght. 
 Thee on this bank he threw 
 To mark his victory. 
 
 In this low vale, the promise of the 
 
 year, 
 Serene, thou ojienest to the nipping gale, 
 
 Unnoticed and alone. 
 
 Thy tender elegance. 
 
 So virtue blooms, brought forth amid 
 
 the storms 
 Of chill adversity; in some lone walk 
 
 Of life .she rears her head. 
 
 Obscure and unobserved ; 
 
 While every bleacliing breeze that on her 
 
 blows 
 Chastens her .spotless purity of breast, 
 
 And hardens her to bear 
 
 Serene the ills of life.
 
 HERBERT KNOWLES. 
 
 93 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 
 
 When marshalled on the nightly plain, 
 The glittering host bestud the sky ; 
 
 One star alone, of all the train. 
 
 Can fix the sinner's wandering eye. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 From every host, from every gem : 
 
 But one alone the Saviour speaks, 
 It is the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode, 
 
 The storm was loud, the night was 
 dark. 
 The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed 
 The wind that tossed my foundering 
 bark. 
 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze, 
 Death-struck, I ceased the tide 
 stem ; 
 
 "When suddenly a star arose, — 
 It was the Star of Bethlehem. 
 
 to 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all, 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
 
 And through the storm and 
 thrall. 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
 dangers' 
 
 Kow safely moored, my perils o'er, 
 I '11 sing, first in night's diadem, 
 
 Forever and forevermore 
 
 The Star !— the Star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 HEEBERT OOWLES. 
 
 [1798 -1827.] 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND 
 CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 " It is good for us to be here ; if thou wilt, 
 let us make here three tabernacles ; one for 
 thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias." — 
 Matt. xviL 4. 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here ; 
 If thou wilt, let us build — but 
 whom ? 
 Nor Elias nor Moses appear, 
 
 for 
 
 But the shadows of eve that encompass 
 
 the gloom. 
 The abode of the dead and the place of 
 
 the tomb. 
 
 Shall we build to Ambition ? 0, no ! 
 AflVighted, he shrinketh away ; 
 
 For, see ! they would pin him be- 
 low. 
 In a small narrow cave," and, begirt with 
 
 cold clay. 
 To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a 
 prey. 
 
 To Beauty? ah, no! — she forgets 
 The charms which she wielded before — 
 Nor knows the foul worm that he 
 frets 
 The skin which but yesterday fools could 
 
 adore. 
 For the smoothness it held, or the tint 
 which it wore. 
 
 Shall we build to the purple of 
 Pride — 
 The trappings which dizen the proud? 
 
 Alas ! they are all laid aside ; 
 And here 's neither dress nor adornment 
 
 allowed. 
 But the long winding-sheet and the fringe 
 of the shroud. 
 
 To Kiches ? alas ! 't is in vain ; 
 Who hid, in their turn have been hid : 
 The treasures are squandered again ; 
 And here in the grave are all metals for- 
 bid. 
 But the tinsel that shines on the dark 
 coffin-lid. 
 
 To the pleasures which Mirth can 
 afford, — 
 The revel, the laugh, and the jeer ? 
 
 Ah ! here is a plentiful board ! 
 But the guests are all mute as their piti- 
 ful cheei-, 
 And none but the worm is a reveller 
 here. 
 
 Shall we build to Affection and 
 Love ? 
 Ah, no ! they have withered and died, 
 
 Or fled with the spirit above ; 
 Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side 
 
 by side. 
 Yet none have saluted, and none have 
 replied.
 
 94 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 
 
 Unto Sorrow ? — The dead cannot 
 grieve ; 
 Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine oar, 
 Which compassion itself could re- 
 lieve ! 
 Ah ! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, 
 
 nor tear, — 
 Peace, peace is the watchword, the only 
 one here ! 
 
 Unto Death, to whom raonarchs must 
 bow? 
 Ah, no ! for his empire is known, 
 And here there are trophies enow ! 
 
 Beneath — the cold dead, and around — 
 
 the dark stone. 
 Are the signs of a sceptre that none may 
 
 disown ! 
 
 The first tabernacle to Hope we will 
 
 build, 
 
 And look for the sleepers around us torise ; 
 
 The second to Faith, which insures it 
 
 fulfilled ; 
 
 And the third to the Lamb of the great 
 
 sacrifice. 
 Who bequeathed us them both when he 
 rose to the skies.
 
 FROM WORDSWORTH TO LONGFELLOW.
 
 From Wordsworth to Longfellow. 
 
 -oojj^oc- 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 [1770- 1850.] 
 
 INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 
 
 FROM Recollections of Eaely Childhood. 
 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, 
 
 and stream, 
 The earth, and eveiy common sight, 
 To nje did seem 
 Apparelled in celestial light. 
 The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
 It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
 Tuin wheresoe'er I may, 
 By night or day. 
 The things which I have seen I now can 
 see no more. 
 
 The rainbow comes and goes. 
 And lovely is the rose ; 
 The moon dotli with delight 
 Look round her when the heavens are 
 bare ; 
 Waters on a starry night 
 Are beautiful and fair ; 
 The sunshine is a glorioiis birth : 
 But yet I know, where'er I go, 
 That there hath passed away a glory fronj 
 the earth. 
 
 Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous 
 song. 
 And while the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound. 
 To me alone there came a thought of 
 
 grief; 
 A timely utterance gave that thought 
 relief. 
 And I again am strong. 
 
 The cataracts blow their trumpets from 
 
 the steep, — 
 No more shall grief of mine the season 
 
 wrong : 
 I hear the echoes through the mountaiirs 
 
 throng. 
 The winds come to me from the fields of 
 sleep. 
 And all the earth is gay ; 
 I.,aiid and sea 
 Give themselvfs u]i to jollity. 
 And with the heart of May 
 Doth every beast keej) holiday; — 
 Thou child of joy. 
 Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, 
 thou happy shepherd boy ! 
 
 Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the 
 call 
 Ye to each other make ; I see 
 The heavens laugh with you in your 
 jubilee ; 
 My heart is at your festival, 
 My head hath its coronal. 
 The fulness of your bliss, 1 feel — I feel 
 it all. 
 
 evil day ! if I were sullen 
 While Earth herself is adorning. 
 
 This sweet May morning. 
 And the children are culling. 
 
 On every side, 
 In a thousand valleys far and wide. 
 Fresh flowers ; while the sun shines 
 warm. 
 And the babe leaps up on his mother's 
 arm : — 
 
 1 hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 
 
 • — P>ut theie 's a tree, of many one, 
 A single field which 1 have looked 
 
 upon, — 
 Both of them speak of something that is 
 
 gone;
 
 98 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Tlie pansy at my feet 
 Dotli tile same tale repeat. 
 
 Whither is Hed the visionary j^leani? 
 
 "Where is it now, the glory and the 
 dream ? 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a foiget- 
 
 tiiig : 
 The soul that ii.ses with us, our life's 
 star. 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And Cometh from afar; 
 Kot in entire foigetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness. 
 But trailing clouds of glory, do we come 
 
 From God, who is our home : 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
 Shades of the i)risi)n-house begiu to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy ; 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it 
 flows, — 
 He sees it in his joy. 
 The youth who ilaily farther from the 
 east 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
 And by the vision sj>l('ndid 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die 
 
 away, 
 And fade into the light of common 
 day. 
 
 Earth fills her lap with jileasures of her 
 
 own ; 
 Yearnings she hath in her own natural 
 
 kind, 
 And even with .something of a mother's 
 mind. 
 And no unworthy aim. 
 The homely nurse doth all .she can 
 To make her fo.ster-chihl, her imnate man, 
 
 Foiget the gloiies he hath known, 
 Andthat imperial palace whence he came. 
 
 Behold the child among his new-born 
 
 blisses, 
 A six years' darling of a pygmy size ! 
 See where mid work of his own hand he 
 
 lies, 
 Fretted by sallies of his mother's ki.sses. 
 With light upon him from his father's 
 
 eyes I 
 See, at his feet, .some little ])lan or chart. 
 Some fragment from his dream of human 
 
 life. 
 Shaped by himself with newly learned 
 
 art,— 
 
 A wedding or a festival, 
 
 A mourning or a funeral, — 
 And this hath now his heart, 
 
 And unto tiiis he frames his song: 
 Then will he tit his tongue 
 To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 
 
 But it will not be long 
 
 Ere this be thrown aside, 
 
 And with new joy aiul pride 
 The little actor cons another part; 
 Filling from time to time his liumorous 
 
 stage 
 With all tlie jH'rsons, down to palsied age, 
 Hiat Life V)rings with her in her equipai;e ; 
 
 As if his whole vocation 
 
 Were endless imitation. 
 
 Thou, whose exterior semblancedoth belie 
 
 Thy soul's immi'nsity ; 
 Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
 Thy heritage ; thou eye among the blind, 
 That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal 
 
 deep, 
 Haunted tbrever by the eternal mind, — 
 Jlighty luophet ! Seer blest ! 
 On wiiom those truths do rest 
 Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
 In darknesslost, thcMlarknessof thegrave ; 
 Thou, over whom thy immortality 
 Broods like the day, a master o'er a .slave, 
 A presence which is not to be put by: 
 Tiiou littlechild, yetglorious in the might 
 Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's 
 
 height, 
 Why with such earnest pains dost thou 
 
 provoke 
 The years to brins the inevitable yoke, 
 Thus blindly with thy blessedness at 
 
 strife ? 
 Full .soon thy soul shall have her earthly 
 
 freight, 
 And custom lie upon thee with a wein-jit 
 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 Is something that doth live ; 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 What was so fugitive ! 
 The thought of our past years in me doth 
 
 breed 
 Perpetual l)enedietion : not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be 
 
 ble.st ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-tledged hope still Jluttering in 
 his breast : —
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 99 
 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 Fallings from us, vanishings, 
 Bhink misgivings of a creature 
 Moving ahout in worlds not realized. 
 High instincts before which our mortal 
 
 nature 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised : 
 But lor those hrst affections, 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 Which, lie they what they may, 
 Are yet tli(; fountain light of all our day, 
 iVre yet a master light of all our seeing ; 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power 
 to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 Of the eternal silence : truths that wake. 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness, nor mad en- 
 deavor, 
 
 Nor man nor boy. 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
 Though inland far we be. 
 Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
 Which brought us hither; 
 Can in a moment travel thither. 
 And see the children sport u]ion the shore, 
 And hear the mighty waters rolling evei- 
 more. 
 
 Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous 
 song ! 
 And let the young lambs bound 
 As to the tabor's sound ! 
 We, in thought, will join your throng, 
 Ye that pijie and ye that play. 
 Ye that through your hearts to-day 
 Feel the gladness of the May ! 
 What though the radiance which was 
 
 once so bright 
 Be now forever taken from my sight ; 
 
 Though nothingcanbringback the hour 
 Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the 
 flower, — 
 We will grieve not, rather find 
 Strength in what remains behind ; 
 In the ]U'imal sympathy 
 Which, having been, must ever be; 
 In the soothing thoughts that spring 
 Out of human suffering; 
 Inthefaiththatlooks through death, 
 In years that bring the philosophic 
 mind. 
 
 And ye fountains, meadows, hills, and 
 
 groves, 
 Forebode not any severing of our loves ! 
 Yet in my heart of hearts 1 feel yourmight ; 
 I only have relinquished one delight. 
 To live beneath your more habitual s\\ ay. 
 1 love the brooks which down their 
 
 channels fret. 
 Even more than wdien I trijiped lightly 
 
 as they ; 
 The innocent brightness of a new-boin day 
 
 Is lovely yet ; 
 The clouds that gather i-ound the setting 
 
 sun 
 Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
 That hath kept watch o'er num's mor- 
 tality ; 
 Another race hath been, and other palms 
 
 are won. 
 Thanks to the human heart by which we 
 
 live. 
 Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and 
 
 fears. 
 To m(! the meanest flower that blows can 
 
 give 
 Thoughts that do often lie too deep for 
 
 tears. 
 
 THE DAFFODILS. 
 
 I WANDERED lonely as a cloud 
 
 That floats on high o'er vales and hills. 
 
 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 AVay, 
 They sti'etched in never-ending line 
 .Along the margin of a bay : 
 Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
 Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 
 
 The waves beside them danced, but they 
 
 Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: 
 
 A poet could not but be gay 
 
 In such a jocund company ! 
 
 I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 
 
 Wliat wealth the show to me had brought ; 
 
 For oft, when on my couch I lie 
 In vacant or in pensive mood, 
 They flash upon that inward eye 
 Which is the bliss of solitude : 
 And then my heart with pleasure fills ; 
 And dances with the daffodils.
 
 100 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 BLITHK new-comer! I have heard, 
 
 1 hear thee, and rcjoire : 
 
 euckoo ! shall I call thee bird, 
 Or but a wandering voice? 
 
 While I am lyinj; on the grass 
 Thy twofold shout 1 hear; 
 From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
 At once far off and near. 
 
 Though babbling only to the vale 
 Of sunshine and of flowers, 
 Thou bringest unto me a tale 
 Of visionary hours. 
 
 Thric(? welcome, darling of the spring ! 
 
 Even yet thou art to me 
 
 No bird, but an invisible thing, 
 
 A voice, a mystery ; 
 
 The same whom in my school-boy days 
 
 1 listened to ; that cry 
 
 Which made me look a thousand ways. 
 In bush and tree and sky. 
 
 To seek fhee did I often rove 
 Through woods and on the green ; 
 And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
 Still longed for, never seen I 
 
 And I can listen to thee yet; 
 Can lie upon the jdain 
 And listen, till I do beget 
 That golden time again. 
 
 O blessed bird I the earth we pace 
 Again ajjpears to be 
 An unsubstantial, fairy place 
 That is fit home for thee ! 
 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 Thkef, years she grew in sun and shower; 
 Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 
 
 On caith was never sown : 
 This child I to myself will take; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 
 A lady of my own. 
 
 "Myself will to my darling be 
 Hoth law and impulse ; an(i \N'ith me 
 
 Tht; girl, in rock an<I ]ilain, 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 Shall fi'cl an overscfing power 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 " She shall be sportive as the fawn, 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 
 Or up the mountain spiings; 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And liers the silence and the calm. 
 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 "The floating clouds their state shall 
 
 lend 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 E'en in the motions of the storm 
 Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 * 
 
 "The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret ])lace, 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward 
 
 round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring soiind 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 "And vital feelings of delight 
 Shall I'ear her form to stateh' height. 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell ; 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and 1 together live 
 
 Here in this happy dell." 
 
 Thus Naturespake. The work wasdone — 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died, and left to me 
 This heath, this calm and ijuiet scene ; 
 The memory of what has been. 
 
 And nevermore will be. 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 "When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
 A lovely appurition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and tlie cheerful dawn ; 
 A dancnng shape, an image gay, 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon jiearer view, 
 
 A spirit, y<'t a woman too! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liKeity : 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ;
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 lOi 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 For human nature's daily iood, 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 
 smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ; 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller between life and death ; 
 The reason firm, the temperate will, 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned 
 To warn, to comfort, and command; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel light. 
 
 YARROW UNVISITED. 
 
 From Stirling Castle we had seen 
 
 The mazy Forth unravelled; 
 Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, 
 
 And with the Tweed had travelled ; 
 And when we came to Clovenford, 
 
 Then said my "winsome Marrow," 
 " Whate'er betide, we '11 turn aside, 
 
 And see the Braes of Yarrow." 
 
 "Let Yarroiv folk, frae Selkirk town, 
 
 Who have been buying, selling. 
 Go back to Yarrow, 't is their own. 
 
 Each maiden to her dwelling ! 
 On Yarrow's banks let herons feed. 
 
 Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
 But we will downward with the Tweed, 
 
 Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 
 
 "There 's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
 
 Both lying right before us ; 
 And Dry burgh, where with chiming 
 Tweed 
 
 The lintwhitessing in chorus; 
 There 's pleasant Teviotdale, a land 
 
 Made blithe with plough and harrow : 
 Why throw away a needful day 
 
 To go in search of Yarrow ? 
 
 " What 's Yarrow but a river bare. 
 
 That glides the dark hills under? 
 There are a thousand such elsewhere 
 
 As worthy of your wondei'." 
 — Strange words' they seemed of slight 
 and scorn ; 
 
 My true-love sighed for sorrow. 
 And looked me in the face, to think 
 
 I thus could speak of Yarrow ! 
 
 "0, green," said I, "an; Yarrow's 
 holms. 
 
 And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 
 Fair hangs the api>le frae the rock, 
 
 But we will leave it growing. 
 O'er hilly path and open stiath 
 
 We '11 wander Scotland thorough ; 
 But, though so near, we will not turn 
 
 Into the dale of Yarrow. 
 
 "Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
 The sweets of lUun Jliil meadow ; 
 
 The swan on still Saint Mary's Lake 
 Float double, swan and shadow! 
 
 We will not see them ; will not go 
 To-day, nor yet to-niorrow ; 
 
 Enough if in our heaits we know- 
 There 's such a place as Yarrow. 
 
 " Be Yairow stream unseen, unknown ! 
 
 It must, or we shall rue it : 
 We have a vision of our own ; 
 
 Ah ! why should we undo it? 
 The treasiired dreams of times long ])ast, 
 
 We '11 keej) them, winsome Mariow ! 
 For when we 'I'e there, althongh 't is fair, 
 
 'T will be another Yarrow ! 
 
 " If care with freezing years should come, 
 
 And wandering seem but folly, — 
 Should we be loath to stir from home. 
 
 And yet be melancholy ; 
 Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
 
 'T will soothe us in our sorrow- 
 That earth has something yet to show. 
 
 The bonny holms of Yarrow !" 
 
 ON A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE IN 
 A STORM. 
 
 Painted by Sir George Beaumont. 
 
 I WAS thy neighbor once, thou rugged 
 
 pile ! 
 Four summer weeks I dw-elt in sight of 
 
 thee : 
 I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
 Thy form was sleeping on a glassy tea. 
 
 So pure the sky, so quiet was the aii' ! 
 So like, so very like, was day to day '■ 
 Whene'er I looked, thj^ image still was 
 
 there ; 
 It trembled, but it never passed away.
 
 102 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CEXTURIES. 
 
 How perfect was the calm ! It seemed 
 
 no sleep, 
 No mood, wliich season takes away, or 
 
 brings : 
 I could have fancied that the mighty 
 
 Deep 
 Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 
 
 Ah ! then if mine had been the painter's 
 
 hand 
 To express what then I saw ; and add 
 
 the gleam. 
 The liglit that never was on sea or land, 
 Tlie consecration, andtiie poet's dream, — 
 
 I would have planted thee, thou hoary 
 
 pile, 
 -Amid a world how dilTerent from this ! 
 IJesiiie a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
 On ti-ancjuil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 
 
 A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
 Klysiau quiet, without toil or .strife; 
 No motion but the moving tide, a breeze ; 
 Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 
 
 Such, in the fond illusion of my heart. 
 Such picture would 1 at that time have 
 
 made ; 
 And seen the soul of truth in every part, 
 A steadfast peace that might not be 
 
 betrayetl. 
 
 So once it would have been, — 't is so no 
 
 more ; 
 I have submitted to a new control : 
 A power is gone, which nothing can 
 
 restore ; 
 A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 
 
 Not for a moment could I now behold 
 A .smilim; sea, and be what I have been: 
 The feeling of my loss will ne'er be 
 
 old ; 
 This, which I know, I speak with mind 
 
 serene. 
 
 Then, Beaumont, Friend I who would 
 have i)een the friend. 
 
 If he had lived, of him whom I de])lore. 
 
 This work of thine 1 blame not, but com- 
 mend ; 
 
 This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 
 
 O, 't is a pa.ssionate work ! — yet wise and 
 
 w.-ll, 
 Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 
 
 That hulk which labors in the deadly 
 
 swell, 
 This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear ! 
 
 And this huge castle, standing here sub- 
 lime, 
 
 I love to see the look with which it 
 braves — 
 
 Cased in the unfeeling armor of old 
 time — 
 
 The lightning, the fierce wind, and tramp- 
 ling waves. 
 
 Farewell, farewell the heart that lives 
 
 alone. 
 Housed in a dream, at distance from the 
 
 kind ! 
 Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
 Is to be pitied; for 't is surely blind. 
 
 V,ut welcome fortitude, and jiatient cheer, 
 And fi'equent sights of what is to be 
 
 borne ! 
 Such sights, or worse, as are before me 
 
 here : — 
 Not without hope we suffer and we mouru. 
 
 ODE TO DTJTT. 
 
 Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 
 Duty ! if that name thou love. 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove; 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 AVTien empty terroi-s overawe. 
 From vain temptations dost set free, 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail lui- 
 manity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them ; who, in love and truth. 
 Where no misgiving is, I'cly 
 Upon the genial sense of youth : 
 Clad hearts! without reproach or ])lot ; 
 Who do thy work, and know it not: 
 May joy be theirs while life shall last ! 
 And thou, if they should totter, teach 
 them to stand fast ! 
 
 Sereii(> will be our days and bright, 
 And happy will our nattire he, 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security. 
 And blest are they who in the main 
 This faith, even now, do entertain :
 
 WILLIAM WOKDSWORTH. 
 
 lo; 
 
 Live iij the spirit of this creed ; 
 Yet find that other strength, according to 
 their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried. 
 No sport of every random gust. 
 Yet being to myself a guide, 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust ; 
 Full oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Tliy timely mandate, I deferred 
 The task imposed, from day to day; 
 But thee I now would serve more strict- 
 ly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul. 
 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
 
 I supplicate for thy control ; 
 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 
 Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 
 
 I feel the weight of chance desires : 
 
 My hopes no more must change their 
 
 name, 
 I long for a repose which ever is the same. 
 
 Stern lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor know we anything so fair 
 As is the smile u])on thy face. 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, 
 And the most ancient heavens, througli 
 thee, are fresh and strong. 
 
 To humbler functions, awful power! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
 0, let my weakness have an end ! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 And, in the light of truth, thy bondman 
 let me live ! 
 
 TO SLEEP. 
 
 A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by 
 One after one ; the sound of rain, and bees 
 Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds 
 
 and seas. 
 Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and 
 
 pure sky; — 
 
 I 've thought of all by turns, and still I 
 
 lie 
 Sleepless ; and soon the small bii-ds' 
 
 melodies 
 
 Must hear, first uttered from my orchard 
 
 trees. 
 And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
 
 Even thus last night, and two nights 
 
 more I lay. 
 And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any 
 
 stealth : 
 So do not let me Mear to-night away : 
 Without thee what is all the morning's 
 
 wealth ? 
 Come, blessed barrier between day and 
 
 day. 
 Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous 
 
 health ! 
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and 
 
 soon. 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our 
 
 powers : 
 Little we see in nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, a sordid 
 
 boon ! 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the 
 
 moon, 
 The winds that will be howling at all 
 
 hours 
 And are up-gathered now like sleeping 
 
 flowers. 
 For this, for everything, we are out of 
 
 tune ; 
 It moves us not. Great God I I 'd rather 
 
 be 
 A pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
 Have glimpses that would make me less 
 
 forlorn. 
 Have sight of Proteus coming from the 
 
 sea, 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed 
 
 horn. 
 
 TO THE RIVER DUDDON. 
 
 I THOroHT of thee, my partner and my 
 guide. 
 As being passed away, — vain sympa- 
 thies ! 
 For backward, Duddon ! as I cast my 
 eyes, 
 I see what was, and is, and will abide: 
 Still glides the stream, and shall foiever 
 glide ; 
 The form remains, the function never 
 dies ;
 
 104 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 While we, the brave, the mighty, and 
 the wise. 
 We iiii'ii, who in dur inoin of voutli 
 
 (Iclieil 
 The I'h'iin'iits, innst vanish ; — be it so ! 
 Enout:!!, if .sonictliinir from our liands 
 
 iiave power 
 To live, and act, and serve the future 
 hour; 
 And if, as toward the silent tomb we 
 
 Througli love, through liope, andfaitli's 
 transcendent (low('r. 
 We feel that we are greater than we know. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 [1771- 1832.] 
 
 YOUNG LOCHINVAR. 
 
 0, YOUNU Lochinvar is come out of the 
 
 west, 
 Through all the wide Border his steed 
 
 was the best ; 
 And save his good broadsword he weapon 
 
 had none. 
 He rode all unarmed, and he rode all 
 
 alone. 
 So faithful in love, and so dauntless in 
 
 war, 
 There never was knight like the young 
 
 Lochinvar ! 
 
 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped 
 not for stone. 
 
 He swam the Esk Kiver where ford thcTc 
 was none ; 
 
 But, ere he alighted at Xetherby gate. 
 
 The bride had consented, thegallant came 
 late : 
 
 For a laggard in love, and a dastard in 
 war. 
 
 Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- 
 invar. 
 
 So boldly he entered the Netherl)y Uall, 
 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and 
 
 brothers, and all ! 
 Then spoke tlie liride's father, his hand 
 
 on his sword, — 
 For the poor craven bridegroom .said 
 
 never a word, — 
 
 ' ' 0, come ye in peace here, or come ye in 
 
 war, 
 Or to dan(!e at our bridal, young Lord 
 
 Lochinvar ?" 
 
 "I long wooed your daughter, my suit 
 
 you denied : 
 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 
 
 its tide ! 
 And now am I come, with this lost love 
 
 of mine. 
 To lead but one measure, drink one cup 
 
 of wine ! 
 There be 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 otf the wine, and he threw 
 
 down th(! 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. 
 
 So stately his form, and so lovely her 
 
 face, 
 That never a hall such a galliard did 
 
 grace ! 
 W^hil(! her mother did fret, and her father 
 
 did fume. 
 And llie bridegroom stood dangling his 
 
 bonnet and plume. 
 And the bride-maidens whispered, 
 
 "'T were better by far 
 To hav(! jnatehed our fair cousin with 
 
 young Lochinvar I" 
 
 One touch to her hand, and one word in 
 
 her ear, 
 When they reached the liall door, and 
 
 the charger stood near, 
 So light to the croupe the fair lady he 
 
 swung, 
 So liglit to the saddle before her he 
 
 sprung. 
 "She is won! we are gone, over bank, 
 
 bush, and scaur ; 
 They'll have fleet steeds that foil w!" 
 
 quoth young Lochinvar.
 
 SIK WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 105 
 
 There was mounting 'mong Graemes of 
 
 the Netlierby clan ; 
 Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, the}' 
 
 rode and they ran ; 
 There was racing and chasing on Canno- 
 
 bie Lea, 
 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 
 
 they see ! 
 So daring in love, and so dauntless in 
 
 war. 
 Have ye e'er lieard of gallant like young 
 
 Lochia var? 
 
 A SERENADE. 
 
 Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh. 
 
 The sun has left the lea, 
 The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 
 
 The breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who trilled all day, 
 
 Sits hushed his partner nigh ; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour. 
 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 The village maid steals through the shade 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
 To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 
 
 Sings high-born Cavalier. 
 The star of Love, all stars above. 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 
 And liigh and low the influence know, — 
 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 SONG. 
 
 "A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, 
 
 A weary lot is thine ! 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 
 And press the rue for wine ! 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln-green, — 
 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 My love ! 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 "This morn is merry June, I trow, - 
 
 The rose is budding fain ; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow 
 
 Ere we two meet again." 
 He turned his charger as he spake, 
 
 Upon the river shore ; 
 He gave his bridle-reins a shake. 
 
 Said, "Adieu forevermore. 
 
 My love ! 
 And adieu forevermore." 
 
 LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTS- 
 MAN. 
 
 My hawk is tired of perch and hood. 
 My idle greyhound loathes his food. 
 My horse is weary of his stall. 
 And 1 am sick of captive thrall. 
 I wish I were as I have been. 
 Hunting the hart in forests green. 
 With bended bow and bloodhound free, 
 For that's the life is meet for me. 
 
 I hate to learn the ebb of time 
 
 From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime. 
 
 Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl. 
 
 Inch after inch, along the wall. 
 
 The lark was wont my matins ring, 
 
 The sable rook my vespers sing ; 
 
 These towers, although a king's they be, 
 
 Have not a hall of joy for me. 
 
 No more at dawning morn I rise, 
 And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, 
 Drive the fleet deer the forest through. 
 And homeward wend with evening dew; 
 A blithesome welcome blithely meet, 
 And lay my trophies at her feet. 
 While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
 That life is lost to love and me ! 
 
 THE TROSACHS. 
 
 The western waves of ebbing day 
 Rolled o'er the glen their level way ; 
 Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
 Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
 But not a setting beam could glow 
 Within the dark ravines below. 
 Where twined the path, in shadow hid, 
 Round many a rocky pyramid. 
 Shooting abru])tly from the dell 
 Its thunder-splintered pinnacle; 
 Round many an insulated mass, 
 The native bulwarks of the pass. 
 Huge as the tower which boulders vain 
 Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
 Their rocky summits, split and rent. 
 Formed turret, dome, or battlement, 
 Or seemed fantastically set 
 With cupola or minaret, 
 W ild crests as pagod ever decked, 
 Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
 Nor were these earth-born castles bare, 
 Nor lacked they many a banner fair ; 
 For, from their shivered brows displayed, 
 Far o'er the unfathomable glade, 
 All twinkling with the dew-drop sheen,
 
 106 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 The brier-rose fell in streamers "reen, 
 And creeping shrubs of thousand dyes, 
 Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 
 
 Boon nature scattered, free and wild, 
 Each plant or flower, the mountain's child. 
 Here eglantine embalmed the air, 
 Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 
 The primrose pale, and violet flower. 
 Found in each clifl' a narrow bower ; 
 Foxglove and nightshade, side by side, 
 Emblems of punishment and pride, 
 Grouped their dark hues with every stain, 
 The weather-beaten crags retain. 
 With boughs that (juaked at every breath, 
 Gray bindi and aspen wept beneath ; 
 Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
 Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; 
 And higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
 His shattered trunk, and frequent flung, 
 Where .seemed the clifl's to meet on high. 
 His boughs athwart the narrowed sky. 
 H ighest of all, where white peaks glanced. 
 Where glistening streamers waved and 
 
 danced, 
 The wanderer's eye could barely view 
 The summer heaven's delicious blue ; 
 So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
 The scenery of a fairy dream. 
 Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
 A narrow inlet, .still and deej), 
 Att"ording scarce such breadth of brim. 
 As served the wild-duck's brood to swim ; 
 Lost for a space, through thickets vetM'ing, 
 I'ut broader when again a^ipearing. 
 Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
 Could on the dark-blue mirror trace ; 
 Ajid farther as the hunter strayed, 
 Still broader sweep its channels made. 
 The shaggy mounds no longer stood. 
 Emerging from entangled wood, 
 But, wave-encircled, seemed to float, 
 Like castle girdled with its moat ; 
 Yet broader floods extending still. 
 Divide them from their parent hill. 
 Till each, retiring, claims to be 
 An islet in an inland sea. 
 
 And now, to issue from the glen. 
 
 No pathway meets the wanclerer's ken. 
 
 Unless he climb, with footing nice, 
 
 A far-projecting precij)ice. 
 
 The l)room's tougli roots his ladiler made. 
 
 The hazel saplings lent their aid ; 
 
 And thus an airy point ht> won, 
 
 Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 
 
 One burnished sheet of liWng gold, 
 
 Loch-Katrine lay beneath him rolled; 
 
 In all her lengtli far winding lay, 
 
 With promontory, creek, and bay. 
 
 And islands that, empurpled bright, 
 
 Floated amid the livelier light ; 
 
 And mountain.-;, that like giants stand. 
 
 To sentinel enchanted laud. 
 
 High on the south, huge Ben-venue 
 
 Down to the lake in masses threw 
 
 Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly 
 
 hurled, 
 TIk; fragments of an earlier world ; 
 A wildering forest feathered o'er 
 His ruined sides and summit hoar. 
 While on the north, fhrough middle air, 
 Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 
 
 From the steep promontory gazed 
 The stranger, raptured and amazed. 
 And ' ' What a scene were here, " he cried, 
 "For princely pomp or churchman's 
 
 pride ! 
 On this bold brow, a lordly tower ; 
 In that soft vale, a lady's bower ; 
 On yonder meadow, far away, 
 The turrets of a cloister gray ; 
 How blithely might the bugle-horn 
 Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn ! 
 How sweet, at eve, tlie lover's lute. 
 Chime, when the groves are still and 
 
 mute ! 
 And when the midnight moon should lave 
 Her forehead in the silver wave. 
 How solemn on the ear would come 
 The holy matins' distant hum. 
 While the dee]) jieal's commanding tone 
 Should wake, in y(jnder islet lone, 
 A sainted hermit from his cell. 
 To drop a bead with every knell, — 
 And bugle, lute, and bell, and all. 
 Should each bewildered stranger call 
 To friendly feast and lighted hall." 
 
 CORONACH. 
 
 Hf, is gone on the mountain, 
 
 He is lost to the forest. 
 Like a summer-dried fountain, 
 
 When our need was the sorest. 
 The font reapjiearing 
 
 From the rain-drops shall borrow; 
 But to us conu's no cheering. 
 
 To Duncan no morrow ! 
 
 The hand of the reaper 
 
 Takes the ears that are hoary,
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 107 
 
 But the voice of the weeper 
 Wails manhood in glory. 
 
 Th(^ autumn winds, I'ushiug, 
 
 Waft the leaves that are searest ; 
 
 But oui- Hower was in flushing, 
 When blighting was nearest. 
 
 Fleet foot on the oorrei, 
 
 Sage counsel in cumber, 
 Red hand in the foray. 
 
 How sound is thy slumber ! 
 Like the dew on the mountain, 
 
 Like the foam on the river. 
 Like the bubble on the fountain, 
 
 Thou art gone, and forever. 
 
 HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID. 
 
 When Lsrael, of the Lord beloved. 
 
 Out Irom tlie land of bondage came, 
 Her father's God before her moved, 
 
 An awful guide in smoke and tlame. 
 By day, along the astonished lands, 
 
 The cloudy pillar glided slow ; 
 By night, Aralaia's crimsoned sands 
 
 Returned the fiery column's glow. 
 
 There rose the choral hynm of praise, 
 
 And trump and timbrel answered keen ; 
 And Zion's daughters poured their lays. 
 With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
 tween. 
 No portents 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 temyier the deceitful ray. 
 And 0, when stoops on Judah's path 
 
 In shade and storm the frecjuent night, 
 Be thou, long-suffei-ing, 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 ])rize,   — • 
 A contrite heart, and humble thoughts. 
 
 Are mine accepted sacrifice. 
 
 CHRISTMAS-TIME. 
 
 Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill ; 
 Bat let it whistle as it will. 
 We '11 keep our Christmas merry still. 
 EacdT age has deemed the new-born year 
 The fittest time for festal cheer : 
 Even heathen yet, the savage Dane 
 At lol moie dee]i the mead did drain ; 
 High on the beach his galleys tlrew, 
 And feasted all his jiirate ei'ew ; 
 Then in his low and pine-built hall. 
 Where shields and a.xes decked the 
 
 wall. 
 They gorged upon the half-dressed steer; 
 Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 
 While round, in brutal jest, were thrown 
 The half-gnawed rib and marrow-bone. 
 Or listened all, in giim delight. 
 While scalds j'elled out the joys of fight. 
 Then forth in frenzy would they hie. 
 While wildly loose their red locks fly; 
 And, dancing round the blazing ]iile. 
 They make such barbarous mirth the 
 
 while. 
 As best might to the mind recall 
 The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 
 
 And well our Christian sires of old 
 Loved when the year itscoursehad rolled, 
 And brought blitheChristmas back again, 
 With all his hos])itable train. 
 Domestic and leligious rite 
 Gave honor to the holy night : 
 On Christmas eve the bells were rung; 
 On Christmas eve the mass was .sung; 
 That only night, in all the year. 
 Saw the .stoled priest the (dialice rear. 
 Tiie damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; 
 The hall was dress/^d with holly green ; 
 Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
 To gather in the mistletoe. 
 Then opened wide the baron's hall 
 To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
 Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
 .And Ceremony doffed his piide. 
 The heir, with roses in his shoes. 
 That night might village ];artner choose; 
 The lord, underogating, share 
 The vulgar game of "post and ]'air." 
 All hailed, with uncontrolled delight 
 An<l general voice, the hapjiy night 
 That to the cottage, as the crown. 
 Brought tidings of salvation down. 
 
 The fire, with well-dried logs supplied. 
 Went roaring up the chimney wide ;
 
 108 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 
 
 The liiige hall-taWe's oaken fiice, 
 StTublicd till it shone the day to grace, 
 Bore then ujton its massive board 
 No mark to pai-t the S(|uire and lord. 
 Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
 Hy old blue-eoated serving-man ; 
 Tlieu the grim boar's head irowned on 
 
 high, 
 Crested with bays and rosemary. 
 "Well can the green-garbed ranger tell 
 How, when, and where the monster lell ; 
 What dogs before his death he tore, 
 And all the baiting of the boar. 
 The wassail round, in good brown bowls. 
 Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. 
 There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by 
 Plum-porridge stood, and Cliristmas pie; 
 Nor failed old Scotland to produce, 
 At such high-tide, her savory goose. 
 Then came the merry maskers in, 
 And carols roared with blithesome diu ; 
 If uiimelodious was the sons. 
 It was a hearty note, and strong. 
 Who lists may in their mumming see 
 Traces of ancient mj'stery ; 
 Wlute skirts supplied the masquerade, 
 And snnitted cheeks the visors made: 
 But, 0, what maskers richly dight 
 Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
 England was merry England, when 
 Old Christmas brought his sports again. 
 'T was Christmas broached the mightiest 
 
 ale ; 
 'T was Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
 A Chiistmas gambol oft could cheer 
 The poor man's heart through half the 
 
 year. 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 [1772- 1834.] 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred Hame. 
 
 ©.•"t in my waking dnams do I 
 Live o'l-r again that hajijiy hour. 
 When midway on the mount I lay 
 Reside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the lights of eve; 
 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 Mv own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leaned against the armed man, 
 
 ight ; 
 
 y lay, 
 
 The statue of the armed knight 
 She stood and listened to m 
 
 Amid the linijei 
 
 liLdit. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best, whene'er 1 sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story, — 
 An ohl rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon Ids shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he ])ined : and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, th(; ]ileading tone 
 With which I sang another's love 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 But when I tol<l the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Kuiglit, 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savag(> den. 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade. 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and briglit ; 
 And tliat he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did, 
 He lea[>ed amid a murderous band. 
 And saved from outrage worse than death. 
 The Lady of the Land ;
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 109 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped liis knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain; 
 And ever strove to ex])iate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his hrain ; 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave, 
 And how his madness went away, 
 "When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; 
 
 — His dying words — but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all tlie ditty, 
 My faltering voice and ])ausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 
 The nuisic and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hoj)es, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 fcjubdued and cherished long. 
 
 She wept with j)ity and delight, 
 She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 1 heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, — she stepped aside. 
 As conscious of my look she stept,   — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye. 
 She Hed to me and wejit. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And, bending back her head, looked up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 't was a bashful art 
 That I might rather feel than see 
   The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so 1 won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE 
 VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning 
 
 star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems 
 
 to pause 
 
 On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveirou at thy base 
 liave 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 ! P)Ut when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal 
 
 shrine. 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon 
 
 thee. 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced 
 
 in prayer 
 
 1 worshi))ped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 So sweet we know not we aie listening 
 
 to it. 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wert blending with 
 
 my thought, 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy. 
 Till the dilating soul, enrapt, tiansfuscd. 
 Into the mighty vision passing, there. 
 As in lun' natural foim, 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 iirst and chief, sole sovran of the 
 
 vale ! 
 0, struggling with the darkness all the 
 
 night. 
 And visited all night by troops of st rs, 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they 
 
 sink, — 
 romjtanion of the morning star at dawn, 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald, — wake,"^ 0, wake, and utter 
 
 praise ! 
 Who sank thy sun less pillars deep in earth? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy 
 
 light ? 
 Who made the'e parent of perpetual 
 
 streams ? 
 And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely 
 
 glad !' 
 Who called you forth from night and 
 
 utter death,
 
 no 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 From d;i ik and ic\'caverns called you forth, 
 
 Down tliose precipitou.s, black, jagged 
 rocks. 
 
 Forever shattered and the same forever? 
 
 Wlio gave you your invulnerable life, 
 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and 
 your joy, 
 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 
 
 And who commanded (and the silence 
 came;), 
 
 Here let tlie billows stiffen and have rest ? 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the moun- 
 tain's brow 
 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 
 
 Torrents, metliinks, that heard a mighty 
 voice. 
 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest 
 pUinge ! 
 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 
 Who made you glorious as the; gates of 
 Heaven 
 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade 
 the sun 
 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with 
 living llowers 
 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your 
 feet ? — 
 
 God! let the torrents, like a shout of 
 nations, . 
 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains 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 fill shall thunder, 
 God ! 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal 
 frost ! 
 
 Y''e wild goats sporting round the eagle's 
 nest ! 
 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain- 
 storm I 
 
 Ye liglitnings, the dread arrows of the 
 clouds ! 
 
 Ye signs and wonders of the elements, 
 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with 
 praise ! 
 Thou, too, hoar Blount ! with thy sky- 
 pointing peaks, 
 
 Oft from whose; feet tlie avalanche, un- 
 hi'anl. 
 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the 
 pure serene, 
 
 Into the depth of clouds that veil thy 
 breast, — 
 
 Thou too again, stupendoi:s ilountain! 
 
 thou 
 That as 1 raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 In adoration, upward Injui thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused 
 
 with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest like a vapory cloud 
 To rise before me — Kise, (), ever rise, 
 Rise like a cloud of ineense from the 
 
 Eaith ! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the 
 
 hills. 
 Thou diead ambassador from Earth to 
 
 Heaven, 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon risiugsun. 
 Earth, with lier thousand voices, praises 
 
 God. 
 
 CHRISTABEL. 
 PART I. 
 
 'T i.s the middle of night by the castle 
 
 clock. 
 And the owls have awakened the crowing 
 
 cock ; 
 Tu-whit ! tu-whoo ! 
 And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
 How drowsily it crew. 
 
 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich. 
 Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 
 From her kennel beneath the rock 
 She maketh answer to the clock, 
 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the 
 
 hour ; 
 Ever and aye, by shine and shower. 
 Sixteen short how'ls, not over-loud ; 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dark ? 
 The night is chilly, but not dark. 
 The thin gray cloud is sjiread on high, 
 It covers but not hides the sk_v. 
 The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chill, the cloud is gray; 
 'T is a month before the month of May, 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 
 
 Th(! lovely lady, Christabel, 
 .Whom her ftther loves so well, 
 What makes hei- in the wood so late, 
 A fuilong from the castle gate ? 
 She had dreams all yesterniglit 
 Of her own betrothed knight ;
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 For the weal of her lovei- that 's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
 The sighs she lieaved were soft and low. 
 And naught was gi'een npon the oak, 
 But 7I10SS and rarest mistletoe : 
 She kneels lieneatli the huge oak-tree, 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly, 
 The lovely lady, Christabel ! 
 It moaned as near as near can be, 
 But what it is she cannot tell. 
 On the other side it seems to be 
 Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree. 
 
 The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
 Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To niov(; away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek, — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 That dances as often as dance it can, 
 Hanging so light, and lianging so high. 
 On the topmost twig that looks up at the 
 sky. 
 
 Hush, heating heart of Christabel ! 
 Jesu ]\Iaria, shield her w<ll ! 
 She folded hei- arms beneath her cloak. 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 What sees she there ? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 Drest in a silken robe of white, 
 That shadowy in the moonlight shone. 
 The neck that made that white robe wan. 
 Her stately neck, and artrrs were bare ; 
 Her blue- veined feet unsandalled were, 
 And wildly glittered here and there 
 The gems entangled in her hair. 
 I guess, 't was frightful there to see 
 A lady so richly clad as she, — 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 "Mary mother, save me now !" 
 Said Christabel; "and who art thou?" 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet. 
 And her voice was faint and sw(!et : 
 "Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weariness." 
 •'Stretcli forth thy hand, and have no 
 
 fear!" 
 Said Christabel; "how earnest thou 
 
 here?" 
 
 And the lady, whose voice was fcAr.t and 
 
 sweet. 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 
 
 "My sire is of a noble line. 
 And my name is Geraldine : 
 Five warriors seized me yestermorn, — 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn ; 
 They choked my cries with force and 
 
 fright, "^ 
 
 And tied me on a palfrey white. 
 The ]>alfrey was as fleet as wind. 
 And they rode furiously behind. 
 They spurred amain, their steeds weie 
 
 white. 
 And once we crossed the shade of night. 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 I have no thought what men thej' be; 
 Nor do 1 know how long it is 
 (For I have lain entranced, I wis) 
 Since one, the tallest of the five. 
 Took me from the jialfrey's back, 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 Somemuttered words his comrades spoke : 
 He placed me underneath this oak ; 
 He swore they would return with haste; 
 Whither they went I cannot tell — 
 I thought I heard, some minutes pa.st. 
 Sounds as of a castle-bell. 
 Stretch foith thy hand " (thus ended she), 
 "And help a wretched maid to Hee." 
 
 Then Christabel stretched forth her 
 hand 
 And comforted fair Geraldine: 
 "0 well, bright dame ! may you command 
 The service of Sir Leoline; 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 Will he send ibrth, and iiiends withal. 
 To guide and guaid you safe and tree 
 Home to your noble father's hall." 
 
 She rose : and forth with steps they 
 passed 
 That strove to be, and were not, fast. 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest, 
 An<l thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
 "All our household are at rest. 
 The hall as silent as the cell ; 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health, 
 And may not well awakened be. 
 But we will move as if in stealth, 
 And I beseech your courtesy. 
 This night, to share your couch with me." 
 
 They crossed the moat, and Christabel 
 Took the key that fitted well;
 
 112 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 A little door sine opened straight, 
 
 All in the middle of the gate; 
 
 The gate that was ironed within and 
 
 without, 
 Where an army in battle array had 
 
 marched out. 
 The lady sank, belike through jjain, 
 And Christalu'l with might and main 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight, 
 ' Over the threshold of the gate: 
 Then the lady rose again, 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 They crossed the court : right glad they 
 
 were. 
 AtkI Christabel devoutly cried 
 To the lady by her side: 
 "Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 \V iio hath rescued thee from thy distress ! " 
 "Alas, alas!" said Geraldine, 
 I cannot speak for weariness." — 
 So free from danger, free from fear, 
 They crossed the court : right glad they 
 
 were. 
 
 Outside her kennel the mastiff old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 Tlie mastilf old did not awake, 
 Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 Never till now she uttered yell 
 r>eneatli tlie eye of Christabel. 
 I'erhaps it is the owlet's seriteh ; 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 
 They passed the hall, that echoes still, 
 Pass as lightly as you will ! 
 The brands were flat, the brands were 
 
 dying, 
 Amid their own wliite ashes lying; 
 But when the lady passed, then; came 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
 And Christabel saw the lady's eye. 
 Anil nothing else saw she thereby. 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline 
 
 tall, 
 Which hung in a murky old niche in the 
 
 wall. 
 "0, softly tread !" .said Christabel, 
 " .My father seldom slee[)eth well." 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
 -And, jealous of the listening air. 
 They steal their way froni stair to stair, 
 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
 And now they pass tlie Baron's room, 
 
 As still as death with stifled breath ! 
 And now have reached hei- chamber door ; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The rushes of the chamber lloor. 
 
 The moon shines dim in the open air, 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 But they without its light can see 
 The chambei' carved so curiously, 
 Carved with figui'es strange and sweet. 
 All made out of the carver's bi'ain. 
 For a lady's chamber meet : 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 Is fastened to an angel's feet. 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 
 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 Shetrimniedthelamp, and made it bright, 
 And left it swinging to and fro, 
 While Geraldine, in wretched plight. 
 Sank down upon the floor below. 
 
 "0 weary lady, Geraldine, 
 I pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
 It is a wine of virtuous ])Owers ; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers." 
 
 "And will your mother pity me, 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn?" 
 Christabel answered : "Woe is inc ! 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 ■I have heard the gray-haired friar tell, 
 How on her death -bed she did say. 
 That she sliould hear tiie castle-bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 
 
 mother dear! that thou wert here!" 
 "T would," .'^aid Geraldine, "she w-ere!" 
 But soon with altered voice, said .she : 
 "Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
 
 1 have power to bi<l thee flee." 
 Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? 
 Why stares she with irnsettled ej'e ? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy? 
 And why with hollow voice cries she : 
 "Off, woman, ott'! this hour is mine, — 
 Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
 Off, woman, off! 'T is given to me." 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's 
 .side. 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue ; 
 ".Alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride, — 
 Dear lady ! it hath wildered you !" 
 The lady wi]K'd hei- moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, " 'T is over now !" 
 
 Airain the wild-flower wine .she drank : 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 113 
 
 And from the floor whereon she sank 
 The lofty lady .stood upright; 
 She was most Iteautii'ul to see, 
 Like a lady of a far countree. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady spake : 
 "All they who live in the uj)per sky 
 Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
 And you love them, and for their sake 
 And for the good whic'h me befell, 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 But now unrobe yourself; for 1 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed 1 lie." 
 
 Quoth Christabel, "So let it be!" 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
 But through her brain, of weal and woe 
 So many thoughts moved to and I'ro, 
 That vain it were her lids to close ; 
 So half-way from the bed she rose, 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the Lady Geraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
 And slowdy rolled her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in her breath aloud. 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 The cincture from beneath her breast : 
 Her silken robe and inner vest 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
 Behold ! her bosom and half her side, — 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 0, shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; 
 Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
 Deep from within she seems half-way 
 To lift some weight with sick assay, 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
 Tlien suddenly as one defieil 
 Collects herself in scorn and ])ride, 
 And lay down by the maiden's side! — 
 And in her arms the maid she took. 
 
 Ah well-a-day ! 
 And with low voice and doleful look, 
 
 These words did say : 
 "Inthetouch of this l)osom there workcth 
 
 a spell 
 Which is loid of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
 Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know 
 
 to-morrow 
 This mark of my shame, this seal of my 
 
 sorrow ; 
 
 8 
 
 But vainly thou warrest. 
 
 For this is alone in 
 Thy })ower to declare ; 
 
 That in the dim forest 
 Thou heard'st a low moaning, 
 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly 
 
 fair : 
 And didst bring her home with thee iu 
 
 love and in charity. 
 To shield her and shelter her from the 
 damp air." 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PAP.T I. 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 The Lady Christabel, when she 
 Was i>raying at the old oak-tree. 
 
 Ainid the jagged shadows 
 Of mossy leafless boughs. 
 
 Kneeling in the moonlight. 
 To make her gentle vows ; 
 Her slender jialms together prest, 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
 Her face resigned to Idiss or bale, — 
 Her face, 0, call it fair, not pale ! 
 And both blue ej-es more briglit than clear. 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 
 With open eyes (ah, woe is me !) 
 Asleep, and dreaming feartully, 
 Fearfullj' dreaming, yet, I wis, 
 Dreaming that alone which is — 
 O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak-tree ? 
 And lo ! the worker of these harms. 
 That holds the maiden in her arms. 
 Seems to slumber still and mild, 
 As a mother with her child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
 Have been the level)' ladj^'s prison. 
 Geraldine ! one hour was thine, — 
 Thou 'st had thy will ! By tarn and rill. 
 The night-birds all that hour were still. 
 But now they are jubilant anew. 
 From cliff and tower, tu-whoo ! tu-whoo ! 
 Tu-whoo ! ttt-whoo ! from wood and fell ! 
 And see ! the Lady Christabel 
 Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
 Her limbs relax, her countenance 
 Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 
 Close o'er her eyes ; ami tears she sheds, — 
 Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
 And oft the while she seems to smile 
 As infants at a sudden light!
 
 114 
 
 SON'GS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Yea, she doth smilo, and she doth weep, 
 Like a youtlit'ul ln'iniitess, 
 15t'auti'i)ii.s in a wilderness, 
 AViio, playing always, jn-ays in sleep. 
 And, it' she move uniiniftly, 
 Perchance, 't is bnt the blood so free, 
 Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
 No doubt she hath a vision sweet. 
 ^VIl;lt if hi-r guardian spirit 'twere ? 
 AVluit if she kni'W her mother near ? 
 l>ut this she knows, in joys and woes, 
 Tliat saints will aid if men will call; 
 For the blue sky bends over all! 
 
 PAIIT II. 
 
 "Each matin-bell," tlie Baron saith, 
 "Knells us back to a world of death." 
 These words Sir Leoline first said, 
 AVheii he rose and found his lady dead: 
 These words Sir Leoline will say 
 Many a morn to his dying day ! 
 
 And hence the custom and law began. 
 That still at dawn the saciistan, 
 Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
 Five-and-forty beads must tell 
 Between each stroke, — a warning knell, 
 AVhieh not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 
 
 Saith Bracy the bard, "So let it knell ! 
 And let the ilrowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can ! 
 There is no lack of such, I ween. 
 As well lill u]) the space between. 
 In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
 Anil Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, 
 With ropes of rock and bells of air 
 Three sinful sextons' ghosts are ])ent. 
 Who all give back, one after t' other. 
 The deatli-not(! to their living brother; 
 And ol't, too, by the knell olfended. 
 Just as their one! two! three! is ended, 
 The devil mocks the doleful tale 
 Witii a merry peal from Borodale." 
 
 The air is still ! through mist and cloud. 
 That merry ]ieal comes liiiging loud; 
 And (Jeraldine shakes olf her dread, 
 And rises liglitly from the bed; 
 Puts on her silken vestTru'uts white. 
 And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 
 And, nothing doubting of her sj)ell. 
 Awakens tlie Lady Christabjl. 
 
 "Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? 
 I trust that you have rested well." 
 
 And Christabel awoke and spied 
 The same who lay down by her side, — 
 0, rather say, the same whom she 
 Raised up beneath the old oak-tree ! 
 Nay, fairer yet ! and yet moie fair ! 
 For she belike hath drunken deej) 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
 And while she sjtake, her look, h(;r air, 
 Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
 That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 "Sure I have sinned!" said Christabel, 
 "Now Heaven be praised if all be well !" 
 And in low faltering tones, yet sweet. 
 Did she the lofty lady greet. 
 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind. 
 
 Soqnicklyshe rose, and quickly arrayed 
 Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
 That He who on the cross did groan 
 Alight wash away her sins nnknown. 
 She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
 To meet her sire. Sir Leoline. 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are pacing both into the hall. 
 And pacing on through page andgroom. 
 Enter thi; Baron's presence-room. 
 
 The Baron rose, and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast. 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes. 
 The Lady Geraldine espies. 
 And gave such welcome to the same 
 As might beseem so bright a dame ! 
 
 P>ut when he heard the lady's tal(% 
 And when she told her father's name. 
 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
 Murnnuing o'er the name again. 
 Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? 
 
 Alas ! they had been fiiends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above, 
 And life is thorny, and youth is vain. 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 With Roland and Sii' Leoline. 
 Each spakf! words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother: 
 They parted, — ne'er to meet again !
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOK COLERIDGE, 
 
 Hi 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow Iieiiit from paining; — 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder, 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between ; 
 
 But neither heat nor frost nor thunder 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Sir Leoline a moment's space 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face. 
 And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 0, then the Baron forgot his age, 
 His noble heart swelled liigli with rage ; 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side 
 He would proclaim it far and wide 
 With trump and .solemn heraklry. 
 That they who thus had wronged the 
 
 dame 
 Were base as spotted infamy ! 
 "And if they dare deny the same, 
 My herald shall appoint a week. 
 And let the recreant traitors seek 
 My tourney court, — that there and then 
 I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 From the bodies and forms of men !" 
 He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 
 For the lady was rutlilesslj' seized ; and 
 
 Ire kenned 
 In the beautiful lady the child of his friend! 
 
 And now the tears were on liis face. 
 And fondly in his arms he took 
 Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
 Prolonging it with joyous look. 
 Which when .she viewed, a vision fell 
 Upon the soul of Christabel, 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
 She shrunk and sliuddered, and saw 
 
 again — 
 (Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee. 
 Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see?) 
 Again she saw that liosom old. 
 Again she felt that bosom cold, 
 And drew in her breath with a hissing 
 
 sound : 
 Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 
 Antljjiothing saw but his own sweet maid. 
 With 'eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 
 
 The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
 And in its stead that vision blest. 
 Which comforted her after-rest 
 While in the lady's arms she lay, 
 Had put a rapture in her breast. 
 
 And on her lips and o'er lier eyes 
 Spread smiles like light ! 
 
 With new surprise, 
 "What ails then my beloved child ?" 
 The Baron said. His daughter mild 
 Made answer, "All will yet i)e well !" 
 I ween, she had no power to tell 
 Aught else ; so mighty was the speU. 
 
 Yet he who saw this Geraldine 
 Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
 Such sorrow with .such grace she blended. 
 As if .she feared she had offended 
 Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
 And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
 She might be sent without delay 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
 "Nay! 
 Nay, by my soul !" said Leoline. 
 "Ho! Bracy, the bard, the charge be 
 
 thine ! 
 Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
 And take twosteedswith trappings proud. 
 And take the youth whom thou lov'.st 
 
 best ' 
 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song. 
 And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
 And over the mountains haste along, 
 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad. 
 Detain you on the valley load. 
 And when he has crossed the Irthingflood, 
 My merry bard I he hastes, he hastes 
 Up Knorren Moor, through Halcgarth 
 
 Wood, 
 And reaches soon that castle good 
 Which stands and threatens Scotland's 
 
 wastes. 
 
 "Bard Bracy! Bard Bracy! yourhor.ses 
 
 are fleet. 
 Ye must ride up the hall, your music .so 
 
 sweet, 
 More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
 And loud and loud to Lord Fioland call. 
 Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
 Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free, — 
 Sir Leoline gi'eets thee thus through me. 
 He bids thee come without delay 
 With all thy numerous array. 
 And take thy lovely daughter home ; 
 And he will meet thee on the way 
 With all his numerous array 
 White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
 And by mine honor ! I will say. 
 That I repent me of the day 
 When I spake words of fierce disdain 
 To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! —
 
 116 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 
 
 For since that evil hour hath flown, 
 ^lany a .suniinci'.s sun liath shone; 
 Yet ne'er found I a friend af,'ain 
 Lii<e Kohmd de Vnux of Ti yenuaine." 
 
 The hilly fell, and clasped his knees, 
 Her face upraised, her eyes o'ertlo\vini( ; 
 And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing! — 
 "Thy words, thou sire of Christahel, 
 Are sweeter than my harp can tell; 
 Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 
 Tliis day my journey should not be. 
 So strange a dream hath come to nie, 
 That I had vowed with music loud 
 To clear yon wood from thing nnblest, 
 "Warned by a vision in my rest ! 
 For in my sleep I saw tiiat dove, 
 That gentle bird, whom thou dost love. 
 And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
 Sir Leoline! I saw the same 
 Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
 Amongtiie green lierbs in tlie forest alone. 
 AViiii'h wlien I saw and when I h'urd, 
 1 wondered what might ail the bird ; 
 For nothing near it could I see. 
 Save the grass and green herbs underneath 
 the old tree. 
 
 "And in my dream methought I went 
 To search out what might tiiere be found ; 
 And wliat the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
 Tliat thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
 I went and jieered, ami could descry 
 No cause for her distressful cry ; 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 I stooped, methought, the dove to take, 
 Whi'ii lo ! I .saw a bright green .snake 
 Coileil around its wings and neck. 
 Green as the herbs on which it couched. 
 Close liy the dove's its head it crouehed ; 
 And with till! dove it heaves and stirs. 
 Swelling its neck as she swelled hers! 
 I woke; it was the midnight hour. 
 The clock was echoing in the tower; 
 But though my slumber was gone by, 
 Tiiis dream it would not pass away, — 
 It seems to live upon my eye! 
 Aii'i thcnee I vowed this sidfsame day, 
 With music strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter there." 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the Baron the while 
 Half-listening heaid him with a .smile; 
 Then turned to Lady CJeialdine, 
 Hi.s eyes made up of wonder and love, 
 
 And said in courtly accents fine, 
 "Sweet maid. Lord Koland's beauteous 
 
 dove, 
 With arms more strong than harp or 
 
 song. 
 Thy sire and I will crush the .snake !" 
 He kissed her forehead as he spake, 
 And Gei'aldine, in maiden wise, 
 Casting down her large bright eyes, 
 With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 
 She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 
 Softly gathering up her train. 
 That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 And folded her arms across her chest. 
 And couchetl her head upon her bieast, 
 .And looked askance at Christahel — 
 Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 
 
 Asnake'ssmall eye blinksdulland shy. 
 And the lady's eyes they shiunk in her 
 
 head, 
 Eai'h shrunk up to a serjient's eye, 
 And with somewhat of malice, and more 
 
 of dread. 
 At Christaljcl she looked askance ! — • 
 One moment — and the sight was fled ! 
 B'.it Christahel, in dizzy trance 
 Stumbling on the unsteady ground. 
 Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; 
 And Geraldine again turned round, 
 And like a thing that sought relief, 
 Full of wonder and full of grief, 
 S1ie rolled her large bright eyes divine 
 Wildly on Sir Leoline. 
 
 Tho. maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone ; 
 She nothing sees, — no sight but one ! 
 The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
 I know not how, in fearful wise 
 So dt'eply had she drunken in 
 That look, those shi-unken serpent eyes, 
 That all her features were I'esigned 
 To this .sole ima<;e in her mind, 
 And |iassively did imitate 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate! 
 And thus she stood in dizzy trance. 
 Still ]ni'turing that look askance 
 With foicfd unconscious sympathy 
 Full before her father's view, — 
 -As far as such a look could be » 
 
 In eyes so innocent and blue I 
 And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
 Paused awliHe, and inly prayed : 
 Then falling at the liaron's feet, 
 " l|v my mother's soul do I entreat 
 That thou this wonian send away !" 
 She .said : and more she could not say:
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 117 
 
 For what she knew she could not tell, 
 O'eiiuasteied by the mighty sjiell. 
 
 Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
 Sir Leoliiie ? Thy only child 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
 So fail', so innocent, so mild ; 
 The same for whom thy lady died ! 
 ( ), by the pangs of her dear mother, 
 'J'hink thou no evil of thy child ! 
 For hei', and thee, and for no other, 
 She jirayed the moment ere she died, — 
 Prayed that the babe foi' whom she died 
 Miglit prove hei- dear htrd's joy and pride ! 
 That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, 
 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 
 
 Her child and thine ? 
 
 Within the Baron's lieart and brain. 
 If thoughts like these had any share, 
 They only swelled his rage and i>ain. 
 And did but work confusion there. 
 His heart was cleft with pain and rage. 
 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were 
 
 wild. 
 Dishonored thus in his old age; 
 Dishonored by his oidy child. 
 And all his hospitality 
 To the W7'onged daughter of his friend, 
 By more than woman's jealousy 
 Brought thus to a disgiaceful end. — - 
 He rolled his eye with stern regard 
 Upon the gentle minstrel baid, 
 And said in tones abruj>t, austere, 
 "Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here? 
 1 bade thee hence !" The baril obeyed ; 
 And turning from his own sweet maid, 
 The aged knight, Sir Leoline, 
 Led forth the Lady Geraldine ! 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 
 
 A LITTLE child, a limber elf. 
 Singing, dancing to itself, 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
 That always finds, and never seeks, 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
 .And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 T^pon his heart, that he at last 
 Must needs express his love's excess 
 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 Perluijis 't is pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so all unlike each other; 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 
 Perhaps 't is tender too and pretty 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 And what if in a world of sin 
 (O sorrow and shame, should this lie true !) 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain. 
 So talks as it 's most used to do. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 [1774-1843.] 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 My days among the dead are passed ; 
 
 Around me I behold, 
 Where'er these casual ej-es are cast, 
 
 The mighty minds of old ; 
 My never-failing friends aie they, 
 With whom I converse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal. 
 
 And seek relief in woe ; 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe. 
 My cheeks have often been bedewed 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My thoughts are with the dead ; with tl.cin 
 
 I live in Icng-past years; 
 Their virtues love, theii- faults condemn. 
 
 Partake tlieir hopes and fear.s. 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 Instruction with an humble mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the dead ; anon 
 My place with them will be, 
 
 And I with them shall travel on 
 Through all futurity : 
 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust, 
 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, — 
 The ship was as .still as sht^ could be ; 
 Her sails from heaven received no motion, 
 Her keel was steady in the o(.'ean. 
 
 Without eithersignfirsoniidoftheirshock 
 The wavesilowedoverthe Inchcape Rock ;
 
 118 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 So littlo they rose, so little they fell, 
 Tliey did nut uiuve tlie luchcai>e Dull. 
 
 The good old Abbot of Abeibrothok 
 Had pla^jed that bell oil the liichcape 
 
 Rock ; 
 Oil a buoy in the storm it floated and 
 
 swung, 
 And over the waves its warning rung. 
 
 "When the Rock was hid by the surges' 
 
 swell, 
 Tlie mariners heard the warning bell ; 
 And tliiMi they knew tlie perilous Kock, 
 And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrotliok. 
 
 The sun in heaven was shining gay, 
 All things were joyful on that tlay ; 
 The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled 
 
 around. 
 And there was joyance in their sound. 
 
 The buoy of the IiK-hcape Bell was seen 
 A darker speck on the ocean green ; 
 Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck. 
 And he hxed his eye on the darker sjieck. 
 
 He felt the clieeriug power of s])ring. 
 It made him whistle, it made him sing; 
 His lieart was mirthful to excess, 
 But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. 
 
 His eye was on the Inchcape float ; 
 Quotli he, "My men, put out the boat. 
 And row me to the Im-hc-ape Rock, 
 And 1 '11 ])lague the priest of Aberbro- 
 tliok." 
 
 Tlie boat is lowered, the boatmen row, 
 Ami to the Inchcape Rock they go; 
 Sii- Ralph bent over from the boat. 
 And he cut the bell from the Inchcape 
 float. 
 
 Down sank thebell, with agurglingsound, 
 The bubbles rose and burst around; 
 Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes 
 
 to the Rock « 
 
 "Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrotliok." 
 
 Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away. 
 He scoured tlie .seas lor many a day ; 
 A nd now, gi'own rich with ])luiidered store. 
 He steers his course for Scotland's .sliore. 
 
 S ) thick a haze o'erspreads the skv 
 They c-iiinot see the suii on high ;' 
 The wind hath blown a gale all daj''. 
 At evening it hath died away. 
 
 On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 
 So dark it is they see no land. 
 Qiiotli Sir Raljdi, "It will be lightersoon, 
 I'orthcreis the dawn of the rising moon." 
 
 "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers 
 
 I'oar? 
 Forinethiiikswe should be neartheshore; 
 Is'ow where we are I cannot tell. 
 But 1 wish I could hear the I iichcape BeU. " 
 
 They hear no sound, the swell is stnmg; 
 Though the wind hath fallen, they drift 
 
 along. 
 Till the vessel strikes with a shivering 
 
 shock : 
 Cried they, "It is the Inchcape. Rock ! " 
 
 Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 
 He cursed himself in his despair; 
 The waves rush in on every side, 
 The ship is sinking beneath the tide. 
 
 But even in his dying fear 
 One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, 
 A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell 
 The tiends below were ringing his knell. 
 
 BROUGH BELLS. 
 
 One day to Helbeck I had strolled. 
 
 Among the Crossfell Hills, 
 And, resting in the rocky grove, 
 
 Sat listening to the rills^ — 
 
 The while to their sweet undersong 
 The l)irds sang blithe around, 
 
 And the soft west-wind awoke the wood 
 To an intennitting sound. 
 
 Loudei- or fainter, as it rose 
 
 Or died away, was borne 
 The harmony of merry bells 
 
 From Biough, that pleasant morn. 
 
 "Why are the meny bells of Brough, 
 My friend, so few"?" said I ; 
 
 "They ilisappoint the expectant ear, 
 Which they should gratify. 
 
 "One, two, tliree, four; one, two, three, 
 four; 
 
 'Tis still one, two, three, four: 
 Mellow ami silvery are the tones; 
 
 But I wish the bells were more!"
 
 EGBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 119 
 
 "What! art thoii critical ?" quoth he; 
 
 "E.s<'he\v that heart's disease 
 Tliat seeketli t'ur (lisi)leasure where 
 
 The intent hatli been to please. 
 
 "By those four hells there hangs a tale, 
 
 Which being told, 1 guess, 
 Will make tiiee hear their scanty peal 
 
 With proper thankfulness. 
 
 "Not by the Cliftbrds Mere they given, 
 
 Nor by the Tultons' line ; 
 Thou hearest in that peal the crime 
 
 Of old John Brunskill's kiue. 
 
 "On Staneinore's side, one summer eve, 
 
 John ihunskilhsat to see 
 His lieids in yonder Bonodale 
 
 Come winding up the lea. 
 
 "Behind them, on the lowland's verge, 
 
 In the evening light serene, 
 Brough's silent tower, then newly built 
 
 By Blenkinsop, was seen. 
 
 "Slowly they came in long array, 
 
 With loitering pace at will ; 
 At times a low from them was heard, 
 
 Far off, for all was still. 
 
 "The hills returned that lonely sound 
 
 Upon the tranquil air: 
 The only sound it was which then 
 
 Awoke the echoes there. 
 
 " 'Thou hear'st that lordly hull of mine. 
 Neighbor,' quoth Brunskill then : 
 
 'How loudly to the hills he crunes, 
 That crune to him again ! 
 
 " 'Think'stthou if yon wholehcrd at once 
 
 Tiieir voices sliould combine. 
 Were they at Bi'ough, that we might not 
 Hear plainly from this upland spot 
 That cruning of the kine?' 
 
 " 'That were a crune, indeed,' replied 
 His comrade, 'which, I ween. 
 
 Might at tlie Spital well be heard, 
 And in all dales between. 
 
 "'Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs, 
 TJie eastern wind upon its wings 
 
 The mighty voice would bear ; 
 And Ajjpleby would hear the soundj 
 
 Methiuks, when skies are fair.' 
 
 '"Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill 
 cried, 
 
 'From yon chimb steeple crune; 
 And thou and I, on this hillside. 
 
 Will listen to their tune. 
 
 '"So, while the merry Bells of Brougli 
 
 For many an age ring on, 
 John Brunskill will remembered be, 
 
 When he is dead and gone, 
 
 " 'As one who, in his latter years, 
 
 Contented with enough, 
 (lave freely what he well could spare 
 
 To bu}' the Bells of Brough.' 
 
 "Thus it hath proved: three hundred 
 years 
 
 Since then have passed away, 
 And Brunskill's is a living name 
 
 Among us to this da}'." 
 
 "More pleasure," I replied, "shall I 
 J'rom this time forth partake, 
 
 When I remember Helbeck woods, . 
 For old John Brunskill's sake. 
 
 "He knew how wholesome it would be, 
 Among these wild, wide fells 
 
 And upland vales, to catch, at times, 
 The sound of Christian bells ; — 
 
 "What feelings and what impulses 
 
 Their cadimce might convey 
 To herdsman or to shei)ht!rd-boy, 
 Whiling in indolent employ 
 
 The solitary day ; — 
 
 "That, when his brethren were convened 
 
 To meet for social prayer. 
 He too, admonished by the call, ^ 
 
 In spirit might be there; — 
 
 "Or when a glad thanksgiving sound, 
 
 Upon the winds of heaven. 
 Was sen±to sjieak a nation's joy, 
 
 For some great blessing given, — 
 
 "For victory hj sea or land, 
 
 And hapjty peace at length ; 
 Peace by Ins country's valor won, 
 
 And stablished liy her strength ;^ 
 
 "When such exultant peals were borne 
 
 Upon the mountain air, 
 The sound should stir his blood, and give 
 
 An English impulse there."
 
 120 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Such tlionijhts were in the old man's 
 iiiiiid, 
 
 AVlieii he th;it eve looked down 
 From Stiinrinore's side on Bonodale, 
 
 And ou tile distant town. 
 
 A?id had I store of wealth, methinks, 
 
 Another herd of kine, 
 John I5rnnskill, I would freely give, 
 
 That they might cruue with thiue. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 [1775 -1834] 
 
 THE HOUSEKEEPER. 
 
 The frufjal snail, -with forecast of re]iose, 
 
 (."arries his house with hiui where'er he 
 goes ; 
 
 Peeps out, — and if there conies a shower 
 of rain, 
 
 Retr.>ats to his small domicile again. 
 
 Toueii but a tip of him, a horn, — 'tis 
 well,— 
 
 He curls u[> in his sanctuary shell. 
 
 He 's his own landlord, his own tenant ; 
 stay 
 
 Longas he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. 
 
 Himself he hoards and lodges ; both in- 
 vites 
 
 And feasts himself; sleeps with himself 
 o' nights. 
 
 He spares the upholsterer trouble to pro- 
 cure 
 
 Chattels; himself is his own furniture. 
 
 And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he 
 roajn, — 
 
 Kuock when you will, — -he 's sure to be 
 at home. 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 I HAVK had playmates, I liave%ad pom- 
 
 panioi;s, 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful 
 
 school -days; 
 All, all are gone, the olil familiar faces. 
 
 1 have been laughing, I have been ca- 
 rousing, 
 
 Driidiing late, sitting late, with tny bos- 
 om cronies; 
 
 Ail, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I loved a love once, fairest among women ! 
 Closed are her doors ou me now, 1 must 
 
 not see her, — 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no 
 
 man : 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly ; 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar 
 
 faces. 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of 
 
 my childhood. 
 Earth seemed a desert I was bound to 
 
 ti'a verse. 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom, thou tnore than a 
 
 brother. 
 Why wert not thou born in my father's 
 
 dwelling'? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces, — 
 
 How some they have died, and some they 
 
 have left me. 
 And some are taken from me; all are 
 
 departed ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 
 
 HESTER. 
 
 Whkn maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their ])lace ye may not well supi)ly. 
 Though ye among a thousand try, 
 With vain endeavor. 
 
 A month or more hath she lieen dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 To think upon the woi'my bed 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 Of jjride and Joy 710 common rate. 
 That flushed h(;r spirit. 
 
 I know not by what name beside 
 1 shall it call ; — if 't was not piide, 
 It was a joy to that allied. 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Tier parents hidd the Quaker rule, 
 Wliicli (loth the human feeling cool; 
 i>ut she was trained in nature's s(;hool, 
 Natuie had blessed her. 
 
 A waking eye, a ])rying mind, 
 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 121 
 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
 . Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly neighbor, gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore, 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore, 
 
 Some summer morning, 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 A sweet forewarning? 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 [1772-1835.] 
 
 WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY. 
 
 0, AAHAT will a" the lads do 
 When Maggy gangs away? 
 0, what will a'*the lads do 
 When Maggy gangs away? 
 There 's no a heart in a' the glen 
 That disna dread the day ; — 
 0, what will a' the lads do 
 "When Maggy gangs away ? 
 
 Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't, 
 
 A waefu' wight is he ; 
 
 Poor Harry 's ta'en the bed for 't. 
 
 An' laid him down to dee ; 
 
 And Sandy 's gane unto the kirk, 
 
 And learnin fast to pray ; — 
 
 0, what will a' the lads do 
 
 When Maggy gangs away ? 
 
 The young laird 0' the Lang Shaw 
 Has drunk her health in wine ; 
 The priest has said — in conlidence — 
 The lassie was divine ; 
 And that is mair in maiden's praise 
 Than ony priest should say ; —   
 But 0, what will the lads do 
 When Maggy gangs away ? 
 
 The wailing in our green glen 
 
 That day will ([uaver high, 
 
 'T will (iraw the redbreast frae the wood, 
 
 The laverock frae the sky ; 
 
 The fairies frae their beds o' dew 
 
 Will rise and join the lay, — 
 
 An' hey ! what a day 't will he 
 
 "When Maggy gangs away ? 
 
 THE RAPTURE OF KILMENY. 
 
 Bonny Kihneny gaed up the glen ; 
 But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, 
 Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, 
 For Kilmeny was ])ure as jiure could be. 
 It was oidy to hear the yorlin sing. 
 And pu' the cress-Howerround the spring ; 
 The scarlet hip and the hindberrye, 
 And the nut that hangs frae the hazel- 
 tree ; 
 For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. 
 Butlangniayherminny look o'er the wa', 
 And lang may she seek i' the green-wood 
 
 shaw ; 
 Lang the laird of Duneira blame, 
 And lang, lang greet, or Kilmeny come 
 hame! 
 
 When many a day had come and fled. 
 When grief grew calm, andhojie was dead, 
 When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been 
 
 sung. 
 When the bedesman had prayed, and the 
 
 dead-bell rung. 
 Late, late in a gloamin' when all was 
 
 still. 
 When the fringe was red on the westliu' 
 
 hill. 
 The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane. 
 The reek o' the cot hung over the jilain,' 
 Like a little wee cloud in the world its 
 
 lane ; 
 When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme, 
 Late, late in the gloamin' Kilmeny came 
 
 hame ! 
 
 "Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you 
 
 been ? 
 Lang hae we sought baith holt and den, 
 By linn, by ford, by greenwood tree. 
 Yet you are halesome and fair to see. 
 Where gat you that joup o' the lily sheen ? 
 That bonny snood o' the birk sae green ! 
 And these roses, the fairest that ever were 
 
 seen ? , 
 Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you 
 
 been?" 
 
 Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace, 
 But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ; 
 As still was her look, and as still was 
 
 her e'e. 
 As the stillness that lay on the emerant 
 
 lea. 
 Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless 
 
 sea.
 
 122 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 For Kilineny had beeu she knew not 
 
 whi-iv, 
 And Kilnieny had seen what she could 
 
 not dechii'e. 
 Kihneny hail been where the cock never 
 
 CVi'W, 
 
 Where the rain never fell, and the wind 
 
 never blew ; 
 But it sccnu'd as the harp of the sky had 
 
 riiii<r, 
 And the airs of heaven jilayed round her 
 
 tongue, 
 When she spake of the lovely forms she 
 
 had seen. 
 And a land where sin had never been, — 
 A land of love and a land of light, 
 Withouten sun or moon or night; 
 "Where the river swa'd a living stream, 
 And the light a pure celestial beam : 
 The land of vision it would seem, 
 A still, an everlasting dream. 
 In yon green-wood there is a walk, 
 And in that waik there is a wene, 
 And in that wene there is a maike, 
 That neither has tiesli, blood, nor bane ; 
 And down in yon green-wood he walks 
 
 his lane. 
 
 In that green wene Kilmeny lay, 
 Her bosom hapjied wi' the Howeretsgay; 
 But the air was soft, and the silence deep, 
 And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep ; 
 She kend nae mnir, nor opened her e'e. 
 Till waked liy the iiynins of a far country e. 
 She awaked on a couch of the silk sac 
 
 slim. 
 All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's 
 
 rim ; 
 And lovely beings round were rife, 
 "Who erst had travelled mortal life; 
 And aye they smiled, and 'gan to speer, 
 "What spirit has brought this mortal 
 
 here?" 
 They clasped her waist and her hands 
 
 sae fair. 
 They kissed her cheek, and they kerned 
 
 her hair, 
 Andj'ound came many a bhtoining fere. 
 Saying, " Bonny Kilmenv, ye 're welcome 
 
 here! 
 
 "0, would the fairest of mortal kind 
 Aye keep the holy truths in mind, 
 Tliat kiiiilred spirits thi'ir motions see. 
 Who watrh tluir ways witli anxious e'e. 
 Anil grieve for tlie guilt of Ininianitye ! 
 O, sweet to Heaven the maiden's prayer, 
 
 And the sigh that heaves a bosom sae fair ! 
 And dear to Heaven the words of truth. 
 And the praise of vii'tue frae beauty's 
 
 mouth ! 
 And dear to the viewless forms of air, 
 The minds tliat kythe as the body fair! 
 Iwnny Kilnieny ! free fiae stain, 
 If ever you seek the world again, — 
 That world of sin, of sorrow, and fear, — 
 O, tell of th(! joys that are waiting here. 
 And tell of the signs you shall shortly see ; 
 Of the times that are now, and tlie times 
 
 that shall be." 
 
 They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away. 
 And she walked in the light of a sunless 
 
 day : 
 The sky was a dome of crystal bright, 
 The fountain of vision, and fountain of 
 
 light ; 
 The enu^rald fields were of dazzling glow. 
 And the llowers of everlasting blow. 
 Then deep in the stream her body they 
 
 laid. 
 That her youth and beauty never might 
 
 fadV ; 
 And they smiled on heaven, when they 
 
 saw her lie 
 In the stream of life that wandered by. 
 And slie heard a song, she heard it sung. 
 She kend not where ; but .sae sweetly it 
 
 rung, 
 It fell on her ear like a dream of the 
 
 morn : 
 "0, blest be the day Kilmeny was born ! 
 Now shall the land of the spiiits see. 
 Now shall it ken what a woman may be ! 
 Tlie sun tlia t shiii(>s on the world sae bright, 
 A borroweil gleid of the fountain of light; 
 iVml the moon that sleeks the skysae dun. 
 Like a goiiden bow, or a beamless sun. 
 Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair. 
 And the angels shall miss them travelling 
 
 the air. 
 But lang, lang after baith night and day. 
 When the sun and the world have elyed 
 
 away ; 
 When the sinner has gane to his waesome 
 
 (li>i)in, 
 Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom !" 
 
 Then Kilmeny begcred again to see 
 
 The friends slie had left in her own coun- 
 
 trye, 
 To tell oi' the ])laee where she had been. 
 And tiie glories that lay in the land un- 
 seen :
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 123 
 
 To warn the living maidens fair, 
 The loved of Heaven, the sj)irits' care. 
 That all whose minds unnieled remain 
 Shall bloom in lieauty when time is gane. 
 
 AVith distant music, soft and deep, 
 The}' lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; 
 And vvlien she awakened, siie lay her lane. 
 All happed with Howers in the green- wood 
 
 wene. 
 "When seven long years were come and 
 
 fled; 
 When grief was calm, and hope was dead ; 
 When scarce was lemembered Kilmeny's 
 
 name. 
 Late, late in a gloamin' Kilmeny came 
 
 haine ! 
 And 0, her beauty was fair to see, 
 But still and steadfast was her e't ! 
 Such beauty bard may never declare, 
 Tor there was no jiride nor passion there ; 
 And the soft desire of maiden's een 
 In that mild face could never be seen. 
 Her seymar was the lily liower. 
 And her cheek themoss-roseintheshower. 
 And her voice like the distant melodye, 
 That floats along the twilight sea. 
 But she loved to raike the lanely glen, 
 And keeped afar frae the haunts of 
 
 men ; 
 Her holy hymns unheard to sing, 
 To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. 
 But wherever her peaceful form appeared, 
 The wild beasts of the hill were cheered : 
 The wolf played blitliely round the field, 
 Tlie lordly bison lowed and kneeled ; 
 The dun deer wooed with manner bland, 
 And cowered aneath her lily hand. 
 And when at even the woodlands rung, 
 AVhen hymns of other worlds she sung 
 In ecstasy of sweet devotion, 
 0, then the glen was all in motion ! 
 Tlie wild beasts of the forest came, 
 Broke from their bughts and faulds the 
 
 tame. 
 And goved around, charmed and amazed ; 
 Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, 
 And nuirmured, and looked with anxious 
 
 pain 
 For something the mystery to explain. 
 The buzzard came with the throstle-cock ; 
 The corby left her houf in the rock ; 
 The bJackbiid alang wi' the eagle flew; 
 The hind canu^ tripping o'er the dew ; 
 The wolf and the kid their raike began. 
 And the tod, and the lamb, and the 
 
 leveret ran ; 
 
 The hawk and the hern attour them hung. 
 And the merl and the mavis lorhooyed 
 
 their young; 
 And ail in a peaceful ring were hurled ; — 
 It was like an eve in a sinless world ! 
 
 When a month and a day had come and 
 
 gane, 
 Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene ; 
 There laiil her down on the leaves sae 
 
 green, 
 And Kilmeny on earth was never mair 
 
 seen. 
 But 0, the words that fell from her 
 
 mouth 
 Were words of wonder, and words of 
 
 truth ! 
 But all the land were in fear and dread. 
 For they kendna whether she was living 
 
 or dead. 
 It wasna her hame, and she couldna re- 
 main ; 
 She left tliis world of sorrow and ]iain, 
 And returned to the Laud of Tiiought 
 
 again. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 [1779-1852.] 
 
 FLY TO THE DESERT. 
 
 Fi.Y to the desert, fly with me. 
 Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
 But, 0, the choice what heart can doubt, 
 Of tents with love, or thrones witliout? 
 
 Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
 The acacia waves her yellow hair, 
 Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
 For (lowering in a wilderness. 
 
 Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
 
 The silvery-footed antelope 
 
 As gracefully and gayly springs 
 
 As o'er the marble courts of kings. 
 
 • 
 Then come, — thy Arab maid will be 
 
 The loved and lone acacia-tree, 
 
 The antelope, whose feat shall bless 
 
 With their light sound thy loveliness. 
 
 0, there are looks and tones that dart 
 An instant sunshine through the heart, 
 x\s if tlie soul that minute cauglit 
 Some treasure it through life had sought ;
 
 124 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 As if tlie very lips and eyes 
 rredestiued to have all our sighs, 
 And never be forgot again, 
 Si>arkled and sjxjke before us then ! 
 
 So came thy every glance and tone, 
 Wlien lirst on uie they breathed and 
 
 shone ; 
 New as if brought from other spheres, 
 Yet welcome as if loved for years. 
 
 THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT. 
 
 At the mid hour of night, when stars 
 
 are weeping, I fly 
 To the lone vale we loved, when life 
 
 shone warm in tliine eye ; 
 And I think oft, if spirits can steal from 
 
 the regions of air. 
 To revisit past scenes of delight, thou 
 
 wilt come to me there, 
 And tell me our love is remembered even 
 
 in the sky ! 
 
 Then I sing the wild song 't was once 
 
 such pleasure to hear. 
 When our voices, comuiiiigling, breathed 
 
 like one on the ear ; 
 And, as Echo far off through the vale 
 
 my sad orison rolls, 
 I think, O my love ! 'tis thy voice, 
 
 from the Kingdom of Souls, 
 Faintly answering still the notes that 
 
 once were so dear. 
 
 THE VALE OF AVOCA. 
 
 Thehp: is not in this wide world a valley 
 
 so sweet 
 As that vale, in whose bosom the bright 
 
 waters meet ; 
 0, the last ray of feeling and life must 
 
 depart 
 Ere th(! bloom of that valley shall fade 
 
 from my heart ! 
 
 Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er 
 
 the scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of 
 
 green ; 
 'T was not the soft magic of streamlet or 
 
 hill, — 
 0, no ! it was something more exquisite 
 
 still. 
 
 'T was that friends, the beloved of my 
 bosom, were near. 
 
 Who made ever)' dear scene of enchant- 
 ment more dear. 
 
 And who felt how tlie best charms of 
 nature improve. 
 
 When we see them reflected from looks 
 that we love. 
 
 Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could 
 I rest 
 
 In thy bosom of shade, with the friends 
 I love best ; 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this 
 cold world should cease. 
 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be min- 
 gled in peace. 
 
 O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN- 
 ER'S TEAR. 
 
 Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! 
 
 How dark this world would l)e, 
 If, when deceived and wounded here, 
 
 We could not fly to thee. 
 The friends who in our sunshine live, 
 
 AVhen winter comes, are flown ; 
 And he who has but tears to give 
 
 Must weep those tears alone. 
 But thou wilt heal that broken heart 
 
 Which, like the plants that throw 
 Their fi-agrance from the wounded part, 
 
 Breathes sweetness out of woe. 
 
 When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 
 
 And e'en the hope that threw 
 A moment's sparkle o'er our tears 
 
 Is dimmed antl vanished too, 
 0, who would bear life's stormy doom, 
 
 Did not thy Ming of love 
 Come, brightly wafting through thegloo;n 
 
 Our peace-branch from above ? 
 Then sorrow, touched by thee, grows 
 briglit 
 
 With more than ra|)ture's ray; 
 As darkness shows us worlds oi' light 
 
 We never saw by day ! 
 
 THOU ART, O GOD! 
 
 TiTor art, O God ! the life and light 
 Of all this wondrous world we see; 
 
 Its glow liy day, its smile by night, 
 Are but reflections caught from thee.
 
 GEORGE GORDON (LORD BYRON). 
 
 125 
 
 Where'er we turn, thy glories shine, 
 And all things fair and bright are thine. 
 
 When day, with farewell beam, delays 
 Among the opening clouds of even, 
 
 And we can almost think we gaze 
 
 Through golden vistas into heaven, — 
 
 Those hues th.at make the sun's decline 
 
 So soft, so radiant. Lord! are thine. 
 
 When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
 0"ershad(nvs all the earth and SKies, 
 
 Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose 
 plume 
 Ls sparkling with unnumbereil eyes, — 
 
 That sacred gloom, those hres divine. 
 
 So grand, so countless. Lord ! are thine. 
 
 When youthful springaroundusbreathes, 
 Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 
 
 And every Hower the summer wreathes 
 Is born beneath that kindling eye. 
 
 Where'<'r we turn, thy glories shine, 
 
 And all things fair and bright are Thine. 
 
 -♦ 
 
 GEORGE 
 
 GORDON 
 BYRON). 
 
 [178S-1824.] 
 
 (LORD 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and stairy skies, 
 
 And all that 's best of dark and" bright 
 Meets 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, 
 Oi' softly lightens o'er her face. 
 
 Where thouglits serenely sweet express 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling- 
 ])lace. 
 
 And on that cheek and o'er that brow. 
 So soft, so calm, yet elo(|uent, 
 
 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 ! 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 TuE Assyrian came down like the 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 wave rolls nightly on 
 
 deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest wlien sum- 
 mer is green. 
 
 That host with their banners at sunset 
 were seen ; 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when au- 
 tumn 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 heaits but once heaved, and 
 
 forever grew still ! * 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostrils 
 all wide. 
 
 But through tliem there rolled not the 
 breath of his ]iride : 
 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white 
 on the tui'f. 
 
 And cold as the ipray of the rock-beat- 
 ing surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and 
 pale, 
 
 Witli the dew on his brow and the rust 
 on his mail ; 
 
 And the tents were all silent, the ban- 
 ners alone, 
 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet un- 
 blown. 
 
 And the widows of Asbur are loud in 
 
 their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the templf of 
 
 Baal; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote 
 
 by the sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of 
 
 the Lord !
 
 12G 
 
 SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 THE LAKE OF GENEVA. 
 
 Ci.KAn, placiiJ Lenian ! tliv contrasteil 
 
 lake, 
 "With tlie wild world I dwelt in, is a 
 
 thing 
 "Which warns nie, with its stillness, to 
 
 forsaki! 
 Earth's troubled waters for a jiurer 
 
 spring. 
 This (niiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I 
 
 loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft nnir- 
 
 Tnuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a sister's Toicc. 
 
 re|)roved. 
 That I with stern delights should e'er 
 
 have been so moved. 
 
 It is the liush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, 
 
 yet clear, 
 Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly 
 
 seen. 
 Save <larkened Jura, whose capt heights 
 
 appear 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
 T'liere breathes a living fragrance fror.i 
 
 the shore, 
 Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; 
 
 on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended 
 
 oar. 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night 
 
 carol more : 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the 
 
 brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then ij 
 
 still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the 
 
 hill, 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 "\Vee])ing themselves away, till they 
 
 infuse 
 Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of 
 
 her hues. 
 
 MONT BLANC. 
 
 JIoxT Ri.ASC is the monarch of moun- 
 tains ; 
 Tliey crowned hira long ago 
 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds. 
 
 With a diadem of snow. 
 Around his waist are forests braced, 
 
 The avalaiudu! in his hand ; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 
 The glacier's cold and restless mass 
 
 Moves onwartl day by day; 
 But I am he who bids it pass, 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am tlie spirit of the place, 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And (juiver to his caverned base, — 
 
 And what with me wouldst Thou? 
 
 THE IMMORTAL MIND. 
 
 "WiiF.N' coldness wraps this suffering clay. 
 
 Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stay, 
 
 But leaves its darkened dust behind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps eacli planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, tmdecayed, 
 
 A thought imseen, but seeing all. 
 All, all in earth or skies displayed. 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 
 And all that was at once appears. 
 
 Before creation peopled earth. 
 
 Its eyes shall roll through chaos back ; 
 And where the farthest heaven had birth, 
 
 Tlie spirit trace its rising track. 
 And whei-e the future mars or makes, 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be. 
 While sun is quenched or system breaks, 
 
 Fixed in its own eternity. 
 
 Above or love, hope, hate, or fear, 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year; 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 
 Away, away, without a wing. 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall 
 
 fiy,- ^ 
 
 A nameless and eternal thing. 
 Forgetting what it was to die.
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 
 
 12T 
 
 rEPtCY BTSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 [1792- 1822.] 
 
 STANZAS "WRITTEN IN DEJECTION 
 NEAR NAPLES. 
 
 The sun if warm, the sky is clear, 
 The waves are dancing fast and briglit, 
 lUue isles and snowy mountains wear 
 The pur})le noon's transparent light : 
 The breath of the moist air is light 
 Around its unexpauded buds ; 
 Like many a voice of one delight, — 
 The winds', the birds', the ocean- 
 floods', — 
 The City's voice itself is soft like Soli- 
 tude's. 
 
 I see the Deep's untrampled floor 
 With green and }iurple sea-weeds 
 
 strown ; 
 I see the waves upon the shore 
 Like light dissolved in star-showers 
 
 thrown : 
 I sit upon the sands alone ; 
 The lightning of the noontide ocean 
 Is Hashing round me, and a tone 
 Arises from its measured motion, — 
 How sweet, did any heart now share i:i 
 
 my emotion ! 
 
 Alas ! I have nor liope nor health. 
 Nor peace within nor calm around, 
 Kor that content surpassing wealth 
 The sage in meditation found. 
 And walked with inward glory 
 
 crowned, — 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor 
 
 leisure ; 
 Others I see whom these surround, — 
 Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; 
 To me that cup has been dealt in another 
 
 measure. 
 
 Yet now despair itself is mild 
 Even as the winds and waters are ; 
 I could lie down like a tired child, 
 And wee]) awaj' the life of care 
 Whii'h 1 haveborne, and yet must bear. 
 Till death like sleep might steal on me. 
 And I might feel in the warm air 
 My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
 Breathe o'er my dying brain its last mo- 
 notony. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 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 fire ; 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest. 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring 
 ever singest. 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun 
 O'er which clouds are brightening, 
 Thou dost float and run. 
 Like an unbodied joy whose race is just 
 begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 
 Melts around thy flight; 
 Like a star of heaven. 
 In the broad daylight 
 Thoir art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill 
 delight. • 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 
 Of that silver s]>iiere. 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 
 In the white dawn clear 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 W^ith thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare, 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven 
 is overflowed. 
 
 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 tlie light of thought, 
 Singing hymns unbidden. 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
 heeded not ;
 
 128 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Like a lii^}i-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower, 
 Soothing her love-laileu 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows 
 her bower ; 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of (lew. 
 Scattering unheholden 
 Its aeiial hue 
 Among the Howers and grass, which screen 
 it from the view; 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds dellowcred, 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these 
 heavy-winged thieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On tlu! twinkling grass, 
 liain -awakened flowers. 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous and clear and fresh thy music 
 doth surpass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or biid, 
 
 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 triumphal chant 
 Matched with thine, Avould be all 
 Hut an empty vaunt, — 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some 
 hidden want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
 What shapes of sky or ])Iaiii ? 
 What love of thine own kind ! what igno- 
 rance of pairt ? 
 
 AVith thy clear, keen joyance 
 
 Languor cannot be ; 
 Sliadow 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 nioie true and deep 
 Tiian we mortals dream, 
 Or how could tliy notes How 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 thought. 
 
 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. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound. 
 Better tlian all treasures 
 That in books are found. 
 Thy skill to ]>oet were, thou scorner of 
 the gnjund ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 
 That thy brain must know 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips wouhl flow. 
 The world shouhl listen then, as I ara 
 listening now ! 
 
 ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED. 
 
 OxE word is too often profaned 
 
 For me to profane it, 
 One feeling too falsely disdained 
 
 For thee to disdain it. 
 One hope is too like despair 
 
 For ])rudence to smother. 
 And \nty from thee is more dear 
 
 Than that from another. 
 
 I can give not what men call love ; 
 
 But wilt thou accept not 
 The worship the heart lifts above. 
 
 And the heavens reject not, — 
 The desire of the motli for the star, 
 
 Of the night for the morrow, 
 The devotion to sometliing afar 
 
 From the sphere of our sorrow?
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 129 
 
 JOHN KEiTS. 
 
 [1796-1821.] 
 
 THE EVE OF SAINT AGNES. 
 
 Saint Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it 
 
 was!' 
 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-colJ ; 
 The hare limped tif!iiibling through 
 
 the frozen grass, 
 And silent was the Hock in woolly fold : 
 Numb were the beadsman's lingers 
 
 while he told 
 His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
 Like ]iious incense lioiu a censer old. 
 Seemed taking flight for heaven with- 
 out a death. 
 Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his 
 prayer he saith. 
 
 His prayer he saith, this patient, holy 
 
 man ; 
 Then takes his lamp, and riseth from 
 
 his knees. 
 And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, 
 
 wan. 
 Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees : 
 The sculptured dead, on each side, 
 
 seem to freeze, 
 Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails: 
 Knights, ladies, praying in dumb ora- 
 
 t'ries. 
 He passeth by ; and his weak s]iirit fails 
 To think how they may ache in icy hoods 
 
 and mails. 
 
 Northward he turneth through a little 
 
 door. 
 And scarce three steps, ere music's 
 
 golden tongue 
 Flattered to tears this aged man and 
 
 poor; 
 But no, — already had his death-bell 
 
 rung ; 
 The joys of all his life were said and 
 
 sung ; 
 His was harsh penance on Saint Agnes' 
 
 Eve: 
 Another way he went, and soon among 
 Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
 And all night kept awake, for ainnei;^' 
 
 sake to grieve. 
 
 That ancient beadsman heard the prel- 
 ude soft ; 
 
 And so it chanced, for many a door 
 was wide, 
 
 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
 The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to 
 
 chide ; 
 The level chambers, ready with their 
 
 pride. 
 Were glowing to receive a thousand 
 
 guests ; 
 Tlie carvc'd angels, ever eager-eyed, 
 ►Stared, where ujion their heads the 
 
 cornice rests. 
 With hair blown back, and wings put 
 
 crosswise on their breasts. 
 
 At length burst in the argent revelry. 
 With plume, tiara, ami alt rich array, 
 Numeious as shadows haunting fairily 
 The brain, new stuffed in youth with 
 
 triumphs gay 
 Of old romance. These let us wi.sh 
 
 away, * 
 
 And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady 
 
 there. 
 Whose heart had brooded, all that 
 
 wintry day. 
 On love, and winged Saint AgneS' saint- 
 ly care. 
 As she had heard old dames full man}', 
 times declare. 
 
 Thev told her how, upon Saint Agnes' 
 "Eve, 
 
 Young virgins might have visions of 
 delight. 
 
 And soft adorings from their loves re- 
 ceive 
 
 Upon the honeyed middle of the night. 
 
 If ceremonies due they did aright; 
 
 As, fcujiperless to bed they must re- 
 tire. 
 
 And couch sujiine their beauties, lily 
 white; 
 
 Nor look behind, nor sideways, but 
 require 
 Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that 
 they desire. 
 
 Full of this whim was thoughtful 
 
 Madeline : 
 The music, yearning Jike a god in pain. 
 She scarcely heard ; her niaiden ej'es 
 
 divine, 
 Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweep- 
 ing train 
 Pass by, — she heeded notat all : in vain 
 Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier. 
 And back retired ; not cooled bj' high 
 disdain.
 
 130 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 But she saw not ; her lieart was other- 
 where ; 
 She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweet- 
 est of the year. 
 
 She danced along with vague, regard- 
 
 h'ss e\-es. 
 Anxious her lips, her breathing quick 
 
 and short : 
 The hallowed hour was near at hand : 
 
 she sighs 
 Amid the timbrels, and the thronged 
 
 resort 
 Of whispers, or in anger or in sport ; 
 Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and 
 
 scorn. 
 Hoodwinked with fairy fancy; all amort, 
 S.ive to Saint Agnes, and her lambs 
 
 unshorn. 
 And all the bliss to be before to-morrow 
 
 morn. 
 
 So, purposing each moment to retire, 
 She lingered still. Meantime, across 
 
 the moors. 
 Had come young Porphyro, \vith heait 
 
 on fire 
 For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. 
 Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, 
 
 and implores 
 All saints to give him sight of Made- 
 line, 
 But forone moment in the tedionshours, 
 That he might gaze and worship all 
 unseen ; 
 Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss, — in 
 sooth, such things have been. 
 
 He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper 
 
 tell ; 
 All eyes be muffled, ora hundred swords 
 Will storm his heart, love's feverous 
 
 citadel. 
 For him, those chambers held barbarian 
 
 hordes. 
 Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
 AVhose very dogs would execrations 
 
 howl 
 Against his lineage; not one breast 
 
 affords 
 Him any mercy, in that man.sion foul. 
 Save one old beldame, weak in body and 
 
 in soul. 
 
 Ah, happy chance ! the aged ci'eature 
 
 came. 
 Shuffling along with ivory - headed 
 
 wand. 
 
 To where he stood, hid from the torch's 
 
 flame. 
 Behind a broad hall-pillar, far b<'yond 
 The sound of merriment and chorus 
 
 bland. 
 He startled her; but soon she knew 
 
 his face. 
 And grasped his fingers in her palsied 
 
 hand. 
 Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee 
 
 from this place ; 
 They are all here to-night, the whole 
 
 bloodthirsty race ! 
 
 "Get hence 1 get hence ! there 's dwarf- 
 ish Hildcbrand ; 
 
 He had a fever late, and in the fit 
 > He curseil thee and thine, both house 
 and land : 
 
 Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, 
 not a whit 
 
 More tame for his gray hairs — Alas 
 me: tlit! 
 
 Flit like a ghost away. " — " Ah ! gossip 
 dear. 
 
 We 're safe enough ; liere in this arm- 
 chair sit. 
 
 And tell me how" — "Good saints! 
 not here, not here ; 
 Follow me, chihl, or else these stones will 
 be thy bier." 
 
 He followed through a lowly arched 
 
 way. 
 Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty 
 
 plume. 
 And as she muttered ""Well-a — well- 
 
 aday!" 
 He found him in a little moonlit room. 
 Pale, latticed, chill, andsilentasatomb. 
 "Xow tell me where is Madeline," 
 
 said he, 
 "0, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
 Which none but secret sisterhood may 
 
 see. 
 When they Saint Agnes' wool are weaving 
 
 piously." 
 
 "Saint Agnes ! Ah ! it is Saint Agnes' 
 
 Eve, — 
 Yet men will murder upon holy days; 
 Thou must hold waterinawitch'ssieve. 
 And be liege-lord of all the elves and 
 
 fays. 
 To venture .so: it fills me with amaze 
 To see thee, Porphyro ! — Saint Agnes' 
 
 Eve !
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 131 
 
 God's help! my lady fair the conjurer 
 
 plays 
 This very night ; good angels her de- 
 
 CGlVy ! 
 
 But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle 
 time to grieve." 
 
 Feebly she laugheth in the languid 
 
 moon, 
 While Poiphvrouponhertacedothlook, 
 
 Like puzzled un^hin on an aged crone 
 
 "Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle- 
 book, 
 
 As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 
 
 But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when 
 she told 
 
 His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could 
 brook 
 
 Tears, at the thought of those enchant- 
 ments cold. 
 And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
 
 Sudden a thought came like a full- 
 blown rose, . , 
 Flushing his brow, and in his pained 
 
 heart 
 Made purple riot; then doth he pro- 
 pose 
 A stratagem, that makes the beldame 
 
 start : 
 "A cruel man and impious thou art ! 
 Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and 
 
 dream 
 Alone with her good angels, far apart ^ 
 From wicked men like thee. Go, go I 
 — I deem 
 Thou canst not surely be the same that 
 thou didst seem." 
 
 "1 will not harm her, by all saints I 
 swear '"" 
 
 Quoth Porphyro ; " 0, may I ne er find 
 
 grace. 
 When my weak voice shall whisper its 
 
 last prayer. 
 If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
 Or look with ruffian passion in her face : 
 Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; 
 Or I will, even in a moment's space, ^ 
 Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's 
 
 ears. 
 And beard them, though they be more 
 
 fanged than wolves and bears. 
 
 "Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble 
 soul ? 
 
 A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church- 
 yard thing, 
 
 Whose passing-bell may ere the mid- 
 night toll ; 
 
 Whose jirayers for thee, each morn and 
 evening. 
 
 Were never missed." Thus plaining, 
 doth she bring 
 
 jY gentler speech from burning Por- 
 phvro ; 
 
 So wofiil, and of such deep sorrowing, 
 
 That Angela gives promise she will do 
 Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal 
 or woe. 
 
 Which was to lead him, in close secrecy. 
 Even to Madeline's chamber, and there 
 
 hide 
 Him in a closet, of such privacy 
 That he might see her beauty nnespied. 
 And win perhaps that night a peerless 
 
 bride. 
 While legioned fairies paced the cover- 
 let. 
 And pale enchantment held her sleepy- 
 eyed. 
 Kever on such a night have lovers met, 
 Since Merlin paid his demon all the 
 monstrous debt. 
 
 "It shall be as thou wishest," said the 
 
 dame : 
 "All cates and dainties shall be stored 
 
 there 
 Quickly on this feast-night: by the 
 
 tambour frame 
 Her own lute thou wilt see ; no tune 
 
 to spare. 
 For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
 On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
 Wait here, my child, with patience ; 
 
 kneel in i)rayer 
 The while. Ah ! thou must needs the 
 
 lady wed. 
 Or may I never leave my grave among 
 
 the dead." 
 
 So saying, she hobbled off with busy 
 
 fear. . 
 
 The lover's endless minutes slowly 
 
 passed : 
 The dame returned, and whispered in 
 
 his ear 
 To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast 
 From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
 Through many a dusky gallery, they 
 
 gain 
 The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed, 
 
 and chaste ;
 
 132 
 
 SONGS OF TIlllEE CENTURIES. 
 
 Where Porphyro took covert, i)leased 
 amain. 
 His poor follicle hurried back with agues 
 in her brain. 
 
 Her faltering liaud upon the balus- 
 trade, 
 
 Old Angela was fcrlincc for tlie stair, 
 
 Wlien ^ladeliue, Saint Agues' cliarnied 
 maid, 
 
 Rose, like a missioned sj)irit, unaware ; 
 
 With silver taper's light, and pious 
 care , 
 
 She turned, and down the aged gossip 
 led 
 
 To a safe level matting. Now jirejjare, 
 
 Young Porphyro, for gazing on that 
 bed ! 
 She comes, .she comes again, like ring- 
 dove frayed and tied. 
 
 Out went the tajier as she hurried in. 
 Its little smoke in pallid moonshine 
 
 died : 
 She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
 To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
 No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! 
 But to her heart, her heart was voluble. 
 Paining with eloquence her balmy 
 
 si tie ; 
 As tliough a tongueless nightingale 
 
 should swell 
 Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, 
 
 in her dell. 
 
 A casenK'ut high and triple-arched 
 
 theie was. 
 All garlanded with earven imageries 
 Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of 
 
 knot-grass. 
 And diamonded with panes of quaint 
 
 device, 
 Innumerable of stains and splendid 
 
 dyes 
 As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked 
 
 wings ; 
 And in tlie midst, 'mong thousand 
 
 heraldries, 
 And twilight saints, and dim embla- 
 zon ings, 
 A shielded seutelii'OTi lilushed with blood 
 
 of (jueens and kings. 
 
 Full on this casement shone the win- 
 try moon. 
 
 And threw warm gules on Madeline's 
 fair breast, 
 
 As down she knelt for heaven's grace 
 
 and boon : 
 Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together 
 
 prest, 
 And on her silver cross soft amethyst. 
 And on her hair a glory, like a 
 
 saint : 
 She seemed a splendid angel, newly 
 
 di'est, 
 Save wings, for heaven : — Porphyro 
 
 grew faint : 
 She knelt, so i)ure a thing, so free from 
 
 mortal taint. 
 
 Anon his heart revives : her vespers 
 done. 
 
 Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she 
 frees ; 
 
 Unclasps her warmed jewels one by 
 one ; 
 
 Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by de- 
 grees 
 
 Her rich attire creeps rustling to her 
 knees : 
 
 Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea- 
 weed, 
 
 Pensive awhile .she dreams awake, and 
 sees. 
 
 In fancy, fair Saint Agnes in her bnl, 
 But dares not look behind, or all the 
 charm is fled. 
 
 Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly 
 
 nest 
 In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed 
 
 she lay, 
 Until the poppied warmth of sleep 
 
 oppressed 
 Her soothed lindis, and soul fatigued 
 
 awa}^ ; 
 Flown, like a thought, until the mor- 
 row-day ; 
 Blissfully havened both from joy ami 
 
 pain ; 
 Clasped like a missal where swart 
 
 Paynims pray ; 
 Blinded alike from sunshine and from 
 
 rain. 
 As though a rose should shut, ami be a 
 
 bud again. 
 
 Stolen to this paradise, and so en- 
 tranced, 
 Porphyro gazed upon her em]ity dress, 
 And listened to her breathing, if it 
 chanced 
 To wake into a slumberous tenderness ;
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 loo 
 
 Which when he heard, that minute 
 
 did he bless, 
 And breathed himself: then from the 
 
 closet crept, 
 Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
 And over the hushed carpet, silent, 
 
 stept, 
 And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, 
 
 lo ! — how fast she slept. 
 
 Then by the bedside, where the faded 
 moon 
 
 Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
 
 A table, and, half anguished, threw 
 thereon 
 
 A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and 
 jet: — 
 
 Ofor some drowsj' Morphean amulet! 
 
 The boisterous, midnight, festive clar- 
 ion. 
 
 The kettle-drum, and far-heard clar- 
 ionet, 
 
 Affray his ears, though but in dying 
 tone : — 
 The hall-door shuts again, and all the 
 noise is gone. 
 
 And still she slept an azure-lidded 
 sleep. 
 
 In blanched linen, smooth, and laven- 
 dered, 
 
 While he from forth the closet brought 
 a heap 
 
 Of candied apple, quince, and plum, 
 and gourd ; 
 
 With jellies soother than the creamy 
 curd, 
 
 And lucid syrops, tinct with cinna- 
 mon ; 
 
 Manna and dates, in argosy transferred 
 
 From Fez; and spiced dainties, every 
 one. 
 From silken Samarcand to cedared Leb- 
 anon. 
 
 These delicates he heaped with glow- 
 ing hand 
 
 Ou golden dishes and in baskets bright 
 
 Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they 
 stand 
 
 In the retired quiet of the night. 
 
 Filling the chilly room with perfume 
 light. — 
 
 "And now, my love, my seraph fair, 
 awake ! 
 
 Thou art my heaven, and I thine 
 eremite : 
 
 Open thine eyes, for meek Saint Agnes' 
 sake. 
 Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul 
 doth ache." 
 
 Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved 
 
 arm 
 Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her 
 
 dream 
 By the dusk curtains : — 't was a mid- 
 night charm 
 Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
 The lustrous salvers in the moonlight 
 
 gleam; 
 Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
 It seemed he never, never could redeem 
 From such a steadfast spell his lady's 
 eyes ; 
 So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed lan- 
 tasies. 
 
 Awakening up, he took her hollow 
 
 lute,— 
 Tumultuous, — and, in chords that teu- 
 
 derest be, 
 He played an ancient ditty, long since 
 
 mute, 
 In Provence ealled, "La belle dame 
 
 sans mercy" ; 
 Close to her ear touching the melody : 
 Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a 
 
 soft moan ; • 
 He ceased — she jianted quick — and 
 
 suddenly 
 Her Hue atl'rayedeyeswideopen shone : 
 Upon his knees lie sank, pale as smooth- 
 sculptured stone. 
 
 Hereyeswere open, but she sti'l beheld. 
 Now wide awake, the vision of her sleq) : 
 There was a painful change, that nigh 
 
 expelled 
 The blisses of her dieam so pure and 
 
 deep ; 
 At which fair Madeline began to weeji, 
 And moan forth witless words with 
 
 manv a sigh ; 
 While still her gaze on Poiphyro would 
 
 keep, 
 Who knelt, with joined hands and 
 
 piteous eye. 
 Fearing to move or speak, she looked so 
 
 dreamingly. 
 
 "Ah, Poiphyro! "said she, "but even 
 
 now 
 Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine 
 
 ear.
 
 134 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Jfadc tuiiaLlc witli eveiy sweetest vow ; 
 
 And those sad eyes were spiritual and 
 clear; 
 
 How changed thou art I how pallid, 
 chill, and drear! 
 
 Givenie that voice again, my Porpliyro, 
 
 Those looks inniiortal, those complain- 
 ings dear ! 
 
 0, leave me not in this eternal woe, 
 For if thou diest, my love, I know not 
 where to go." 
 
 Beyond a mortal man impassioned far 
 At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
 Ethereal, Hushed, and like a throbbing 
 
 star 
 Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep 
 
 repose ; 
 Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
 Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
 Solution sweet : meantime the frost- 
 wind blows 
 Like love's alarum pattering the sharp 
 sleet 
 Against tlie window-panes; Saint Agues' 
 moon hath set. 
 
 'T is dark : (juick pattereth the flaw- 
 blown sleet : 
 
 "This is no dream, my bride, my Mad- 
 eline!" 
 
 'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave 
 and beat : 
 
 "No dream, alas ! alas ! andAvoeismine ! 
 
 Porphyro will leave me here to fade 
 and ])ine. — 
 
 Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither 
 bring? 
 
 T curse not, formy heart is lost in thine, 
 
 Though thou fbrsakesta deceived thing ; 
 A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, un- 
 pruned wing." 
 
 "My Madeline! sweet dreamer ! lovely 
 
 bride ! 
 Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 
 Thy beauty's shield, heart-shapgd and 
 
 vermeil dyed ? 
 Ah, silver slninc, here will I tak(> my 
 
 rest 
 Aftei' so many hours of toil and quest, 
 A famished ]iiigrim,~ saved by miracle. 
 Though I liave found, I will not rob 
 
 thy nest 
 Savingofthy.sweetsclf; if thoutliink'st 
 
 well 
 To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel." 
 
 "Hark ! 't is an elfin-storm from fairy- 
 land. 
 
 Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
 
 Arise, — arise ! the morning is at hand ; 
 
 The bloated wassailers will ne\er heecl : 
 
 Let us away, my love, with hajipy 
 speed ; 
 
 There are no ears to hear, or eyes to 
 see. 
 
 Drowned all in Rlienish and the sleepy 
 mead : 
 
 Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
 For o'er the southern moors 1 have a 
 home for thee." 
 
 She hurried at his words, beset with 
 
 fears. 
 For there were sleeping dragons all 
 
 around. 
 At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready 
 
 spears, — 
 Dowli the wide stairs a darkling way 
 
 they found, — 
 In all the house was heard no human 
 
 sound. 
 A chain-dropped lamp was flickering 
 
 by each door ; 
 The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, 
 
 and hound. 
 Fluttered in the besieging wind's up- 
 roar. 
 And the long carpets rose along the gusty 
 
 floor. 
 
 They glide, like phantoms, into the 
 
 wide hall ; 
 Like phantoms to the iron porch they 
 
 glide, 
 "Where lay the porter, in nneasy s])nnvl. 
 With a huge empty flagon by his 
 
 side : 
 The wakeful bloodhound rose, and 
 
 shook his hide, 
 But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
 By one, and one, the bolts full easy 
 
 slide ; 
 The chains lie silent on "the foot-worn 
 
 stones ; 
 The key turns, and the door nj)on its 
 
 hinges groans. 
 
 And the}'^ are gone : ay, ages long ago 
 These lovers fled away into the stnmi. 
 That night the baron dreamt of many 
 
 a woo, 
 And all his warrior-guests, with shade 
 
 and form
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 135 
 
 Of witch, and demon, and large coffin- 
 worm, 
 Were long be-nightmared. Angela 
 
 the old, 
 Died palsy-twitched, with meagre tace 
 
 deform. 
 The beadsman, after thousand aves 
 
 told, ,. 
 
 For aye unsought-for slept among his 
 
 ashes cold. 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 [1771-1854.] 
 
 THE COMMON LOT. 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past, 
 
 There lived a man ; and who was he { 
 
 Mortal ! howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 That man resembled thee. 
 
 Unknown the region of his birth. 
 
 The land in which he died unknown ; 
 
 His name has perished from the earth. 
 This truth survives alone : 
 
 That ioy, and grief, and hope, and fear. 
 Alternate, triumphed in his breast ; 
 
 His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear ! 
 Oblivion hides the rest. 
 
 He suffered,— but his pangs are o'er; 
 
 Enjoyed, —but his delights are tied; 
 Had "friends,— his friends are now no 
 more ; 
 
 And foes,— his foes are dead. 
 
 He saw whatever thou hast seen ; 
 
 Encountered all that troubles thee : 
 He was— whatever thou hast been; 
 
 He is— what thou shalt be. 
 
 The rolling seasons, day and night. 
 Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and 
 main, 
 
 Erewhile his portion , life, and light, 
 To him exist in vain. 
 
 The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
 That once their shades and glory threw. 
 
 Have left in yonder silent sky 
 No vestige where they flew. 
 
 The annals of the human race. 
 
 Their ruins, since the world began, 
 
 Of him afford no other trace 
 Than this, —there lived a man ! 
 
 FOREVER WITH THE LORD. 
 
 Forever with the Lord ! 
 Amen ! so let it be ! 
 Life from the dead is in that word. 
 And immortality. 
 
 Here in the body pent. 
 Absent from Him I roam. 
 Yet nightly pitch my moving tent 
 A day's march nearer home. 
 
 My Father's house on high. 
 Home of my soul ! how near, 
 At times, to faith's foreseeing eye 
 Thy golden gates appear ! 
 
 Ah ! then my spirit faints 
 To reach the land 1 love, 
 The bright inheritance of saints, 
 Jerusalem above ! 
 
 Yet clouds will intervene, 
 And all my prospect flies ; 
 Like Noah's dove, I flit between 
 Rough seas and stormy skies. 
 
 Anon the clouds depart, 
 The winds and waters cease ; 
 While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart 
 Expands the bow of peace ! 
 
 Beneath its glowing arch. 
 Along the hallowed ground, 
 I see cherubic armies march, 
 A camp of fire around. 
 
 I hear at morn and even, 
 At noon and midnight hour. 
 The choral harmonies of heaven 
 Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. 
 
 Then, then I feel that He, 
 Remembered or forgot, 
 The Lord, is never far from me. 
 Though I perceive him not.
 
 136 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 In darkness as in light, 
 Hidden alike from view, 
 I sleep, I wake, as in his sight 
 Who looks all nature through. 
 
 All that I am, have been. 
 All that I yet may be. 
 He sees at once, as he hath seen, 
 And shall forever see. 
 
 " Forever with the Lord" : 
 Father, if 't is thy will, 
 The promise of that faithful word 
 Unto thy child fulfil ! 
 
 So, when my latest breath 
 Shall rend tlie veil in twain. 
 By death 1 shall escape from death. 
 And life eternal gain. 
 
 PRAYER. 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 
 
 Uttered or unexpressed, 
 The motion of a hidden fire 
 
 That trembles in the breast. 
 
 Prayer is the burden of a sigh, 
 
 The falling of a tear ; 
 The upward glancing of an eye, 
 
 When none but God is near. 
 
 Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
 
 Tliat infant lips can try; 
 Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 
 
 The Majesty on high. 
 
 Prayer is the Christian's vital breath. 
 
 The Christian's native air ; 
 His watchword at the gates of death : 
 
 He enters heaven by jirayer. 
 
 Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 
 
 Ketiirniiig from his ways; 
 While angels in their songs rejoice. 
 
 And say, " Behold he prays !" 
 
 Thou, bv whom we come to God, 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way, 
 
 The path of prayer thyself hast trod : 
 Lord, teacn us how to pray ! 
 
 HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS. 
 
 [1762- 1827.] 
 
 WHILST THEE I SEEK. 
 
 Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power, 
 
 Be my vain wishes stilled ! 
 And may this consecrated liour 
 
 With better hopes be filled. 
 
 Thy love the power of thought bestowed ; 
 
 To thee my thoughts would soar : 
 Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed, 
 
 'That mercy I adore. 
 
 In each event of life, how clear 
 
 Thy ruling hand I see ! 
 Each blessing to my soul more dear. 
 
 Because conferred by thee. 
 
 In every joy that crowns my days. 
 
 In every pain I bear, 
 My heart shall find delight in praise. 
 
 Or seek relief in prayer. 
 
 When gladness wings my favored hour. 
 Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 
 
 Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower. 
 My soul shall meet thy will. 
 
 My lifted eye, without a tear. 
 The gathering storm .shall .see; 
 
 My steadfast heart shall know no fear; 
 That heart shall rest on thee. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THERE WAS SILENCE IN HEAVEN. 
 
 Can angel spirits need repose 
 In the full sunlight of the sky? 
 
 And can the veil of slumber clo.se 
 A cherub's bright and blazing eye? 
 
 Have seraphim a weary brow, 
 
 A fainting heart, an aching breast? 
 
 No, far too higli their ]>u]s('s (low 
 To languish with inglorious rest. 
 
 0, not the death-like calm of sleeji 
 Could hush the everlasting song; 
 
 No fairy dream or slumber deep 
 Entrance the rapt and holy throng.
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. — WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 137 
 
 Yet not the lightest tone was heard 
 From angel voice or angel hand ; 
 
 And not one plumed pinion stirred 
 Among the pure and blissful band. 
 
 For there was silence in the sky, 
 A joy not angel tongues could tell, 
 
 As from its mystic fount on high 
 The peace of God in stillness fell. 
 
 0, what is silence here below ? 
 
 The fruit of a concealed despair; 
 The pause of pain, the dream of woe ; — 
 
 It is the rest of rapture there. 
 
 And to the wayworn pilgrim here, 
 
 More kindred seems that perfect peace, 
 
 Than the full chants of joy to hear 
 Roll on, and never, never cease. 
 
 From earthly agonies set free. 
 
 Tired with the path too slowly trod. 
 
 May such a silence welcome me 
 Into the palace of my God. 
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1767- 1848.] 
 
 TO A BEREAVED MOTHER. 
 
 Sure, to the mansions of the blest 
 
 When infant innocence ascends. 
 Some angel, brighter than the rest. 
 
 The spotless spirit's flight attends. 
 On wings of ecstasy they rise, 
 
 Beyond where worlds material roll, 
 Till some fair sister of the skies 
 
 Receives the unpolluted soul. 
 That inextinguishable beam, 
 
 With dust united at our birth. 
 Sheds a more dun, discolored gleam 
 
 Tlie more it lingers upon earth. 
 
 But when the Lord of mortal breath 
 
 Decrees his bounty to resume, 
 And points the silent shaft of death 
 
 Which speeds an infant to the tomb, 
 No passion fierce, nor low desire. 
 
 Has quenched the radiance of the flame ; 
 Back to its God the living fire 
 
 Reverts, unclouded as it came. 
 Fond mourner ! be that solace thnie ! 
 
 Let Hope her healing cliarm impart. 
 And soothe, with meiodies divine. 
 
 The anguish of a inother's heart. 
 
 0, think ! the darlings of thy love, 
 
 Divested of this earthly clod, 
 Amid unnumbered saints, above, 
 
 Bask in the bosom of their God. 
 O'er thee, with looks of love, they lend ; 
 
 For thee the Lord of life implore ; 
 And ott from sainted bliss descend 
 
 Thy wounded quiet to restore. 
 Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear; 
 
 Their part and thine inverted see. 
 Thou wert their guardian angel here, 
 
 They guardian angels now to thee. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 [1775-1864.] 
 
 LAMENT. 
 
 I LOVED him not ; and yet, now heisgone, 
 
 I feel I am alone. 
 I checked him while he spoke ; yet, 
 could he speak, 
 
 Alas ! I would not check. 
 
 For reasons not to love him once I sought, 
 And wearied all my thought 
 
 To vex myself and him : I now would give 
 My love, couhl he but live 
 
 Who lately lived for me, and, when he 
 found 
 'T was vain, in holy ground 
 
 He hid his face amid the shades of death ! 
 
 I waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me 1 but niinereturns. 
 
 And this lorn bosom burns 
 With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep. 
 
 And waking me to weep 
 Tears that had n;elted his soft heart : for 
 years 
 
 Wept he as bitter tears ! 
 
 "Merciful God!" such was his latest 
 prayer, 
 
 "These may she never .share !" 
 Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 
 
 Thau daisies in the mould, 
 Where children spell, athwart thechurch- 
 yard gate. 
 
 His name and life's brief date. 
 Pray forhim, gentle souls, whoe'er j'ou be, • 
 
 And, 0, pray, too, for nie !
 
 138 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 [1777- 1844 ] 
 
 THE LAST MAN. 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 
 
 The sun himself must die, 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its immortality! 
 I saw a vision in my sleep, 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 
 Adowu the gulf of time ! 
 I saw the last of human mould 
 That shall creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her prime ! 
 
 The sun's e3'e had a sickly glare, 
 
 The earth with age was wan ; 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man ! 
 Some had expired in fight, — the brands 
 Still rusted in their bony hands, 
 
 In plague and famine some ! 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread ; 
 And sliips were drifting with the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb ! 
 
 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood. 
 
 With dauntless words and high, 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood. 
 
 As if a storm passed by. 
 Saying. Weare twinsin death, proud Sun ! 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 
 'T is Mercy bills thee go ; 
 For thou ten tliousand thousand years 
 Hast seen the tide of huinan tears, 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 
 What though beneath thee man put forth 
 
 His pomp, his pride, his skill ; 
 Aiid arts that made fire, flood, and earth 
 
 The vassals of his will ? 
 Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 
 Tlnni dim, discrowned king of day ; 
 
 For all those trophied arts 
 And triumphs tliat beneath thee sprang, 
 Healed not a passion or a pang 
 
 Entailed on human hearts. 
 
 Oo, let oV)livion's curtain fall 
 Upon the stage of men, 
 •Nor with thy rising beams recall 
 Life's tragedy again : 
 
 Its piteous pageants bring not back, 
 Nor waken flesh, upon the rack 
 
 Of pain anew to writhe ; 
 Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred. 
 Or mown in battle by the sword, 
 
 Like glass beneath the scythe. 
 
 Even 1 am wearj' in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire; 
 Test of all sumless agonies. 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 My lips that speak thy dirge of death, - 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 
 
 To see thou shalt not boast. 
 The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, 
 The majesty of darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting ghost ! 
 
 This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
 Yet think not. Sun, it shall be dim 
 
 When thou thyself art dark ! 
 No ! it shall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine. 
 
 By him recalled to breath. 
 Who captive led captivity. 
 Who robbed the grave of victorj'. 
 
 And took the sting from death ! 
 
 Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up 
 
 On Nature's awful waste 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief that man shall taste, — 
 Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
 Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 
 
 On earth's sepulchral clod. 
 The darkening universe defy 
 To quench his immortality. 
 
 Or shake his trust in God ! 
 
 GLENARA. 
 
 0, HEAi?n ye yon pibroch sound sad in 
 the gale. 
 
 Where a band cometh slowly with weep- 
 ing and wail ? 
 
 'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his 
 dear ; 
 
 And her sire, and the })eople, are called 
 to her bier. 
 
 Glenara came first with the mourners and 
 
 shroud ; 
 Her kinsmen they followed, but moui-ned 
 
 not aloud :
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 139 
 
 Their plaids call their tosoms were folded 
 
 around ; 
 They niarclu'd all in silence, — they looked 
 
 on the ground. 
 
 In silence they marched over mountain 
 
 and moor, 
 To a heath where the oak-tree grew 
 
 lonely and hoar : 
 "Now heie let us place the gray stone 
 
 of her cairn : 
 AVhy speak ye no word?" — said Glenara 
 
 the stern. 
 
 "And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of 
 my spouse. 
 
 Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye 
 your brows?" 
 
 So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer 
 is made, 
 
 But each mantle unfolding, a dagger dis- 
 played. 
 
 " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her 
 
 shroud," 
 Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all 
 
 wrathful and loud ; 
 "And empty that shroml and that coffin 
 
 did seem : 
 Glenara! Glenara! now read me my 
 
 dream ! " 
 
 0, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, 
 
 I ween, • 
 When the shroud was unclosed, and no 
 
 lady was seen ; 
 When a voice from the kinsmen spoke 
 
 louder in scorn, 
 'T was the youth who had loved the fair 
 
 Ellen of Lorn : 
 
 "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her 
 
 £;rief, 
 I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous 
 
 chief : 
 On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did 
 
 seem ; 
 Glenara! Glenara! now read me my 
 
 dream ! " 
 
 In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the 
 
 ground. 
 And the desert revealed where his lady 
 
 was found ; 
 From a rock of the ocean that beauty is 
 
 borne, — 
 Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of 
 
 Lorn ! 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, "Boatman, do not tariy ! 
 
 And I '11 give thee a silver })ound 
 To row us o'er the I'erry." 
 
 "Now who b(i ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
 This dark and stormy water?" 
 
 "O, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter. 
 
 " And fast before her father's men 
 Three days we 've Hed together. 
 
 For should he find us in tlie glen. 
 My blood would stain tlie li^ather. 
 
 " His horsemen hard behind us ride; 
 
 Should they our steps discover, 
 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 
 When they have slain her lover?" 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highlnnd wight: 
 "1 '11 go, my chief, — 1 'm ready ; 
 
 It is not for your silver bright. 
 But for your winsome lady ; 
 
 "And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 
 In danger shall not tarry : 
 So, though the waves are riiging white, 
 
 I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 By this the stoini grew I'oud apace. 
 The water-wraith was shrieking ; 
 
 And in the scowl of heaven eacli fnce 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But -still, as wilder lilew the wind, 
 And as the night grew drearer, 
 
 Adown the glen lode armed men, — 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 "O, haste thee, haste !" the lady cries, 
 "Though tempests round us gather; 
 
 I '11 meet the raging of the skies. 
 But not an angiy father." 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, — 
 When, 0, too strong for human hand, 
 
 Tlie tempest gathered o'er her ! 
 
 And still they rowed nmidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing : 
 Lord UUin reached that fatal shore ; 
 
 Hi.s wrath was changed to wailing. '
 
 140 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 For, sore dismayed, through storm and 
 shade, 
 
 His child he did discover; 
 One lovely hand she stretched for aid, 
 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 "Comeback! come back!" he cried in 
 grief, 
 
 "Across this stormy water; 
 And I 'U forgive your Highland cliief, 
 
 My daughter! — my daughter!" 
 
 'T was vain ; — the loud waves lashed the 
 shore, 
 
 IJeturn or aid jireventing; 
 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 [1779- 1849.] 
 
 HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Day-staus ! that ope your eyes with 
 morn, to twinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of earth's crea- 
 tion. 
 And dew-drops on her holy altars sprinkle 
 As a libation. 
 
 Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending 
 lowly 
 Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless 
 eye. 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high. 
 
 Ye bright Tnosaics ! that with storied 
 beauty 
 The floor oF nature's temple tesselLite, 
 AVhat numerous emblems of instructive 
 duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell 
 that swiiigeth. 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing 
 air. 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever 
 ringeth 
 A call to prayer. 
 
 Not to the domes where crumbling arch 
 and column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
 
 But to that fane, most catholic and 
 solemn, 
 Which God hath planned ; 
 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our won- 
 der, 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and 
 moon supply ; 
 Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
 thunder, 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 There, as in .solitude and shade I wander 
 Through the green aisles, or stretched 
 upon the sod, 
 Awed by the silence, reverently I ponder 
 The ways of God, 
 
 Your voiceless lips, flowers ! are living 
 preachers, 
 Each cup a jailpit, and each leaf a 
 book. 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 Floral apostles ! that in dewy sjilendor 
 " Weep without woe, and blush without 
 a crime," 
 0, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 Your lore sublime ! 
 
 "Thou w'ert not, Solomon, in all thy 
 glory. 
 Arrayed," the lilies cry, "in robes like 
 ours ; 
 How vain your grandeur ! ah, how tran- 
 sitory 
 Are human flowers!" 
 
 In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly 
 Artist, 
 With which thou paintest Nature's 
 wide-spread hall, 
 What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 Of love to all ! 
 
 Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made 
 for pleasure ; 
 Blooming o'er Held and wave by day 
 and night. 
 From every .source your sanction bids 
 me treasure 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
 For such a world of thought could 
 furnish scope ?
 
 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 141 
 
 Eacli fading calyx a memento ynori. 
 Yet fount of hope. 
 
 Posthumous glories! angel-like collec- 
 tion ! 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interred in 
 earth, 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection, 
 A second bii th. 
 
 Were I, O God ! in churchless lands re- 
 maining. 
 Far from all voice of teachers or di- 
 vines, 
 My soul would find, in flowers of thy 
 ordaining. 
 Priests, sermons, shrines ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY. 
 
 And thou hast walked about — how 
 strange a story ! — 
 In Tliebes's streets, three thousand 
 years ago ! 
 
 When the Mennionium was in all its 
 glory, 
 And time had not begun to over- 
 throw 
 
 Those temples, palaces, and piles stupen- 
 dous. 
 
 Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! 
 
 Speak ! for thou long enough hast acted 
 
 dummy ; 
 Thou hast a tongue, — come, let us hear 
 
 its tune ! 
 Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above 
 
 ground, mummy ! 
 Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, — 
 Not like thin ghosts or disembodied 
 
 creatures. 
 But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, 
 
 and features ! 
 
 Tell us, — for doubtless thou canst recol- 
 lect, — 
 To whom should we assign the Sphinx's 
 fame ? 
 Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
 Of either pyramid that bears his 
 name ? 
 Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer? 
 Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by 
 Homer ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbid- 
 den. 
 By oath, to tell the inysteries of thy 
 trade ; 
 
 Then say, what secret melody was hidden 
 In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise 
 played ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a priest; if so, my 
 struggles 
 
 Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its 
 juggles ! 
 
 Perchance that very hand, now pinioned 
 flat, 
 Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, 
 glass to glass ; 
 Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ; 
 Or doffed thine own, to let Queen Dido 
 pass ; 
 Or held, b}' Solomon's own invitation, 
 A torch, at the gieat temple's dedica- 
 tion ! 
 
 1 need not ask thee if that hand, when 
 armed. 
 Has any Eoman soldier mauled and 
 knuckled ; 
 
 For thou wert dead, and buried, and em- 
 balmed, 
 Ere Koinulus and Remus had been 
 suckled : 
 
 Antiquity apjjcars to have begun 
 
 Long after thy piimeval lace was run. 
 
 Thou couldst develop, if that withered 
 
 tongue 
 Might tell us what those sightless orbs 
 
 have seen. 
 How the world looked when it was fresh 
 
 and young. 
 And the great deluge still had left it 
 
 green ; 
 Or was it then so old that history's 
 
 pages 
 Contained no record of its early ages? 
 
 Still silent ! — hicommunicative elf! 
 Art sworn to secrecy? TJien keep thy 
 vows ! 
 
 But, prithee, tell us something of thy- 
 self, — 
 Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house ; 
 
 Since in the woi-ld of spiiits thou hast 
 slumliered, 
 
 What hast thou seen, what strange ad- 
 ventures numbered?
 
 142 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Since first thy form was in this box 
 extended, 
 We have, above ground, seen some 
 strange mutations ; 
 The Itonian Kuipire lias begun and ended, 
 New worlds have risen, we have h)st 
 ohl nations, 
 And countless kings have into dust been 
 
 humbled, 
 While not a fragment of thy flesh has 
 . crumbled. 
 
 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy 
 
 head. 
 When the great Persian conqueror, 
 
 Canibyses, 
 Marched armies o'er thy tomb with 
 
 thundering tread, 
 O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, — 
 And shook the pyramids with fear and 
 
 wonder. 
 When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 
 
 If the tomb's secrets may not be con- 
 fessed. 
 The nature of thy private life unfold ! 
 
 A heart liath throbbed beneath that 
 leathern breast. 
 And tears adown that dusty cheek 
 have rolled ; 
 
 Have (diildren climbed those knees, and 
 kissed that face? 
 
 What was thy name and station, age and 
 race ? 
 
 Statue'of flesh ! Innnortal of the dead ! 
 Imperishable tyi»e of evanescence ! 
 
 Posthumous man, — who quitt'st thy 
 nari'ow lied. 
 And standest undecayed within our 
 presence ! 
 
 Thou wilt hear nothing till the judg- 
 ment morning, 
 
 AVhen the great trump shall thiill thee 
 with its warning ! 
 
 Why should this wortldess tegument 
 endure, 
 If its undying guest be lost forever? 
 0, let us keep the soul embalmed and 
 pure 
 In living virtue, — that when both 
 ' must sever. 
 Although corruption may our frame con- 
 sume. 
 The immortal spirit in the skies may 
 bloom ! 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 [1781-1849.] 
 
 A GHOST AT NOON. 
 
 The day was dark, save when the beam 
 
 Of noon through darkness broke; 
 In gloom I sat, as in a dream, 
 
 Beneath my orchard oak ; 
 Lo I splendoi-, like a spirit, came, 
 
 A shadow like a tree ! 
 While there 1 sat, and named her name 
 
 Who once sat there with me. 
 
 I started fiom the seat in fear ; 
 
 I looked around in awe, 
 But saw no beauteous sjiirit near. 
 
 Though all that was 1 saw, — 
 The seat, the tree, where oft, in tears, 
 
 She mourned her hopes o'erthrown, 
 Her joys cut off in early years. 
 
 Like gathered flowers half blown. 
 
 Again the bud and breeze were met, 
 
 But Mary did not come ; 
 And e'en the rose, which she had .set. 
 
 Was fated ne'er to bloom ! 
 The thrush jiroclaimed, in accents sweet, 
 
 That winter's reign was o'er ; 
 The bluebells thronged around my feet, 
 
 But Mary came no more. 
 
 FOREST WORSHIP. 
 
 Within the sunlit forest. 
 
 Our roof the bright blue sky. 
 Where fountains flow, and wild-flowers 
 blow, 
 
 We lift our hearts on high : 
 Beneath the frown of wicked men 
 
 Our country's strength is bowing; 
 But, thanks to Cfod ! they can't ])revent 
 
 The lone wild-flowers from blowing ! 
 
 High, high above the tree-tops. 
 
 The lark is soaring free ; 
 Where streams the light through broken 
 clouds 
 
 His speckled breast I see : 
 lieneath the might of wicked men 
 
 The ]ioor ?nan's worth is dying; 
 But, thanked be God ! in spite of them, 
 
 The lark still warbles flying !
 
 EEGINALD HEBEK. 
 
 143 
 
 The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us !" 
 
 "Lord, bless us !" echo cries ; 
 "Amen !" the breezes murmur low; 
 
 "Amen !" the rill replies: 
 The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts 
 
 The proud with pangs are paying, 
 But here, God of earth and heaven ! 
 
 The humble heart is praying. 
 
 How softly, in the pauses 
 
 Of song, re-echoed wide. 
 The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, 
 
 O'er rill and river glide ! 
 With evil deeds of evil men 
 
 The atlVigiited land is ringing ; 
 But still, Lord, the pious heart 
 
 And soul-toned voice are singing ! 
 
 Hush ! hush ! the preacher jn-eacheth : 
 
 "Woe to the oppressor, woe !" 
 But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun 
 
 And saddened flowers below ; 
 So frowns the Lord ! — but, tyrants, ye 
 
 Deride his indignation. 
 And see not in the gathered brow 
 
 Your days of tribulation ! 
 
 Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher ! 
 
 The tempest bursts above : 
 God whispers in the thunder; hear 
 
 The terrors of his love ! 
 On useful hands and honest hearts 
 
 The base their wrath are wreaking ; 
 But, thanked Vie God ! they can't prevent 
 
 The storm of heaven from speaking. 
 
 CORN-LAW HYMN. 
 
 LoRP ! call thy pallid angel, 
 
 The tamer of the strong ! 
 And bid him whip with want and woe 
 
 The champions of the wrong ! 
 0, say not thou to ruin's flood, 
 
 "Up, sluggard ! whj^ so slow?" 
 But alone let them groan, 
 
 The lowest of the low ; 
 And basely beg the bread they curse. 
 
 Where millions curse them now ! 
 
 No ; wake not thou the giant 
 Who drinks hot blood for wine, 
 
 And shouts unto the east and west, 
 In thunder-tones like thine, 
 
 Till the slow to move rush all at once, 
 An avalanche of men, 
 
 While he raves over waves 
 That need no whirlwind then ; 
 Though slow to move, moved all at once, 
 A sea, a sea of men ! 
 
 KEGIMLD HEBER. 
 
 [1783-1826.] 
 
 IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE. 
 
 If thou wert by my side, my love, 
 
 How fast would evening fail 
 In green Bengala's palmy grove. 
 
 Listening the nightingale ! 
 
 If thou, my love, wert by my side. 
 
 My babies at my knee, 
 How gayly would our j)innace glide 
 
 O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 
 
 I miss thee at the dawning gray. 
 
 When, on our deck I'eclined, 
 In careless ease my limbs I lay. 
 
 And woo the cooler wind. • 
 
 I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 
 
 My twilight steps I guide. 
 But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 
 
 I miss thee from my side. 
 
 I spread my books, my jiencil try. 
 
 The lingering noon to cheer. 
 But miss thy kind, approving eye. 
 
 Thy meek, attentive ear. 
 
 But when of morn or eve the star 
 
 Beholds me on my knee, 
 I feel, though thou art distant far. 
 
 Thy prayers ascend for me. 
 
 Then on ! then on ! where duty leads. 
 
 My course lie onward still ; 
 O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. 
 
 O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 
 
 That course nor Delhi's kingly gates 
 
 Nor wild Malwah detain ; 
 For sweet the bliss us lioth awaits 
 
 By yonder western main. 
 
 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they 
 say. 
 
 Across the dark -blue sea; 
 But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
 
 As then shall meet in thee !
 
 144 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES, 
 
 BERNARD BARTON. 
 
 [1784-1849] 
 
 NOT OURS THE VOWS. 
 
 Not ours tlie vows of such as plight 
 Their troth in sunny weather, 
 
 While leaves are green, and skies are 
 bright. 
 To walk on flowers together. 
 
 But we hare loved as those who tread 
 
 The thorny path of sorrow. 
 With clouds above, and cause to dread 
 
 Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. 
 
 That thorny path, those stormy skies, 
 Have drawn our spirits nearer ; 
 
 And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, 
 Each to the other dearer. 
 
 Love, born in hours of joy and mirth, 
 With mirtli and joy may ))erish ; 
 
 That to which darker hours gave birth 
 Still more and more we cherish. 
 
 It looks beyond the clouds of time. 
 And through death's shadowy portal; 
 
 Made by adversity sublime. 
 By faith and hope immortal. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 [1784-1859.] 
 
 AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 
 
 How sweet it were, if without feeble 
 
 fright. 
 Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight. 
 An angel came to us, and we could bear 
 To see him issue from the silent air 
 At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
 His divine eyes, and bring us from his 
 
 bowers 
 News of dear friends, and children who 
 
 have never 
 Been dead indeed, — as we shall know 
 
 forever. 
 Alas ! we think not what we daily see 
 About our hearths, angels, that are to 
 
 be, 
 
 Or may be if they will, and we prepare 
 Their souls and ours to meet in happy 
 
 air, — 
 A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart 
 
 sings 
 In unison with ours, breeding its futui-e 
 
 wings. 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. 
 
 Abou Bex Adhem (may his tribe in- 
 crease ! ) 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of 
 
 peace, 
 And saw within the moonlight in his 
 
 room, 
 ]\Iaking it rich, and like a lily in bloom. 
 An angel, writing in a book of gold ; 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem 
 
 bold, 
 And to the presence in the room he said, 
 " Wiiat writest thou?" The virion raised 
 
 its head. 
 And with a look made of all sweet accord. 
 Answered, "The names of those wlio love 
 
 the Lord." 
 "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, 
 
 not so," 
 Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
 But cheerly still ; and said, "I pray thee, 
 
 then. 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow- 
 men. " 
 The angel wrote and vanished. The 
 
 next niglit 
 It came again, with a great wakening 
 
 light, 
 And showed the names whom love of God 
 
 had blessed, 
 And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the 
 
 rest. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 [1785-1842.] 
 
 A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. 
 
 A WET sheet and a flowing sea, 
 
 A wind that follows fast, 
 And fills the white and rustling sail, 
 
 And bends the gallant mast, — 
 And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
 
 While, like the eagle free,
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 145 
 
 Away the good ship flins, and leaves 
 Old England on our lee. 
 
 for a soft and gentle wind ! 
 
 I heard a fair one cry ; 
 But give to me the swelling breeze, 
 
 And white waves heaving high, — 
 The white waves heaving high, uiy lads. 
 
 The good ship tight and free ; 
 The vvoild of waters is our home, 
 
 And merry men are we. 
 
 THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD. 
 
 Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 
 
 By that pretty white hand o' thine. 
 And by a' tiie lowing stars in heaven, 
 
 Tiiat thou wad aye be mine ; 
 And 1 hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, 
 
 And by that kind heart o' thine, 
 By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven. 
 
 That thou shalt aye be mine. 
 
 Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose 
 sie bands. 
 
 An' the heart that wad part sic luve ; 
 But there 's nae hand can loose my band, 
 
 But tlie finger o" God abuve. 
 Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, 
 
 And my claithing e'er so mean, 
 I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve. 
 
 Heaven's arinfu' o' my .Jean. 
 
 And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, 
 And I will speak o' thee. 
 
 SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN. 
 
 She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie. 
 She 's gane to dwall in heaven : 
 
 Ye 're owre pure, (pio' the voice o' God, 
 For dwalling out o' heaven ! 
 
 O, what '11 she do in heaven, my lassie? 
 
 0, what '11 she do in heaven? 
 She '11 mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' 
 sangs, 
 
 An' make them mair meet for heaven. 
 
 She was beloved by a', my lassie. 
 She was beloved by a' ; 
 
 But an angel fell in love wi' her. 
 An' took her frae us a'. 
 
 Low there thou lies, my lassie. 
 
 Low there thou lies ; 
 A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird. 
 
 Nor fiae it will arise ! 
 
 Fu' soon I '11 follow thee, my lassie, 
 Fu' soon 1 '11 follow thee ; 
 
 Thou left me naught to covet ahin', 
 But took gudeness sel' wi' thee. 
 
 Her white arm wad be a pillow for me 
 
 Far safter than the down ; 
 And Luv(; wad winnow owre us his kind, 
 kind wings. 
 
 An' sweetly I 'd sleep, an' soun'. 
 Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve. 
 
 Come here, and kneel wi' me ! 
 The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, 
 
 An' I canna pray without thee. 
 
 The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds 
 o' new flowers. 
 The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie ; 
 Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard 
 dyke. 
 And a" blythe auld bodie is he. 
 The Beuk maun be taen when the carle 
 comes hame, 
 Wi' the holie psalmodie; 
 10 
 
 I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, 
 I looked on thy death-cold fac^e ; 
 
 Thou seemed a lily new cut i' the bud, 
 An' fading in its place. 
 
 I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, 
 I looked on thy death-shut eye; 
 
 An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven 
 Fell time shall ne'er destroy. 
 
 Thy lij^s were ruddy and calm, my las.sip, 
 Thy lips were ruddy and calm ; 
 
 But gane was the holy bieath o' heaven, 
 To sing the evening psalm. 
 
 There's naught but dust now mine, lassie. 
 There 's naught but dust now mine ; 
 
 My saul 's wi' thee i' the canld grave, 
 An' why should I stay behin' '
 
 146 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 JOHN WILSON. 
 
 [I7SS-1S54.] 
 
 THE EVENIKG CLOUD. 
 
 A CLOUD lay ci-acUeJ near the setting sun, 
 A gleam of crimson tinged its braiiled 
 
 snow : 
 Long had I watcluHl the glory moving on 
 O'er the still radiance of the lake below. 
 Tramiuil its spirit seemed, and floated 
 
 slow ! 
 P'ven in its very motion there was rest ; 
 While every breath of eve that chanced 
 
 to blow 
 Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. 
 Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, 
 To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is 
 
 given ; 
 And by the breath of mercy made to roll 
 Right onwards to the golden gates of 
 
 heaven, 
 Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, 
 And tells to man his glorious destinies. 
 
 SIR JOHN BOWRIXa. 
 
 [1792 .] 
 
 FROM THE RECESSES. 
 
 FitoM the recesses of a lowly spirit 
 
 My humble prayer ascends: Father! 
 
 hear it. 
 Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meek- 
 ness. 
 Forgive its weakness. 
 
 I know, I feel, how mean and how un- 
 worthy 
 The trembling sacrifice I pourbefore thee ; 
 What can 1 offer in thy presence holy. 
 But sin and folly? 
 
 For in thy sight, who every bosom view- 
 
 est. 
 Cold are our warmest vows, and vain our 
 
 truest ; 
 Thoughts of a hurrying hour, our lips 
 
 repeat them. 
 Our hearts forget them. 
 
 We see thy hand, — it leads us, it sup- 
 ports us ; 
 
 We hear thy voice, — it counsels and it 
 courts us; 
 
 And then we turn away, — and still thy 
 kindness 
 Foi-gives our blindness. 
 
 And still thy rain descends, thy sun is 
 glowing, 
 
 Fruits ripen round, flowers are beneath 
 us blowing. 
 
 And, as if man were some deserving crea- 
 ture, 
 Joy covers nature. 
 
 0, how long-sufi'ering, Lord ! but thou 
 
 de lightest 
 To win with love the wandering; thou 
 
 invitest. 
 By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or 
 
 terrors, 
 JIaii from his errors. 
 
 Who can resist thy gentle call, appeal- 
 ing 
 
 To every generous thought and grateful 
 feeling, — 
 
 That voice paternal, whispering, watch- 
 ing ever, — 
 My bosom? — never. 
 
 Father and Saviour! plant within this 
 
 bosom 
 The seeds of holiness ; and bid them 
 
 blossom 
 In fragrance and in beauty bright and 
 
 vernal. 
 And spring eternal ! 
 
 Then place them in those everlasting 
 
 gardens. 
 Where angels walk, and seraphs are the 
 
 wardens ; 
 Where every flower that climbs through 
 
 death's dark portal 
 Becomes immortal. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 Fathek, thy paternal care 
 
 Has my guardian been, my guide. 
 Every hallowed wisli and ]irayer 
 
 Has thy hand of love supplied. 
 Thine is eveiy thought of bliss 
 
 Left by hours and days gone by ;
 
 \ 
 
 SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 
 
 ANDREWS NORTON". 
 
 147 
 
 Every hope thy offspring is, 
 Beaming from futurity. 
 
 Every sun of splendid ray, 
 
 Every moon that shines serene. 
 Every morn that welcomes day, 
 
 Every evening's twilight scene. 
 Every hour that wisdem brings, 
 
 Every incense at thy shrine, — 
 These, and all life's holiest things, 
 
 And its fairest, all are thine. 
 
 And for all, my hymns shall rise 
 
 Daily to thy gracious throne ; 
 Thither let my asking eyes 
 
 Turn unwearied, righteous One ! 
 Thi'ough life's strange vicissitude, 
 
 There reposing all my care ; 
 Trusting still, through ill and good, 
 
 Fixed, and cheered, and counselled 
 there. 
 
 SAMUEL WOODWORTH. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1785- 1842.] 
 
 THE BUCKET. 
 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of 
 
 my childhood. 
 When fond recollection presents them 
 
 to view ! 
 The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled 
 
 wild wood, 
 And every loved spot which my infancy 
 
 knew ! — 
 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill 
 
 that stood by it, 
 The bridge, and the rock where the 
 
 cataiact fell, 
 The cot of my father, the dairy-house 
 
 nigh it, 
 And e'en the rade bucket that hung 
 
 in the well, — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 bucket, 
 The jnoss-covered bucket, which hung in 
 
 the well. 
 
 That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a 
 treasure ; 
 For often at noon, when returned from 
 the field, 
 
 I found it the source of an exi^uisite 
 
 pleasure, 
 The purest and sweetest that nature 
 
 can yield. 
 How ardent 1 seized it, with hands that 
 
 were glowing, ' 
 
 And quick to the white-pebbled bottom 
 
 it fell ; 
 Then soon, with the emblem of truth over- 
 flowing, 
 And dripping w-ith coolness, it rose 
 
 from the well, — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 bucket, 
 The moss-covered bucket, arose from the 
 
 well. 
 
 How sweet from the green, mossy brim 
 
 to receive it. 
 As, poised on the curb, it inclined to 
 
 my lips ! 
 Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt 
 
 me to leave it. 
 Though filled with the nectar that 
 
 Jupiter sips. 
 And now, far removed from the loved 
 
 habitation. 
 The tears of regret will intrusively 
 
 swell, 
 As fancy reverts to my father's planta- 
 tion. 
 And sighs for the bucket that hangs 
 
 in the well, — 
 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 
 
 bucket. 
 The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in 
 
 the well. 
 
 ANDREWS NORTON. 
 
 [U. S. A., I7S6-1853.] 
 
 AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. 
 
 The rain is o'er. How dense and briglit 
 Yon pearly clouds rey)Osing lie ! 
 
 Cloud above cloud, a gloiious sight, 
 Contrasting with the dark blue sky ! 
 
 In grateful silence earth receives 
 
 The general blessing ; fiesh and fair, 
 
 Each flower expands its little leave.s, 
 As glad the common joy to share.' 
 
 The softened sunbeams pour around 
 A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
 
 148 
 
 SONGS OF THEEE CENTUPJES. 
 
 The wind flows cool ; the scented ground 
 Is breathing odors on the gale. 
 
 Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
 Metliinks some spirit of the air 
 
 Might rest, to gaze below awhile. 
 Then turn to bathe and revel there. 
 
 The sun breaks forth ; from off the scene 
 Its floating veil of mist is flung; 
 
 And all the wilderness of gieen 
 
 With trembling drops of light is hung. 
 
 Now gaze on Nature, — yet the same, — 
 Glowing with life, by breezes fanned, 
 
 liUxuriant, lovely, as she came. 
 
 Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. 
 
 Hear the rich music of that voice. 
 
 Which sounds from all below, above; 
 
 She calls her t'liildreii to rejoice, 
 
 And round them throwsherarmsof love. 
 
 Drink in her influence ; low-born care. 
 And all the train of mean desire. 
 
 Refuse to breathe this holy air, 
 And mid this living light expire. 
 
 CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. 
 
 [1787-1854.] 
 
 MARINER'S HYMN. 
 
 Launch thy bark, mai-iner! 
 
 Christian, God speed thee! 
 Let loose the rudder-bands, — 
 
 Good angels lead thee ! 
 Set thy sails warily, 
 
 Temt>ests will coTiie ; 
 Steer thy course steadily: 
 
 Christian, steer home ! 
 
 Look to the weather-bow. 
 
 Breakers are round thee ; 
 Let fall the plummet now, 
 
 Shallows may ground thee. 
 Reef in the foresail, tliere ! 
 
 Hold the helm fast! 
 So — let the vessel wear — 
 
 There swept the blast. 
 
 "What of the night, watchman? 
 
 What of the night?" 
 "Cloudy — all (pu^t — 
 
 Be wakeful, be vigilant, — 
 
 Danger may be 
 At an hour when all seemeth 
 
 Securest to thee. 
 
 How ! gains the leak so fast? 
 
 Clean out the hold, — 
 Hoist up t^y merchandise. 
 
 Heave out thy gold ; 
 There — let the ingots go — 
 
 Now tlie ship rights; 
 Hurrah ! the harbor 's near — 
 
 Lo ! the red lights ! 
 
 Slacken not sail yet 
 
 At inlet or island ; 
 Straight for the beacon steer, 
 
 Stiaiglit for the high land ; 
 Crowd all thy canvas on, 
 
 Ctxt through the foam : 
 Christian ! cast anchor now, — 
 
 Heaven is thv home ! 
 
 No land yet- 
 
 all's right." 
 
 LAVINIA STODDARD. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1787- 1820.] 
 
 THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. 
 
 I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm 
 
 That beat against my breast. 
 Rage on, — thou mayst destroy this form, 
 
 x\nd lay it low at rest ; 
 But still th(! spirit that now brooks 
 
 Thy tempest, laging high, 
 Undaunted on its fuiy looks, 
 
 With steadfast eye. 
 
 I said to Penury's meagre train, 
 
 Come on, — your threats I brave; 
 My last poor life-drop you may drain. 
 
 And crush me to the grave ; 
 Yet still the spirit that endures 
 
 Shall mock your force the while, 
 And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours 
 
 With bitter smile. 
 
 I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, 
 
 Pass on, — I hewl you not; 
 Ye may pursue me till my form 
 
 And being are forgot ; 
 Yet still the spirit, whicli you see 
 
 ITndaunted by your wiles, 
 Draws from its own nobility 
 
 Its highborn smiles.
 
 WILLIAM KNOX. 
 
 149 
 
 I said to Friendship's menaced blow, 
 
 Strike (lee{i, — my heart shall bear; 
 Thou canst but add one bitter woe 
 
 To those alread}' there ; 
 Yet still the si)irit that sustains 
 
 Til is last severe distress 
 Shall smile upon its keenest pains, 
 
 And scorn redress. 
 
 I said to Death's uplifted dart. 
 
 Aim sure, — O, why delay? 
 Thou wilt not find a fearful heart, 
 
 A weak, reluctant prey ; 
 For still the spirit, firm and free, 
 
 Unruffled by this last dismay. 
 Wrapt in its own eternity, 
 
 Shall pass away. 
 
 WILLIAM KNOX. 
 
 [1789-1825.] 
 
 O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF 
 MORTAL BE PROUD? 
 
 0, WHY should the spirit of mortal be 
 
 proud ? 
 Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying 
 
 cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the 
 
 wave. 
 He passeth from life to his rest in the 
 
 grave. 
 
 The leaves of the oak and the willow 
 
 shall hide. 
 Be scattered around and together belaid ; 
 And the young and the old, and the low 
 
 and the high. 
 Shall moulder to dust and together shall 
 
 lie. 
 
 The child that a mother attended and 
 
 loved. 
 The mother that infant's affection who 
 
 proved, 
 The husband tliat mother and infant who 
 
 blessed, — 
 Each, all, are away to their dwellings of 
 
 rest. 
 
 And the memory of those who have loved 
 
 her and piaised. 
 Are alike from the minds of the living 
 
 erased. 
 
 The hand of the king that the sceptre 
 
 hath borne. 
 The brow of the priest that the mitre 
 
 hath worn, 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of th.e 
 
 brave. 
 Are hidden and lost in the depths of the 
 
 grave. 
 
 The peasant whose lot was to sow and to 
 
 reap. 
 The herdsman wlio climbed with his 
 
 goats to the stee]), 
 The beggar who wandered in search of 
 
 his biead, 
 Have faded away like the grass that we 
 
 tread. 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the communion 
 
 of lieavcn, 
 The sinner who dared to remain unfor- 
 
 given, 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and 
 
 just. 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the 
 
 dust. 
 
 So the multitude goes, like the flower 
 
 and the weed. 
 That witiier away to let others succeed ; 
 So the tnultitude comes, even those we 
 
 behold. 
 To repeat every tale that hath often been 
 
 told. 
 
 For we are the same things our fathers 
 
 have been ; 
 We see the same sights that our fatheis 
 
 have seen, — 
 We drink the same stream, and we feel 
 
 the same sun. 
 And run the same course that our fathers 
 
 have run. 
 
 The thoughts we are thinking our fathers 
 would think ; 
 
 From the death we are shrinking from, 
 they too would shrink ; 
 The maid on whose cheek, on whose   To the life we are clinging to, they too 
 
 brow, in whose eye. 
 Shone beauty and pleasure, 
 umphs are by ; 
 
 would cling; 
 her tri- ' But it speeds from the earth like a bird 
 I on the winij.
 
 150 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 They loved, but their story we cannot 
 unfold ; 
 
 They scorned, but the heart of the haughty 
 is cold ; 
 
 They grieved, but no wail from their 
 shunbers will come ; 
 
 They joyed, but tlie voice of their glad- 
 ness is dumb. 
 
 They died, — ay ! they died ; and we things 
 that arc now, 
 
 Who walk on the turf that lies over their 
 brow, 
 
 Who make in their dwellings a transient 
 abode, 
 
 Meet the changes they met on tlieir pil- 
 grimage road. 
 
 Yea, hopi' and despondence, and pleasure 
 
 and pain. 
 Are mingled together in sunshine and 
 
 rain ; 
 And the smile and the tear, the song and 
 
 the dirge. 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon 
 
 surge. 
 
 'T is the twink of an eye, 't is the draught 
 of a breath, 
 
 From the blo.<som of health to the pale- 
 ness of death, 
 
 From th(! gilded saloon to the bier and 
 tlie shroud, — 
 
 0, why sliould the spirit of mortal be 
 proud ? 
 
 PtICHAKD H. BARIIAM. 
 [1788-1845.] 
 
 THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 
 
 The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair ; 
 ]5isli()|) and abbot and prior were there ; 
 
 Many a monk and many a friar, 
 
 Many a knight and many a S'|uii'e, 
 Withagreat many more of lesser degree, — 
 In sootli, a goodly company ; 
 And tliey served tlie Lord Primate on 
 bended kneis 
 
 Never, I ween, 
 
 Was a ])rouder seen, 
 Eead of in books or dreamt of in dreams, 
 Tliaii the Cardinal Lord .\rclilii.shop of 
 liheinis ! 
 
 In and out, 
 
 Through the motley rout, 
 The little Jackdaw kept hopping about; 
 
 Here and there, 
 
 Like a dog in a fair, 
 
 Over comfits and cates 
 
 And dishes and jilates. 
 Cowl and cope and rocliet and pall, 
 Mitre and crosiei', he hopped upon all. 
 
 With a saucy air 
 
 He perched on the chair 
 Where, in state, the great Lord Cai-dinal 
 
 sat. 
 In the great Lord Cardinal's great red 
 hat ; 
 
 And he peered in the face 
 
 Of his Lordship's Grace, 
 With a satisfied look, as if to say, 
 "We two are the greatest folks here to- 
 day ! " 
 
 And the priests with awe. 
 
 As sucli freaks the\' saw. 
 Said, "The Devil must be in that little 
 Jackdaw !" 
 
 The feast Avas over, the board was cleared. 
 The flawns and the custards had all dis- 
 appeared, 
 And six little singing-boys, — dear little 
 
 souls ! — 
 In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, 
 Came, in order due, 
 Two by two. 
 Marching that grand refectory through ? 
 A nice little boy held a golden ewer. 
 Embossed, and filled with water, as pure 
 As any that flows between Rheims and 
 
 Namur, 
 Which a nice little boy stood ready to 
 
 catch 
 In afine golden hand-basin made to Tuatcli. 
 Two nice little boys, rather more gi-ovvn, 
 Poured lavender-water and eau-de-Co- 
 logne ; 
 Andanicelittleboyhadanice cake of soap 
 Worthyof washingthehandsof the Poj)e ! 
 One little boy more 
 A napkin bore 
 Ofthe bestwhitediaperfrinired with pink. 
 And a cardinal's hat marked in jiL'niia- 
 nent ink. 
 
 Thegreat Lord Cardinal turns at the sirr'-t 
 Of these nice little boys dressed all in 
 white ; 
 
 From his fmger he draws 
 
 His costly tunpoise :
 
 RICHARD H. BARHAM. 
 
 151 
 
 And, not thinking at all about little Jack- 
 daws, 
 Deposits it straight 
 By the side of his plate, 
 
 While the nice little boys on his Emi- 
 nence wait ; 
 
 Till, when nobody 's dreaming of any 
 such thing, 
 
 That little Jackdaw hops off with the 
 ring ! 
 
 There 's a cry and a shout, 
 And a deuce of a rout. 
 And nobody seems to know what they 're 
 
 about. 
 But the monks have their pockets all 
 turned inside out ; 
 The friars are kneeling. 
 And hunting and feeling 
 The carpet, the iloor, and the walls, and 
 the ceiling. 
 The Cardinal drew 
 Otf each plum-colored shoe. 
 And left his red stockings exposed to the 
 view ; 
 He peeps, and he feels 
 In tlie toes and the heels. 
 They turn up the dishes, — they turn up 
 
 the plates, — 
 They take up the poker and poke out the 
 grates, — 
 They turn up the rugs, 
 They exaniine the mugs; 
 But, no ! — no such thing, — 
 They can't find the king ! 
 And the Abbot declared that "when 
 
 nobody twigged it. 
 Some rascal or other had popped in and 
 prigged it !" 
 
 The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, 
 He called for his candle, his bell, and his 
 
 book ! 
 In holy anger and pious grief 
 He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! 
 He ciirsed him at board, he cursed him 
 
 in bed ; 
 From the sole of his foot to the crown 
 
 of his head ; 
 He cursed him in sleeping, that every 
 
 night 
 He should dream of the Devil, and 
 
 wake in a flight. 
 He cursed him in eating, he cursed 
 
 liim in drinking, 
 He cursed him in coughing, in sneez- 
 ing, in winking; 
 
 He cursed him in sitting, in standing, 
 
 in lying; 
 He cursed him in walking, in ridintr, 
 
 111 Hying ; 
 He cursed him living, he cursed him 
 dying!— 
 Never was heard such a terrible curse ! 
 But what gave rise 
 To no little surprise. 
 Nobody seemed one penny the worse I 
 
 The day was grne, 
 The night came on, 
 The monks and the friars they searched 
 till dawn ; 
 When the .sacristan saw, 
 On crumpled claw, 
 Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw ! 
 No longer gay. 
 As on yesterday ; 
 His feathers all seemed to be turned the 
 
 wrong way ; — 
 His pinions drooi)ed, — he could hardly 
 
 stand, — 
 His head was as bald as the palm of your 
 hand ; 
 His eye so dim, 
 So wasted each limb, 
 That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, 
 
 "That 's him ! 
 That 's the scamp that has done this 
 
 scandalous thing, 
 That 's the thief that has got my Lord 
 Cardinal's ring !" 
 Tlie poor little Jackdaw, 
 When the monks he .saw. 
 Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ; 
 And turned his bald head as much as to 
 
 say, 
 "Fray be so good as to walk tlus way ! " 
 Slower and slower 
 He limped on before. 
 Till they came to the back of the belfry 
 door, 
 Where the first thing they saw, 
 Midst the sticks and the straw, 
 Was the ring in the nest of that little 
 Jackdaw ! 
 
 Then the great Lord Cardinal called for 
 
 his book, 
 And off that terrible curse he took ; 
 The mute expression 
 Served in lieu of confession. 
 And, being thus coupled with full resti- 
 tution, 
 I The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !
 
 152 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 "Wlien those words were heard 
 That jioor little bird 
 AVas so Llianf^ed in a luoineiit, 't was 
 really absurd : 
 He grew sleek and fat; 
 In addition to that, 
 A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a 
 mat! 
 His tail waggled more 
 Even than bel'ore ; 
 But no longer it wagged with an impu- 
 dent air, 
 No longer he perched on the Cardinal's 
 chair. 
 He hopi)ed now about 
 With a gait devout ; 
 At matins, at vesi)ers, he never was out ; 
 And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, 
 He always seemed telling the Confessor's 
 
 beads. 
 If any one lied, or if any one swore. 
 Or slumbered in j)rayer-time and hap- 
 j)ened to snore, 
 That good .jackdaw 
 Would give a great "Caw I" 
 As much as to say, "Don't do so any 
 
 more ! " 
 While many remarked, as his manners 
 
 they saw, 
 That tliey "never had known such a 
 pious Jackdaw !" 
 He long lived the jiride 
 0\' that country side. 
 And at last in the odor of sanctity died; 
 When, as words were too faint 
 His merits to paint, 
 The Conclave determini.'d to make him a 
 
 Saint. 
 And on newly made Saints and Popes, 
 
 as you know. 
 It 's the custom at Rome new names to 
 
 bestow. 
 So they canonized him l)y the name of 
 Jem Crow I 
 
 RICHARD HENRY WILDE. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1789- 1847] 
 
 MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. 
 
 My life is like the summer rose 
 That opens to the morning sky. 
 
 But ere the shades of evening close 
 Is scattered on the ground — to die. 
 
 Yet on the rose's humble bed 
 The sweetest dews of night are shed, 
 As if she wept the waste to see, — 
 But none shall weep a tear for me ! 
 
 My life is like the autumn leaf, 
 
 That trembles in the moon's ])ale ray ; 
 Its hold is frail, its date is brief; 
 
 Restless, and soon to ])ass away ! 
 Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, 
 The parent tree will mourn its shade. 
 The winds bewail the leafless tree, — 
 But none shall breathe a sigh for me ! 
 
 My life is like the prints which feet 
 Have left on Tamjia's desert strand; 
 
 Soon as the rising tide shall beat, 
 All trace will vanish from the sand ; 
 
 Yet, as if grieving to etface 
 
 All vestige of the human race. 
 
 On that lone shore loud moans the sea, — 
 
 But none, alas ! shall mourn for me ! 
 
 CHARLES WOLFE. 
 
 [1791-1823.] 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 
 As his corse to the rampart we hunicil ; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'erthe grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried hirn darkly at dead of night, 
 The sods with our bayonets turning ; 
 
 By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast. 
 Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound 
 him ; 
 
 But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
 With his martial cloak around him. 
 
 Few and short were the prayers we said. 
 And we .spoke not a word of sorrow ; 
 
 But we steadfastly gazed on the fiice that 
 was dead. 
 And we bitterly thought of thffmorrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollowed his narrow 
 bed, 
 And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. — FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 153 
 
 That the foe and the strar ger would tread 
 o'er his liead, 
 And we far away on the billow ! 
 
 Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's 
 
 gone, 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 
 
 But little he '11 U'.ck, if they let him sleep 
 
 on 
 
 I n the giave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half our heavy task was done, 
 
 When the clock struck the liour for 
 retiring ; 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 That the foe was sullenly tiring. 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 From the held of his fame fresh and 
 gory; 
 We carved not a line, we raised not a 
 stone, — 
 But we left him alone with his glory. 
 
 JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1792-1852.] 
 
 SWEET HOME. 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces thougli we 
 
 may roam. 
 Be it ever so humble, there 's no place 
 
 like home ! 
 A charm from the skies seems to hallow 
 
 us here, 
 Which, seek through the world, is ne'er 
 
 met with elsewhere. 
 Home, home, sweet home ! 
 There 's no place like home ! 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in 
 
 vain ! 
 0, give me my lowly thatched cottage 
 
 again ! 
 The birds singing gayly that came at my 
 
 call; — 
 0, give me sweet peace of mind, deai-er 
 
 than all ! 
 Home, home, sweet home ! 
 Tliere 's no place like home ! 
 
 FELICIA HEMANS. 
 
 [1794-1835.] 
 
 THE CHILDE'S DESTINY. 
 
 No mistress of the hidden skill, 
 
 No wizard gaunt and grim. 
 Went up by night to heath or hill 
 
 To read the stars for him ; 
 The merriest girl in all the land 
 
 Of vine-encircled France 
 Bestowed upon his brow and hand 
 
 Her philosophic glance. 
 "1 bind thee with a sjtell," said she, 
 
 "1 sign thee with a sign ; 
 No woman's love shall light on thee, 
 
 No woman's heart be thine ! 
 
 "And trust me, 't is not that thy cheek 
 
 Is colorless and cold, 
 Nor that thine eye is slow to speak 
 
 What only eyes have told ; , 
 For many a cheek of paler white 
 
 Hath blushed with passion's kiss, 
 And many an eye of lesser light 
 
 Hath caught its fire from bliss: 
 Yet while the rivers seek the sea. 
 
 And while the young stars shine. 
 No woman's love shall light on thee, 
 
 No woman's heart be thijie ! 
 
 " And 't is not that thy spirit, awed 
 
 By beauty's numbing spell, 
 Slninks from the force or from the fraud 
 
 Wliich beauty loves so well ; 
 For thou hast learned to watch and 
 wake, 
 
 And swear by earth and sky. 
 And thou art very bold to take 
 
 AVhat we must still deny : 
 I cannot tell ; the charm was wrought 
 
 By other threads than mine ; 
 The lips are lightly begged or bought, 
 
 The heart may not be thine ! 
 
 "Yet thine the brightest smile sliall be 
 
 That ever beauty wore. 
 And confidence from two or three, 
 
 And compliments from more ; 
 And one shall give, perchance hath given, 
 
 Wiiat only is not love, — 
 Friendship, 0, such as saints in heaven 
 
 Eain on us from above. 
 If she shall meet thee in the bower, 
 
 Or name thee in the shrine,
 
 154 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 0, wear the ring, and guard the flow- 
 er,— 
 Her heart may not be thine ! 
 
 "Go, set thy boat before the blast, 
 
 Thy breast bef(jre tlie gun, — 
 The haven shall be reached at last, 
 
 The battle shall be won; 
 Or muse upon thy country's laws. 
 
 Or strike thy country's lute, 
 And patriot hands shall sound applause, 
 
 And lovely lips be mute : 
 Go, dig the diamond from the wave. 
 
 The treasure from the mine. 
 Enjoy the wreath, the gold, the grave, — 
 
 No woman's heart is thine ! 
 
 " I charm thee from the agony 
 
 "Which otliers feel or feign. 
 From anger and from j'ealousy. 
 
 From doubt and from disdain ; 
 I bid thee wear the scorn of years 
 
 Upon the cheek of youth, 
 And curl the lip at passion's tears. 
 
 And shake the head at truth : 
 "While there is bliss in revelry, 
 
 Forgetfulness in wine, 
 Be thou from woman's love as free 
 
 As woman is from thine ! " 
 
 KINDRED HEARTS. 
 
 0, ASK not, hope thou not, too much 
 
 Of syni|)athy below ; 
 Few are the lu'arts whence one same touch 
 
 Bids the sweet fountains How : 
 Few — and by still conliictiug powers 
 
 Forbidden here to meet — 
 Such ties would make this life of ours 
 
 Too fair foi- aught so fleet. 
 
 It may be that thy brother's eye 
 
 Sees not as thine, which turns 
 In such deep reverence to tlie sky 
 
 Where the rieh sunset burns ; 
 It may be that the breath of spring. 
 
 Born amidst violets lone, 
 A ra[)ture o'er thy soul can bring, — 
 
 A dream, to his unknown. 
 
 The tune that speaks of other times, — 
 
 A sorrowful deliglit ! 
 Tlie melody of distant rhimes, 
 
 The sound of waves by night ; 
 The wind tliat, witli so mnny a tone, 
 
 Some chord within can thrill, — 
 
 These niay have language all thine own, 
 To hiia a mystery still. 
 
 Yet scorn thou not for this the true 
 
 And steadfast love of years; 
 The kindly, that from childhood grew, 
 
 The faithful to thy teais ! 
 If there be one that o'er the dead 
 
 Hath in thy grief borne ]iart, 
 And watched through sickness by thy 
 bed, 
 
 Call his a kindred heart ! 
 
 But for those bonds all ])erfect made. 
 
 Wherein bright spirits blend. 
 Like sister flowers of one sweet shade 
 
 With the same breeze that bend. 
 For that full bliss of thought allied. 
 
 Never to mortals given, 
 0, lay thy lovely dreams aside, 
 
 Or lilt them unto heaven ! 
 
 MAEIA BROOKS. 
 
 [u. s. A., 1795 ->845] 
 
 MARRIAGE. 
 
 The bard has sung, God never formed a 
 soul 
 Without its own peculiar mate, to meet 
 Its wandering half, when ripe to crown 
 the whole 
 Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, 
 most complete ! 
 I'ut thousand evil things there arc that 
 hate 
 To look on happiness ; these hurt, im- 
 pede. 
 And, leagued with time, space, circum- 
 stance, and fate, 
 Keej) kindred heart from heart, to pine 
 and pant and bleed. 
 
 And as the dove to far Palmyra flying, 
 From wheie her native founts of An- 
 tioch beam, 
 Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, 
 sighing, 
 Lights sadly at the desert's bitter 
 stream, — 
 So many a soul, o'er life's drear desert 
 faring. 
 Love's j)ure. congenial spring unfound, 
 uiKiuaffed,
 
 JAMES G, PERCIVAL — JOHN G. C. BEAINARD. 
 
 155 
 
 Suffers, recoils, — tlipji, thirsty and de- 
 spairing 
 Of what it would, descends and sips 
 the nearest draught. 
 
 
 JAMES G. PERCIVAL. 
 
 [u. S. A., 1795 1856.] 
 
 MA"». 
 
 I FEEL a newer life, in every gale ; 
 
 The winds, that fan the flowers. 
 And with their welcome breathings till 
 the sail. 
 Tell of serener hours, — 
 Of hours that glide unfelt away 
 Beneath the sky of May. 
 
 The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls 
 
 From his Llue throne of aii'. 
 And where his whispering voice in music 
 falls, 
 Beauty is budding there ; 
 The bright ones of the valley break 
 Their slumbers, and awake. 
 
 The waving verdure rolls along the plain. 
 
 And the wide forest weaves. 
 To welcome back its playful mates again, 
 A canopy of leaves ; 
 And fiom its darkening shadow floats 
 A gush of trembling notes. 
 
 Fairer and brighter sjjreads the reign of 
 May; 
 The tresses of the woods 
 With the light dallying of the west-wind 
 play ; 
 And the full-brimming floods, 
 As gladly to their goal they run, 
 Hail the returning sun. 
 
 TO SENECA LAKE. 
 
 On thj^ fair bosom, silver lake. 
 
 The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, 
 
 And round his breast the ripples break 
 As down he bears before the gale. 
 
 On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, 
 The dipping paddle echoes far, 
 
 And flashes in the moonlight gleam, 
 And bright reflects the polar star. 
 
 The waves along thy pebbly shore. 
 As blows the north-wind, heave their 
 foam. 
 
 And curl around the dashing oar. 
 As late the boatman hies him home. 
 
 How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
 Thy golden miiror spreading wide, 
 
 And see the mist of mantling blue 
 Float round the distan t moun tain's side. 
 
 At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
 A sheet of silvei' spreads below. 
 
 And swift she cuts, at highest noon, 
 Light clouds, like wreaths of purest 
 snow. 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake, 
 0, I could ever swee]> the oar, 
 
 When eaily birds at morning wake, 
 And evening tells us toil is o'er ! 
 
 JOHN G. C. BRAINARD. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1796- 1828.] 
 
 THE FALL OF NIAGARA. 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd 
 
 into my brain. 
 While I look ujiward to thee. It would 
 
 seem 
 As if God poured thee from his hollow 
 
 hand. 
 And hung his bow upon thineawfulfront ; 
 And spoke in that loud voice, which 
 
 seemed to him 
 Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's 
 
 sake. 
 The sound of many waters; and had 
 
 bade 
 Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, 
 And notch His c(;nturies in the eternal 
 
 rocks. • 
 
 Deep calleth unto deep. And what 
 aj'e we. 
 
 That hear the question of that voice sub- 
 lime ? 
 
 0, what are all the notes that ever rung
 
 156 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 From war's vain trumpet, by thy thun- 
 dering side ? 
 
 Yea, what is all the riot man can make 
 
 In his .sliort life, to tlij- unceasing roar? 
 
 And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to 
   Him 
 
 Who drowned a world, and Iieaped the 
 waters far 
 
 Above its loftiest mountains? — a light 
 wave. 
 
 That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's 
 
 might. 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM. 
 
 I SAW two clouds at morning 
 
 Tinged by the rising sun. 
 And in the dawn they floated on 
 
 And mingled into one ; 
 I thought that morning cloud was blessed. 
 It moved so sweetly to the west. 
 
 I saw two summer currents 
 
 Flow smoothly to their meeting, 
 
 And join their coursi;, with silent force, 
 In peace each other greeting; 
 
 Calm was their course through banks of 
 green, 
 
 "While dimpling eddies played between. 
 
 Such be your gentle motion, 
 Till life's last ])nlse shall beat ; 
 
 Like summer's beam, ami summer's stream, 
 Float on, in joy, to nu'et 
 
 A calmer sea, where storms shall cease, — 
 
 A purer sky, where all is peace. 
 
 DANIEL AVEBSTEPt. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1782-1852.] 
 
 THK MEMORY OF THE HEART. 
 
 If stores of dry and learned lore we gain, 
 We keep them in the memory of the 
 
 . brain ; 
 Names, things, and facts, — whate'er we 
 
 knowle<lge call, — 
 There is the common ledger for them all ; 
 And images on this cold surface traced 
 Make slight impression, and are soon 
 eff'aced. 
 
 But we 've a page, more glowing and more 
 
 bright. 
 On which our friendship and our love to 
 
 write ; 
 That these may never from the soul depait, 
 Wetrustthem to the iTiemory of the heart. 
 There is nodimming, noeffacemcnt there ; 
 Each new pulsation keeps the record clear ; 
 Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill. 
 Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands 
 
 still. 
 
 JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1795-1820.] 
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain height 
 
 Unfurled her standard to the air, 
 She tore the azure robe of night. 
 
 And set the stars of glory there ; 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 And striped its pure, celestial white 
 AVith strealdngs of the morning light ; 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 She called her eagle-bearer down, 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triiimph high ! 
 When speaks the signal-trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on. 
 Ere yet the life-blood, warm and wet. 
 Has diriuned the glistening bnyoiu^t, 
 Each soldier's eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn. 
 And as his springing steps advance. 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall 
 liike shoots of flame on midnight's ])all, 
 Then shall thy meteor glances glow. 
 
 And coweiing foes shall sink beneath 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below ^ 
 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 I 
 
 Flag of the seas, on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; 
 When death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail,
 
 JOHN" PIERPONT. 
 
 157 
 
 And fri;:^hted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 i\nd smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home, 
 
 By angel hands to valor given, 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
 
 And all thy hues wei-e boru in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe but falls before 
 us, 
 With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er 
 us? 
 
 JOHN riERPONT. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1785 -1866.] 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 Was it the chime of a tiny bell 
 
 That eame so sweet to my dreaming 
 ear. 
 
 Like the silver}' tones of a fairy's shell 
 That he winds, on the beech, so mellow 
 and clear, 
 
 When the winds and the waves lie to- 
 gether asleep. 
 
 And the Moon and the Fairy are watch- 
 ing the deep. 
 
 She dispensing her silvery light, 
 
 And he his notes as silvery quite. 
 
 While the boatman listens and ships his 
 oai'. 
 
 To catch the music that comes from the 
 shore ? 
 
 Hark ! the notes on my ear that play 
 
 Are set to words ; as they float, they say, 
 "Passing aNvay ! passing away !" 
 
 But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, 
 
 Blown on the beach, so mellow and 
 clear ; 
 Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, 
 
 Striking the hour, that filled my ear. 
 As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a cliime 
 That told of tlie flow of the stream of time. 
 For a beautiful clock from the ceiling 
 
 hung. 
 And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, 
 
 swung 
 (As you ' ve sometimes seen, in a little ring 
 
 That hangs in his cage, a canary-bird 
 
 swing) ; 
 And she held to her bosom a budding 
 
 bouquet. 
 And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 
 "Passing away ! passing away !" 
 
 0, how bright were the wheels, that told 
 Of the lapse of time, as they moved 
 
 round slow ; 
 And the hands, as the}' swept o'er the 
 
 dial of gold. 
 Seemed to point to the girl below. 
 And lo ! she had changed : in a few short 
 
 hours 
 Her bouquet had beeonu', a gailand of 
 
 flowers. 
 That she held in her outstretched hands, 
 
 and flung 
 This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
 In the fulness of grace and of womanly 
 
 pride. 
 That told me she soon was to be a bride; 
 Yet then, when expecting her happiest 
 
 day. 
 In the same sweet voici^ I heaid hei' say, 
 "Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a 
 shade 
 Of thought or care stole softly over, 
 Like that by a cloud in a summer's day 
 made. 
 Looking down on a field of blossoming 
 clover. 
 The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its 
 
 flush 
 Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
 And the light in her eye, and the light 
 on the wheels. 
 That marched so calmly round above 
 her. 
 Was a little dimmed, — as when Evening 
 steals 
 Upon Noon's hot face. Yet one could 
 n't but love her. 
 For she looked like a mother whose first 
 
 babe lay 
 Rocked on her breast, as sheswungallday ; 
 And she seemed, in the same silver tone, 
 to say, 
 "Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 While yet I looked, what a change there 
 came ! 
 Her eye was quenched, and her cheek 
 was wan ;
 
 158 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Stooping and staffed was her withered 
 
 iVanie, 
 Yet just as busil\' swung slie (in ; 
 The garhuid beneath her had fallen to dust; 
 Tlie wheels above Iku- were eaten with rust ; 
 The hands, that over the dial swept, 
 Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they 
 
 kejit, 
 And still there came that silver tone 
 From the shrivelled lips of the toothless 
 
 crone 
 (Let me never forget till my dying day 
 The tone or the burden of her lay), 
 "Passing away ! passing away ! " 
 
 TO CONGRESS. 
 
 A WORD FROM A PETITIONER, 1837. 
 
 What! ourpetitionsspurned ! The prayer 
 Of tliousands — tens of thousands — 
 cast, 
 Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair ! 
 
 But ye will hear us, first or last. 
 The thousands that last year ye scorned 
 Are millions now. Be warned ! Be 
 warned ! 
 
 "The ox that treadeth out the com 
 Thou shalt not muzzle." — Thus saith 
 God. 
 
 And will ye muzzle the free-born, — 
 The man, — the owner of the sod, —   
 
 Who "gives the grazing ox his meat," 
 
 And you — his servants here — your seat? 
 
 There 's a cloud, blackening up the sky ! 
 
 East, west, and north its curtain 
 spreads ; 
 Lift to its muttering folds your eye ! 
 
 Beware ! for bursting on your heads. 
 It hath a force to bear you down ; — 
 'Tis an insulted people's frown. 
 
 Ye may have heard of the Soultan, 
 And how liis Janissaries fell ! 
 
 Their barracks, near the Atnieidan, 
 He barred, and fired ; and their death- 
 y.dl 
 
 Went to the stars, and their blood ran 
 
 In brooks across the Atmeidan. 
 
 The despot spake; and, in one'night. 
 The deed was done. He wields, alone, 
 
 The sceptre of the Ottoniite, 
 
 And brooks no brother near his throne. 
 
 Even now, the bow-string, at his heck, , 
 Goes round his mightiest subjects' neck ; 
 
 Yet will he, in his saddle, stoop — 
 I 've seen him, in his pala 'e-yard — 
 
 To take petitions from a troop 
 
 Of women, who, behind liis guard, 
 
 Come up, their several suits to press, 
 
 To state their wrongs, and ask redress. 
 
 And these, into his house of prayer, 
 I 've seen him take ; and, as he spreads 
 
 His own before his IL.ker there. 
 
 These women's piayers he hears or 
 reads ; — 
 
 For, while he wears the diadem, 
 
 He is instead of God to them. 
 
 And this he must do. He may grant, 
 Or may denj^ ; but hear he must. 
 
 Were his Seven Towers all adamant, 
 They'd soon be levelled with the dust. 
 
 And "public feeling"make short woilc — 
 
 Shouldhe not hear them — with the Turk. 
 
 Nay, start not from your chairs, in dread 
 Of cannon-shot or bursting shell ! 
 
 These shall not fall upon your head, 
 As once upon your house they fell. 
 
 We have a wea])on, firmer set 
 
 And better than the ba3-onet, — 
 
 A weapon that comes down as still 
 As snow-flakes fall u])on the sod, 
 
 But executes a freeman's will 
 
 As lightning does tin; will of God ; 
 
 And from its force nor doors nor locks 
 
 Can shield you; — 'tis the ballot-box. 
 
 Black as your deed shall be the balls 
 That from that box shall pour like hail ! 
 
 Ancl when the storm upon you falls. 
 How will your craven cheeks turn pale ! 
 
 For, at its coming tliough ye laugh, 
 
 'T will sweep you from your hall, like 
 chaff. 
 
 Not women, now, — the people pray. 
 
 Hear us, — or from us ye will hear ! 
 Beware ! — a desperate game ye play ! 
 
 The men that thicken in your rear — 
 Kingsthough ye be — maynot bescorneil. 
 Look to your move ! your stake! Ye 'ke 
 
 WAUNED.
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 159 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 [1798-1S35J 
 
 JEANIE MORRISON. 
 
 I 'VE wandered east, I 've wandered west, 
 
 Through mony a weary way; 
 But. never, never can forget 
 
 The hive o' Ufe's young day ! 
 Tlie tire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en 
 
 May weel he bhiek gin Yule; 
 But blae.ker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cool. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 
 Still lUng their shadows ower my path. 
 And lilind my een wi' tears : 
 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. 
 And sair and sick I pine. 
 
 As memory idly summons up 
 The blithe blinks 0' langsyne. 
 
 'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'T was then we twa did part ; 
 Sweet time — sad time! twa bairns at 
 scule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
 'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear ; 
 And tones and looks and smiles were 
 shed, 
 
 Kemembered evermair. 
 
 1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet. 
 When sitting on tlnit bink. 
 
 Cheek touchin' (dieek, loof locked in loof. 
 What our wee heads could think ? 
 
 When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 
 Wi' ae l)uik on our knee, 
 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 0, mind ye how we hung onr heads, 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame. 
 Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said. 
 
 We cleeked thegither hame? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays 
 
 (The scuie then skail't at noon) 
 When we ran aff to speel the braes, — 
 
 The broomy braes o' June? 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea. 
 As ane by ane the thoc'nts rush back 
 
 0' scule-time and 0' thee. 
 
 mornin' life ! mornin' luve ! 
 
 lichtsome days and lang, 
 
 When hinnied hopes around our hearts 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 
 
 0, mind ye, luve, how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun. 
 To wander by the green burnside, 
 
 And hear its waters croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet, 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wood, 
 
 The throssil whusslit sweet ; 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wood. 
 
 The burn sang to the trees, 
 And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Tears trickled doun your cheek. 
 Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak ! 
 That was a time, a blessed time. 
 
 When hearts were fretsh and young, 
 When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled, unsung! 
 
 1 marvel, Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 
 
 As ye hae been to me? 
 0, till me gin their inusic fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine ! 
 0, say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? 
 
 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 
 
 1 've borne a weary lot ; 
 
 But in my wanderings, far or near. 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart 
 
 Still travels on its way ; 
 And channels deeper, as it I'ins, 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 Since we were sindered young, 
 
 1 've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness. 
 
 And happy could I die. 
 Did 1 but ken your heart still dreamed 
 
 0' bygane days and me !
 
 160 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 [1798- 1845.] 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 
 
 "With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 
 
 Plying her needle and thread, — 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In poverty; hunger, and dirt ; 
 And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, 
 
 She sang the "Song of the Shirt ! " 
 
 "Work! work! work! 
 
 While the cock is crowing aloof! 
 And work — work — work. 
 
 Till the stars shine through the roof! 
 It s, oh ! to be a slave 
 
 Along with the barbarous Turk, 
 Where woman has never a soul to save, 
 
 If THIS is Christian work ! 
 
 " Work —work— work I 
 
 Till the brain begins to swim ; 
 Work — work — work. 
 
 Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
 Seam, and gusset, and band ; 
 
 Band, and gusset, and seam ; 
 Till over the buttons 1 fall asleep. 
 
 And sew them on in my dream! 
 
 "0 men with sisters dear! 
 
 men with mothers and wives ! 
 It is not linen you 're wearing out, 
 
 But human creatures' lives ! 
 Stitch — stitch — stitch, 
 . In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
 Sewing at once, with a double thread, 
 
 A SHROUD as well as a shirt ! 
 
 "But why do I talk of death, 
 
 Tiiat i)hantom of grisly bone? 
 I hardly fear his terrible" shape. 
 
 It seems so like my own! 
 It seems so like my own 
 
 Because of the fast I keep ; 
 Prod ! that bread should be so dear, 
 
 And flesh and Idood so cheap ! 
 
 ' ' Work — work — work ! 
 
 My labor never flags ; 
 And what are its wages ? A hed of straw, 
 
 A crust of bread — and rags : 
 A shattered roof —and this naked floor 
 
 A table — a broken chuir — 
 
 And a wall so blank my shadow I thank 
 For sometimes falling there I 
 
 ' ' W ork — work — work ! 
 
 From weary chime to chime ; 
 Work — work — work. 
 
 As prisoners work, for crime ! 
 Band, and gusset, and seam ; 
 
 Seam, and gusset, and band; 
 Till the heart is sick, and the brain be- 
 numbed. 
 
 As well as the weary hand ! 
 
 "Work — work— work ! 
 
 In the dull December light, 
 An d^ woi-k — work — work 
 
 When the weather is warm and bright : 
 While underneath the eaves 
 
 The brooding swallows clino-. 
 As if to show me their sunny liacks, 
 
 And twit me with the siirinf. 
 
 "0, but to breathe the breath 
 Of the cowslip and piimross sweet, 
 
 With the sky above my head. 
 And the grass beneath my feet; 
 
 For only one short hour 
 ^ To feel as I used to feel, 
 
 Before I knew the woes of want. 
 And the walk that costs a meal ! 
 
 "0, but for one short hour, — 
 
 A respite, however brief! 
 No blessed leisure for love or hope. 
 
 But only time for grief! 
 A little weeping would ease my heart ; 
 
 But in their briny bed 
 My tears must stop!^ for every drop 
 
 Hinders needle and thread !" 
 
 With fingers weary and worn, 
 
 With eyelids heavy and red, 
 A woman sat, in unwonuiuly rac-s. 
 
 Plying her needle aTid thread,— 
 Stitch! stitch! stitch! 
 
 In iioverty, hunger, ami dirt ; 
 And still with a voice of dolorous piteh- 
 Would that its tone could reach tlie rich' - 
 
 She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" 
 
 MORNING MEDITATIONS. 
 
 Lkt Taylor preach, upon a morning 
 
 breezy. 
 How well to rise while nights and larks 
 
 are flying, —
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 161 
 
 For my part, getting up seems not so easy 
 By halt as lying. 
 
 What if the htrk does carol in the sky, 
 Soaring beyond the sight to lind him 
 
 out, — 
 Wherefore am I to rise at such a tly ? 
 1 'm not a trout. 
 
 Talk nottome of bees and such-likehums, 
 The smell of sweet herbs at the morning 
 
 prime, — 
 Only lie long enough, and bed becomes 
 A bed of time. 
 
 To me Dan Phcebus and his car are 
 
 naught, 
 His steeds that paw impatiently about, — 
 Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought. 
 The lirst tarn-out ! 
 
 Eight beautiful the dewy meads appear 
 Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl ; 
 What then, — if I prefer my pillow-beer 
 To early pearl ? 
 
 My stomach is not ruled by other men's. 
 And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly 
 
 begs 
 Wherefore should master rise before the 
 
 hens 
 Have laid their eggs ? 
 
 Wh}' from a comfortable pillow start 
 To see faint flushes in the east awaken ? 
 A fig, say I, for any streaky part, 
 Excepting bacon. 
 
 An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, 
 Who used to haste the dewy grass among, 
 "To meet the sun upon the upland 
 lawn," — 
 Well, — he died young. 
 
 With charwomen such early hours agree, 
 And sweeps that earn betimes their bit 
 
 and sup; 
 But I 'm no climbing boy, and need not be 
 
 All up, — all up! 
 
 So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, 
 Till something nearer to the stroke of 
 
 noon ; — 
 A man that's fond precociously of stirring 
 
 Must be a spoon. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Lady, leave thy silken thread 
 
 And flowery tapestry — 
 There 's living roses on the bu^i, 
 
 And blossoms on the tree. 
 Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand 
 
 Some ramlom bud will meet ; 
 Thou canst not tiead but thou wilt find 
 
 The daisy at thy feet. 
 
 'T is like the birthday of the world, 
 
 When earth was born in bloom ; 
 The light is made of many dyes. 
 
 The air is all perfume ; 
 There 's crimson buds, and white and 
 blue — 
 
 The verj' rainbow showers 
 Have turned to blossoms where they fell, 
 
 And sown the earth'with llowers. 
 
 There 's fairy tulips in the east, — 
 
 The garden of the sun ; 
 The very streams refiect the hues, 
 
 And blossom as they run ; 
 While morn opes like a crimson rose, 
 
 Still wet with pearly showers: 
 Then, lady, leave the silken thread 
 
 Thou twinest into Howers. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 She stood breast high amid the corn. 
 Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
 Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
 Who n;aiiy a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn Hush 
 Deeply lipened; — such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was born. 
 Like red pojipies grown with corn. 
 
 Round her eyes her tiesses fell, — 
 Which were blackest none could tell ; 
 Rut long lashes veiled a light 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 And her hat, with shady brim, 
 Made her tressy forehead dim ; — 
 Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
 Praising God with sweetest looks. 
 
 Sure, I said. Heaven did not mean 
 Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; 
 Lay thy sheaf adown and come. 
 Share my harvest and my home.
 
 162 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 W. B. 0. PEABODY. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1799- 1848.] 
 
 HYMN OF NATURE. 
 
 Gon of the earth's extended plains ! 
 The dark <j:reen fields eontented lie ; 
 The mountains rise like holy towers, 
 Where ma 11 might eonunnne with the sky ; 
 The taU cliff e'hallenges the storm 
 That lowers npon the vale below. 
 Where shaded fountains send their 
 
 sti'eams, 
 With joyous music in their flow. 
 
 Ood of the dark and heavy deep ! 
 Tiie waves lie sleeping on the sands, 
 Till the fierce trunipet of the storm 
 Hath summoned up their thundering 
 
 bands ; 
 Then the white sails are dashed like foam, 
 Or huri-y, trembling, o'er the seas. 
 Till, calmed by thee, the sinking gale 
 Serenely breathes. Depart in peace. 
 
 God of the forest's solemn shade ! 
 The grandeur of the lonely tree, 
 That wrestles singly with the gale. 
 Lifts up admiiing eyes to thee ; 
 Hut more majestic far they stand, 
 When, side by side, their ranks they form, 
 To wave on high their plumes of green, 
 And tight their battles with the storm. 
 
 God of the light and viewless air ! 
 Where summer breezes sweetly flow. 
 Or, gathering in their angry might, 
 The tierce and wintry tempests blow ; 
 All— from the evening's plaintive sigh. 
 That hardly lifts the drooping ilower. 
 To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — 
 Breathe forth the language of thy power. 
 
 God of the fair and open sky ! 
 How gloriously above us spiings 
 The tented dome, of heavenly blue, 
 Suspended on the rainbow's rings. 
 Each brilliant star, that sparkles through ; 
 Kach gilded cloud, that wanders free 
 In evening's jiurph- radiance, gives 
 The beauty of its praise to thee. 
 
 God of the rolling orbs above ! 
 Thy Tiame is written eleai-ly bright 
 In the warm day's unvarying lilaze, 
 Or evening's golden sliower of light. 
 
 For every fire that fronts the sun. 
 And every spark that walks alone 
 Around the utmost verge of heaven, 
 Were kindled at thy burning throne. 
 
 God of the world ! the hour must come. 
 And nature's self to dust return ! 
 Her crumbling altars must decay, 
 Her incense tires shall cease to burn ! 
 liut still her grand and lovely scenes 
 Have made man's warmest j)raises flow ; 
 For hearts grow holier as they trace 
 The beauty of the world below. 
 
 W. A. MUHLENBERG. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAT. 
 
 I WOULD not live alway : I ask not to 
 
 stay . , , , 
 
 Where storm after storm rises dark o er 
 
 the way ; 
 Where, seeking for rest, I but hover 
 
 around 
 Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting 
 
 is found ; 
 Where hope, when she paints her gay 
 
 bow in the air, 
 Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night 
 
 of desjjair. 
 And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad 
 
 ray, 
 Save the gleam of the jilumage that bears 
 
 hiin away. 
 
 I would not live alway, thus fettered by 
 sin. 
 
 Temptation without, and corruption" 
 within ; 
 
 In a moment of strength, if I sever the 
 chain. 
 
 Scarce the victory is mine ere I 'm cap- 
 tive again. 
 
 E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled 
 with fears, 
 
 And the cujt of thanksgiving with peni- 
 tent tears. 
 
 The festival trump callsfor jubilantsongs, 
 
 But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. 
 
 I would not live alway: no, welcome 
 
 the tomb ; 
 Immortality's lamp burns there bright 
 
 mid the gloom.
 
 LADY BUFFERING — WINTHROP MACKWORTII PRAED. 
 
 163 
 
 There, too, is tlie pillow where Christ 
 
 bowed Ills lie;id ; 
 O, soft be iny slumbers on that lioly bed ! 
 And then the glad morn soon to follow 
 
 that night, 
 "When the sunrise of glory shall burst 
 
 on my sight. 
 And the full matin-song, as the sleepers 
 
 arise 
 To shout in the morning, shall peal 
 
 through the skies. 
 
 Who, who would live alway, away from 
 
 his God, 
 Away fiom yon heaven, that blissful 
 
 abode. 
 Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er 
 
 the bright plains. 
 And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; 
 Where the saints of all ages in harmony 
 
 meet. 
 Their Saviour and brethren transported 
 
 to greet. 
 While the anthems of rapture unceas- 
 ingly roll. 
 And the smile of the Lord is the feast of 
 
 the soul? 
 
 That heavenly music ! what is it I hear? 
 
 The notes of the harpers ring sweet on 
 my ear ! 
 
 And see soft unfolding those portals of 
 gold. 
 
 The King all arrayed in his beauty behold ! 
 
 0, give me, 0, give me the wings of a dove ! 
 
 Let me hasten my flight to those man- 
 sions above : 
 
 Ay ! 't is now that my soul on swift 
 pinions would soar. 
 
 And in ecstasy bid earth adieu evermore. 
 
 LADY DUFFERIN. 
 
 [1807-1867.] 
 
 THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 
 
 I 'm sitting on the stile, Mary, 
 
 AVhere we sat side by side 
 On a bright May morning long ago, 
 When first you were my bride. 
 The corn was springing fresh and green, 
 'And the lark sang loud and higli. 
 And the red was on your lip, JIary, 
 And the love-light in your eye. 
 
 The place is little changed, Mary ; 
 The day 's as bright as then ; 
 The lark's loud song is in my ear. 
 And the corn is green again. 
 But I miss the soft clasp of \-our hand, , 
 And your warm breath on my cheek. 
 And 1 still keep listening for the words 
 You nevermore may speak. 
 
 'T is but a step down yonder lane, 
 The village church stands near, — 
 The church where we were wed, Mary ; 
 I see the spire irom here. 
 But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 
 And my step might lireak your rest. 
 Where I've laid you, darling, down to 
 
 sleep. 
 With your baby on your breast. 
 
 I 'm very lonely now, Mary, 
 
 For the poor make no new friends; 
 
 But, O, they love the lietter still 
 
 Tlie few our Father sends ! 
 
 And you were all I had, Mary, 
 
 5Iy blessing and my pride; 
 
 There 's notliing left to care for now. 
 
 Since my poor Mary died. 
 
 I 'm bidding you a long farewell. 
 
 My Mary kind and true, 
 
 13ut I '11 not forget you, darling, 
 
 In the land 1 'm going to. 
 
 They say there 's bread and work for all, 
 
 And the sun shines always there; 
 
 But I '11 not i'orget old Ireland, 
 
 Were it fifty times less fair. 
 
 WINTHROP MACKWORTH 
 PRAED. 
 
 [1801-1839.] 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL. 
 
 Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 
 
 Had been of being wise and witty ; 
 Ere I had done with writing themes. 
 
 Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitt}', — 
 Years, years ago, while all my joys 
 
 Were in my fowling-jiiece and filly ; 
 In short, while I was yet a boy, 
 
 I fell in love with Laura Lilly. 
 
 I saw her at a county ball ; 
 
 There, when the sound of flute and fiddle
 
 164 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 (lave signal sweet in that old hall 
 
 Of hanils arross and down the middle, 
 
 Hers was the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Ofall that sets young hearts romancing : 
 
 She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
 And when she danced — Heaven, her 
 dancing ! 
 
 Dark was her hair; her hand was white; 
 
 Her voice was exi|uisitely tender ; 
 Her eyes were full of li(iuiil light ; 
 
 I never saw a waist so slender ; 
 Her every look, her every smile, 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows : 
 I thought 't was Venus from her isle, 
 
 I wondered where she 'd left her spar- 
 rows. 
 
 She talked of politics or prayers. 
 
 Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's 
 sonnets. 
 Of daggers or of dancing bears, 
 
 Of battles or the last new bonnets ; 
 By candledight, at twelve o'clock. 
 
 To me it mattered not a tittle, 
 H' tl)osi' bright lips had quoted Locke, 
 
 1 might iiave thought they murmured 
 Little. 
 
 Througli sunny ]\Iay, through sultry June, 
 
 1 loved her with a love eternal ; 
 I spoke her praises to the moon, 
 
 I wi'ote them for the Sunday Journal. 
 My mother laughed ; I soon found out 
 
 That ancient ladies have no feeling. 
 My father frowned ; but how should gout 
 
 Find any happiness in kneeling? 
 
 She was the daughter of a dean, 
 
 Hi(di, fat, and rather apo])lectic ; 
 Shi! had one brother, just thirteen. 
 
 Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
 Her grandmother, for many a year. 
 
 Had fed the palish with her bounty ; 
 Her second-cousin was a jieer. 
 
 And lord-lieutenant of the county. 
 
 But titles and tlie three per cents, 
 
 And mortgages, and great relations. 
 And India l)onds, and tithes and rents, 
 
 O, what are they to love's sensations? 
 Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks. 
 
 Such wealth, such honors, Cupid 
 chooses ; 
 He cares as little for the stocks 
 
 As Baron Rothschild for the muses. 
 
 She sketched; the vale, the wood, the 
 beach. 
 
 Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
 She botanized ; I envied each 
 
 Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
 She warbled Handel ; it was grand, — 
 
 She made the Catalina jealous : 
 She touched the organ ; 1 couhl stand 
 
 For hours and hours and blow the 
 bellows. 
 
 She kept an album, too, at home. 
 
 Well filled with all an album's glo- 
 ries, — 
 Paintings of butterflies and Rome, 
 
 Patterns for trinnning, Peisiau stoi'ies. 
 Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo. 
 
 Fierce odes to famine and to .slaughter. 
 And autographs of Prince Leboo, 
 
 And recii)es for elder water. 
 
 And she was flattered, worshipped, bored ; 
 
 Her steps were watched, her dress was 
 noted ; 
 Her poodle dog-w'as quite adored ; 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted. 
 She laughed, — and every heart was glad, 
 
 As if the taxes were abolished ; 
 She I'rowned, — -and every look was sad. 
 
 As if the opera were demolished. 
 
 She smiled on many just for fun, — 
 
 1 knew that there was nothing in it ; 
 I was the first, the only one 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a minute : 
 I knew it, for she told me .so. 
 
 In phrase which was divinelymoulded ; 
 She wrote a chaiining hand, and 0, 
 
 How sweetly all lier notes were folded ! 
 
 Our love was like most other loves, — 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver; 
 A rosebud anil a ]iair of gloves. 
 
 And "Fly Not Yet," uiwn the river; 
 Some jealousy of some one's heir. 
 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
 A miniature, a lock of hair. 
 
 The usual vows, — and then we parted. 
 
 We parted, — months and years rolh^l by ; 
 
 We met again four summei's aftei-. 
 Our ])arting was all soli and sigh, 
 I Our meeting was all mirth and laughter ; 
 ' For in my heart's most secret cell 
 
 There liad been many other lodgers, 
 And she was not the ball-i'oom belle, 
 But only Mrs. — Something — Rogers.
 
 WILLIAM LEGGETT. — FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 1G5 
 
 WILLIAM LEGGETT. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1802- 1839.] 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 The birds, when winter shades the sky, 
 
 Fly o'er tlie seas away, 
 "Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, 
 
 And summer breezes play ; 
 
 And thus the friends that flutter near 
 While fortune's sun is warm 
 
 Are startled if a cloud apjiear. 
 And lly before the storm. 
 
 But when from winter's howling plains 
 
 Each other warbler 's past, 
 The little snow-bird still remains, 
 
 And chirrups midst the blast. 
 
 Love, like that bird, when friendship's 
 throng 
 
 With fortune's sun depart, 
 Still lingers with its cheerful song, 
 
 And nestles oir the heart. 
 
 EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1802 - 1828.] 
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 I FILL this cup to one made up of loveli- 
 ness alone, 
 
 A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming 
 paragon ; 
 
 To whom the better elements and kindly 
 stars have given 
 
 A form so fair, that, like the air, 't is less 
 of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, like those 
 
 of morning birds. 
 And something more than melody dwells 
 
 ever in her words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they, and 
 
 from her lij)S each flows 
 As one may see the burdened bee forth 
 
 issue from the rose. 
 
 Affections are as thoughts to her, the 
 
 measures of her hours ; 
 Her feelings have the fragrancy, the 
 
 freshness of young flowers ; 
 And lovely passions, (dianging oft, so fill 
 
 her, she appears 
 The image of themselves by turns, — the 
 
 idol of past years. 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 a picture on the brain, 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts a 
 
 sound must long remain ; 
 But memory such as mine of her so very 
 
 much endears. 
 When death is nigh my latest' sigh will 
 
 not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up of loveli- 
 ness alone, 
 
 A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming 
 paragon. 
 
 Her health ! and would on earth there 
 stood some more of such a frame, 
 
 That life might be all poetry, and weari- 
 ness a name. 
 
 FITZ GREENE HALLECK. 
 
 [U.S.A., 1795-1S67.] 
 
 BURNS. 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth. 
 His independent tongue and pen. 
 
 And moved in manhood as in youth, 
 Pride of his fellow-men. 
 
 Strongsense, deepfeeling, passions strong, 
 A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
 
 A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 
 Of coward and of slave, — 
 
 A kind, true heart, a sjiirit high, 
 
 That could not fear and would not bow, 
 
 Were written in his manly eye 
 And on his manly brow. 
 
 Prai.se to the bard ! his words are driven, 
 Like flower-seeds by the far winds sown. 
 
 Where'er beneath the sky of heaven 
 The birds of fame have flown.
 
 166 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Praise to the man ! a nation stood 
 Beside liis coffin witli wet eyes, 
 
 Her brave, iier beautiful, lier good, 
 As when a IovchI one dies. 
 
 And still, as on his funeral day, 
 
 Men stand his cold eaith-coucharound, 
 
 With the mute homage that we pay 
 To consecrated ground. 
 
 And oonsecrated ground it is, 
 
 The last, the hallowed home of one 
 Who lives ni>on all memories, 
 . Though with the buried gone. 
 
 Such graves as his are pilgriui sln-ines. 
 Shrines to no eodi; or creed contined, — 
 
 The Delphian vales, the Palestines, 
 The iieccas of the mind. 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT OF RED JACKET, 
 
 CHIEF OF THE TLSCARORAS. 
 
 Cooper, whose name is with his country's 
 woven. 
 First in her files, her Pioneer of 
 mind, — 
 A wanderer now in other climes, has 
 proven 
 His love lor the young land he left 
 behind ; 
 
 And throned her in the senate-hall of 
 nations. 
 Robed like the deluge rainbow, heaven- 
 wrought, 
 Magnificent as his own mind's creations, 
 And beautiful as its green world of 
 thought; 
 
 And faithful to the Act of Congress, 
 quoted 
 As law authority, it passed nem. con. : 
 He writes that we are, as ourselves have 
 voted. 
 The most enlightened people ever 
 known ; 
 
 That all our week is happy as a Sunday 
 In Paris, full of song and dance and 
 laugh ; 
 And that, from Orleans to the Bay of 
 Fundy, 
 There 's not a bailitf or an epitaph ; 
 
 And furthermore — in fifty years, or 
 sooner, 
 We shall export our poetry and wine ; 
 And our brave fleet, eight frigates and a 
 schooner. 
 Will sweep the seas from Zembki to 
 the Line. 
 
 If he were with me. King of Tuscarora ! 
 Gazing, as I, upon thy })ortrait now, 
 In all its meilalled, fringed, and beaded 
 
 Its eye's dark beauty, and its thought- 
 ful brow, — 
 
 Its brow, half martial and half diplo- 
 matic ; 
 Its eye, uj)soaring like an eagle's 
 wings, — 
 Well might he boast that we, the Demo- 
 cratic, 
 Outrival Europe, even in our kings ! 
 
 For thou wast monarch born. Tradition's 
 pages 
 Tell not the jdantingof thy parent tree. 
 But that the forest tribes have bent for 
 ages 
 To thee, and to thy sires, the subject 
 knee. . 
 
 Thy name is ]>rincely, — if no poet'smagic 
 Could make Rki) Jacket grace an 
 English rhyme, 
 Though some one with a genius for the 
 tragic 
 Hath introduced it in a pantomime, 
 
 Yet it is music in tlie language spoken 
 Of thine own land ; and on her herald 
 roll, 
 As bravely fought for, and as proud a 
 token 
 As Cceur de Lion's of a warrior's soul. 
 
 Thy garb, — though Austria's bosom-star 
 would frighten 
 That medal pale, as diamonds the dark 
 mine. 
 And George the Fourth wore, at his court 
 at lirighton, 
 A more becoming evening dress than 
 thine;
 
 FITZ-GREENB HALLECK. 
 
 1G7 
 
 Yet 'tis a Lrave one, scorning wind and 
 weiitliin', 
 And litted for thy couch, on field and 
 flood, 
 As Bob Ro3''s tartan for the Highland 
 heather, 
 Or forest green for England's liobin 
 Hood. 
 
 Is strength a monarch's merit, like a 
 wlialer's ? 
 Thou art as tall, as sinewy, and as 
 strong 
 As earth's first kings, — the Argo'sgallant 
 sailors. 
 Heroes in history, and gods in song. 
 
 Is beauty? — Thiire has with thy youth 
 departed ; 
 But the love-legend's of thy manhood's 
 years, 
 And she who perished, young and broken- 
 hearted, 
 Are — l>ut I rhyme for smiles and 
 not for tears. 
 
 Is eloquence? — Her spell is thine that 
 reaches 
 The heart, and makes the wisest head 
 its sport; 
 And there 's one rare, strange virtue in 
 thy speeches, 
 The secret of their mastery, — they are 
 short. 
 
 The monarch mind, the mystery of com- 
 manding, 
 The birtli-hour gift, the art Napoleon, 
 Of winning, fettering, moulding, wield- 
 ing, banding 
 The hearts of millions till they move 
 as one, — 
 
 Thou hast it. At thy bidding men have 
 crowded 
 The road to death as to a festival ; 
 And minstrels, at their sepulchres, have 
 shrouded 
 With banner-folds of glory the dark 
 pall. 
 
 Who will believe, — not I ; for in de- 
 ceiving 
 Lies the dear charm of life's delightful 
 dream : 
 
 I cannot spare the luxury of believing 
 That all things beautiful are what they 
 seem, — 
 
 Who will believe that, with a smile whose 
 blessing 
 Would, like the Patriarch's, soothe a 
 dying hour ; 
 With voice as low, as gentle, and caress- 
 ing, 
 As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlit 
 bower ; 
 
 With look, like patient Job's, eschewing 
 evil ; 
 With motions graceful as a bird's in 
 air, — 
 Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil 
 That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's 
 hair ! 
 
 That in thy breast there springs a poison 
 fountain. 
 Deadlier than that where bathes the 
 Upas-tree ; 
 And in thy wratli, a nursing cat-o'- 
 mountain 
 Is calm as her babe's sleep compared 
 Avitli thee ! 
 
 And underneath that face, like summer 
 ocean's. 
 Its li]i as moveless, and its cheek as 
 clear. 
 Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emo- 
 tions, — 
 Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow, — all 
 save I'ear. 
 
 Love — for thy land, as if she were thy 
 daughter, 
 Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in 
 wars ; 
 Hatred — of missionaries and cold water; 
 Pride — in thy rifle-trophiis and thy 
 scars ; 
 
 Hope — that thy wrongs may be by the 
 Great kS[)irit 
 Eemembered and revenged when thou 
 art gone ; 
 Sorrow — that none are left thee to in- 
 herit 
 Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and 
 thy throne 1
 
 168 
 
 SONGS OF 
 
 THKEE 
 
 CENTURIES. 
 
 WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 WRITTEN WHILE IN PRISON FOR DENOUNCING 
 THE DOMESTIC SLAVE-TRADE. 
 
 High walls and huge the boJ y may con- 
 fine, 
 And iron gates obstruct the prisoner's 
 gaze, 
 And massive bolts may bafile his desigli, 
 And vigilant keepers watch his devious 
 ways; 
 But scorns the immortal mind such base 
 control : 
 No chains can bind it and no cell en- 
 close. 
 Swifter than light it flies from pole topple. 
 And in a (lash from earth to heaven it 
 goes. 
 It lea[)s from mount to mount ; from vale 
 to vale 
 It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits 
 and Uowers ; 
 It vi.sits home to hear the fiieside tale 
 And in sweet converse pass the joyous 
 hours ; 
 'T is up before the sun, roaming afar, 
 And in its watches wearies every star. 
 
 JOHN NEAL. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 I i,0VED to hear the war-horn cry, 
 Anil panted at the drum's deep roll. 
 And lii-ld my breath, when, tloatinghigh, 
 1 saw our starry banners tly, 
 As, idia'.lengiiig the Iiaughty sky, 
 Tliey went like battle o'er my soul. 
 For I was so ambitious then, 
 1 longed to be the slave of men ! 
 
 I stood and saw the morning light, 
 A standaid swaying far and free. 
 And loved it like tiie coni|Uering flight 
 Of angels, floating wide and bright 
 Above the storm, aliove the fight 
 "NVhen^ nations strove for libeity ; 
 And heard afar tlie signal-cry 
 Of truni])ets in the hollow sky. 
 
 I sailed with storm upon the deep, 
 I shouted to the eagh' soaring; 
 I hung me lioin the rocky steep 
 Wlieu all but spiiits wei'e asleep, 
 To feel the winds about me sweep, 
 And hear the gallant waters roaring : 
 For every sound and shape of strife 
 To me was as the breath of life. 
 
 But I am strangely altered now : 
 I love no more the bugle's voice, 
 The rushing wave, tlie plunging prow, 
 The mountain with its clouded brow. 
 The thunder when the blue skies bow 
 And all the sons of God rejoice. 
 I love to dream of tears and sighs, 
 And shadowy hair, and half-shut eyes ! 
 
 GEORGE LUNT. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 PILGRIM SONG. 
 
 Over the mountain wave, see where they 
 
 come ; 
 Storm-cloud and wintry wind welcome 
 
 them home ; 
 Yet, where the sounding gale howls to 
 
 the sea. 
 There their .song peals along, deep-toned 
 
 and fi'ee : 
 "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we 
 
 come ; 
 Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
 
 home." 
 
 England hath sunny dales, deai-ly they 
 
 bloom ; 
 Scotia hath heather-hills, sweet their 
 
 perfume : 
 Yet through the wilderness cheerful we 
 
 stray. 
 Native land, native land, home faraway! 
 " Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we 
 
 come ; 
 Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
 
 home !" 
 
 Dim grew the forest-path : onward they 
 
 trod ; 
 Firm beat their noble hearts, trusting in 
 
 God ! 
 Gray men and blooming maids, high rose 
 
 their song ;
 
 CHARLES SPRAGUE. — HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 1G9 
 
 Hear it sweep, clear and deep, ever along: 
 " Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we 
 
 come ; 
 Where the free dare to be,— this is our 
 
 home ! " 
 
 Not theirs the glory -wreath, torn by the 
 
 blast ; 
 Heavenward their holy steps, heavenward 
 
 they past. 
 Green be their mossy graves ! ours be 
 
 their fame. 
 While tlicir song peals along ever the 
 
 same ; 
 "Pilgrims and wanderers, hither we 
 
 come ; 
 Where the free dare to be, — this is our 
 
 home!" 
 
 CHAPiLES SPRAGUE. 
 
 [u. S. A.,1791- 1874.] 
 
 THE FAMILY MEETING. 
 
 Wk are all here, 
 
 Father, mother, 
 
 Sister, brother. 
 All who hold each other dear. 
 Each chair is filled ; we 're all at home ! 
 To-night let no cold stranger come. 
 It is not often tlius around 
 Our old familiar hearth we 're found. 
 Bless, then, the meeting and the spot ; 
 For once be every care forgot ; 
 Let gentle peace assert her power, 
 And kind affection rule the hour. 
 
 We 're all — all here. 
 
 We 're not all here ! 
 Some are away, — the dead ones dear, 
 Who thronged with us thisancientliearth, 
 And gave the hour to guileless mirth. 
 Fate, with a stern, relentless hand, 
 Looked in, and thinned our little band; 
 Some like a night-flash passed away. 
 And some sank lingering day by <lay ; 
 The quiet graveyard, — some lie there, — 
 And cruel ocean has his share. 
 
 We 're not all here. 
 
 We are all here ! 
 Even they, — the dead, — though dead, so 
 
 dear, — 
 Fond memory, to her duty true, 
 Brings back their faded forms to view. 
 
 How life-like, through the mist of years, 
 Each well-remembered face appears ! 
 We see them, as in times long })ast ; 
 From each to each kind looks are cast ; 
 We hear their words, their smiles behold; 
 They 're round us, as they were of old. 
 We are all here. 
 
 We are all here, 
 
 Father, mother. 
 
 Sister, brother, 
 You that I love with love so dear. 
 This may not long of us be said ; 
 Soon must we join the gathered dead, 
 And by the hearth we now sit round 
 Some other circle will be found. 
 0, then, that wisdom may we know, 
 Which yields a life of peace below ; 
 So, in the world to follow this. 
 May each repeat in words of bliss. 
 
 We 're all — all here ! 
 
 HEMY SCOTT RIDDELL. 
 
 OUR MARY. 
 
 OiiR Mary liket weel to stray 
 Where clear the burn was rowin' ; 
 And troth she was, though I say sae, 
 As fair as aught ere made o' clay, 
 And pure as ony gowan. 
 
 And happy, too, as ony lark 
 
 The claud might ever carry ; 
 
 She shunned the ill and sought the good, 
 
 E'en niair than weel was understood; 
 
 And a' fouk liket Mary. 
 
 But she fell sick wi' some deca)'. 
 When she was but eleven ; 
 And as she pined frae day to day. 
 We grudged to see her gaun away, 
 Though slie was gaun to Heaven. 
 
 There 's fears for them that 's far awa' 
 
 And fykes for them are flitting ; 
 
 But fears and cares, baith grit and sma'. 
 
 We by and by o'er-pit them a' ; 
 
 But death there 's nae o'er-pitting. 
 
 And nature's ties are hard to break, 
 When thus they maun be broken;
 
 170 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 And e'en the form we loved to see, 
 AVi' carina lang, dear though it be, 
 rreserve it a.-s u token. 
 
 But Mary had a gentle heart, 
 Heaven did as gently free lier ; 
 Yet lang afore .•^Iie reached that part, 
 Dear sir, it wad ha'e made ye start 
 Had ye been tlicre to see her. 
 
 S;ie changed, and yet sae sweet and fair. 
 And growing meek and meeker, 
 Wi' her hnig locks o' yellow hair. 
 She wore a little angel's air, 
 Ere angels cam' to seek her. 
 
 And when she eouldna stray out b}', 
 The wee wild flowers to gather. 
 She oft her household plays wad try. 
 To hide her illness frae our eye, 
 Lest she should grieve us farther. 
 
 But ilka thing we said or did 
 Aye pleased the sw.'ct wee creature ; 
 Indeed, ye wad ha'e thought she had 
 A something in her made her glad 
 Ayont the course o' nature. 
 
 But death's cauld hour cam' on at last. 
 
 As it to a' is comin' ; 
 
 And may it be, whene'er it fa's, 
 
 Nae waur to others than it was 
 
 To Mary, sweet wee woman ! 
 
 SAMUEL FERGUSON. 
 
 THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 
 
 Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 
 
 'tis at a wliite heat now : 
 The bellows ceased, the llames decreased, 
 
 though on the foige's brow 
 The little flames still fitfully jday through 
 
 the sable mound ; 
 And fitfully you still may see the grim 
 
 smiths ranking round, 
 All clad in leathern panoply, their broad 
 
 hanils only bare ; 
 Some rest upon their sledges here, some 
 
 work the windlass there. 
 
 The winillass strains the tackle-cdiains, 
 th(! blaek mmmd heaves below; 
 
 And, red and deep, a liundred veins burst 
 out at eve IV throe : 
 
 It rises, roars, rends all outright, — 0. 
 
 Vulcan, what a glow ! 
 'T is blinding white, 't is blasting bright ; 
 
 the high sun shines not so ! 
 The high sun sees not, on the earth, such 
 
 fiery, fearful show, — 
 The roof-ribs swarth, the caiident hearth, 
 
 the I'uddy, lurid row 
 Of smiths, that stand, an ardent band, 
 
 like men before the foe ; 
 As, ipiiveiing through his fleece of flame, 
 
 tlic sailing monster slow 
 Sinks on the anvil, — all about the (aces 
 
 fiery grow, — 
 "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap 
 
 out" ; bang, bang, the sledges go: 
 Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are hissing 
 
 high and low ; 
 A hailing fount of fire is struck at everj^ 
 
 s(piashing blow ; 
 The leathern mail rebounds the hail ; the 
 
 rattling cinders strew 
 The ground around ; at every bound the 
 
 sweltering fountains flow ; 
 And thick and loud the swinking crowd, 
 
 at every stroke, pant "Ho!" 
 
 Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out 
 
 and lay on load ! 
 Let's forge a goodly anchor; a bower, 
 
 thick and broad : 
 For a heart of oak is hanging on every 
 
 blow, I bode. 
 And I see the good ship riding all in a 
 
 perilous road ; 
 The low reef roaring on her lea ; the roll 
 
 of ocean jjoured 
 From stem to stern, sea after sea; the 
 
 mainmast by the board; 
 The bulwarks down; the rudder gone; 
 
 the boats stove at the chains ; 
 But courage still, brave mariners, the • 
 
 bower yet reinairis, 
 And not an inch to flinch he deigns save 
 
 when ye pitch sky-high. 
 Then moves liis head, as though he said, 
 
 "Fear nothing, — heie am I I" 
 
 Swing in your strokes in order; let foot 
 
 and lian<l keeji time. 
 Your blows make music sweeter far than 
 
 any steeple's chime: 
 But while ye swing your sledges, sing ; 
 
 and let the bunh^n be. 
 The Anclior is the Anvil King, and royal 
 
 craftsmen we !
 
 FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT), 
 
 171 
 
 Strike in, strike in, — tlie sparks begin to 
 
 dull their rustling red ; 
 Our liannners ling with sharper din, our 
 
 work will soon be sped : 
 Our anchor soon must change his bed of 
 
 Hery rich array 
 For a haniniock at the roaring bows, or 
 
 an oozy couch of clay ; 
 Our anchor soon must change the lay of 
 
 merry craftsmen here, 
 Fortheyeo-heave-ho, arid the heave-away, 
 
 and the, sighing seamen's cheer, 
 When, weighing slow, at eve they go far, 
 
 far from love and home, 
 And sobl)ing sweethearts, in a row, wail 
 
 o'er the ocean foam. 
 
 In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens 
 
 down at last; 
 A shapely one he is, and strong as e'er 
 
 from cat was cast. 
 trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou 
 
 hadst life like me, 
 What pleasures would thy toils reward 
 
 beneath the deep green sea ! 
 deep sea-diver, who miglit then behold 
 
 such sights as thou ? 
 The hoary mon&ters' palaces ! methinks 
 
 what joy 't were now 
 To go plumb iilunging down amid the 
 
 assembly of the whales, 
 And feel the churned sea round me boil 
 
 beneath theii- scourging tails ! 
 Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the 
 
 fierce sea unicorn, 
 And send him foiled and bellowing back, 
 
 for all his ivory iiorn ; 
 To leave the subtle sworder-hsh of bony 
 
 blade forlorn ; 
 And for the ghastly-grinning shark to 
 
 laugh his jaws to scorn ; 
 To leap down on the kraken's back, where 
 
 mid "Norwegian isles 
 He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden 
 
 sliallowed miles, 
 Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, 
 
 off he rolls ; 
 Meanwhile to swing, a-bufi'eting the far- 
 astonished shoals 
 Of his Ijack-browsing ocean calves ; or, 
 
 haply in a cove, 
 Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some 
 
 Undine's love, 
 To find the long-haired niermaidens; or, 
 
 hard by icy lands. 
 To wrestle with the sea-serpent upon ceru- 
 lean sands. 
 
 broad-armed fi.sher of the deep, whose 
 
 sports can equal thine ? 
 The Dolphin weighs a tliousand tons that 
 
 tugs thy cable line ; 
 And night by night 't is thy delight, thy 
 
 glory day by day. 
 Through sable sea and bleaker white, the 
 
 giant game to play ; 
 But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive 
 
 the name 1 gave, — 
 A fisher's joy is to destroy, thine oflace is 
 
 to save. 
 O lodger in the sea-king's halls, couldst 
 
 thou but understand 
 AVhose be the white bon.es by thy side, 
 
 or who that diipping band. 
 Slow swaying in the heaving waves that 
 
 round about thee bend. 
 With sounds like breakers in a dream 
 
 blessing their ancient friend : 
 0, couldst thou know what heroes glide 
 
 with larger steps round thee. 
 Thine ii'on side would swell with prid'e ; 
 
 thou 'dst leap within the sea ! 
 Give honor to their memories who left the 
 
 pleasant strand 
 To shed their blood so freely for the love 
 
 of fatherland. 
 Who left their chance of quiet age and 
 
 grassy churchyard grave 
 So freely for a restless bed amid the toss- 
 ing wave ; 
 0, though our anchor may not be all I 
 
 have fondly sung. 
 Honor him for their memory, whose bones 
 
 he goes among ! 
 
 FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER 
 ' PROUT). 
 
 [1805-1865.1 
 
 THE BELLS OF SHANDON. 
 
 With deep affection 
 
 And recollection, 
 
 I often think of 
 
 The Shandon bells, 
 
 Whose sounds so wild woifld 
 
 In days of childhood 
 
 Fling round my cradle 
 
 Their magic spells. 
 
 On this I ponder, 
 
 ^\'hele'er 1 wander.
 
 172 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 And thus grow fonder, 
 Sweet Cork, of thee; 
 With thy bells of Shandon, 
 That sound so grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I 've heard bells ehiining 
 Full many a elinie in, 
 Tolling sublime in 
 Cathedral shrine, 
 While at a glib rate 
 Brass tongues would vibrate; 
 But all thi'ir music 
 Spoke naught like thine; 
 For memory, dwelling 
 On each jiroud swelling 
 Of thy l)elfry, knelling 
 Its bold notes free, 
 Made the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more grand on 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 I 've heard bells tolling 
 Old Adrian's Mole in. 
 Their tii under rolling 
 From the Vatican ; 
 And cymbals glorious 
 Swinging uproarious 
 In tilt" gori^eous turrets 
 Of Notie Dame: 
 But thy sounds wei'e sweeter 
 Than the dome of Peter 
 Flings o'er the Tiber, 
 Pealing solemnly. 
 O, the bells of Shandon 
 Sound far more gi'and on 
 The pleasant waters 
 Of the river Lee ! 
 
 There's a bell in Moscow; 
 
 While on tower and kiosk 
 
 In St. Sojihia 
 
 The Turkman gets, 
 
 And loud in air 
 
 Calls men to prayer, 
 
 P'rom the tapering summits 
 
 Of tall minarets. 
 
 Such em[ity jihantom 
 
 I freely grant them ; 
 
 P>ut there 's an anthem 
 
 More dear to me, — 
 
 'T is the bells of Shandon, 
 
 That sound so grand on 
 
 The ))leasant waters 
 
 Of the river Lee. 
 
 NATHANIEL TAPiKER WILLIS. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1S07- 1867.] 
 
 UNSEEN SPIRITS. 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway, — 
 'T was near the twilight tide, — 
 
 And slowly there a lady fair 
 Was walking in her pride. 
 
 Alone walked she ; but, viewlessly, 
 Walked spirits at her side. 
 
 Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, 
 And Honor charmed the air. 
 
 And all astir looked kind on her, 
 And called her good as fair ; 
 
 For all God ever gave to her 
 She kept with chary care. 
 
 She kept w4th care her beauties rare 
 From lovers warm and true ; ' 
 
 For her heart was cold to all but gold, 
 And the rich came not to woo : 
 
 But honored w'ell are charms to sell. 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was one more fair, — 
 
 A slight girl, lily-[)ale ; 
 And she had unseen eomyiany 
 
 To make the spirit quail : 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked for- 
 lorn. 
 
 And nothing could avail. 
 
 No mercy now can clear her brow 
 For this world's peace to pray; 
 
 For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air. 
 Her woman's heart gave way! 
 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven, 
 By man is cursed alway. 
 
 FROM MELANIE. 
 
 A CALM and lovely paradise 
 
 Is Italy, for minds at ease; 
 The sa<lness of its sunny skies 
 
 Weighs not upon the lives of these. 
 The ruined aisle, the crumbling fane. 
 
 The broken columns vast and prone, 
 It may be joy, it may be pain. 
 
 Amid su<;h wrecks to walk alone. 
 The saddest man will sadder be. 
 
 The gentlest lover gentler there, —
 
 CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON. 
 
 173 
 
 As if, whate'er the spirit's key, 
 
 It streugtlieued in that solemn air. 
 
 The heart soon grows to mournful things ; 
 
 And Italy has not a breeze 
 But comes on melancholy wings ; 
 
 And even her majestic trees 
 Stand ghostlike in the r.esars' home, 
 
 As if their conscious roots were set 
 In the old graves of giant Kome, 
 
 And drew their saj) all kingly yet ! 
 And every stone your feet beneath 
 
 Is broken from some mighty thought; 
 And sculptures in the dust still breathe 
 
 The fire with which their lines were 
 wrought ; 
 And sundered arch, and plundered tomb. 
 
 Still thunder back the echo, "Kome." 
 
 Yet gayly o'er Egeria's fount 
 
 The ivy Hings its emerald veil. 
 And flowers giow fair on Nunia's mount, 
 
 And light-sprung arches span the dale ; 
 And soft, from Caracalla's baths, 
 
 The herdsman's song comes down the 
 breeze. 
 While climb his goats the giddy paths 
 
 To grass-grown architraves and frieze ; 
 And gracefully AUmno's hill 
 
 Curves into the horizon's line. 
 And sweetly sings that classic rill. 
 
 And fairly stands that nameless shrine ; 
 And here, 0, many a sultry noon 
 
 And starry eve, tliat ha])py June, 
 Came Angelo and Melanie ! 
 And earth for us was all in tune, — 
 
 For wliile Love talked with them, 
 Hope walked apart with me. 
 
 CAROLINE 
 
 ELIZABETH 
 TON. 
 
 NOR- 
 
 BINGEN ON THE RHINE. 
 
 A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in 
 
 Algiers, 
 There was lack of woman's nursing, there 
 
 was dearth of woman's tears ; 
 But a comrade stood beside him, while 
 
 his life-blood ebbed away, 
 And bent, wi*h iiitying glances, to hear 
 
 what he might say. 
 
 The dying soldier faltered, and he took 
 
 that comrade's hand. 
 And he said, "I nevermore shall see my 
 
 own, my native land ; 
 Take a message, and a token, to some 
 
 distant friends of mine. 
 For I was born at Bingeu, — fair Bingen 
 
 on the Rhine. 
 
 "Tell my brothers and companiims, when 
 they meet and crowd around. 
 
 To hear my mourid'ul stoiy, in the pleas- 
 ant vineyaid groun<l. 
 
 That we fought the battle bravely, and 
 when the day was done. 
 
 Full many a corse lay gliastly pale beneath 
 the setting sun ; 
 
 And, mid the dead and dying, were some 
 grown old in wars, — 
 
 The death-wound on their gallant breasts, 
 the last of many scars ; 
 
 And some were young, and suddeidy be- 
 held life's mom ilecJine, — 
 
 And one had come fiom Bhigen, — fair 
 Bingen on the Khine. 
 
 "Tell my mother that her other son shall 
 
 comfort her old age ; . * 
 For I was still a truant bird, that thought 
 
 his home a cage. 
 For my father was a soldier, and even as 
 
 a child 
 My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of 
 
 struggles fierce and wild ; 
 And when he died, and left us to divide 
 
 his scanty hoard, 
 I let them take whate'er they would, but 
 
 kept my father's sword ; 
 And with boyish love 1 hung it where the 
 
 bright light used to shine, 
 On the cottage wall at Bingen, — calm 
 
 Bingen on the Rhine. 
 
 "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and 
 
 sob with drooping head. 
 When troops come marching home again 
 
 with glad and gallant tread. 
 But to look upon them proudly, with a 
 
 calm and steadfast eye. 
 For her brother was a soldier too, and 
 
 not afraid to die ; 
 And if a connade seek her love, I ask her 
 
 in my name 
 To listen to' him kindly, without regret 
 
 or shame,
 
 174 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 And to lian!T the old sword in its place 
 (my fatlier's sword and mine), 
 
 ForthehonorofoldBingi-n, — ddarBingen 
 on the liliine. 
 
 "There 's another, — not a sister ; in the 
 
 hiippy diiys gone by 
 You 'd have known licr l)y the merriment 
 
 that sparkled in her eye ; 
 Too innocent for coquetry, — too fond 
 
 for idle scorning, — 
 
 friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes 
 
 sometimes lieaviest mourning! 
 Tell her tlie last night of my life (for, ere 
 
 the moon he risen, 
 My body will be out of pain, my soiil be 
 
 out of prison) 
 
 1 dreamed 1 stood with her, and saw the 
 
 yellow snnliglit sliine 
 On the vine-chid hills of Bingen, — fair 
 Binjcen on the Rhine. 
 
 "I saw the blue Kliine sweep along; I 
 heard, or seemed to liear. 
 
 The German songs we used to sing, in 
 chorus sweet and clear ; 
 
 And down the pleasant river, and up the 
 slanting hill. 
 
 The echoing chorus sounded, through the 
 evening calm and still ; 
 
 And her glad blue eyes weie on me, as 
 we passed, with friendly talk, 
 
 Down many a path beloved of yore, and 
 well-remembered walk ! 
 
 And her little hand lay lightly, confid- 
 ingly in mine, — 
 
 But we il meet no more at Bingen, — 
 loved Bingen on the Rhine." 
 
 Jlistremblingvoicegrew faint andhoarso, 
 
 his gi-as[) was cliililish weak, — 
 Hiseyes put on a dyinglook, — hesighed, 
 
 and ceased to s})eak ; 
 His comrade bent to lift him, but the 
 
 spaik of life had tied, — 
 The soldier of the Legion in a foreign 
 
 land is dead ! 
 And the soft moon rose up slowly, and 
 
 calmly she looked down 
 On the red sand of the battle-field, with 
 
 bloody corses strewn ; 
 Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her 
 
 pale light seemed to shine. 
 As it shone on distant Bingen, — fair 
 
 Bingen on tlie Rhine. 
 
 EDWARD LORD LYTTON. 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 
 Frksh glides the brook and blowsthegale, 
 Yet yonder halts the quiet mill ; 
 
 The whirring wheel, the nishiug sail, 
 How motionless and still! 
 
 Six days' stern labor shuts the poor 
 From Nature's careless banquet-hall; 
 
 The seventh an angel 0[>es the door, 
 And, smiling, welcomes all 1 
 
 A Father's tender mercy gave 
 This holy respite to the breast. 
 
 To breathe the gale, to watch the wave, 
 And know — the wheel may rest I 
 
 Six days of toil, poor child of Cain, 
 Thy strength thy master's slave must 
 be; 
 
 The seventh the limbs escape the chain, — 
 A God hath made thee iiee ! 
 
 The fields that yester-morning knew 
 Thy footsteps as their serf, survey ; 
 
 On thee, as them, descends the dew, 
 The baptism of the day. 
 
 Fresh glides the brook and blows thegale, 
 But yonder halts the quiet mill ; 
 
 The whirring wheel, the rushing sail, 
 How motionless and still ! 
 
 So rest, weary heart ! — but, lo. 
 
 The church-spire, glistening up to 
 heaven. 
 
 To warn thee where thy thoughtsshould go 
 The day thy God hath given ! 
 
 Lone through the landscape's solemn rest, 
 The spire its moral points on high. 
 
 soul, at ])eace within the breast. 
 Rise, mingling with the sky ! 
 
 They tell thee, in their <lreaming school, 
 Of power from old dominion hurled. 
 
 When rich and poor, with juster rule, 
 Shall share the altered world. 
 
 Alas ! since time itself began. 
 
 That fable hath but fooled the hour; 
 
 Each age that ripens power in man 
 But subjects man to power. 
 
 Yet every day in seven, at least. 
 
 One bright republic shall be known ;
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEJfBLE. 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 iO 
 
 Man's world awhile hath surely ceased, 
 When God proclaims his own ! 
 
 Six days may rank divide the poor, 
 Dives, from thy ban(juet-hall ; 
 
 The seventh the Father opes the door, 
 And liolds his feast lor all ! 
 
 FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 Better trust all and be deceived, 
 And weep that trust and tliat deceiving. 
 Than doubt one lieart that if believed 
 Had blessed one's life with true believing. 
 
 O, in this mocking world too fast 
 The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ; 
 Better be cheated to the last 
 Tlian lose the blessed hope of truth. 
 
 JOHN STERLING. 
 
 [1806- 1844.] 
 
 . HYMN. 
 
 UNSEEN Spirit! now a calm divine 
 Comes forth from thee, rejoicing earth 
 and air ! 
 Trees, hills, and houses, all distinctly 
 shine. 
 And thy great ocean slumbers every- 
 where. 
 
 The mountain-ridge against the purple sky 
 Stands clear and strong, with darkened 
 roc^ks and dells, 
 And cloudless brightness opens wide on 
 high 
 A home aerial, where thy presence 
 dwells. 
 
 The chime of bells remote, the murmuring 
 sea. 
 The song of birds in whispering copse 
 and wood, 
 Thedistantvoice of children's thoughtless 
 glee. 
 And maiden's song, are all one voice 
 of good. 
 
 Amid the leaves' green mass a sunny play 
 
 Of flash and shadow stirs like inward 
 
 life ; 
 
 The ship's white sail glides onward far 
 
 away, 
 
 Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. 
 
 Thou, the primal fount of lifcand peace, 
 
 Who shedd'st thy breathing quiet all 
 
 around. 
 
 In me command that pain and conflict 
 
 cease, 
 
 And turn to music every jarringsound ! 
 
 How longs eacli pulse within the weary soul 
 To taste the life of this benignant hour, 
 
 To be at one with thy untroubled whole. 
 And in itself to know thy hushing 
 power. 
 
 In One, who walked on earth a man of woe, 
 Was holier peace than even this hour 
 inspires ; 
 From him to me let inward quiet flow, 
 And give the might my failing will 
 requires. 
 
 Sethis great All around, so he, and thou, 
 
 The central source and awful bound of 
 
 things. 
 
 May fill my heart with rest as deep as now 
 
 To land and sea and air thy presence 
 
 brings. 
 
 FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 
 
 [v. S. A., 1812- 1850.] 
 
 LABOR. 
 
 Pause not to dream of the future before 
 
 us; 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that 
 
 come o'er us; 
 Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus, 
 Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! 
 Never the ocean-wave faltei's in flowing; 
 Never the little seed sto])S in its growing ; 
 More and more richly the rose heart keejis 
 
 glowing. 
 Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 
 
 "Labor is worship!" the robin is sing- 
 ing ; 
 "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is
 
 176 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Listen ! that elor[uent whisper, iipspring- 
 iiig 
 Speaks to thy soul from out nature's 
 great heart. 
 
 From the dark cloud' flows the life-giving 
 shower ; 
 
 From the rough sod blows the soft -breath- 
 ing flower; 
 
 From tlie small insect, the rich coral 
 bower ; 
 Only man, in the plan, shrinks from 
 his part. 
 
 Labor is life ! — 'T is the still water fail- 
 eth; 
 
 Idleness ever dcspaireth, bewaileth ; 
 
 Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust 
 assaileth ; 
 Flowers droop and die in the stillness 
 of noon. 
 
 Labor is glory! — the flying cloud light- 
 ens; 
 
 Only the waving wing changes and 
 brightens; 
 
 Idle hearts only the dark future fright- 
 ens : 
 Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep 
 them iu tune ! 
 
 Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet 
 us. 
 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, 
 
 llest from sin-pi'DUijitings tliat ever en- 
 treat us, 
 llest from world-sirens that lure hs to 
 ill. 
 
 Work, — ami pure slumbers shall wait on 
 thy pillow ; 
 
 "Work, — thou shalt ride over Care's com- 
 ing billow ; 
 
 liii' not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep- 
 ing willow ! 
 Work with a stout heart and resolute 
 will ! 
 
 Labor is health ! — Lo ! the husbandman 
 reaping. 
 
 How through his veins goes the life-cur- 
 rent leajniig! 
 
 How liis stiotig arm in its stalwart pride 
 .sweeping, 
 True as a sunbeam the swift sickle 
 guides. 
 
 Labor is wealth, — in the sea the pearl 
 groweth ; 
 
 I?ich the queen's robe from the frail co- 
 coon Hosveth ; 
 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest 
 bloweth; 
 Temple and statue the marble block 
 hides. 
 
 Droop not, though shame, sin, andanguish 
 
 are round thee ; 
 Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath 
 
 bound thee ! 
 Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond 
 
 thee : 
 Rest not content.in thy darkness, — a 
 
 clod ! 
 Work for some good, be it ever so 
 
 slowly; 
 Cherish some Hower, be it e\'er so lowly : 
 Labor! — all labor is noble and holy ; 
 Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to 
 
 thy God. 
 
 JONES VERY. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE PRESENT HEAVEN. 
 
 Father ! thy wondersdonot.singl}'^ stand. 
 Nor far removed where feet have sel- 
 dom strayed ; 
 Around us ever lies the enchanted land. 
 In marvels rich to thine own sons dis- 
 played. 
 
 In finding thee are all things round us 
 found ; 
 In losing thee are all things lost beside ; 
 Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices 
 sound. 
 And to our eyes the vision is denied. 
 
 Open our eyes, that we that world may 
 see ! 
 Open our ears, that we thy voice may 
 hear. 
 And in the spirit-land may ever be, 
 And feel thy presence with us, always 
 near. 
 
 TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. 
 
 Brfoht image of the early years 
 When glowed my cheek as red as 
 thou,
 
 THOMAS MILLER. — JOHN KEBLE. 
 
 177 
 
 And life's dark throng of cares and fears 
 Were swift- winged shadows o'er my sunny 
 brow ! 
 
 Thou hhishest from the painter's page, 
 
 Robed in tlie mimic tints of art ; 
 But Nature's hand in youth's green age 
 With fairer hues first traced thee on my 
 heart. 
 
 The morning's bhish, she madeitthine ; 
 The mom's sweat breath, she gave 
 it thee ; 
 And in thy look, my Columbine ! 
 Each fond-remembered spot slie bade me 
 see. 
 
 I see the hill's far-gazing head. 
 
 Where gay thou noddest in the gale ; 
 I hear light-bounding footsteps tread 
 The grassy iiath that winds along the vale. 
 
 I hear the voice of woodland song 
 Break froni each bush and well- 
 known tree, 
 And, on light pinions borne along, 
 Comes back the laugh irom childhood's 
 
 heart of glee. 
 
 O'er the dark rock the dashing brook, 
 
 With look of anger, leaps again, 
 And, hastening to each flowery nook. 
 Its distant voice is heaid far down the 
 glen. 
 
 Fair child of art! thy charms decay. 
 Touched by the withered hand of 
 Time ; 
 And hushed the music of that day, 
 When my voice mingled with the stream- 
 let's chime : 
 
 But on my heart thy cheek of bloom 
 Shall live when Nature's smile has 
 fled; 
 And, rich with memory's sweet per- 
 fume. 
 Shall o'er her grave thy tribute incense 
 shed. 
 
 There shalt thou live and wake the 
 glee 
 That echoed on thy native hill ; 
 And when, loved flower! I think of 
 thee, 
 My infant feet will seem to seek thee 
 still. 
 
 12 
 
 THOMAS MILLER. 
 
 EVENING SONG. 
 
 How many days with mute adieu 
 Have gone down yon untrodden sky, 
 And still it looks as clear and blue 
 As when it first was hung on high. 
 The rolling sun, the frowning t-loud 
 That drew the lightning in its rear, 
 The thunder tramping dee]) and loud. 
 Have left no foot-mark there. 
 
 The village-bells, with silver chime, 
 Come softened by the distant shore; 
 Though I have heard them many a time. 
 They never rung so sweet before. 
 A silence rests upon the hill, 
 A listening awe pervades the air ; , 
 
 The very flowers are shut and still. 
 And bowed as if in prayer. 
 
 And in this hushed and breathless close, 
 O'er earth and air and sky and sea, 
 A still low voice in silence goes, 
 Which speaks alone, great God, of thee. 
 The whispeiing leaves, the far-ott' brook. 
 The linnet's warble fainter grown, 
 The hive-bound bee, the building rook, — 
 All these their Maker own. 
 
 Now Nature sinks in soft repose, 
 A living semblance of the grave; 
 The dew steals noiseless on the rose. 
 The boughs have almost ceased to wave ; 
 The silent sk3% the sleeping earth, 
 Tree, mountain, stream, the humble sod, 
 All tell from whom they had their birth, 
 And cry, "Behold a God!" 
 
 JOHN KEBLE. 
 
 [1796- 1821] 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 0, TIMELY happy, timely wise, 
 Hearts that with rising morn arise I 
 Eyes that the beam celestial view. 
 Which evermore m.akes all things new ! 
 
 New every morning is the love 
 Our wakening and uprising prove,
 
 178 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Through sleop and darkiu'ss safely 
 
 brouglit, 
 Restored to life and power and thought. 
 
 New mercies, each returning day, 
 Hover around us while we piay ; 
 New peril.s past, new sins forgiven, 
 New thoughts of God, new hopes of 
 heaven. 
 
 If, on oui- daily course, our mind 
 Be set to hallow all we find, 
 New treasures still, of countless price, 
 God will provide for sacritice. 
 
 Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be. 
 As more of Heaven in each we see; 
 Some softening gleam of love and prayer 
 Shall dawu on every cross and care. 
 
 As for some dear familiar strain 
 Untired we ask, and ask again. 
 Ever in its melodious store 
 Finding a .spell unheard before, — 
 
 Such is the bliss of souls serene. 
 
 When they have sworn, and steadfast 
 
 mean. 
 Counting the cost, in all to espy 
 Their God, in all themselves deny. 
 
 0, could we learn that sacrifice. 
 What lights would all around us rise ! 
 How would our hearts with wisdom talk 
 Along life's dullest, dreariest walk ! 
 
 We need not bid, for cloistered cell, 
 Our neighbor and our work farewell, 
 Nor strive to wind ourselves too high 
 For sinful man beneath the sky. 
 
 The trivial round, the common task, 
 Will furnish all we ought to ask ; 
 Room to deny ourselves ; a road 
 To biing us, daily, nearer God. 
 
 Seek we no more : content with these, 
 Let iiresent rapture, comfort, ease. 
 As Heaven shall bid them, come and go; 
 The secret this of rest below. 
 
 Only, O T.ord, in thy dear love 
 Fit us fur jierfcct rest above; 
 And help us, this and every day, 
 To live more nearly as we pray ! 
 
 INWARD MUSIC. 
 
 TiiF.i'.E are in this loud stunning tide 
 
 0\' human care and crime. 
 With whom the melodies abide 
 
 Of the everlasting chime ; 
 W^io carry music in their heart 
 
 Through dusky lane and wrangling 
 mart. 
 Plying their daily toil with busier feet, 
 Because their .secret souls a holy strain 
 repeat. 
 
 SIR ROBERT GRAXT. 
 
 [1814-1838.] 
 
 O SAVIOUR! WHOSE MERCY. 
 
 O Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its 
 kindness. 
 Hath chastened my wanderings and 
 guided my way. 
 Adored be the power that illumined my 
 blindness, 
 And weaned me from phantoms that 
 smiled to betray. 
 
 Pmchanted with all that was dazzling 
 and fair, 
 I followed the rainbow, I caught at 
 the toy ; 
 And still in displeasure thy goodness 
 was there. 
 Disappointing the hope and defeating 
   the joy. 
 
 The blossom blushed bright, but a worm 
 was below ; 
 The moonlight shone fair, there was 
 blight in the beam ; 
 Sweet whispcivd the breeze, but it whis- 
 jiercd of woe ; 
 And bitt(>rness flowed in the soft-flow- 
 ing stream. 
 
 So cured of my folly, yet cured but in 
 part, 
 I turned to the refuge thy pit}' dis- 
 played ; 
 And still did this eager and credulous 
 heart 
 Weave visions of promise that bloomed 
 but to fade.
 
 DEAN OF CANTERBURY. — BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 
 
 179 
 
 I thought that the course of the pilgiim 
 to heaven 
 Would be bright as the summer and 
 glad as the morn : 
 Thou showedst me the path ; it was dark 
 and uneven, 
 All i-ugged with rock and all tangled 
 with thorn. 
 
 I dreamed of celestial rewards and re- 
 
 novv'n, 
   I grasped at the triumph that blesses 
 
 the brave ; 
 I asked for the palm-branch, the robe, 
 
 and the crown, 
 I asked, and thou showedst me a cross 
 
 and a grave ! 
 
 Subdued and instructed, at length to thy 
 will 
 My hopes and my wishes I freely re- 
 sign ; 
 0, give me a heart that can wait and be 
 still, 
 Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but 
 thine. 
 
 There are mansions exempted from sin 
 and fi-om woe. 
 But they stand in a region by mortals 
 untrod ; 
 There are rivers of joy, but they roll not 
 below ; 
 There is rest» but 't is found in the 
 bosom of God. 
 
 DEAN OF CANTERBURY. 
 
 TRUST. 
 
 I KNOW not if or dark or bright 
 
 Sliall be my lot ; 
 If that wherein my hopes delight 
 
 Be best, or not. 
 
 It may be mine to drag for years 
 
 Toil's heavy chain ; 
 Or da}^ and night my meat be tears 
 
 On bed of jiain. 
 
 Dear faces may surround my hearth 
 With smiles and glee ; 
 
 Or I may dwell alone, and mirth 
 Be strange to me. 
 
 My bark is wafted to the strand 
 
 By breath divine ; 
 And on the helm there rests a hand 
 
 Other than mine. 
 
 One who has known in .storms to sail 
 
 1 have on board ; 
 Above the raving of the gale 
 
 I hear my Lord. 
 
 He holds me when the billows smite, — 
 
 I shall not fall. 
 If sharp, 't is short ; if long, 't is 
 light, — 
 
 He tempers all. 
 
 Safe to the land, safe to the land, — 
 
 The end is this; 
 And then with Him go hand in hand 
 
 Far into bliss. 
 
 BRYAN AVALLER PROCTER 
 (BARRY CORNWALL). 
 
 [1787- 1874.] 
 
 A PETITION TO TIME. 
 
 TorcH us gently. Time ! 
 
 L^t us glide adown thy stream 
 Gently, — as we sometimes glide 
 
 Through a quiet dream ! 
 Humble voyagers are we. 
 Husband, wife, and children three, — 
 (One is lost, — an angel, tied 
 To the azure overhead!) 
 
 Touch us gently. Time ! 
 
 We Ve not proud nor soaring wings ; 
 Our andiition, our content, 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 Humble voyagers are we, 
 O'er life's dim, unsounded sea, 
 Seeking only some calm clime; — 
 Touch us gcTitly, gentle Time ! 
 
 A PRAYER IN SICKNESS. 
 
 Send down thy winged angel, God ! 
 
 Amid this night so wild ; 
 And bid him come where now we watch, 
 
 And breathe upon our child !
 
 180 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 She lies upon her pillow, pale, 
 And nioans within her sleep, 
 
 Or wakeneth with a jiatient smile, 
 And striveth not to weep. 
 
 How gentle and how good a child 
 Slie is, we know too well, 
 
 Anil dearer to iier parents' hearts 
 Than our weak words can tell. 
 
 AVelovp, — we watcli throughout the night 
 
 To aiil, when need may be ; 
 We hope, — and have <lespaired, at times, 
 
 But now we turn to thee ! 
 
 Send (low7i thy sweet-souled angel, God ! 
 
 Anii<l tin' darkness wild, 
 And hid him soothe our souls to-night, 
 
 Ami heal our gentle child ! 
 
 RICHARD MOXCKTON MILXES 
 (LORD HOUGHTON). 
 
 THE BROOKSIDE. 
 
 I WANPEnKn by the brookside, 
 
 I wandered by the mill ; 
 
 ] could not hear the brook flow, — 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 
 TlnM-e was no burr of grasshopper, 
 
 No chirp of any bird, 
 
 l>ut tlie beating of my own heart 
 
 "Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm -tree ; 
 
 ] watched the long, long shade, 
 
 And, as it grew still longer, 
 
 1 did 7H)t feel alV.dd ; 
 
 ¥ov 1 listened for a footfall, 
 
 I listened for a word, — 
 
 But tlie beating of my own heart 
 
 AVas all the sound I lieard. 
 
 He came not, — no, he came not, — 
 The ingiit came on alone, ^ — 
 The little stars sat one by one. 
 Each on his golden throne; 
 The evening wind passed by my cheek. 
 The leaves above were stirred, — 
 P>(\t the Iteating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I jieard. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing, 
 When something stood behind ; 
 A hand was on my shoulder, —   
 1 knew its touch was kind : 
 It drew me nearer, — nearer, — 
 We did not speak one word, 
 For the beating of our own hearts 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 THE MEN OF OLD. 
 
 I KNOW not that the men of old 
 
 Were better than men now. 
 Of heart more kind, ot hand more bold. 
 
 Of more ingenuous l)row ; 
 I heed not those who pine for force 
 
 A ghost of time to raise. 
 As if they thus could check the course 
 
 Of these appointed days. 
 
 Still is it true and over-true. 
 
 That I delight to <dose 
 This book of life self-wise and new, 
 
 And let my thoughts repose 
 On all that humble happiness 
 
 The world lias since foregone, — 
 The daylight of contentedness 
 
 That on those faces shone ! 
 
 With rights, though not too closely 
 scanned. 
 
 Enjoyed as far as known, — 
 With will, by no leverse unmanned, — 
 
 With pulse of even tone, — 
 They from to-day and from to-night 
 
 E.xpected nothing more 
 Than yesterday and yesternight 
 
 Had proffered them before. 
 
 • 
 
 To them was life a simple art 
 
 Of duties to be done, 
 A game where each man took his part, 
 
 A race where all must run ; 
 A battle whosi^ great selienie and scope 
 
 They litth? cared to know. 
 Content, as men-nt-arms, to cope 
 
 Each with his fronting foe. 
 
 Man now his virtue's diadem 
 Puts rui, and proudly wears, — 
 
 Great thoughts, great feelings, came to 
 them, 
 I>ike instincts unawares; 
 
 Blending their souls' sublimest needs 
 With tasks of every day,
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 181 
 
 They went about their gravest deeds, 
 As noble boys at play. 
 
 A man's best things are nearest him, 
 
 Lie close about his feet ; 
 It is the distant and the dim 
 
 That we are sick to greet : 
 For Howers that grow our hands be- 
 neath 
 
 We struggle and aspire, — 
 Our hearts must die, except they breathe 
 
 The air of fresh desire. 
 
 But, brothers, who up reason's hill 
 
 Advance with hopeful cheer, — 
 0, loiter not, those heights are chill, 
 
 As chill as they are clear; 
 And still restrain your haughty gaze 
 
 The loftier that ye go, 
 Eemembering distance leaves a haze 
 
 On all that lies below. 
 
 THE PALM AND THE PINE. 
 
 Beneath an Indian palm a girl 
 
 Of other blood reposes ; 
 Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl, 
 
 Amid that wild of roses. 
 
 Beside a northern j)ine a boy 
 
 Is leaning fancy-hound, 
 Nor listens where with noisy joy 
 
 Awaits the impatient hound. 
 
 • 
 Cool grows the sick and feverish calm. 
 
 Relaxed the frosty twine, — 
 The pine-tree dreameth of the palm. 
 
 The palm-tree of the pine. 
 
 As soon shall nature interlace 
 Those dimly visioned boughs, 
 
 As these young lovers face to face 
 Renew their early vows ! 
 
 MARY HOWITT. 
 
 TIBBIE INGLIS. 
 
 Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! 
 
 Through sun and stormy weather, 
 Sh" kept upon the broomv liills 
 
 Her father's flock together. 
 
 Sixteen sximmers had she seen, — 
 
 A rosebud just unsealing; 
 Witltout sorrow, without fear, 
 
 In her mountain shealing. 
 
 « 
 She was made for happy thoughts, 
 
 For playful wit and laughter; 
 Singing on the hills alone. 
 
 With echo siniiiiifr after. 
 
 She had hair as deeply black 
 
 As the cloud of thunder; 
 She had brows so beautiful. 
 
 And dark eyes flashing under. 
 
 Bright and witty shepherd-girl, 
 
 Beside a mountain water, 
 I found hei', w hom a king himself 
 
 Would jiroiully call his diiughter. 
 
 She was sitting 'mong the crags. 
 Wild and mossed and hoary; 
 
 Reading in an* ancient book 
 Some old martyr story. 
 
 Tears were starting to her eyes. 
 Solemn thought was o'er her ; 
 
 When she saw in that lone place 
 A stranger stand before her. 
 
 Crimson was her sunny cheek, 
 And her lips seemed moving 
 
 With the beatings of her heart; — 
 How could 1 help loving? 
 
 On a crag I sat me down. 
 Upon the mountain hoary. 
 
 And made her read again to me 
 That old pathetic story. 
 
 Then she sang me mountain songs, 
 
 Till the air was ringing 
 With her clear and warbling voice, 
 
 Like a skylark singing. 
 
 And when eve came on at length, 
 Among the blooming heatlier. 
 
 We herded on the mountain-side 
 Her father's flock together. 
 
 And near unto her father's house 
 I said "Good niglit!" with sorroAV, 
 
 And inly wished that I might say, 
 "We '11 meet again to-moriow." 
 
 I watched her tripping to her home ; 
 1 saw her meet her mother.
 
 182 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 "Among a thousand maids," I cried, 
 "There is not such another!" 
 
 I wandered to mj' scholar's home. 
 It loueSonie looked and dreary; 
 
 I tijok niy hooks, hut could not read, 
 Methouglit that I was weary. 
 
 I laid me down upon my hed, 
 My licart witli sadness laden ; 
 
 I dreamed hut of the mountain wold. 
 And of the mountain maiden. 
 
 1 saw her of tlie ancient hook 
 Tlie pages turning slowly ; 
 I saw her lovely crimson cheek, 
 ' And dark eye droojnng lowly. 
 
 The di-eam was like the day's delight, 
 A life i)f pain's ()'er]>ayment : 
 
 I rose, and with unwonteil care, 
 Put on my Sahhath raiment. 
 
 To none I told my secret thoughts, 
 
 Not even to my mother, 
 Nor to the fiiend wiio, from my youth, 
 
 Was dear as is a brother. 
 
 I got me to the hills again ; 
 
 Th.i little Mock w;is feeding: 
 And thiMe young Til)hie Inglis sat, 
 
 Dut not the old book reailing. 
 
 She sat as if absorbing thought 
 With heav\' s{)ells liad bound her, 
 
 As silent as the mossy crags 
 
 Ujion the mountains r(jund her. 
 
 I thought not of my Sabbath dress; 
 
 I thougiit not of my learning: 
 1 tiiought but of the gentle maid 
 
 Who, I believed, was mourning. 
 
 Koniiy Tibbie Inglis! 
 
 Ijiiw licr beauty Itrightencd, 
 Loolung at me, half abashed, 
 
 With eyes that Hamed and lightened ! 
 
 Tliere was no sorrow, then I saw. 
 There was no thought of sadness: 
 
 life ! what after-joy bast thou 
 Like love's lirst c<;rtain gladness? 
 
 1 sat me down among the crags, 
 
 Upon the mountain hoary; 
 l»\it read not then tin- aneient hook, — 
 Love was oui' i)leasant story. 
 
 And then she sang me songs again. 
 Old songs of love and sorrow ; 
 
 For our sutficient hai)piness 
 
 Great charm from woe could borrow. 
 
 And many hours we talked in joy, 
 Yet too much blessed for laughter : 
 
 I was a happy man that day, 
 And hajjpy ever after ! 
 
 WILLIAM HOWITT. 
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW. 
 
 AxD is the swallow gone? 
 
 Who beheld it? 
 
 Which way sailed it ? 
 Farewell bade it none ? 
 
 No mortal saw it go; — 
 
 But who doth hear 
 
 its summei- cheer 
 As it flitteth to and fro ? 
 
 So the freed spirit flies ! 
 
 From its surrounding clay 
 
 It steals away 
 Like the swallow from the skies. 
 
 "Whither? wherefore doth it go? 
 
 'T is all unknown ; 
 
 .We fe(d alone 
 That a void is left below. 
 
 WILLIAM LAIDLAW. 
 
 [17S0-1S45.] 
 
 LUCY'S FLITTIN'. 
 
 'T \V.\s when the wan leaf frae the birk- 
 
 tree was fa'in, 
 And Martinmas dowie had wound up 
 
 the year, 
 That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her 
 
 a' in 't, 
 And left her auld maisterand ncibours 
 
 sae dear : 
 For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the 
 
 sinnuer ;
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 183 
 
 She cam there afore the bloom cam on 
 
 the pea; 
 An orphan was she, and they had been 
 
 gude till her. 
 Sure that was the thing broeht the 
 
 tear to her ee. 
 
 She gaed by the stable where Jamie was 
 stannin' f 
 Eicht sair was his kind lieart her 
 fhttin' to see. 
 "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo' Jamie, and 
 ran in ; 
 The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae 
 her ee. 
 As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' 
 her flittin', 
 "Fare ye weel, Lucy !" was ilka bird's 
 sang ; 
 She heard the craw sayin 't, high on tlie 
 trees sittin', 
 And the robin was chirpin 't the brown 
 leaves aniaug. 
 
 "0, what is 't that pits my puir heart in 
 a flutter ? 
 And what gars the tears come sae fast 
 to my ee ? 
 If I wasna ettled to be ony better, 
 
 Tlieii what gars me wish ony better to 
 be? 
 I 'm just like a lammie that h.ses its 
 niither; 
 Nae niither or friend the puir lannnie 
 can see ; 
 I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'therrither, 
 Nae wonder tlie tear fa's sae fast frae 
 my ee. 
 
 " Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae rowed up 
 the ribbon. 
 The bonnie blue ribbon tliat Jamie gae 
 me ; 
 Yestreen, when lie gae me 't, and saw I 
 was sabbiii', 
 I '11 never forget the wae blink o' his ee. 
 Though now he .said naethiiig but 'Fare 
 ye weel, Lucy ! ' 
 It made me I neither could speak, 
 hear, nor see : 
 He couldiia say mair but just, ' Fare j'e 
 weel, Lucy ! ' 
 Yet that 1 will mind till the day that 
 I dee." 
 
 The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when 
 it 's droukit ; 
 
 The hare likes the brake and the braird 
 on the lea ; 
 But Lucy likes Jamie; — she turned and 
 she lookit, 
 She thoclit the dear place she wad 
 never mair see.. 
 Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie 
 and cheerless ! 
 And weel may he greet on the bank o' 
 the burn ! 
 For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and 
 peerless. 
 Lies cauld in her grave, and will never 
 return ! 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 SUMMER DAYS. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long, 
 We walked together in tlie wood ; 
 
 Our heart wasliglit, ourstejjwasstrong. 
 Sweet flutterings were in our blood, 
 
 In summei', when the days were long. 
 
 We strayed from morn till evening 
 came ; 
 We gathered flowers, and wove us 
 
 crowns; 
 • We walked mid floppies red as tiame. 
 Or sat \\\)on the yellow downs ; 
 
 And always wished our life the .'ame. 
 
 In sunnner, when the days were long, 
 We leaped the hedge-i'Ow, crossed the 
 brook ; 
 
 And still her voice flowed forth in song. 
 Or else she read some graceful l)ook. 
 
 In sinnmer, when the days were long. 
 
 And then we sat beneath the trees, 
 With shadows lessening in the noon ; 
 
 And in the sunlight and the breeze 
 We feasted, many a gorgeous June, 
 
 While larks were singing o'er the 
 leas. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 On dainty chicken, snow-white bread. 
 
 We feasted, with no grace but .■^ong; 
 We plucked wild strawberries, ii]^e and 
 red. 
 
 In summer, when the days were long. 
 
 We loved, and yet we knew it not, — 
 For loving seemed like breathing then ;
 
 184 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 We fonnil a heavon in every s])ot ; 
 Saw aiij^els, too, in all good men ; 
 
 And (Ireamed of God in grove and grot. 
 
 in summer, when the days are long, 
 Alone I wander, muse alone. 
 
 I see her not ; but that old song 
 Under the I'ragiant wind is blown, 
 
 In summer, when the days are long. 
 
 Alone I wiinder in the wood : 
 But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; 
 
 Ami half I see, so glad and good, 
 The honest daylight of her eyes, 
 
 That ohanned nie under earlier skies. 
 
 In summer, when the days are long, 
 I love her as we loved of old. 
 
 My lieart is light, my step is strong; 
 For love biings back those hours of 
 gold, 
 
 In summer, when the days are long. 
 
 riiAXCES BROWNE. 
 
 LOSSES. 
 
 Upnx the white sea-sand 
 There sat a ]>ilgrim band. 
 Telling the losses that their lives had 
 known ; 
 "While evening waned away 
 From breezy clifraiid bay. 
 And the strong tides went out with weary 
 moan. 
 
 One spake, with quiverinj^ lip, 
 Of a fair freighteii shif). 
 With all his household to the deep gone 
 down ; 
 But one hiid wilder woe, — 
 For a fair fiee, long ago 
 Lost in the darker depths of a great 
 town. 
 
 There were who mourned their 
 
 youth 
 With a most loving ruth, 
 For its brave hopes and mcmoiies ever 
 green ; 
 And one upon the west 
 Turned an eye thiit would not rest, 
 For far-otf hills whereon its joys had 
 been. 
 
 Some talked of vanished gold. 
 Some of [>roud honors told, 
 Some spake of friends that were their 
 trust no more ; 
 And one of a green grave. 
 Beside a foreign wave. 
 That made him sit so lonely on the 
 shore. 
 
 • 
 
 But when their tales were done, 
 There spake among them one, 
 
 A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free : 
 "Sad losses have ye met, 
 But mine is heavier yet ; 
 
 For a believing heart hath gone from 
 me." 
 
 "Alas!" these ])ilgrims said, 
 
 "For the living and the dead, — 
 For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 
 
 For the wrecks of land and sea ! 
 
 But, however it came to thee, 
 Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest 
 loss." 
 
 EGBERT NICOLL. 
 
 [1814-1S37.] 
 
 WE ARE BRETHREN A'. 
 
 A HAPPY bit hame this auld world would 
 
 be, 
 If men. when they're here, could make 
 
 shift to agree, 
 An' ilk said to his neighbor, in cottage 
 
 an' ha', 
 "Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are 
 
 brethren a'." 
 
 I ken na why ane wi' anither should fight. 
 When to 'gree would make ae body cosie 
 
 an' right, 
 When man meets wi' man, 't is the best 
 
 way ava. 
 To say, "Gi'e me your hand, — we are 
 
 brethren a'." 
 
 My coat is a coarse ane, an' j'ours may 
 be fine. 
 
 Anil I mnnn drink water, while you may 
 liriids wine ; 
 
 But we baith ha'e a leal heart, unspotted 
 to shaw : 
 
 Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
 ren a'.
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 185 
 
 The knave ye would scorn, the unfaithfu' 
 deride ; 
 
 Ye would stand like a rock, wi' the truth 
 on your side ; 
 
 Sae would" I, an' naught else would i 
 value a straw: 
 
 Then gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
 ren a'. 
 
 Ye would scorn to do fausely by woman 
 or man ; 
 
 I hand by the right aye, as weel as I can ; 
 
 We are ane in our joys, our ati'ections, 
 an' a' : 
 
 Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
 ren a'. 
 
 Your mother has lo'ed you as mithers can 
 lo'e; 
 
 An' mine has done for me wdiat mithers 
 can do ; 
 
 We are ane high an' laigh, an' we 
 sliouldna be twa : 
 
 Sae gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
 ren a'. 
 
 We love the same simmer day, sunny 
 and fair ; 
 
 Hame ! 0, how we love it, an' a' that are 
 there! 
 
 Frae the pure air of heaven the same life 
 we draw : 
 
 Come, gi'e me your hand, — we are breth- 
 ren a'. 
 
 Frail shakin' auld age will soon come 
 o'er us baith. 
 
 An' creeping alang at his back will be 
 death ; 
 
 Syne into the same mither-yird we will 
 fa' : 
 
 Come, gi'e me your hand, —we are breth- 
 ren a'. 
 
 Save, where the bold, wild sea-bird makes 
 
 her home. 
 Her shrill cry coming through the 
 
 sparkling foam. 
 
 But when the light winds lie at rest. 
 
 And on the glassy, heaving sea 
 The black duck, with her glossy breast, 
 Sits swinging silently ; 
 How beautif ufl no ripples break the reach, 
 And silvery waves go noiseless up the 
 beach. 
 
 And inland rests the green, warm dell ; 
 The brook comes tinkling down its 
 side ; 
 From out the trees the Sabbath bell 
 Kings clK^rful, far and wi<le, 
 Mingling its sound with bleatings of the 
 
 flocks, 
 That feed about the vale among the rocks. 
 
 Nor holy bell nor pastoral bleat 
 
 In former days within the vale; 
 Flapped in the'bay the pirate's sheet; 
 Curses were on the gale ; 
 Rich goods lay on the sand, and murdered 
 
 men ; 
 Pirate and wrecker kept their revels then, 
 
 P,ut calm, low voices, words of grace, 
 
 Now slowly fall upon the ear ; 
 A quiet look is in each face, 
 Subdued and holy fear : 
 Each motiongentle ; all is kindlydone ;— 
 Come, listen, how from crime this isle 
 was won. 
 
 -♦ — 
 
 RICHARD H. DANA. 
 
 [U S. A.] 
 
 (From "The Buccaneer," published in 1827.) 
 THE ISLAND. 
 
 Thk island lies nine leagues away. 
 
 Along its. solitary shore. 
 Of craggy rock and sandy bay, 
 
 No sound but ocean's roar, 
 
 THE PIRATE. 
 
 Twelve years are gone since Matthew 
 Lee 
 Held in this isle unquestioned sway ; 
 A dark, low, brawny man Avas he ; 
 Hislaw, — "Itisniy way." 
 Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light 
 
 broke 
 From small gray eyes ; his laugh a triumph 
 spoke. 
 
 Cruel of heart and strong of arm. 
 
 Loud in his sjiort and keen for spoil. 
 He little recked of good f)r harm. 
 Fierce both in mirth and toil ; 
 Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there 
 
 were ; 
 Speak mildly, when he would, or look in 
 fear.
 
 186 
 
 SONGS OF THEEE CENTCTRIES. 
 
 Aniiil tlie u]iroar of tlic storm. 
 
 And by the lightning's sharp, red 
 
 Were sevn Lee's face and sturdy form ; 
 His axe glanced (^uick in air: 
 Whose cori)se at morn is floating in the 
 
 sedge ? 
 There 's blood and hair, Mat, on thy axe's 
 edge. 
 
 THE SPECTRE HORSE. 
 
 Hk 's now upon the spectre's back. 
 
 With rein of silk and curb of gold. 
 'Tis fearful speed! — the rein is slack 
 Within iiis senseless hold ; 
 Upborne by an" unseen poyer, he onward 
 
 rides, 
 Yet touches not the shadow -beast he 
 strides. 
 
 He goes with speed ; he goes with dread ! 
 And now they 're on the hanging 
 steep ! 
 And, now ! the living and the dead, 
 They '11 make the horrid leap ! 
 The horse stops short; — his feet are on 
 
 the verge. 
 He stands, like marble, high above the 
 surge. 
 
 And, nigh, the tall ship yet burns on. 
 With red, hot spars, and crackling 
 flame. 
 From hull to gallant, nothing 's gone. 
 She burns, and yet 's the same ! 
 Her hot, red flame is beating, all the 
 
 night. 
 On man and horse, in their cold, phos- 
 phor light. 
 
 Through that cold light the fearful man 
 
 Sits looking on the burning ship. 
 He ne'er again will curse and ban. 
 How fast he moves the lip ! 
 Ami yet he does not speak, or make a 
 
 sound ! 
 What see you, Lee? the bodies of the 
 drowned ? 
 
 "I look where mortal man may not, — 
 
 Into the ciiamt)ers of the deep. 
 I see tiie dead, long, long foigot ; 
 I see thi-m in their sleep. 
 A dreadful jiowcr is mine, whirh none 
 
 can kn<iw 
 Save he who leagues his soul with death 
 and woe." 
 
 Thou mild, sad mother, — waning moon, 
 
 Thy last, low, melancholy ray 
 Shine's toward him. Quit him not so 
 soon 1 
 Mother, in nuM'cy, stay ! 
 Despair and death are with him; and 
 
 canst thou. 
 With that kind, earthward look, go leave 
 him now ? 
 
 0, tluni wast born for things of love ; 
 
 Making more lovely in thy shine 
 Whate'er tlio\i look'st on.' Stars above, 
 In that soft light of thine. 
 Burn softer ; earth, in silvery veil, seems 
 
 heaven. 
 Thou 'rt going down ! — hast left him 
 un forgiven ! 
 
 The fiir, low west is bright no more. 
 
 How still it is ! No sound is heard 
 At sea, or all along the shore, 
 But cry of passing bird. 
 Thou living thing, — and dar'st thou come 
 
 so near 
 These wild and ghastly shapes of death 
 and fear? 
 
 Nowlongtbatthick, redlight has slionfi 
 On stern, dark rocks, and deep, still 
 bay, 
 On man and horse, that seem of stone, 
 So motionless are they. 
 But now its hirid fire less fiercely burns : 
 The night is going, — faint, gray dawn 
 returns. 
 
 That spectre-steed )iow slowly ])ales. 
 
 Now changes like the moonlit (doud ; 
 That cold, thin light now slowly fails, 
 Whiidi wrajtpeil them like a shroud. 
 Both sliiji ami horse are fading into air. 
 Lost, mazed, alone, — see, Lee is stand- 
 ing there ! 
 
 The moining air blows fresh on him; 
 
 The waves dance gladly in his sight ; 
 The .sea-birds call, and wheel, and 
 skim, — 
 Vdessed nu)rning light ! 
 He doth not hear their joyous call ; he 
 
 sees 
 No beauty in the wave, nor feels the 
 breeze.
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 187 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 TO A WATERFOWL. 
 
 Whither, midst falling dew, 
 While glow the heavens with the last 
 
 steps of day, 
 Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou 
 pursue 
 Thy solitary way? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's e3'e 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee 
 
 wrong, 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 Of ^\■eedy lake, or marge of liver wide. 
 Or where the rocking billows lise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean side ? 
 
 There is a Power, whose care 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless 
 
 coast, — 
 The desert and illimitable air, — 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fanned-, 
 At that far height, the cold, thin atmos- 
 phere ; 
 Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall <'m\ ; 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and 
 
 rest. 
 And scream among thy fellows; reeds 
 shall bend 
 Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. 
 
 Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my 
 
 heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast 
 given, 
 And shall not soon depart : 
 
 He who, from zone to zone, 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy 
 
 certain flight, 
 In the long way that I must tread alone. 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 THANATOPSIS. 
 
 To him who in the love of Nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, she 
 
 speaks 
 A various language : for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
 Into his darker musings with a mild 
 And gentle symjiathy that steals away 
 Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 
 
 thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shioml, and pall. 
 And breathless daikness, 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 
 
 aionnd — 
 Earth, and her waters, and the depths of 
 
 ail' — 
 Comes a still voice, - — Yet a few da\'s, and 
 
 thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 in air his couise ; 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, to be resolved to earth again. 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering 
 
 ."I'. 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 
 To mix forever with the elements; 
 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
 
 And to the sluggish clod which the rude 
 
 swain 
 Turns with his share and treads ujion. 
 
 The oak 
 Shall send his roots abro.ad, and i:)ierce 
 
 thy mould. 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst 
 
 thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 
 
 down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world, —   
 
 with kings, 
 The powerful of the earth, — the wise, 
 
 the good. 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. — The hills.
 
 188 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Eock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the 
 
 vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness be- 
 tween ; 
 Tlie venerable woods ; rivers that move 
 111 majesty, and tlie coiiipUuiiing brooks 
 That make the meadows green; and, 
 
 poured round all, 
 Old ocean's grayand melancholy waste, — 
 Are but tlie 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 stdl 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, and the Barcan desert pierce, 
 Or lose thyself in tlie continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no 
 
 sound 
 Save hisown dashings, — yet the dead are 
 
 th.'re ! 
 And millions in those 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 
 
 Shalt fall 
 Unnoticed by the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure? All that 
 
 breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. Tlie gay will 
 
 laugh 
 When thou art gone, the solemn brood 
 
 of care 
 Plod on, and each one, as before, will 
 
 chase 
 His favoiite phantom ; yet all these shall 
 
 leave 
 Tlieir mirth iind their employments, and 
 
 sliall come 
 And make their bed with thee. As the 
 
 long train 
 Of iiges glide away, the sons of men — 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he 
 
 wlio goes 
 In the full strength of years, matron and 
 
 maid. 
 Till! bowed with age, tlie infant in the 
 
 smiles 
 And beauty of its innocent age cut off — 
 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy 
 
 side 
 By those who in their turn shall follow 
 
 them. 
 So live, that when thy summons comes 
 
 to join 
 The innumerable caravan that moves 
 To the pale realms of shade, where each 
 
 shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of 
 
 death. 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at 
 
 iiiglit, 
 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. 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Tjie melancholy days are come, the sad- 
 dest of the year. 
 
 Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and 
 meadows brown and sere. 
 
 Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the 
 witli(!red leaves lie dead ; 
 
 Thejs rustle to the eddying gust, and to 
 the rabbit's tread. 
 
 The robin and the wren are flown, and 
 from the shrubs the jay ; 
 
 And from tlie wood-top calls the crow 
 through all the gloomy day. 
 
 Where are the flowers, the fair young 
 flowers, that lately sprang and 
 stood, 
 
 In brighter light and softer airs, a beau- 
 teous sisterhood ? 
 
 Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the 
 gentle ra('e of flowers 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds, with the 
 fair and good of ours. 
 
 The rain is falling where the}' lie ; but 
 the cold November rain 
 
 Calls not from out the gloomy earth the 
 lovely ones again. 
 
 The wind-flower and the violet, they per- 
 
 ishe(l long ago ; 
 And the briei-rose and the orchis died 
 
 amid tlie summer glow;
 
 "WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 189 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the 
 
 aster in the wood, 
 And the yellow sunflower by the hrook 
 
 in autumn beauty stood. 
 Till fell the frost from the clear, cold 
 
 heaven, as falls the jdague on 
 
 men. 
 And the brightness of their smile was 
 
 gone from upland, glade, and glen. 
 
 And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 
 
 as still such days will come. 
 To call the squirrel and the bee from out 
 
 their winter home ; 
 When the sound of dropping nutsis heard, 
 
 though all the trees are still. 
 And twinkle in the smoky light thewaters 
 
 of the rill, — 
 The south-wind searches for the flowers 
 
 whose fragrance late he bore, 
 And sighs to find them in the wood and 
 
 by the stream no more. 
 
 And then I think of one who in her youth- 
 ful beauty died, 
 
 The fair, meek blossom that grew up and 
 fadetl by my side : 
 
 In the cold, moist earth we laid her when 
 the forest cast the leaf. 
 
 And we wept that one so lovely should 
 have a life fo brief; 
 
 Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that 
 young friend of ours. 
 
 So gentle and so beautiful, should perish 
 with the flowers. 
 
 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, 
 And colored with the heaven's own blue. 
 That openest when the (|uiet liglit 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night, — 
 
 Thou cornest not when violets lean 
 O'er wanderingbrooksand springs unseen. 
 Or columbines, in purple drest. 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 
 
 Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
 When woods are bare, and birds are flown. 
 And frosts and shortening days portend 
 The aged year is near its end. 
 
 Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
 Look through its fringes to the sky, 
 
 Blue, blue, as if that sky let fall 
 A flower from its cerulean wall. 
 
 I would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draw near to me, 
 Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
 May look to heaven as I depart. 
 
 THE BATTLE-FIELD. 
 
 OxcE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands. 
 Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
 
 And fiery hearts and armed hands 
 Encountered in the battle-cloud. 
 
 Ah ! never shall the land forget 
 
 How guslied the life-blood of her 
 brave, — 
 
 Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet. 
 Upon the soil they fought to sjve. 
 
 Now all is calm and fresh and still ; 
 
 Alone the chirp of flitting bird. 
 And talk of children on the hill, 
 
 And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 
 
 No solemn host goes trailing by 
 
 The black-mouthed gun and stagger- 
 ing wain ; 
 
 Men start not at the battle-cry, — 
 0, be it never heard again ! 
 
 Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
 Who minglest in the harder strife 
 
 For truths which men receive not now, 
 Thy warfare only ends with life. 
 
 A friendless warfare ! lingering long 
 Through wearj^ day and weary year ; 
 
 A wild and niany-weaponed tliiong 
 Hang on thy front and flank and r?ar. 
 
 Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. 
 And blench not at thy chosen lot; 
 
 The timid good may stand aloof. 
 
 The sage may frown, — yet faint thou 
 not. 
 
 Nor heed the shaft too surely cast. 
 The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 
 
 For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
 The victory of endurance born. 
 
 Truth, crushed toearth, shall riseagain, — 
 The eternal years of God are hers;
 
 100 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 But Error, woumlcd, wiithes in pain, 
 And ilii.'s among his worsliijuiers. 
 
 Yea, tliongh tliou lie n[>on the dust, 
 Wlien tliey who lielped thee tlee in fear, 
 
 Die full of hope and manly trust. 
 Like those w iio fell in battle here ! 
 
 Another hand the sword shall wield, 
 Another hand the standard wave, 
 
 Till from tiie trumpet's mouth is j)ealed 
 The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 
 
 FROM "THE RIVULET." 
 
 And I shall sleep ; and on thy side, 
 
 As ages after ages glide, 
 
 Children their early sports shall try, 
 
 And pass to hoary age, and die. 
 
 But thou, unehangi'd from year to year, 
 
 Gayly siialt ])lay and glitter here : 
 
 Amid j'bung tlowers and tender grass 
 
 Thy endless infancy shalt pass; 
 
 And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
 
 Shalt mock the fading race of men. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 
 
 Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 
 Sat where a river rolled away, 
 "With calm, sad brows, and raven hair; 
 And one was [)ale, and both were fair. 
 
 Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers 
 
 unblown ; 
 Bring forest blooms of name unknown ; 
 Bring liudding sprays from wood and wild. 
 To strew the bier of Love, the child. 
 
 Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, 
 Hi(j eyes, that death may seem like sleep ; 
 And fold liis hands in sign of rest, 
 His waxen hands, across his breast. 
 
 And make his grave where violets hide, 
 AV'heie star- tlowers strew the rivulet's side, 
 And lilueliirds, in the misty spring. 
 Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 
 
 Place near him, as ye lay him low. 
 His iilie shafts, his looseneil bow. 
 The silken fillet that around 
 His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 
 
 But we shall mourn him long, and miss 
 His ready smile, his ready kiss. 
 
 The patter of his little feet. 
 Sweet frowns and stamliiered phrases 
 sweet ; 
 
 And graver looks, serene and high, 
 A light of heaven in that young eye: 
 All tiiese shall haunt us till the heart 
 Shallache andache, — and tears will start. 
 
 The bow, the band, shall fall to du»>t ; 
 The shining arrows waste with rust ; 
 And all of Love that earth can claim 
 Be but a memory and a name. 
 
 Not thus his nobler part shall dwell, 
 A ])risoner in this narrow t^ell ; 
 But he, whom now we hide from men 
 in the dark ground, shall live again, — 
 
 Shall break these clods, a form of light, 
 With nobler mien and jiurer sight, 
 .\nd in the eternal glory stand 
 Highest and nearest God's right hand. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNINa. 
 
 [1809-1861.] 
 
 THE SLEEP. 
 
 Of all the thouglits of God that are 
 Borne inward unto souls afar. 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
 Now tell me if that any is 
 For gift or grace surjjassing this, — 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep" ? 
 
 What would we give to our beloved? 
 The hero's heart, to Ite unmoved ; 
 The ])oet's star-tuned harp, to swee]) ; 
 The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse ; 
 The monarch's crown, to light the 
 
 brows ? 
 "He giveth ///.v beloved sleep." 
 
 What do we give to our beloved? 
 A little faith, all undisproved; 
 A little (lust, to overweep ; 
 And bitter memories, to make 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake. 
 1 sleep." 
 
 ' He giveth His beloved 
 
 "Sleep soft, beloved !" we sometimessay. 
 But have no tune to charm away
 
 ELIZABETH BAKRETT BROWNING. 
 
 191 
 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. 
 But nevei' doletul dreaui again 
 .Shall break the liajipy slumber when 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
 delved gold, the wallers heaj) ! 
 
 strife, curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God strikes a silence through you all, 
 And "giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
 Moie softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Ay, men may w-onder while they scan 
 A living, tliinking, feeling man. 
 Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; 
 But angels say, and through the word 
 
 1 think their happy smile is heard, — 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 For me, my heart, that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show. 
 That see through tears the nuimmersleap. 
 Would now its wearied vision close. 
 Would childlike on His love re]>ose 
 Who "giveth His beloved sleep!" 
 
 And, friends, dear friends, when it shall 
 
 be 
 That this low breath is gone from me. 
 And round my bier ye come to weep, 
 Let one, most loving of you all, 
 Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall, — 
 He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 BERTHA IN THE LANE. 
 
 Put the broidery-frame away. 
 For my sewing is all done ! 
 
 The last thread is used to-day, 
 And 1 need not join it on. 
 Though the clock stands at the noon, 
 I am wenry ! I have sewn, , 
 Sweet, for thee, a wedding-gown. 
 
 Sister, help me to the bed. 
 
 And stand near me, dearest-sweet ! 
 Do not slirink nor be afraid. 
 Blushing with a sudden heat ! 
 . No one standeth in the street ! — 
 
 By God's love I go to meet, 
 Love I thee with love complete. 
 
 Lean thy face down ! droj) it in 
 These two hands, that 1 uva.y hold 
 
 'Twixt their palms thy cheek and chin, 
 Stroking back the curls of gold. 
 'T is a fair, fair face, in sooth, — 
 Larger eyes and redder mouth 
 Than mine w ere in my first youth ! 
 
 Thou art younger by seven years — 
 Ah ! so bashful at my gaze 
 
 That the lashes, hung wiih tears, 
 Grow too heavy to upraise ! 
 I would wound thee by no touch 
 Which thy shyness feels as such — 
 Dost thou mind me, dear, so much? 
 
 Have I not been nigh a mother 
 To thy sweetness," — tell me, dear, 
 
 Have we not loved one another 
 Tenderly, from year to year? 
 Since our dying mother mild 
 Said, with accents undefiled, 
 "Child, be mother to this child !" 
 
 Mother, mother, up in heaven, 
 Stand up on the jasper sea. 
 
 And be witness I have given 
 All the gifts requirecl of me; — 
 Hope that blessed me, bliss that 
 
 crowned. 
 Love that left me with a wound. 
 Life itself, that turned around ! 
 
 Mother, mother, thou art kind. 
 Thou art standing in the room, 
 
 In a molten glory shrined. 
 That rays off into the gloom ! 
 But thy smile is bright and bleak. 
 Like cold waves, — I cannot speak ; 
 I sob in it, and giow weak. 
 
 Ghostly mother, keep aloof 
 One hour longer from my soul. 
 
 For I still am thinking of 
 
 Earth's waini-beating joy and dole ! 
 On my finger is a ring 
 Which [ still sec glittering. 
 When the night hides everything. 
 
 Little sister, thou art pale ! 
 
 Ah, I have a wandering brain, — 
 But I lose that fever-bale. 
 
 Ami my thoughts grow calm again. 
 
 Lean down closer, closer still !
 
 192 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 I have words thine ear to fill, 
 And would kiss thee at my will. 
 
 Dear, I heard thee in the spring, 
 Tlice and liobcrt, throngh the trees, 
 
 When we all went feathering 
 
 Boughs of May-bloom for the bees. 
 Do not start so ! think instead 
 How tiie sunshine overhead 
 Seemed to trickle through the shade. 
 
 What a day it was, that day ! 
 
 Hills and vales did openly 
 Seem to heave and throb away, 
 
 At the sight of the great sky ; 
 
 And the silence, as it stood 
 
 In the glory's golden ilood, 
 
 Audibly did bud — and bud ! 
 
 Through the winding hedge-rows green. 
 How we wandered, I and you, — 
 
 With the bowery tops shut in, 
 
 And the gates that showed the view ; 
 How we talked there ! thrushes soft 
 Sang our pauses out, or oft 
 Bleatings took them from the croft. 
 
 Till the pleasure, grown too strong, 
 ]>eft nie muter evermore; 
 
 And, the winding road being long, 
 I walked out of sight, before ; 
 And so, wrapt in musings foml, 
 Issued (past the wayside pond) 
 On the meadow-lands beyond. 
 
 I sat down beneath the beech 
 Which leans over to the lane, 
 
 And the far sound of your speech 
 Did not promise any pain ; 
 And I blessed you full ami free. 
 With a smile stooped tenderly 
 O'er the May-Howers on my knee. 
 
 But the sound grew into word 
 
 As the speakers drew more near — 
 
 Sweet, forgive me that I heard 
 What you wished me not to hear. 
 Do not wee[) so, do not shake — 
 (>, I heard thee. Bertha, make 
 Good, true answers for my sake. 
 
 Yes, and he too 1 let him stand 
 
 In thy Ihdughts, untouched by blame. 
 
 Could lie help it, if my hand 
 
 He had claimed with liasty claim ! 
 That was wrong perhaps, but then 
 Such things be, — and will, again ! 
 Women cannot judge for men. 
 
 Had he seen thee, when he swore 
 He would love but me alone? 
 
 Thou wert absent, — sent before 
 To our kin in Sidmouth town. 
 When he saw thee, who art best 
 Past compare, and loveliest, 
 He but judged thee as the rest. 
 
 Could we blame him with grave words, 
 Thou and I, dear, if we might ? 
 
 Thy brown eyes have looks like birds 
 Flying straightway to the light ; 
 Mine are older. — Hush ! — look out — 
 Tp tlie street! Is none without? 
 How the poplar swings about ! 
 
 And that hour — beneath the beech — 
 WJien I listened in a dream, 
 
 And he said, in liis deep speech. 
 That he owed me all esteem, — 
 Eacdi word swam in on my brain 
 With a dim, dilating pain. 
 Till it burst with that last strain. 
 
 I fell flooded with a dark. 
 In the silence of a swoon : 
 
 When I rose, still, cold, and stark, 
 There was night, — I saw the moon ; 
 And the stars, each in its place. 
 And the May-blooms on the grass, 
 Seemed to wonder what I was. 
 
 And I walked as if apart 
 
 From myself when I could stand. 
 
 And I pitied m v own heart. 
 As if I held it in my hand 
 Somewhat coldly, with a sense 
 Of fulfilleil bcni'volence. 
 And a " Poor thinij " n(>'rlii'enee. 
 
 And I answered coldly too. 
 
 When you met me at the door ; 
 
 And I only heaid the dew 
 
 Dripping from me to the floor; 
 And the flowers I bade you see 
 Were too withered for the bee, — 
 As my life, lienceforth, for me. 
 
 Do not weep so^ dear — heart-warm ! 
 It was best as it befell ! 
 
 If I say he did me harm, 
 
 I speak wild, — I am not well. 
 All his words \vere kind and good, — 
 He esteemed me ! Only bl od 
 Runs so faint in womanhood. 
 
 Then I always was too grave, 
 Liked the saddest ballads sung,
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 193 
 
 With that look, besides, we have 
 In our faces who die young. 
 I liad died, dear, all the same, — 
 Life's long, joyous, jostling game 
 Is too loud for my meek shame. 
 
 We are so unlike each other, 
 
 Thou and 1, that none could guess 
 
 We were children of one mother, 
 ]jut for nnitual tenderness. 
 Thou art rose-lined I'rom the cold, 
 And meant, veril}', to hold 
 Life's pure pleasures manifold. 
 
 I am pale as crocus grows 
 
 Close beside a rose-tree's root ! 
 
 Whosoe'er would reach the rose 
 Ti'eads the crocus underfoot ; 
 I, like May-bloom on thorn-tree, 
 Thou, like merry summer-bee ! 
 Fit, that I be plucked for thee. 
 
 Yet who plucks me? — no one mourus; 
 I have lived my season out. 
 
 And now die of my own thorns, 
 Which I could not live without. 
 Sweet, be merry ! How the light 
 Comes and goes ! If it be night, 
 Keep the candles in my sight. 
 
 Are there footsteps at the door? 
 Look out quickl}'. Yea or nay? 
 
 Some one might be waiting lor 
 Some last word that I might say. 
 Nay ? So best ! — So angels would 
 Stand off clear from deathly road, 
 •Not to cross the sight of God. 
 
 Colder grow my hands and feet : 
 When 1 wear the shroud I made, 
 
 Let the folds lie straight and neat. 
 And the rosemary be spread. 
 That if any friend should come, 
 (To see thee, sweet ! ) all the room 
 May be lifted out of gloom. 
 
 And, dear Bertha, let me keep 
 On my hand this little ring. 
 
 Which at nights, when others sleep, 
 I can still see glittering. 
 Let me wear it out of sight, 
 In the grave, — where it will light 
 All the dark up, day and night. 
 
 On that grave drop not a tear! 
 
 Else, though fathom-deep the place, 
 Thiough the woollen shroud I wear 
 
 I shall feel it on my face. 
 13 
 
 Eather smile there, blessed one, 
 Thinking of me in the sun, — 
 Or forget me, smiling on ! 
 
 Art thou near me? nearer? so! 
 Kiss me close u]wn the eyes. 
 
 That the earthly light may go 
 \ Sweetly as it used to lise. 
 When I watched the moining gray 
 Strike, betwixt the hills, tlie way 
 He was sure to come that day. 
 
 So — no more vain words be said ! 
 The hosannas nearer roll — 
 
 Mother, smile now on thy dead, — • 
 I am death-strong in my soul! 
 Mystic Dove alit on cross. 
 Guide the poor bird of the snows 
 Through the snow-wind above loss ! 
 
 Jesus, Victim, comprehending 
 Love's divine self-abnegation. 
 
 Cleanse my love in its self-spending, 
 And absorb the poor libation ! 
 Wind my thread of life up higher. 
 Up through angels' liands of hre ! — 
 I aspire while 1 expire ! 
 
 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 
 
 What was he doing, the great god Pan, 
 Down in the reeds by the liver? 
 
 Spreading ruin and scattering ban. 
 
 Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a 
 goat. 
 
 And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
 With 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 a-dying 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!)
 
 194 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Then drew the pith like the heart of a 
 
 nmii, 
 Steadily IVom the outside rinij, 
 Then notelied the poor dry empty thing 
 In holes, as he sate 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 suc- 
 ceed." 
 Then dropping his mouth to a hole in 
 the rei'd, 
 He blew in power by the river. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet, Pan, 
 
 Piercing sweet by the river ! 
 I'liuding sweet, great god Pan ! 
 Tlie 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 num. 
 
 The true gods sigh for the cost and the 
 pain, — 
 
 For the reed that grows nevermore again 
 As a reed with the reeds of the river. 
 
 COWPER'S GRAVE. 
 
 It is a place where poets crowned may 
 feel the heart's decaying. 
 
 It is a place where happy saints may 
 weep amid their praying: 
 
 Yet let tlu! grief and humldeness, as low- 
 as silence languish ! 
 
 Earth surely now may give her calm to 
 whom she gave her anguish. 
 
 poets ! from a maniac's tongue was 
 
 poured th» deathless singing ! 
 O Christians ! at your cross of hope a 
 
 hopeless hanil was clinging ! 
 men ! this man in brotherhood your 
 
 weary yiaths begiiiliug. 
 Groaned inly while he taught yon peace, 
 
 and died while ye were smiling! 
 
 And now, what time ye all may read 
 through dimming tears his story. 
 
 How discord on tiie music fell, and dark- 
 ness on the glory. 
 
 And how, when one by one sweet sounds 
 and wandering lights departed. 
 
 He wore no less a loving face because so 
 broken-hearted ; 
 
 He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's 
 
 higli vocation, 
 And bow the meekest Christian down in 
 
 meeker adoration ; 
 Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise 
 
 or gootl forsaken ; 
 Named softly as tlie household name of 
 
 one whom God hath taken. 
 
 With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn 
 
 to think upon him. 
 With meekness that is gratefulness to 
 
 God whose heaven hath won him, — 
 Who suffered once the madness-cloud to 
 
 His own love to blind him ; 
 But gently led the blind along where 
 
 breath and bird could find him ; 
 
 And wrought within his shattered brain 
 such quick poetic senses 
 
 As hills have language i"or, and stars 
 harmonious influences ! 
 
 The pulse of dew upon the grass kept 
 his within its number ; 
 
 And silent shadows from the trees re- 
 freshed him like a slumber. 
 
 Wild timid hares were drawn from woods 
 
 to share his home-caresses, 
 ITplooking to his human eyes with sylvan 
 
 tendernesses : 
 The very world, by God's constraint, 
 
 from falsehood's ways removing. 
 Its women and its men became, beside 
 
 him, true and loving. 
 
 P>ut though in blindness he remained 
 
 unconscious of that guiding. 
 And things provided came without the 
 
 sweet sense of providing, 
 He testitied this solemn truth, while 
 
 frenzy desolated, — 
 Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only 
 
 God cieated ! 
 
 Like a sick child that knoweth not his 
 
 niotlier while she blesses, 
 And (lri)])s ujion his burning brow the 
 
 coolness of her kisses; 
 That turns his fevered eyes around, "My 
 
 mother! where 's my mother?" — 
 As if such tender words and deeds could 
 
 come from any other! —
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. — ALFRED TENNYSO/ 
 
 The fever gone, with h-ajis of heart lie 
 
 sees lier bending o'er him ; 
 Her face all pale from watchful love, the 
 
 unweary love she bore him ! — 
 Thus woke the poet from the dream his 
 
 life's long fever gave him, 
 Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which 
 
 closed in death to save him ! 
 
 Thus ? 0, not tJiKS ! no type of earth can 
 
 image that awaking, 
 "Wherein he scarcely lieard the chant of 
 
 seraphs, round him brcakii 
 
 K' 
 
 Or felt the new immortal throb of soul 
 
 from body parted ; 
 But felt those eyes alone, and knew "My 
 
 Saviour ! not deserted !" 
 
 Deserted! who hath dreamt that when 
 
 the cross in darkness rested 
 Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love 
 
 was manifested ? 
 What frantic hands outstretched have 
 
 e'er the atoning drops averted, 
 What tears have washed them from the 
 
 soul, that one should be deserted ? 
 
 Deserted ! God could separate from his 
 
 own essence rather : 
 And Adam's sins have swept between the 
 
 righteous Son and Father ; 
 Yea, once. Immanuel's orphaned cry his 
 
 universe hath shaken, — 
 It went up single, echoless, "My God, I 
 
 am forsaken !" 
 
 It went up from the Holy's lips amid his 
 
 lost creation. 
 That, of the lost, no son should use those 
 
 words of desolation ; 
 That earth's worst frenzies, marring lioiie, 
 
 should mar not hope's fruition. 
 And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his 
 
 rapture in a vision ! 
 
 And near the sacred gate, 
 
 With longing eyes I wait, ' 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout, 
 
 And noise and humming; 
 They've hushed the minster bell: 
 The organ 'gins to swell ; 
 
 She 's coming, she 's coming ! 
 
 My lady comes at last. 
 Timid and stepping fast. 
 
 And hastening hither, 
 With modest eyes downcast. 
 She comes, —she 's here, she 's past. 
 
 May Heaven go w ith her ! 
 
 Kneel undisturbed, fair saint ! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint, 
 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 I will not enter there. 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Kound the forbidden ])lace. 
 
 Lingering a minute 
 Like outcast spirits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 
 THACKERAY. 
 
 [1811-1863.] 
 
 AT THE CHITRCH GATE. 
 
 Although T enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 Ofttimes I hover ; 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 MARIANA. 
 
 With blackest moss the flower-plots 
 Weri^ thickly crusted, one and all. 
 The rusted nails fell from the knots 
 
 That held the peach to the garden -wall. 
 The broken sheds looked sad and strange, 
 Unlifted was the clinking latch. 
 Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
 Upon the lonely moated grange. 
 
 She only said, "My life is dreary. 
 
 He conieth not," she said ; 
 She said, "I am aweary, aweary; 
 1 would that I were dead!" 
 
 Her tears fell with the dews at even ; 
 
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
 She could not look on the sweet heaven, 
 
 Eillier at morn or eventide.
 
 196 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 After tlio flitting of the bats, 
 
 AVhcii thickest (hiik did tiance the sky, 
 She drew lier casenieiit-eurtaiii hy, 
 And ghxneed athwart the glooming flats. 
 She only said, "Tlie night is dreary, 
 
 He eonicth not," she said; 
 She saiil, "1 am aweary, aweary, 
 • I would tliat I were dead!" 
 
 Upon the middle of the night. 
 
 Waking she lieanl the night-fowl crow; 
 The cock sung out an hour ere light : 
 . From the dark fen the oxen's low 
 Came to her : witliout hojie of change. 
 In sleep slie seemed to walk forlorn. 
 Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn 
 About the lonelj- moated grange. 
 
 She only said, "The day is dreary, 
 
 He eometli not," she said ; 
 She said, "I am awear}'^, aweary. 
 And I would that I were dead !" 
 
 About a stone-cast from the wall 
 
 A sluice with blackened waters slept. 
 And o'er it many, round and small. 
 
 The clustered marish-mosses crept. 
 Hani by a poplar shook alway. 
 
 All silver-green with gnarled bark, 
 For leagues no other tree did dark 
 The level waste, the rounding gra}'. 
 She only said, "ily life is dreary, 
 
 He conieth not," she said; 
 
 She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 And ever when the moon was low, 
 
 And th(! shrill winds were up ami away, 
 In the white curtain, to and an^l fro, 
 
 She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
 But when the niOon was veiy low, 
 
 Andwild winds bound witliintheircell, 
 Tiie shadow of the poplar fell 
 Upon her bed, across her lirow. 
 
 She only said, "Tiie night is dreary, 
 
 He Cometh not," she said ; 
 She .said, "I am aweary, aweary, 
 I would that I were dead!" 
 
 All day within the dreamy house, 
 Tlie doors upon their hinges creaked, 
 
 The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 
 Behind the monhh^ring wainscot 
 .shrieked, 
 
 Or from tlie crevice peered about. 
 
 Old faces glimmered througli the doors. 
 Old footsteps tnxl the ujipcr floors, 
 
 Old voices called lier fiom without. 
 
 She only said, "My life is dreary, 
 He Cometh not," she said; 
 
 She said, "I am aweary, aweary, 
 1 would that I were dead !" 
 
 The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, 
 
 The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
 Whicli to the wooing wind aloof 
 
 The poplar made, did all confound 
 Her sense ; but most she loatlied the hour 
 When the thick-moted sunlieam lay 
 Athwart the chambers, and the day 
 Was sloping toward his western bower. 
 Then, said she, "I am very dreary, 
 
 He will not'come," she said; 
 She wept, "I tim awearv, aweary, 
 God, that I were dead!" 
 
 "BREAK, BREAK, BREAK I" 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, Sea! 
 And 1 would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 well for the fisherman's boy, 
 
 That he shouts witii his sister at play ! 
 
 well for the sailor lad, 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 To their haven under the hill ; 
 
 But O for the touch of a vanished hand. 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break. 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, Sea ! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 I CT.TMB the hill : from end to end 
 Of all the landscape underneath, 
 I tind no i)lace that does not breathe 
 
 Some gracious memory of my friend ; 
 
 No gi'ay old grange, or lonely fold, 
 Or low morass and whispering reed. 
 Or simple stile from mead to mead, 
 
 Or shee])walk up the windy wold ; 
 
 Noi- hoary knoll of ash and haw 
 That hears the latest linnet trill. 
 Nor quai-ry trenched along the hill. 
 
 And haunted by the wrangling daw.
 
 ALFKED TENNYSON. 
 
 107 
 
 llnwatched, the garden bough shall sway, 
 The tender blossom Hutter down ; 
 Unloved, that beech will gather brown. 
 
 This maple burn itself away ; 
 
 Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, 
 Ray round with flames her disk of seed. 
 And many a rose-caiiiation feed 
 
 With summer spiee the humming air ; 
 
 Unloved, by many a sandy bar. 
 
 The brook shall babble down the plain. 
 At noon or when the lesser Wain 
 
 Is twisting round the-polar star ; 
 
 Uncared for, gird the windy grove. 
 
 And Hood the haunts of hern and crake ; 
 Or into silver arrows break 
 
 The sailing moon in creek and cove ; 
 
 Till from the garden and the wild 
 
 A fresh association blow, 
 
 And year by year the landscape grow 
 Familiar to the stranger's child ; 
 
 As year by year the laborer tills 
 
 His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; 
 And year by year our memory fades 
 
 From ail the circle of the hills. 
 
 DOUBT. 
 
 You say, but with no touch of scorn, 
 Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue 
 
 eyes 
 Are tender over drowning flies. 
 
 You tell me, doubt is Devil-born. 
 
 I know not : one indeed I knew 
 In many a subtle question versed. 
 Who touched a jarring lyre at first. 
 
 But ever strove to make it true : 
 
 Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds. 
 At last he beat his music out. 
 There lives more faith in honest doubt. 
 
 Believe me, than in half the creeds. 
 
 He 
 
 doulits 
 
 and gathered 
 
 fought his 
 strength. 
 
 He would not make his judgment blind, 
 He faced the sjiectres of the miml 
 And laid them : thus he came at length 
 
 To find a stronger faith his own ; 
 
 And Power was with him in the night. 
 
 Which makes the darkness and the 
 light. 
 And dwells not in the light alone. 
 
 But in the darkness and the cloud, 
 As over Siinii"s peaks of old. 
 While Israel made their gods of gold, 
 
 Although the trumpet blew so loud. 
 
 THE LARGER HOPE. 
 
 YET we trust that somehow good 
 Will be the final goal of ill. 
 To pangs of nature, sins of will, 
 
 Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ; 
 
 That nothing walks with aimless feet; 
 That not one life shall be destroyed. 
 Or cast as rubbish to the void. 
 
 When God hath made the pile complete; 
 
 That not a worm is cloven in vain ; 
 Tiiat not a moth with vain desire 
 Is shrivelled in a fruitless fire, 
 
 Or but subserves another's gain. 
 
 Behold, we know not anything ; 
 I can but trust that good shall fall 
 At last — far off — at last, to all, 
 
 And every winter change to spring. 
 
 So runs my dream : but what am I ? 
 An infant crying in the night : 
 An infant crying for the light : 
 
 And with no language but a cry. 
 
 The wish, that of the living whole 
 No life may fail beyond the grave, 
 Derives it not from what we have 
 
 The likest God within the soul ? 
 
 Are God and Nature, then, at strife, 
 That Nature lends such evil dreams? 
 So careful of the type she seems, 
 
 So careless of the single life ; 
 
 That I, considering everywhere 
 Her seci'et meaning in her deeds, 
 And findin'g that of fifty seeds 
 
 She often brings but one to bear, 
 
 I falter where I firmly ti'od, 
 
 And falling with my weight of cares
 
 198 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Upon the great world's altar-stairs 
 That slope through darkness up to God, 
 
 I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, 
 And gather dust and (diatf, and call 
 To wliat I feel is Lord of all, 
 
 And faintly trust the larger hope. 
 
 "So careful of the type?" but no. 
 From scarped cliH" and (iuarrit;d stone 
 She cries, " A thousand types are gone : 
 
 1 care for nothing, all shall go. 
 
 "Thou makest thine appeal to me : 
 I bring to life, I bring to dcatli : 
 Tlie spirit docs but mean tlie breath : 
 
 I know no more." And he, shall he, 
 
 Man, her last work, who seemed so fair, 
 Such splendid purpose in Ids eyes, 
 Who rolled the psalm to wintry skies, 
 
 Wlio built hira fanes of fruitless prayer, 
 
 Who trusted God wa.s love indeed 
 And love Creation's final law, — 
 Tliougli Xatvne, red in tooth and claw 
 
 With ravin, shrieked against his creed, — 
 
 "Wlio loved, who suffered countless ills. 
 Who Ijattled for the True, the Just, 
 Be V)lo\vn about the desert dust. 
 
 Or sealed within the iron hills? 
 
 No more? A monster then, a dream, 
 A disi?ord. Dragons of the prime, 
 Tliat tare each other in their slime. 
 
 Were mellow music matched with him. 
 
 life as futile, then, as frail ! 
 
 for thy voice to soothe and bless ! 
 
 Wiiat hope of answer, or redress? 
 Behind the veil, behind the veil. 
 
 GARDEN SONG. 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud, 
 
 For tiie black bat, niirlit, lias flown, 
 
 ("oine into tiie garden, Maud, 
 I am here at the gate alone; 
 
 And the woodbine spices are wafted 
 abroad, 
 And the musk of the ro.ses blown. 
 
 For a breeze of morning moves. 
 
 And the planet of Love is on high, 
 
 Beginning to faint in the light that she 
 loves 
 On a bed of daffodil sky. 
 
 To faint in the light of the sun .she loves, 
 To faint in his light, and to die. 
 
 All night have the roses heard 
 
 The tiute, violin, bassoon ; 
 All niglit has the casement jessamine 
 stirred 
 
 To the dancers dancing in tune ; 
 Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 
 
 And a hush with the setting moon. 
 
 I .saiil to the lily, "There is but one 
 
 With whom she has heart to be gay. 
 When will the dancers leave her alone ? 
 
 She is weary of dance and play." 
 Now half to tiie setting moon are gone. 
 
 And half to the rising day ; 
 Low on tlie sand and loud on the stone 
 
 The last wheel echoes away. 
 
 I said to the rose, "The brief night goes 
 In liaV)ble and revel and wine. 
 
 young lord-lover, what si if hs are those, 
 For one that will never be thine? 
 
 But mine, but mine," so I sware to the 
 rose, 
 "For ever and ever, mine." 
 
 And the soul of the rose went into my 
 blood, 
 As the music (dashed in the hall ; 
 And long by the garden lake I stood. 
 
 For 1 heard your rivulet fall 
 From the lake to the meadow and on to 
 the wood, 
 Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 
 
 From the meadow your walks have left 
 so sweet 
 
 That whenever a March-wind sighs 
 He sets the jewel-print of your feet 
 
 In violets blue as your eyes, 
 To the woody hollows in which we meet 
 
 And the valleys of Paradise. 
 
 The slender acacia would not shake 
 One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
 
 The white lake-blossom fell into the lake 
 As the jiimjieiind dozecl on the lea; 
 
 But the rose was awake all night for your 
 sake,
 
 EALril WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 199 
 
 Knowing your promise to me ; 
 Tlic lilifs and loses were all awake, 
 They sighed for the dawn and thee. 
 
 Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
 Come hither, the dances are done. 
 
 In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls. 
 Queen lily and rose in one; 
 
 Shine out, little head, sunning over with 
 curls, 
 To the Howers, and be their sun. 
 
 There has fallen a si)lendid tear 
 
 From the passion-flower at the gate. 
 She is coming, my dove, my dear; 
 
 She is coming, my life, my fate ; 
 The red rose cries, "She is near, she is 
 near" ; 
 
 And the white rose weeps, "She is 
 late"; 
 The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear" ; 
 
 And the lily whispers, "1 wait." 
 
 She is coming, my own, my sweet ; 
 
 Were it ever so airy a tivad. 
 My heart would hear her and bent, 
 
 Were it earth in an earthy bed ; 
 My dust would hear her and beat, 
 
 Had I lain for a century dead ; 
 Would start and tremble under her feet, 
 
 And blossom in purple and red. 
 
 BUGLE SONG. 
 
 The splendor 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, dy- 
 ing, dying. 
 
 hark, hear! how thin and clear. 
 
 And thinner, clearer, farther going! 
 sweet and far from cliff and sear 
 
 The horns of Elfland faintly blowing ! 
 Blow, let us hear the purple glens reply- 
 ing: 
 Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dy- 
 ing, dying. 
 
 love, they die in yon rich sky. 
 They faint on hill or field oi' liver: 
 
 Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
 And grow forever and forever. 
 
 Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
 
 And answei-, echoes, answer, dying, dy- 
 ing, dying. 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE APOLOGY. 
 
 Think me not unkind and rude. 
 That 1 walk alone in giove and glen ; 
 
 I go to the god of the wood 
 To fetch his word to men. 
 
 Tax not my sloth that I 
 
 Fold my arms beside the brook ; 
 Each cloud that tloatetl in the sky 
 
 Writes a letter in my book. 
 
 Chide me not, laborious band. 
 For the idle flowers I brought; 
 
 Every aster in my hand 
 Goes home loaded w itli a thought. 
 
 There was never mystery 
 
 But 't is figured in tht; flowers ; 
 
 Was never seciet history 
 
 But birds tell it in the bowers. 
 
 One harvest from thy field 
 
 Homewaid brought the oxen strong ; 
 A second crop thy acres yield, 
 
 Which I gather in a song. 
 
 TO EVA. 
 
 O fair and stately maid, whose eyes 
 Were kindled in tlieii])])er skies 
 
 At the same torch that lighted mine; 
 For so I must inter]u-et still 
 Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, 
 
 A sympathy divine. 
 
 Ah, let me blameless gaze u]ion 
 Features that seem at heart my own ; 
 
 Nor fear those watchful sentinels, 
 Who charm the more their glance forltids. 
 Chaste-glowing, underneath their lids. 
 
 With fire that draws while it repels.
 
 200 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 THINE EYES STILL SHONE. 
 
 Think eyes still slione for me, though far 
 I lonely roveil the laud or sea: 
 
 As I behoKl yon evening star, 
 Which yet beholds not nie. 
 
 This morn I climbed the misty hill. 
 And roamed the pastures through ; 
 
 How danci-d thy form before my jiath, 
 Amidst the deep-eyed dew ! 
 
 "When the red-bird spread his sable wing. 
 And showed his side of flame, — 
 
 "When the rosebud ripened to the rose, — 
 In both I read thv name. 
 
 EACH AND ALL. 
 
 Little thinks, in the field, yon red- 
 cloaked clown 
 Of thee from the hill-top looking down; 
 The heifer that lows in the upland farm, 
 Far-heard, lows not thine ear to chann; 
 The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, 
 Deems not that great Napoleon 
 Stops his horse, and lists with delight, 
 Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine 
 
 height ; 
 Nor knowe-st thou what argument 
 Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. 
 All are needed b)' each one; 
 Nothing is fair or good alone. 
 I thouglit the sparrow's note from heaven. 
 Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; 
 1 brought him home, in his nest, at even ; 
 He sings the song, but it pleases not now. 
 For I did not bring home the river and 
 
 sky; — 
 He sang to my ear, — they sang to my 
 
 eye. 
 The deliiate .shells lay on the shore ; 
 The huV)bles of the latest wave 
 Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; 
 .\nd tile Itellowing of the savage sea 
 (Jreeted their safe escape to me. 
 I wiped away the weeds and foam, 
 I fetched my sea-born trea.sures home ; 
 ]5ut the poor, unsightly, noisome things 
 Had left their beauty on the shore, 
 "With the sun and the sand and the wild 
 
 uproar. 
 The lover watched liis graceful maid, 
 As mid the virgin train she stiayed, 
 Nor knew her beauly'a best attire 
 
 Was woven still by the snow-white choir. 
 At la.st she came to liis hermitage. 
 Like the bird from the woodlands to the 
 
 cage ;— 
 The gay enchantment was undone, 
 A gentle wife, but fairy none. 
 Then I said, "I covet truth; 
 Heauty is uniipe chililhood's cheat ; 
 I leave it behind with the games of 
 
 youth." 
 As I spoke, beneath my feet 
 Theground-jjine curled its pretty wreath, 
 Kunning over the club-mo.ss burrs ; 
 I inhaled the violet's breath ; 
 Around me stood the oaks and firs ; 
 Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; 
 Over me soared the eternal sky, 
 Full of light and of deity ; 
 Again I saw, again I heard. 
 The rolling river, the morning bird ; — 
 Beauty thiough my senses stole ; 
 I yielded myself to the perfect whole. 
 
 THE PROBLEM. 
 
 I I.IKE a church, I like a cowl, 
 I love a prophet of the soul. 
 And on my heart monastic aisles 
 Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles, 
 Yet not for all his faith can see 
 Would I that cowled churchman be. 
 
 Why should the vest on him allure, 
 Which I could not on me endure? 
 
 Not from a vain or shallow thought 
 His awful Jove young Phidias brought; 
 Never from lips of cunning fell 
 The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 
 Out from the heart of nature rolled 
 The burdens of the Bible oM ; 
 The litanies of nations came. 
 Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 
 Fp from the burning core Ijelow, — 
 The canticles of love and woe. 
 The hand that rounded Peter's dome, 
 And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, 
 Wrought in a syd sincerity. 
 Him.self from Ood he could not free; 
 He builded better than he knew; 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew. 
 
 Know'st thou what wove yon wood- 
 bird's nest 
 Of leaves, and feathers from her breast ; 
 Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
 Painting with morn each annunl cell; 
 Or how the sacred itine-tree adds
 
 EALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 201 
 
 To her old leaves new myriads ? 
 Such and so prcw these lioly ]iil('S, 
 ^Vhilst love and terror laid tlie tih'.s. 
 Eartli itroudly wears the I'artlienou 
 As the best fjeiii uiion lier zone ; 
 And morning opes with iiaste her lids 
 To gaze upon tin; Tyranuds; 
 O'er Enghind's Abbeys bends the sky 
 As on its friends with kindred eye; 
 For, out of Tluniglit's interior sphere 
 These woUiUrs ro.-ie to upjier air, 
 And Nature gladly gave them i>lace, 
 Adopted tiiem into her race, 
 And granted them an equal date 
 Witii Andes and witii Ararat. 
 
 Tliese temjih's grew as grows the grass ; 
 Art might obey, but not surpass. 
 The yiassive I\laster lent his liand 
 To tlie vast Soul tliat o'er liim jilanned. 
 And the same power that reared the 
 
 shrine, 
 Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
 Ever tlie iiery Pentecost 
 Girds with one llame the countless host, 
 Trances the lieart through chanting 
 
 choirs, 
 And tlirougli the jiriest the mind in- 
 spires. 
 Tlie word unto the prophet spoken 
 "Was writ on tables yet unbroken ; 
 The word by seers or sibyls told. 
 In groves of oak or fanes of gold, 
 Still floats upon the morning wind, 
 Still whispers to the willing mind. 
 One accent of the Holy (ihost 
 The heedless woild hath never lost. 
 I know wliat say the Fathers wise, — 
 The book itself before me lies, — 
 Old C'hrysostom, best Augustine, 
 And he wlio blent both in his line. 
 The younger Golden Lips or mines, 
 Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines; 
 His words are music in my ear, 
 1 see his cowled portrait deal. 
 And yet, for all his faith could see, 
 I would not the good bishojj be. 
 
 BOSTON HYMN. 
 
 The word of the Lord by night 
 To the watching Pilgrims came. 
 
 As they sat In" the seaside. 
 
 And tilled their he;irts with llame. 
 
 Goil siii.l, I am tired of kings, 
 1 sutler them no more; 
 
 Up to my ear the morning brings 
 The outrage of the poor. 
 
 Think ye T made this ball 
 
 A field of havoc, and war. 
 Where tyrants great and tyrants small 
 
 Might harry the weak and poor? 
 
 My angel, — his name is Freedom, — 
 Choose him to be your king; 
 
 He shall cut jiathways east and west, 
 And fend you with his wing. 
 
 Lo ! I uncover the land. 
 
 Which I hid of old time in the West, 
 As the sculptor unt'overs the statue 
 
 When he has wrouglit his best; 
 
 I show Columbia, of the rocks 
 Which dip their foot in the seas. 
 
 And soar to the air-borne tiocks 
 Of clouds, and the boreal lleece. , 
 
 1 will divide my goods ; 
 
 Call ill the wretch and the slave : 
 None shall rule but the humble, 
 
 And none but Toil shall have. 
 
 I will have never a noble, 
 
 No lineage counted great; 
 Fishers and choppers and ploughmen 
 
 Shall constitute a state. 
 
 Go, cut down trees in the forest, 
 And trim the straightest boughs ; 
 
 Cut down trees in the forest. 
 And build me a wooden house. 
 
 Call the people together, 
 
 The young men and the sires. 
 
 The digger in the harvest-held. 
 Hireling, and him that hires; 
 
 And here in a ]iine state-house 
 They shall choose men to rule 
 
 In every needful faculty. 
 
 In church and state and school. 
 
 Lo, now ! if these ]ioor men 
 Can govern the land and sea. 
 
 And make just laws below the sun, 
 As jdanets faithful be. 
 
 And ye shall succor men ; 
 
 'T is nobleness to serve ; 
 Help them who cannot help again: 
 
 Beware from right to swerve.
 
 202 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 I break your bonds ami masterships, 
 
 And I uucbain the slave : 
 Free be his iieait and hand henceforth 
 
 As wind and wandering wave. 
 
 I cause! fioni every creature 
 
 His j)roper good to flow ; 
 As much as he is and doeth, 
 
 So much he shall bestow. 
 
 But, laying hands on another, 
 To coin his labor and sweat. 
 
 He goes in pawn to his victim 
 For eternal years in debt. 
 
 To-day unbind the captive. 
 
 So only are ye unbound ; 
 Lift up a people from the dust. 
 
 Trump of their rescue, sound ! 
 
 Paj^ ransom to the owner. 
 And fill the bag to tlie brim. 
 
 Who is the owner? Tlie slave is owner, 
 And ever was. Pay him. 
 
 O North ' give him beauty for rags. 
 And honor, South ! for his shame ; 
 
 Nevada ! coin tliy golden crags 
 With Freedom's image and name. 
 
 Up ! and the dusky race 
 
 That sat in darkness long, — • 
 
 Be swift their feet as antelopes. 
 And as behemoth strong. 
 
 Come, East and West and North, 
 
 By races, as snowflakes, 
 And carry my purpose forth. 
 
 Which ncitlier halts nor shakes. 
 
 My will fullille.l sliall be, 
 For, in dayliglit or in dark, 
 
 My thunderbolt has eyes to see 
 His way home to the mark. 
 
 THE SOUL'S PROPHECY. 
 
 All before us lies the way ; 
 
 Give the ])ast unto the wind; 
 All before ns is the day. 
 
 Night and darkness are behind. 
 
 Eilrn witli its angels bold, 
 
 Lovi^ and ilow<'rs and coolest sea. 
 Is less an ancient story told 
 
 Than a glowing prophecy. 
 
 * In tlie s])irit's perfect air. 
 
 In the jiassions tame and kind, 
 Innocence from selfish care, 
 The real Eden wc shall find. 
 
 When the soul to sin hath died, 
 True and beautiful and sound. 
 
 Then all earth is sanctified, 
 Upsprings paradise around. 
 
 From the spirit-land afar 
 
 All disturl)ing force shall flee; 
 
 Stir, nor toil, nor liope shall mar 
 Its immortal unity. 
 
 EDGAR A. POE. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1811 - 1849.] 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Heak the sledges with the bells, — 
 Silver bells, — 
 What a world of meniment their melody 
 foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight; 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhym(>. 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically 
 
 Wfilis 
 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 I?ells, bells, bells,— 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of 
 the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wcnlding bells, 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of iiappiness their harmony 
 foretells! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How tiiey ring out their delight! 
 From the molten-golden notes, 
 
 And all in tune, 
 What a liquid ditty floats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while 
 she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 O, from out the sounding cells, 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously 
 wells 1
 
 EGBERT BROWNING. 
 
 203 
 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells 
 On the Future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To tiie swinging and the ringing 
 
 Oftiie bells, bells, bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells,— 
 To the rliyming and the chiming of the 
 bells ! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells, — 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror, now, their turbu- 
 lenoy tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 They can onl}' shriek, shriek, 
 Out of tune. 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy 
 
 of the tire. 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf 
 and frantic lire. 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire, 
 And a resolute endeavor 
 Now — now to sit or never. 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 0, the bells, bells, bells. 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 Of Despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 What a horroi- they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows, 
 By the twanging. 
 And the clanging, 
 How the danger eb1)s and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling. 
 And the wrangling, 
 How the danger sinks and swells. 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the 
 anger of the bells — 
 Of the bells — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells,— 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the 
 bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells, — 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their 
 monody compels ! 
 In the silence of tlie night. 
 How we shiver with alfright 
 
 At the melancholy menace of their 
 tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people, — ah, the people, — 
 They that dwell up in the steeple, 
 
 All alone. 
 And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone, — 
 They are neither man nor woman, —   
 They are neithei- brute nor human, — 
 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls 
 A pfean from the bells! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the jjsean of the bells ! 
 And he dances and he yells; 
 Keejung time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the ])ffian of the bells, — 
 Of the bells : 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 
 To the throbbing of the bells, — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, — 
 
 To the sobbing of the bells ; 
 Keei)ing time, time, time, 
 
 As he knells, knells, knells, 
 In a hapjiy Runic rliynie. 
 
 To the rolling of the bells, — 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, — 
 
 To the tolling of the bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, — 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the 
 bells. 
 
 EGBERT BROWNING. 
 
 EVELYN HOPE. 
 
 Beal'TIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 
 
 She plucked that piece of geranium- 
 flower. 
 Beginning to die, too, in the glass. 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think, —
 
 204 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTUlilES. 
 
 The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
 Save two long rays through the hinge's 
 chink. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my 
 name, — 
 It was not her time to love : heside, 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim, 
 Duties enough and little eaies, 
 
 And now was (piiet, now astir, — 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares, 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? 
 
 What, your soul was pure and true, 
 The good stars met in your horoscope, 
 
 Made you of spirit, lire, and dew, — 
 And just because I was thrice as old, 
 
 Aud our paths in the world diverged 
 so wide, 
 Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 
 
 We were fellow mortals, naught beside ? 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant as miglity to make. 
 And creates the love to reward tlielove, — 
 
 I claim you still, formy own love'ssake ! 
 Didayed it may be for more lives yet, 
 
 Tluough worlds I shall traverse, not a 
 few, — 
 Mu( h is to learn and much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 But the time will come, — at last it will. 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I 
 shall say. 
 In the lower earth, in the years long still, 
 Tliat body and soul so pure and gay? 
 Why your hair was amber, 1 shall divine. 
 And vour mouth of your own gera- 
 nmm s red, — 
 And what you would do with me, in fine. 
 In the new life come in the old one's 
 stead. 
 
 I have lived, I shall say, so much since 
 then. 
 
 Given up myself so many times. 
 Gained me the gains of various iin'ii, 
 
 Kansacked the ages, spoiled the 
 climes ; 
 Vet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 
 
 Hither I niissed or itself missed me — 
 And 1 want and find you, Ev(dyn Hojie! 
 
 What is the issue ? let us see ! 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all tlie while ; 
 
 My heart seemed full as it could hold, — 
 There was place and to spare for the frank 
 young smile 
 And the retl young mouth and the 
 hair's young gold. 
 So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to 
 keep, — 
 See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 
 There, that is our secret ! go to sleep; 
 You will wake, aud remember, and 
 understand. 
 
 RABBI BEN EZRA. 
 
 Grow old along with me ! 
 
 The best is yet to be. 
 
 The last of life, for which the first was 
 
 made : 
 Our times are in His hand 
 Who saith, "A whole I planned, 
 Youth shows but half; trust God: see 
 
 all, nor be afraid!" 
 
 Not that, amassing flowers. 
 Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours. 
 Which lily leave and then as best recall ?" 
 Not that, admiring stars. 
 It yearned, " Nor Jove, nor Mars ; 
 Mine be some figured flame which blends, 
 transcends them all ! " 
 
 Not for such hopes and fears, 
 Annulling youth's brief years. 
 Do I remonstrate, — folly wide the mark ! 
 Eather 1 prize the doubt 
 Low kinds exist without, 
 Fiiushed and finite clods, untroubled by 
 a spark. 
 
 Poor vaunt of life indeed, 
 Were man but formed to feed 
 On joy, to solely seek and find and feast : 
 Such feasting ended, then 
 As sure an end to men ; 
 Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt 
 the maw-crammed beast? 
 
 Rejoice we are allied 
 To That which doth provide 
 And not jiartake, efi'ect and not receive! 
 A s]iark disturbs our clod ; 
 Neai'er we hold (if God 
 Who gives, than of his tribes that take, 
 I must believe.
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 205 
 
 Then, welcome each rebuff 
 
 That turns earth's sniootliness rough, 
 
 Each sting that bids nor sit nur stand, 
 
 but go ! 
 Be our joys three pai'ts pain ! 
 Strive, and hold cheap the strain ; 
 Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never 
 
 grudge the throe ! 
 
 For thence — a paradox 
 AViiicli comforts while it mocks — 
 Shall lite succeed in that it seems to fail : 
 AVhat I aspired to be. 
 And was not, comforts me : 
 A brute I might have been, but would 
 not sink i' the scale. 
 
 What is he but a brute 
 
 Whose flesh hath soul to suit, 
 
 Whose spirit works lest arms and legs 
 
 want play? 
 To man, propose this test, — 
 Thy body at its best. 
 How far can that project thy soul on its 
 
 lone way ? 
 
 Yet gifts should prove their use : 
 I own th.o Past profuse 
 Of power each side, jierfection every turn : 
 Eyes, ears took iii their dole, 
 Bi'ain treasured up the whole ; 
 Should not the heart beat once, "How- 
 good to live and learn ?" 
 
 Fot once beat, "Praise be Thine ! 
 
 I see the whole design, 
 
 I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect 
 
 too ; 
 Perfect I call Thy plan : 
 Thanks that I was a man ! 
 Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what 
 
 thou shalt do!" 
 
 For pleasant is this flesh ; 
 Our soul, in its rose-mesh 
 Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for 
 
 rest : 
 Would we some prize might hold 
 To match those manifold 
 Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as 
 
 Ave did best ! 
 
 Let us not always say, 
 
 "Spite of this flesh to-day 
 
 1 strove, made head, gained ground upon 
 
 the whole!" 
 As the bird wings and sings, 
 
 Let us cry, "All good things 
 Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, 
 than flesh helps soul !" 
 
 Therefore I summon age 
 
 To grant youth's heritage, 
 
 Life's struggle having so far readied its 
 
 term : 
 Thence shall I jiass, approved 
 A man, for aye removed 
 From the developed brute ; a God though 
 
 in the germ. 
 
 And I shall thereupon 
 
 Take rest, ere I be gone 
 
 Once more on my adventure brave and 
 
 new : 
 Fearless and unperplexed. 
 When I wage battle next, 
 What weapons to select, what armor to 
 
 indue. 
 
 Youth ended, I shall try 
 My gain or loss thereby ; 
 Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold : 
 And 1 shall weigh the same, 
 Give life its praise or blame : 
 Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, 
 being old. 
 
 For note, when evening shuts, 
 A certain moment cuts 
 The deed off, calls the glory from the gray : 
 A whisper from the Mest 
 Shoots, "Add this to the rest, 
 Takeitandtry itsworth : here dies another 
 day. 
 
 So, still within this life. 
 
 Though lifted o'er its strife. 
 
 Let me discern, compare, pronounce at 
 
 last, 
 "Tliis rage was right i' the main, 
 That acquiescence vain : 
 The Future I may face now I have proved 
 
 the Past.'"' 
 
 For more is not reserved 
 To man, with soul just nerved 
 To act to-morrow what he learns to-day : 
 Heie, work enough to watch 
 The Master work, and catch 
 Hints of th(! fu'oper craft, tricks of the 
 tool's true play. 
 
 As it was better, youth 
 
 Should strive, through acts uncouth.
 
 206 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Toward making, than repose on aught 
 
 found made ; 
 So, better, age, exempt 
 From strife, should know, than tempt 
 Further. Thou waitedst age ; wait death 
 
 nor be afraid ! 
 
 Enough now, if the Right 
 
 And Good and Infinite 
 
 lie named here, as thou callest thy hand 
 
 thine own. 
 With knowledge absolute, 
 Subject to no dispute 
 From fools that crowded youth, nor let 
 
 thee feel alone. 
 
 Bs there, for once and all. 
 Severed great minds from small, 
 Announced to each his station in the 
 
 Past! 
 Was I, the world arraigned. 
 Were they, my soul disdained, 
 Kight? Let "age speak the truth and 
 
 give us peace at last ! 
 
 Now, who shall arbitrate ? 
 
 Ten men love what I hate. 
 
 Shun what I follow, slight what I re- 
 ceive ; 
 
 Ten, who in ears and eyes 
 
 ^[atch me : we all surmise, 
 
 They, this thing, and 1, that : whom shall 
 my soul believe? 
 
 Not on the vulgar mass 
 
 Called "work," must sentence pass, 
 
 Things done, that took the eye and had 
 
 the price ; 
 O'er which, from level stand, 
 The low wotlif laid its hand. 
 Found straiglitway to its mind, could 
 
 value in a trice : 
 
 But all, the world's coai'se thumb 
 And finger failed to plumb, 
 So passed in making u\> the main accoimt ; 
 All instincts immature. 
 All purposes unsure. 
 That weiglied not as his work, j'et swelled 
 the man's aino mt : 
 
 Thoughts hardly to be packed 
 
 Into a nairow act. 
 
 Fancies that broke through language and 
 
 escaped ; 
 All I could never be, 
 
 All men ignored in me. 
 This I was worth to God, whose wheel 
 the pitcher shaped. 
 
 Ay, note that Potter's wheel, 
 
 That metaphor ! and feel 
 
 Why time s[iins fast, why passive lies out 
 
 clay, — 
 Thou, to whom fools pro[)ound, 
 When the wine makes its round, 
 "Since life fleets, all is change ; the Past 
 
 gone, seize to-day ! " 
 
 Fool ! All that is, at all, 
 
 Lasts ever, past recall ; 
 
 Earth changes, but thy soul and God 
 
 stand sure : 
 What entered into thee. 
 That was, is, and shall be : 
 Time's wheel runs back or stops : Potter 
 
 and clay endure. 
 
 He fixed thee mid this dance 
 
 Of plastic circumstance. 
 
 This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain 
 
 arrest : 
 Machinery just meant 
 To give thy soul its bent. 
 Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently 
 
 impressed. 
 
 What though the earlier grooves 
 
 Which ran the laughing loves 
 
 Around thy base, no longer pause and 
 
 press ? 
 What though, about thy rim. 
 Skull-things in order grim 
 Grow out, in graver mood, obey the 
 
 sterner stress? 
 
 Look not thou down, but up ! 
 
 To uses of a cu[). 
 
 The festal board, lamp's flash, and trum- 
 pet's peal, 
 
 The new wine's foaming flow, 
 
 Tlie JLaster's lips aglow ! 
 
 Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what 
 needst thou with earth's wheel ? 
 
 But 1 need, now as then, 
 
 Thee, God, who mouldest men ; 
 
 And since, not even while the whirl was 
 
 worst. 
 Did 1 — to the wheel of life 
 With shapes and colors rife, 
 Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to 
 
 slake Thy thirst :
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 207 
 
 So, take and use Thy work ! 
 
 Aiiiend what Haws may link, 
 
 What strain o' the stuff, what warpings 
 
 jiast the aim ! 
 My times be in Thy hand ! 
 Perfect the cup as planned ! 
 Let age approve of youth, and death 
 
 complete the same! 
 
 THE LOST LEADER. 
 
 JuRT for a handful of silver he left lis ; 
 
 Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, — 
 J'oiind tlie one gift of which fortune be- 
 reft us, 
 Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
 They, witii the gold to give, doled him 
 out silver. 
 So much was theirs w'ho so little allowed. 
 Haw all our copper had gone for his ser- 
 vice ! 
 Rags — were they purple, his heart 
 had Vieen proud ! 
 "We that had loved him so, followed him, 
 honored him, 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
 Learned his great language, caught his 
 clear accents. 
 Made him our pattern to live and to 
 die! 
 Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they 
 watch from their graves ! 
 He alone breaks from the van and the 
 freemen ; 
 He alone sinks to the rear and the 
 slaves ! 
 We shall march prospering, — not through 
 his presence ; 
 Songs may inspirit us, — not from his 
 lyre ; 
 Deeds will be done, — while lie boasts his 
 quiescence. 
 Still bidding crouch whom the rest 
 bade aspire. 
 Blot out his name, then, — record one 
 lost soul more, 
 One task more declined, one more foot- 
 path untrod, 
 One more triumph for devils, and sor- 
 row for angels, 
 One wrong more to man, one more in- 
 sult to God ! 
 Life's night begins; let him never come 
 back to us ! 
 
 There would be doubt, hesitation, and 
 pain. 
 Forced praise on our part, — the glimmer 
 of twilight. 
 Never glad, confident morning again ! 
 Best tight on well, for we taught him, — 
 strike gallantly. 
 Aim at our heart ere we pierce through 
 his own ; 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge 
 and wait us, 
 Pardoned in Heaven, the first by the 
 throne ! 
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 [v. S. A.] 
 
 PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 
 
 Listen, mj- children, and you shall hear 
 Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 
 On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy- 
 five; 
 Hardly a man is now alive 
 Who remembers that famous day and year. 
 
 He said to his friend, "If the British 
 
 march 
 By land or sea from the town to-night, 
 Hnng a lantern aloft in the belfry arch 
 Of the North Church tower as a sigr.al 
 
 light, — 
 One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; 
 And I on the oyiposite shore will be. 
 Read}' to ride and spread the alarm 
 Through every Middlesex village and 
 
 farm. 
 For the country folk to be uji and to 
 
 arm." 
 
 Then he said, "Good night!" and with 
 
 muffled oar 
 Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, 
 .lust as the moon rose over the bay. 
 Where swinging wide at her moorings lay 
 The Somerset, British man-of-war; 
 A phantom ship, with each mast and spar 
 Across the moon like a prison bar. 
 And a huge black hulk, that was magni- 
 fied 
 By its own reflection in the tide. 
 
 Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and 
 
 street. 
 Wanders and watches with eager ear.s,
 
 208 
 
 SONGS OF THREE GENTUKIES. 
 
 Till in the silence around liim he hears 
 The muster of men at the banaek door, 
 The sound of arms, and tiie tramp of feet. 
 And the measui'ed tread of the grenadiei.s, 
 Marchiugdown to their boats on the shore. 
 
 Then he clinihed tlie tower of the Old 
 
 North Church, 
 I'lV the wooden stairs, with stealth}' tread. 
 To tlie belfrv-chaniber overhead. 
 And stai'tled the pigeons from their perch 
 On the sombre rafters, that round him 
 
 made 
 Masses and mo\'ing shapes of shade, — 
 r>y the trembling laddei', steep and tall, 
 To the highest window in th<; wall, 
 Where he paused to listen and look down 
 A moment on the roofs of the town. 
 And the moonlight flowing over all. 
 
 Beneath, in the churchj'ard, lay the dead, 
 In their night-encampment on the hill, 
 Wra]i|ied in silence so deep and still 
 Tliat he could hear, like a sentinel's tread. 
 The watchful night-wind, as it went 
 Creeping along from tent to tent. 
 And seeming to whisper, "All is well!" 
 A moment only he feels the sjiell 
 Of the ]ilace and the hour, and the secret 
 
 dread 
 Of the lonely belfry and the dead ; 
 For suddenly all his thoughts are bent 
 On a shadowy something far away. 
 Where the river widens to meet the bay, — 
 A line of black that bends and floats   
 On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats. 
 
 Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 
 Booted and spumed, with a heavy stride 
 On the opposite shore walked Paul Re- 
 vere. 
 Xow lie patted his horse's side, 
 Now gazed at the landscape far and near, 
 Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, 
 And turned and tightened his saddle- 
 girth ; 
 But mostly he watched with eager search 
 The belfry-toweroftheOld North Church, 
 As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
 Lonely and spectral and soinbre and still. 
 And lo ! as he looks, on thebclfry'shfight 
 A glinnner, and then a glt^uu of light! 
 He springs to tiie saddle, the bridle he 
 
 turns, 
 But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight 
 A second lamp in the belfry burns! 
 
 A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 
 
 A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the 
 dark, 
 
 And beneath, from the pebbles, in pass- 
 ing, a spark 
 
 Struck out by a steed flying fearless and 
 Heet : ' 
 
 That was all ! And yet, through the 
 gloom and the light. 
 
 The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 
 
 And the spark struck out by that steed, 
 in his flight, 
 
 Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 
 
 He has left the village and mounted the 
 
 steep. 
 And beneath him, tranquil and broad and 
 
 deep, 
 Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides ; 
 And under the alders, that skirt its edge, 
 Now soft on the santl, now loud on the 
 
 ledge, 
 Isheard the tramp of his steed as he rides. 
 
 It was twelve by the village clock 
 When he crossed the bridge into Medford 
 
 town. 
 He heard the crowing of the cock. 
 And the barking of the farmer's dog. 
 And felt the damp of the river fog, 
 That rises after the sun goes down. 
 
 It was one by the Aillage clock, 
 When he galloped into Lexington. 
 He saw the gilded weathercock 
 Swim in the moonlight as he pa.ssed. 
 And the meeting-house windows, blank 
 
 and bare, 
 Gaze at him with a spectral glare, 
 As if they already stood aghast 
 At the bloody work they would look upon. 
 
 It was two by the village clock 
 
 When he came to the bridge in Concord 
 
 town. 
 He heanl the bleating of the flork, 
 And the twitter of liirds among the trees. 
 And felt the breath of the morning breeze 
 Blowing over the meadows brown. 
 And one was .safe and asleep in his bed 
 Who at the biidge would be first to fall, 
 ] Who that day would be lying dead. 
 Pierced by a British musket-ball. 
 
 You know the rest. In the books yoii 
 
 have read, 
 How the British Reg-ilars fired and fled, —
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 209 
 
 How the farmers gave them hall for hall, 
 From hehind each fence and farm-yard 
 
 wall, 
 Chasing the redcoats down the lane. 
 Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
 Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
 And only pausing to fire and load. 
 
 So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 
 And so through the night went his cry 
 
 of alarm 
 To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
 A cry of defiance and not of fear, 
 A voice in the darkness, a knock at the 
 
 door. 
 And a word that shall echo forevermore ! 
 For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
 Through all our history, to the last. 
 In the hour of darkness and peril and 
 
 need, 
 The people will waken and listen to hear 
 The liurrying hoof-beats of that steed 
 And the midnight message of Paul I!e- 
 
 vere. 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
 In whose orbs a shadow lies 
 Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 
 Thou whose locks out.shine the sun, 
 Golden tresses, wreathed in one. 
 As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 Standing, witli reluctant feet. 
 Where the hrook and river meet. 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance, 
 
 On the brooklet's swift advance, » 
 
 On the river's broad expanse ! 
 
 Deep and still, that gliding .stream 
 Beautiful to thee must seem. 
 As the river of a dream. 
 
 Then why pause with indecision. 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 As the dove, with startled eye, 
 Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 
 
 Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
 That our ears perceive no more. 
 Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 
 14 
 
 0, thou child of many prayers ! 
 
 Life hath (piicksands, — Life hath snares ! 
 
 Care and age come unawares ! 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
 Morning rises into noon. 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
 Bil'ds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
 Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 
 
 Gather, then, each flower that grows. 
 When the young heart overHow.s, 
 To embalm that tent of snows. 
 
 Bear a lily in thy hand ; 
 
 Gates of hrass cannot withstaiul 
 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
 Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
 In thy heart the dew of youth. 
 On thy lips the smile of truth. 
 
 0, that dew, like halm, shall steal 
 Into wounds that cannot heal, 
 Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 
 
 And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
 Into many a sunless heart. 
 For a smile of God thou art. 
 
 A PSALM OF LIFE. 
 
 WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOCNO MAN SAID TO 
 THE PSALMIST. 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers. 
 Life is but an empty dream ! 
 
 For the soul is dead that slumbers. 
 And tilings are not what they seem. 
 
 T>ife is real ! Life is earnest ! 
 
 And the grave is not its goal ; 
 Dust thou art, to du.st returnest. 
 
 Was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 
 
 Is our destined end or way ; 
 But to act, that each to-morrow 
 
 Find us farther than to-day. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 
 
 And our hearts, tliough stout aiid brave, 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating 
 1 P'uneral marches to the grave.
 
 210 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 In the -tvorld's hroad field of battle, 
 
 111 the hivouac of Life, 
 Be not like duinh, diiven cattle! 
 
 Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Tnist no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 
 
 Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
 Act, — act in the living Present! 
 
 Heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us 
 We can make our lives sublime, 
 
 And, dei)arting, leave behind us 
 Footprints on the sands of time ;- 
 
 Footprints, that perhaps another. 
 Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
 
 A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 Seeing, shall take heart again. 
 
 Let us, then, be up and doing, 
 With a heart for any fate, 
 
 Still achieving, still pursuing, 
 Learn to labor and to wait. 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 TiTKRK is no flock, however watched and 
 tended. 
 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no liieside, howsoe'er defended, 
 
 But lias one vacant chair ! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying. 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 
 The heart of Kachel, for her children 
 crying. 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 Let us be patient ! These severe aflflic- 
 tions 
 
 Not from the ground arise. 
 But ottentiines celestial benedictions 
 
 Assume this dark disguise. 
 
 We see but dimly through the mists and 
 vapors ; 
 
 Amid these earthly damps 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no Death ! What seems so is 
 transition ; 
 This life of mortal breath 
 
 Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 
 AVhose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affec- 
 tion, — 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor pro- 
 tection. 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclu- 
 sion, 
 By guardian angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pol- 
 lution. 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 
 Year after year, her tender steps piirsu- 
 ing, 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep 
 unbroken 
 The bond which nature gives, 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though 
 unspoken. 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her : 
 For when with raptures wild 
 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 She will not be a child; 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's man- 
 sion. 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expan- 
 sion 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though at times impetuotis with 
 emotion 
 And anguish long suppressed. 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like 
 the ocean. 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feel- 
 ing 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 
 The grief that must have way.
 
 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 211 
 
 SANTA FILOMENA. 
 
 Whene'er a noble deed is wi'ought, 
 Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 
 
 Our hearts, in glad surprise, 
 
 To higher levels rise. 
 
 The tidal wave of deeper souls 
 Into our inmost being rolls, 
 
 And lifts us unawares 
 
 Out of all meaner cares. 
 
 Honor to those Avhose words or deeds 
 Thus help us in our daily needs, 
 And by their overflow 
 Raise us from what is low ! 
 
 Thus thought I, as by night I read 
 Of the great army of the dead, 
 Tiie trenches cold and damp, 
 The starved and frozen camp, — 
 
 The wounded from the battle-plain, 
 
 In dreary hospitals of pain, 
 The cheerless corridors, 
 The cold and stony floors. 
 
 Lo ! in that house of misery 
 
 A lady with a lamp I see 
 
 Pass through the glimmering gleom, 
 And flit I'rom room to room. 
 
 And slow, as in a dream of bliss. 
 The speechless sufl"erer turns to kiss 
 Her shadow, as it falls 
 Upon the darkening walls. 
 
 As if a door in heaven should be 
 Opened and then closed suddenly. 
 The vision came and went. 
 The light shone and was spent. 
 
 On England's annals, through the long 
 Hereafter of her speech and song. 
 
 That light its rays shall cast 
 
 From portals of the past. 
 
 A Lady with a Lamp shall stand 
 In the great history of the land, 
 
 A noble type of good, 
 
 Heroic womanhood. 
 
 Nor even shall be wanting here 
 The palm, the lily, and the spear. 
 
 The symbols that of yore 
 
 Saint Filoniena bore. 
 
 HAWTHORNE. 
 
 May 23, 1864. 
 
 How beautiful it was, that one bright day 
 
 In the long week of rain ! 
 Though all its splendor could not chase 
 away 
 
 The omnipresent pain. 
 
 The lovely town was Avhite with api)le- 
 blooms, 
 
 And the great elms o'erhead 
 Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms 
 
 Shot through \\ith golden thread. 
 
 Across the meadows, by the gray old 
 manse. 
 
 The historic river flowed : 
 I was as one who wanders in a trance. 
 
 Unconscious of his road. 
 
 The faces of familiar friends seemed 
 strange ; 
 Their voices I could hear. 
 And yet the words they uttered seemed 
 to change 
 Their meaning to my ear. 
 
 Forthe one face 1 looked for was not there, 
 The one low A'oice was mute ; 
 
 Only an unseen presence filled the air, 
 And baffled my pursuit. 
 
 Now I look back, and meadow, manse, 
 and stream 
 
 Dimly my thought defines ; 
 I only see — a dream within a dream — 
 
 The hill-top hearsed with jiines. 
 
 I only hear above his place of rest 
 
 Their tender undertone, 
 The infinite longings of a troubled breast. 
 
 The voice so like his own. 
 
 There in seclusion and remote from men 
 
 The wizaid hand lies cold, 
 Which at its topmost speed let fall the pen. 
 
 And left the tale half told. 
 
 Ah ! who shall lift that wand of magic 
 power. 
 And the lost clew regain ? 
 The unfinished window in Aladdin's 
 tower 
 Unfini.shed must remain !
 
 (1 I'll! AM) MASSKY, • 
 
 TO DAV AND TO MORROW. 
 
 II ii:ii Iiojm'kIIiiiI liiiriii'il lil<cMiHrHHiililirrii^ 
 (ill (liiwii the liciivcriH of Kii'i'ilniii, 
 
 Ami liiK! IiciiiIh |i(!iiHli in tin- IIuki 
 W(! l)ilt,cilii'Ht iifoil tliiiri ! 
 
 iJiit iH'vcc Hit, we (liivvii, mill Miiy 
 'riirl'irn 111)1 hjiii^f Irjl, lull Mortow ; 
 
 Wi' wiilk I III' wiMiM iM'Kt to iliiy, 
 
 Till' )ll'lllllisi'l| IiIImI III IIIIIITdW. 
 
 Oiir IiIi'iIh (if Hon;^ (in- hIIi'iiI how, 
 
 TIh'I'i' (III' no lliiwi'i',4 liliiDiiiiii^' ; 
 V'll I ill' Im'iiIh ill IliM IVozcn liuii^li, 
 
 ,\lii| {''rri'ilniii'M Hpiili;^ in riiliilli;; ! 
 Ami l''i'i'i'(|iim'H liili' I'oiiH'M ii|i iiluiiy, 
 
 'i'liiMi;;li \vi' iiiiiy sliiiid in muihw; 
 Ami our ^'iiiiil Ipiiik iil;iimiiiiI lo diiy 
 
 Nliiill IliKit ii;^iiin lo-inorrow. 
 
 'I'liioii^^h itll I III' lout/, iIimK iii;,'lil>i itfyciwH 
 
 'I'lm |m'i>|i1i''h I'i'y aHiM'mli'lii, 
 AihI I'll! Ill in vvi't, willi lilooil iiml Ii'iuh; 
 
 lliil oiir niiM'|< HiiU'i'i'Mmi' I'lnli'lli I 
 Till' I'l'w hIiiiII hill, lori'vci' Hvviiy, 
 
 Till' niiiny (nil in hoitow ; 
 'I'lii' |toW('l'M oC fiiilli iii'ii hI.Ioii;; lo iliiy, 
 
 Mill. llrilVi'tl .lliiill I'liln lo inonow. 
 
 'I'lioiij^li lii'iiilMJprdoil o'lr I III' |iM';l, oiir cyi-H 
 
 Willi Hiiiilini^ li'iiliiri'M j^li.sti'n ! 
 I''i(r lo ! oiir iljiy liiiiHtM ii|) till' .■<jui'h: 
 
 Lnili oiil, yiiiii' Hiilll.s lunl UhIi'Ii I 
 'I'lm worlil ioIIm li'iccilnnrH niiliiiiil, wny 
 
 Ami ri|ir'iiH with Iht hditow ; 
 Ki'i'|t lii'iiil ! wliii lii'iir till' ci'oM.M tii-iiiiy 
 
 Sliiill wi'ur t.iin I'luwii t.o-niormw. 
 
 (• ^'o•llll ! Iliuiii' i'iiiiii'mI, slill ns|piii', 
 
 Willi I'lii'ij^ii'H iniiiioi'lal I 
 'I'll niiiiiy a. Iinivni ol' tjcsini 
 
 ••iir yi'iiniiiiK ii|ii'h h |nirtiil : 
 
 All I llloiij^ji ii^n Wi'iil'ii's liy |||i< wiiv, 
 
 Ami lii'iuli liiviik ill llii' riirniw, 
 Wi' 'II MOW I 111' f^olili'ii ^'niin lo ilay, 
 Ami liiiivrsi I'onii'H 111 iiioriow. 
 
 !'> iilil ii|i lii'ioii' livi'.M, ami all 
 III' liki' a NJicatlii'ii Halnr, 
 
 Ui'iiily III llawli mil at (iml h rail, 
 () cliiviiiry of lalior ! 
 
 Ti'iiirii|ili ami toil a.ri' twirm; find ayn, 
 .loy HiiiiH l.lii' rloml of Moiiow ; 
 
 Ami 't. i.f till' iiiartyriloni t.o-day 
 Urine's victory to inonow. 
 
 JUILN (;. WlirJTlKR. 
 
 fl). «, A.J 
 
 TFfK (JHAVK f!V TTi; I.AKK. 
 
 WiiKiii', till' (iiral. \,n\i<:'H Hiiniiy .siiiiln.H 
 l)ini|ili' I'oiiml ilH liiimliTil i-ili'H, 
 Ami l.lii' motinlaiii'.s i^iaiiitr li'ilj.;i' 
 <'lravi's \]\c vvatiT likr a wril;.,'!', 
 Iiiii;.;ril alMMil.willi Mimiotli, j^ray hIoih'.m, 
 I'l-.l. till! ^iant.'H iiii;;lily lionr.s. 
 
 ('JiiHii lii'.Miili', ill hIiiiiIo ami ;^li'ani, 
 l.aii>/liH ami ii|i|ili',H Mi'lvin .Mlii'ain; 
 Mriviii watrr, iiiomil.iiiii lioiii, 
 All lair llowi'iM its IiiiiiKh ailorii ; 
 Ail I 111! wiioillaiiirM voiiii'H nn'i't, 
 Miii>/liii;; willi i\n lllllrnllll•.'^ Nwi'c.t. 
 
 Ovi'C lowiaml.s rorivHt-!.;ri)Wii, 
 
 Over wati'iM i.sliniil-.Hliowii, 
 
 OviT nilvi'l-Hamlnl ln'arli, 
 
 I.i'af liii'ki'il liay ami misty rnirli, 
 
 Mi'lviii slri'ani ami Inn iiil-lir;i|i, 
 
 Walrli ami wanl tlii' iiioiiiilain i krrp. 
 
 Will) l.lial, Tiliiii rroinli'cli liils? 
 Korr.sl.-kaiHi'i, lunl n' the |ii||s? 
 Kiiif^lil. wliii on I, III' liinlii'ii | iit 
 f'aivi'd lii,^ .savai(i' lii'iii!ilr\ ? 
 I'rii'Hl. o' tlic piiii'-wiioij tiin|ili'^ liiin, 
 i'ri)|ilii't, Hdf^o, or wi/anl ;^'riiii / 
 
 ItiiKfiff'il ty|)i' of |iiitiiiii I 
 
 (iriiii iilililariaii, 
 
 Loviii;^' wiioils lor liiint and |irowl, 
 iiMl<n and hill for lisli and fowl, 
 Ah till' lii'dwn lir.ir Mind and iliill 
 'I'd l.lm ^{raiiil iiiid linnil il'iil : 
 
 Not. for him Ihr Ir.sson drawn 
 From till' inoiiiitain'^ siiiit willi ijiiwn. 
 Slar-risi', moon lisi', IIowits of May, 
 Hiih.si'I'h )iiirpli' li'ooni of diiv, - 
 Took lii.s lili' no linr rroin timnro, 
 four amid siirli ;illliiriH'i' I 
 
 Haply iiiilo hill and I rn' 
 All loo iii'iir akin wiih Im :
 
 JOITNT r,. WIirPTIKR. 
 
 21M 
 
 Hiilo liitii wlio hIuikIh iifiir 
 Niiliirc'H iiiiiivcIh ^rciil,(^Ht, iir<! ; 
 VVIiit llii^ iiMimiliiiii |Mii|il(! Hi'ckH 
 Must, iiiit, rliiiilj tlir lii;^'lifi- pi'iikH. 
 
 Yi't, will) kiiDVVH ill vviiil.cr Uaiiip, 
 Or \[h: iiiidiii^^'lil, of l,)ii^ iiuii)(, 
 VVIiiil, idviuiliii^H I'aiiiL mid liir, 
 Sli'iilili;^ iliivvii IVdiii iiioiiii iiiul hIiii', 
 Kiiidlcil ill Uiiil. Iiiiiiiaii ('liiil 
 'l'lloli;,dil, of ili'stiliy 11.11(1 (Jod? 
 
 Htatc.licHi, U)\v.h\, piitriarcli, 
 
 (ii'iiiid ill i'dIm's (if skill luid liark, 
 
 Wlini .si'|iiilfliiiil iiiyslcricM, 
 
 VViial, wi'iid I'liin-riil litcH, vvci'i^ his? 
 
 Wliiil, hliiii|i vviiii, wlial, drciir linnciil, 
 
 Jluck HcurccI udll' mid cagii! h(!IiI. / 
 
 Now, vvlialc'cr ill' iiiiiy Inivc lii'i'ii, 
 
 Ijovv In: lii'.H as III lur iiii'ii ; 
 
 On Ids iiiDiiMd Mil' |iailriiif{n liniiiiH, 
 
 'I'iicir 111!' Illli^:y i)ll|rjay COIIICH ; 
 
 liuiik nor naiiii'. imr |iiini|i lias lie 
 III till! gi'avo'H diiuioci'airy. 
 
 Tail, lliy Mill- liiis, Niirliiciii lake! 
 Mo.ss-^iown rocks, your siliMici! bniak 
 Toll Uii; Lull', l.liou aiicii'iit trcf! ! 
 'I'lioii, loo, slidi'-worn 0.s,si|ii'i?t 
 Spi'ak, and li'll lis liow and wlii'ii 
 liivi'd and dii'il lids king ol' iiii'ii ! 
 
 Wordli'SM moans I In- nnr.icnt piin'; 
 l^aki; and nioiinlain ^ivi' no si;^'n ; 
 Vain l.o tiari'. Iliis rinjj; of sloni's; 
 Vain tin: Hi'arrli of niiiiiKlinf^ hones: 
 |)ci-|H'Ht, of all iny.sl-crirs. 
 And till' saddi'st, sili'in'c is. 
 
 Nanii'li'ss, noti'ii'ss, rlay with I'hiy 
 Min^dcs slowly day hy day; 
 I'ul soiiirwiii'ii', lor j^'ood or ill, 
 That dark soul is liviiif,' still ; 
 Sonii'wiicrc yid, that, atom's forco 
 Movi's tin: lif^dif poised uiiivcr.si;. 
 
 SIran;,'!' that on his hliiial sod 
 llaiihidls hlooiii, and f^foldi'iirod, 
 W'liili' the soul's daik holoscopi: 
 Holds no starry si^n of hope! 
 Ih the llnseeii with si/^hi at odds? 
 Nature's pity more than (lod's,' 
 
 Thus I mused hy Mrlvin's side. 
 While Uie HUlnliier evelit.ide 
 
 Made the woods and inland sea 
 And the mountains mystery; 
 And t he hush of earl li and air 
 
 SeenieiLthe pause lielore a pravCJI', — 
 
 {'layer lor him, h.i all who rest, 
 
 Mother i'^arth, u|i(iii thy hreiist, — 
 
 haplied on ('hiistian turf, or hid 
 
 In roek-cave or pyramid : 
 
 All who Hleeji, as all who live, 
 
 Well may niid the player, "Korf,dve!" 
 
 Desert-Hinot lured eaiiuan, 
 Knee-deep dust that oine was nuin, 
 I'lal.tle trenehes f^hastly Jiiled, , 
 ( >eeandloors with while hones tiled, 
 ('lowded tomhaiid mounded sod, 
 l)uinlily Clave that juayer to (iod. 
 
 < > t he (^eiieiat ions old 
 
 Over whom no ehureh hells tolled, 
 
 < 'liiistless, lillin;^ ii)) hlind eyes 
 
 To the sileiiee of the skies! 
 
 l'"or the innnmerahle dead 
 
 Is tny soul disipiieted. 
 
 Where he now these silent hosts? 
 Where the eampiii;^-f;round orglioHls? 
 Where the spectral ciuiseripts led 
 To the wiiile tents ol' the dead '! 
 What straii^^e shore or ehartless sea 
 Holds the aw I'ul niysteiy '! 
 
 Then the warm sky stooped to mako 
 
 I )oulilc sunset in t.he lake ; 
 
 While ahove I saw with it, 
 
 Itaii^e on raii;^'e, the moiiiitaius lit ; 
 
 And the eallii and splendor stole 
 
 I, ike ail answer to my soul. 
 
 Ilear'st thou, O otliltle faith. 
 What, to tJiee the mountain saith, 
 What is whispered hy the trees/ — 
 'M'ast on (!oil thy care lor these; 
 Trust him, if thy si;;ht he dim : 
 Doiiht for tlieiii is doiiht, of liiiii. 
 
 "Hliiid must he I heir close-shut eyes 
 Where like t\i<i\\i the sunshine lies, 
 Kii'i-y linked the selfd'or^'cd chain 
 l>iiidinj^ ever sin to pain, 
 Htroii;f tticir |irisondiouse of will, 
 Ihit without He waitclh still. 
 
 " Not, with hatred's undertow 
 Doth the liove Kteiiiai Mow ;
 
 214 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Every chain that spirits wear 
 Cmnibles in the l>reath of prayer; 
 And the penitent's desire 
 Opens every gate of hre. 
 
 "Still thy love, Christ arisen ! 
 Yearns to leaeh these souls in prison? 
 Through all dcjitlis of sin and loss 
 Drops the plummet of thy cross! 
 Never yet aliyss was found 
 Deeper than that cross could sound!" 
 
 Therefore well may Nature keep 
 E(pial faith with all who sleep, 
 Set her watch of hills around 
 Christian grave and heathen mound, 
 And to cairn and kiikyard send 
 Summer's flowery dividend. 
 
 Keep, pleasant Melvin stream. 
 Thy sweet laugh in sha<le and gleam ! 
 On the Indian's grassy tomb 
 Swing, Howers, your l)ells of bloom ! 
 Deep below, as higli above. 
 Sweeps the circle of God's love. 
 
 MY BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Bkneath the moonlight and the snow 
 
 Lies. dead my latest year; 
 The winter winds are wailing low 
 
 Its dirges in my ear. 
 
 I grieve not with the moaning wind 
 
 As if a loss befell ; 
 Before me, even as behind, 
 
 God is, and all is well ! 
 
 His light shines on me from above, 
 His low voice speaks within, — 
 
 The patience of immortal love 
 Outwearying mortal sin. 
 
 Not mindless of the growing years 
 
 Of care and loss and i)ain, 
 My eyes are wet with thankful tears 
 
 For blessings which icmain. 
 
 If dim the gold of life has gi-own, 
 
 1 will not count it dross, 
 Nor turn fiom treasures still my own 
 
 To sigh for lack and loss. 
 
 The years no charm from Nature take ; 
 
 As sweet her voices call. 
 As beautiful her mornings break, 
 
 As fair her evenings fall. 
 
 Love watches o'er my quiet ways, 
 Kind voices s])eak my name, 
 
 And lips that lind it hard to jiraise 
 Are slow, at least, to blame. 
 
 How softly ebb the tides of will ! 
 
 How fields, once lost or won. 
 Now lie behind me green and still 
 
 Beneath a level sun ! 
 
 How hushed the hiss of party hate. 
 
 The clamor of the throng ! 
 How old, harsh voices of debate 
 
 Flow into rhythmic song ! 
 
 Methinks the spirit's temper grows 
 
 Too soft in this still air. 
 Somewhat the restful heart foregoes 
 
 Of needed watch and prayer. 
 
 The bark by tempest vainly tossed 
 
 May founder in the calm, 
 And he who braved the ])olar frost 
 
 Faint by the isles of balm. 
 
 Better than self-indulgent years 
 
 The outflung heart of youth. 
 Than pleasant songs in idle ears 
 The tumult of the truth. 
 
 Rest for the weary hands is good, 
 And love for hearts that pine. 
 
 But let the manly habitude 
 Of upright souls be mine. 
 
 Let winds that blow from heaven refresh, 
 
 Dear Lord, the languid air ; 
 And let the weakness of the flesh 
 
 Thy strength of spirit share. 
 
 And, if the eye must fail of light. 
 
 The ear forget to heai'. 
 Make clearer still the sjiiiit's sight, 
 . More fine the inward ear ! 
 
 Be near me in mine hours of need 
 To soothe, to cheei', or warn. 
 
 And down these slopes of sunset lead 
 As up the hills of morn !
 
 JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 215 
 
 THE VANISHERS. 
 
 Sweetest of all childlike dreams 
 
 In the simple Indian lore 
 Still to me the legend seems 
 
 Of the shapes who flit before. 
 
 Flitting, passing, seen and gone. 
 Never reached nor found at rest, 
 
 Baffling search, but beckoning on 
 To the Sunset of the Blest. 
 
 From the clefts of mountain rocks. 
 Through the dark of lowland firs, 
 
 Flash the eyes and flow the locks 
 Of the mystic V^anishers ! 
 
 And the fisher in his skiff. 
 And the hunter on the moss. 
 
 Hear their call from cai)e and cliff, 
 See their hands the birch-leaves toss. 
 
 Wistful, longing, through the green 
 Twilight of the clustered pines, 
 
 In their faces rarely seen 
 
 Beauty more than mortal sliines. 
 
 Fringed with gold their mantlef; flow 
 On the slojies of westering knolls; 
 
 In the wind they whisper low 
 Of the Sunset Laud of Souls. 
 
 Doubt who ma)', O friend of mine ! 
 
 Thou and I have seen them too ; 
 On before with beck and sign 
 
 Still they glide, and we pursue. 
 
 More than clouds of purple trail 
 
 In the gold of setting day ; 
 More than gleams of wing or sail 
 
 Beckon from the sea-mist gray. 
 
 Glimpses of immortal youth, 
 
 Gleams and gloiies seen and flown, 
 
 Far-heard voices sweet with truth. 
 Airs from viewless Eden blown, — 
 
 Beauty that eludes our grasp, 
 
 Sweetness that transcends our taste. 
 
 Loving hands we may not clasp, 
 
 Shining feet that mock our haste, —   
 
 Gentle eyes we closed below. 
 Tender voices heard once more, 
 
 Smile and call us, as they go 
 On and onward, still before. 
 
 Guided thus, friend of mine ! 
 
 Let us walk our little way, 
 Knowing by each beckoning sign 
 
 That we are not quite astray. 
 
 Chase we still, with bafiled feet, 
 Smiling eye and waving hand. 
 
 Sought and seeker soon shall meet. 
 Lost and found, in Sunset Land ! 
 
 IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 
 Still sits the school-house by the road, 
 
 A ragged beggar sunning ; 
 Around it still the sumachs grow. 
 
 And blackberry-vines are running. 
 
 Within, the master's desk is seen. 
 Deep scarred by raps official ; 
 
 The warping floor, the battered seats, 
 The jack-knife's carved initial ; 
 
 The charcoal frescos on its wall ; 
 
 Its door's worn sill, betraying- 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school, 
 
 Went storming out to playing ! 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 
 Shone over it at setting ; 
 Lit u)) its western window-fianes. 
 
 And low eaves' icy fretting. 
 
 It touched the tangled golden curls. 
 And brown eyes full of grieving. 
 
 Of one who still her stejis delayed 
 When all the school were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little boy 
 
 Her childish favor singled ; 
 His cap pulled low u])on a face 
 
 Where piide and shame were mingled. 
 
 Pushing with restless feet tlie snow 
 To right and left, he lingered; — 
 
 As restlessly her tiny hands 
 
 The blue-checked apron fingered. 
 
 He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
 The soft hand's light caressing, 
 
 And hearil the tremVde of her voice, 
 As if a fault confessing. 
 
 "I 'm sorry that 1 spelt the word : 
 I hate to go above you,
 
 o 
 
 16 
 
 SONGS OF THREE* CENTURIES. 
 
 Because," — the brown eves lower fell,- 
 " Because, you see, I love you!" 
 
 Still memory to a gray-haired man 
 Tliat sweet child-face is showing. 
 
 Dear girl I the grasses on her grave 
 Have forty years been growing ! 
 
 He lives to learn, in life's hard school. 
 How few wlio pass above liim 
 
 Lament tiieir triuni])h and his loss, 
 Like her, — because they love him. 
 
 LAUS DEO! 
 
 ON HEARING THE BFLLS KINO ON THE PASSAGE 
 OK THE CONSTITUTIONAL AMENDMENT ABOL- 
 ISHING SLAVERY. 
 
 It is done ! 
 
 Clang of bell and roar of gun 
 Send the tidings up and down. 
 
 How the belfries rock and reel ! 
 
 How the gieat guns, peal on peal. 
 Fling the joy from town to town ! 
 
 Ring, bells ! 
 Every stroke e.xulting tells 
 
 Of the burial hour of crime. 
 
 Loud and long, that all may hear, 
 King for every listening ear 
 
 Of Eternity and Time ! 
 
 Let us kneel : 
 God's own voice is in that peal, 
 
 And this spot is holy ground. 
 Lord, forgive us ! ' What are we. 
 That our eyes this glory see. 
 
 That our ears have heard the sound ! 
 
 P'or tin; Lord 
 
 On the whirlwiixl is abroad; 
 In the eaitlii|uake he has spoken ; 
 
 He has smitten with his thunder 
 
 The iron walls asunder, 
 And the gates of brass are broken ! 
 
 Loud and long 
 
 Lift till- old e.\i)lting song; 
 Sing with Miriam liy the sea 
 
 He has cast the miglity down ; 
 
 Horse anil ridei' siId^- a"ii<l drown ; 
 "He hath triumphed gloriously !" 
 
 Did we dare. 
 In our agony of prayer, 
 Ask for more "than He has done ? 
 
 "When was ever his right hand 
 Over any time or land 
 Stretched as now beneath the sun ? 
 
 How they pale, 
 Ancient myth and song and tale, 
 
 In this wonder uf our days, 
 When the ciiiel rod of war 
 Blossoms white with lighteous law,. 
 
 And the wrath of man is praise ! 
 
 Blotted out ! 
 
 All within and all about 
 Shall a fresher life begin ; 
 
 Freer breathe the universe 
 
 As it rolls its heavy curse 
 Ou the dead and buried sin ! 
 
 It is done ! 
 In the circuit of the sun 
 
 Shall the sound thereof go forth. 
 It shall bid the sad rejoice, 
 It shall give the dumb a voice. 
 
 It shall belt with joy the earth ! 
 
 Ring and swing. 
 Bells of joy ! On morning's wing 
 
 Send the song of praise abroad ! 
 With a sound of broken chains 
 Tell the nations that He reigns. 
 
 Who alone is Lord and God ! 
 
 THE EVE OF ELECTION. 
 
 From gold to gray 
 
 Our mild sweet day 
 Of Indian summer fiides too soon ; 
 
 But tenderly 
 
 Above the sea 
 Hangs, white and calm, the himter'3 
 moon. 
 
 In its pale fire, 
 
 The village sjiire 
 Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance: 
 
 The painted walls 
 
 Wheieon it falls 
 Transfigured stand in marble trance ! 
 
 O'er fallen leaves 
 
 The west-wind grieves. 
 Yet comes a seed-time round again; 
 
 And morn shall see 
 
 The State sown free 
 With baleful tares or healthful grain.
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 217 
 
 Along the street 
 
 The sluulows meet 
 Of Destiny, whose hands conceal 
 
 The moulds of fate 
 
 Tliat shape the state, 
 And make or mar the conmion weal. 
 
 Around I see 
 
 The powers that be ; 
 I stand by Empire's primal springs; 
 
 And jirinces meet 
 
 In every street. 
 And hear the tread of uncrowned kings ! 
 
 Hark ! through the crowd 
 
 Tlie laugh runs loud, 
 Beneath the sad, rebuking moon. 
 
 God save the land 
 
 A careless hand 
 May shake or swerve ere morrow's noon ! 
 
 Ko jest is this ; 
 
 One cast amiss 
 May blast the hope of Freedom's year. 
 
 O, take me where 
 
 Are hearts of prayer. 
 And foreheads bowed in reverent fear ! 
 
 Not lightly fall 
 
 Beyond recall 
 The written scrolls a breath can float; 
 
 Tlie crowning fact 
 
 The kingliest act 
 Of Freedom is the freeman's vote ! 
 
 For ])earls that gem 
 
 A diadem 
 The diver in th(^ deep sea dies ; 
 
 The regal right 
 
 We boast to-night 
 Is ours through cobtlier sacrifice ; 
 
 The blood of Vane, 
 
 His p)rison pain 
 Who traced the jjath the Pilgrim trod. 
 
 And hers whose faith 
 
 Drew strengtli from death. 
 And prayed her Russell up to God ! 
 
 Our hearts grow cold, 
 
 We lightly hold 
 A right which brave men died to gain ; 
 
 The stake, the cord. 
 
 The axe, the sword. 
 Grim nurses at its birth of pain. 
 
 The shadow rend, 
 
 And o'er us bend, 
 martyrs, with your crownsand palms, — 
 
 Breathe through these throngs 
 
 Your battle songs, 
 Your scaffold prayei's, and 
 psalms ! 
 
 dungeon 
 
 Look from the sk}"-. 
 
 Like God's great e}'e, 
 Thou solenin moon, with searching beam ; 
 
 Till in the sight 
 
 Of thy pure light 
 Our mean self-seekings meaner seem. 
 
 Shame from our hearts 
 
 LTnworthy arts. 
 The fraud designed, the purpose dark; 
 
 And smite away 
 
 The hands we lay 
 Profanely on the sacred ark. 
 
 To party claims 
 
 And private aims. 
 Reveal that august face of Truth, 
 
 Whereto are given 
 
 The age of heaven, 
 The beauty of immortal youth. 
 
 So shall our voice 
 
 Of sovereign choice 
 Swell the deep bass of duty done, 
 
 And strike the key 
 
 Of time to be. 
 When God and man shall speak as one ! 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE. 
 
 A MAN there came, whence none could tell, 
 Bearing a touchstone in his hand ; 
 And tested all things in the land 
 
 By its unerring spell. 
 
 Quick birth of transmutation smote 
 The fair to foul, the foul to fair; 
 Purple nor ermine did he spare, 
 
 Nor scorn the dusty coat. 
 
 Of heirloom jewels, prized so much. 
 Were many changed to chijis aud clods, 
 And even statues of the gods 
 
 Crumbled beneath its touch.
 
 218 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Then aiifirrily the people cried, 
 
 "The loss outweiglis the profit far; 
 Our goods suHioe us as they are; 
 
 "VVe will not have theui tried." 
 
 And since they could not so avail 
 To check this unrelenting guest, 
 They seized him, saying, "Let him test 
 
 How real is our jail ! " 
 
 But, though they slew him with the sword, 
 And in a fire his touchstone buined, 
 Its doings Could not be o'erturned, 
 
 Its undoings restored. 
 
 And when, to stop all future harm, 
 Tliey strewed its ashes on the breeze; 
 They little guessed each grain of these 
 
 Conveyed the perfect charm. 
 
 CHARLES MAC KAY. 
 
 SMALL BEGINNINGS. 
 
 A TRAVELLER through a dusty road 
 
 strewed acorns on the lea ; 
 And one took root and sprouted up, and 
 
 grew into a tree. 
 Love sought its sliade, at evening time, 
 
 to breathe his early vows ; 
 And age was please<l, in heats of noon, 
 
 to bask beneath its boughs; 
 The dormouse loved its dangling twigs, 
 
 the birds sweet music bore; 
 It stood a glory in its place, a blessing 
 
 evermore. 
 
 A little spring had lost its way amid the 
 
 grass and fern, 
 A passing stranger scooped a well, where 
 
 weary men iniglit turn ; 
 He walled it in, and hung with care a 
 
 ladle at the brink ; 
 He thought not of the deed he did, but 
 
 judged that toil might drink. 
 He passed again, and lo! the well, by 
 
 sunnners never dried, 
 Had cooled ten thousand parched tongues, 
 
 and saved a life beside. 
 
 A dreamer drop[>ed a random tliought; 
 
 't was old, and yet 't was new ; 
 A simple fancy of the brain, but strong 
 
 in being true. 
 
 It shone njion a genial mind, and, lo ! 
 
 its light became 
 A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a mouitoiy 
 
 flame : 
 The thought was small ; its issue great ; 
 
 a watch-fire on the hill ; 
 It sheds its radiance far adown, and 
 
 cheers the valley stiU. 
 
 A nameless man, amid a crowd that 
 thronged the daily mart. 
 
 Let fall a word of Ho[)e and Love, un- 
 studied, from the heart ; 
 
 A whisper on the tumult thrown, — a 
 transitory breath, — 
 
 It raised a brother from the dust; it 
 saved a soul from death. 
 
 germ ! O fount ! word of love ! 
 thought at random cast ! 
 
 Ye were but little at the first, but mighty 
 at the last. 
 
 TUBAL CAIN. 
 
 Old Tubal Cain was a man of might 
 
 In the days when Earth was young; 
 By the fierce red light of his furnace bright 
 
 The strokes of his hammer lung; 
 And he lifted high his bi'awny hand 
 
 On the iron glowing clear. 
 Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet 
 showers. 
 
 As he fashioned the sword and spear. 
 And he sang, "Hurrah for my handi- 
 work ! 
 
 Hurrah for the sjjcar and sword ! 
 Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them 
 well. 
 
 For he shall be king and lord !" 
 
 To Tubal Cain came many a one. 
 
 As he wiought by his roaring fire, • 
 And eaidi one prayed for a strong steel 
 blade 
 
 As the crown of his desire : 
 And he made them weapons sharp and 
 strong, 
 
 Till they shouted loud for glee. 
 And gave him gifts of pearl and gold. 
 
 And spoils of tiie forest free. 
 And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain, 
 
 Wlio hath given us strength anew ! 
 Hurrah for the smith, huirah for the fire, 
 
 And hurrali for the metal true !"
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 219 
 
 But a sndden cliange came o'er his heart 
 
 Ere the setting of the sun, 
 And Tubal Cain was fiUed with pain 
 
 For the evil he had done ; 
 He saw that men, with rage and hate, 
 
 Made war upon tlieir kind. 
 That the land was red with the blood 
 they shed 
 
 In their lust for carnage blind. 
 And he said, "Alas! that ever I made, 
 
 Or that skill of mine should jdan, 
 The spear and the sword for men whose 
 
 joy 
 
 Is to slay their fellow-man." 
 
 And for many a day old Tubal Cain 
 
 Sat brooding o'er his woe ; 
 And his hand forbore to smite the ore. 
 
 And his furnace smouldered low. 
 But he rose at last with a cheerful face, 
 
 And a bright, courageous eye. 
 And bared his strong right arm for work, 
 
 While the quick Haines mounted high. 
 And he sang, "Hurrah for my handi- 
 craft !" 
 - And the red sparks lit the air ; 
 "Not alone for the blade was the bright 
 steel made" ; 
 
 And he fashioned the first jdoughshare. 
 
 OLIVER AYENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE LIVING TEMPLE. 
 
 Not in the world of light alone. 
 Where God has built his blazing throne. 
 Nor yet alone in earth below, 
 With belted seas that come and go, 
 And endless isles of sunlit green, 
 Is all thy Maker's glory seen: 
 Ijook in upon thy wondrous frame, — 
 Eternal wisdom still the same ! 
 
 The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves 
 Flows murmuring through its hidden 
 
 caves, 
 Whose strearasofbrighteningpurple rush. 
 Fired with a new and livelier blush. 
 While all their burden of decay 
 The ebbing current steals away. 
 And red with Nature's flame they start 
 From the warm fountains of the heart. 
 
 No rest that throl)bing slave may ask, 
 Forever quivering o'er his task, 
 While far and wide a ciimson jet 
 Leaps forth to fill the woven net 
 Which in unnumbered crossing tides 
 The Hood of burning life divides. 
 Then, kindling each decaying part. 
 Creeps back to find the throbbing heart. 
 
 But warmed with that unchanging flame 
 Behold the outward movitig frame. 
 Its living marbles jointed strong 
 With glistening band and silvery thong. 
 And linked to reason's guiding reins 
 By myriad rings in trembling chains. 
 Each graven with the threaded zone 
 Which claims it as the master's own. 
 
 See how j-on beam of seeming white 
 Is braided out of seven-hued light. 
 Yet in those lucid globes no ray 
 By any chance shall break astray. 
 Hark how the rolling surge of sound. 
 Arches aiid spiials ciicling rouiu). 
 Wakes the hushed sj)irit through thineear 
 With music it is heaven to hear. 
 
 « 
 
 Then mark the cloven sphere that holds 
 All thought in its n)ysteiious folds. 
 That feels sensation's faintest thrill, 
 And flashes forth tliC sovereign will ; 
 Think on the stormy world tliat dwells 
 Locked in its dim and (dustering cells 1 
 The lightning gleams of power it sheds 
 Along its hollow glassy threads ! 
 
 Father ! grant thy love divine 
 To make these mystic tenqdes thine ! 
 When wasting age and wearying strife 
 Have sap]>ed the leaning walls of life, 
 AVhen darkness gathers over all. 
 And the last tottering pillars fall. 
 Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, 
 And mould it into heavenly forms! 
 
 DOROTHY Q. 
 
 A FAMILY PORTRAIT. 
 
 Grandmothe[i'.s mother; herage, Igriess, 
 Thirteen summers, or something less ; 
 Girlish bust, but womanly air. 
 Smooth, square forehead, with uprolled 
 
 hair. 
 Lips that lover has never kissed. 
 Taper fingers and slender wrist.
 
 220 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Hunting sleeves of stiff brocade, — 
 So they painted the little maid. 
 
 On her hand a parrot green 
 Sits unnioving and bioods serene ; 
 Hold up the canvas full in view, — 
 Look ! there 's a rent the light shines 
 
 through, 
 Daik with a century's fringe of dust, — 
 Tliat was a Redcoat's rapier-thrust ! 
 Siu-h is the tale the lady old, 
 Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. 
 
 AVho the painter was none may tell, — 
 One whose best was not over well ; 
 Hard and dry, it must be confessed. 
 Flat as a rose that lias long been ]U'essed; 
 Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, 
 Dainty colors of red and white ; 
 And in her slender shape; are seen 
 Hint and promise of stately mien. 
 
 Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — 
 Dorothy Q. was a lady born ! 
 Ay ! since the galloping Normans came, 
 England's annals have known her name; 
 And still to the tiiree-hilled rebel town 
 Dear is that ancient name's renown. 
 For many a civic wreath they won, 
 Tlie youthful sire and the gray-haired son. 
 
 damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! 
 Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; 
 Such a gift as never a king 
 Save to daughter or son might bring, — 
 All my tenure of heart nnd iiand, 
 AW my title to house and land ; 
 Mother and sister, and cliild and wife, 
 And joy and sorrow, and death and life ! 
 
 What if a hundred years ago 
 
 Those close-shut lips had answered, No, 
 
 When fortli tlie tremulous (piestion came 
 
 That cost tilt! maiden her Xormaii name ; 
 
 And under the folds that look so still 
 
 Till' bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill ? 
 
 Should I be 1, or would it be 
 
 One tenth another to nine tenths me? 
 
 Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : 
 Not the light gossamer stirs with less; 
 l>;it never a cable that holds so fast 
 Through all the battles of wave and blast, 
 And never an echo of speech or song 
 Tiiat lives in the babbling air so long ! 
 There were tones in the voice that whis- 
 
 pereil then 
 You may hear to-day in a hundred men ! 
 
 lady and lover, how faint and far 
 Your images hover, and here we are, 
 Solid and stirring in llesh and bone, — 
 Edward'sand Dorothy's — all theirown — 
 A goodly record for time to show 
 
 Of a syllable spoken so long ago ! — 
 Shall 1 bless you, Dorothy, or forgive. 
 For the tender whisper that bade me live ? 
 
 It shall be a blessing, my little maid ! 
 
 1 will heal the stab of the Redcoat's 
 
 blade. 
 And freshen the gold of the tarnished 
 
 frame. 
 And gild with a rhyme your household 
 
 name. 
 So you shall smile on us brave and bright 
 As tirst you greeted the morning's light, 
 And live untroubled by woes and fears 
 Through a second youth of a hundred 
 
 years. 
 
 THE "VOICELESS. 
 
 We count the broken lyres that rest 
 Where the sweet wailing singers slum- 
 ber. 
 But o'er their silent sister's breast 
 The wild-tlowers who will stoop to 
 number? 
 A few can touch the magic string. 
 
 And noisy Fame is proud to win 
 them : — 
 Alas for those that never sing, 
 
 But die with all their music in them! 
 
 Nay, grieve not for the dead alone 
 
 Whose song has told tiieir hearts' sad 
 story, — • 
 Weep for the voiceless, who have known 
 The cross without the crown of glory ! 
 Not where Leucadian's breezes sweey> 
 
 O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 
 But where the glistening night-dews 
 weep 
 On nameless sorrow's churchyard 
 pillow. 
 
 hearts that break and give no sign 
 
 Save whitening lip and failing tresses, 
 Till Death pours out his cordial wine 
 
 Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing 
 ]iresses, — 
 If singing breath or echoing chord 
 
 To every hiihleii ]>ang were given. 
 What endless melodies were; jioured. 
 
 As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven !
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 221 
 
 ROBINSON OF LEYDEN. 
 
 He sleeps not here ; in hope and prayer 
 His wandering flock h»i(l gone before, 
 
 But he, the shepherd, might not share 
 Their sorrows on the wintry shore. 
 
 Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, 
 Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, 
 
 While round his feet the Pilgrims elung. 
 The pastor spake, and thus he said : — 
 
 "Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! 
 
 God calls you hence from over sea; 
 Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, 
 
 Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee. 
 
 "Ye go to bear the saving word 
 To tribes unnamed and shores untrod : 
 
 Heed well thf lessons ye have heard 
 From those old teachers taught of God. 
 
 "Yet think n(jt unto them was lent 
 All light for all the coming days. 
 
 And Heaven's etei-nal wisdom sjient 
 In making straight the ancient waj's : 
 
 "The living fountain overflows 
 For every flock, for every lamb, 
 
 Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose, 
 With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." 
 
 He spake: with lingering, long embrace, 
 With tears of love and partings fond. 
 
 They floated down the creeping Maas, 
 Along the isle of Ysselmond. 
 
 They passed the frowning towers of Briel, 
 The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of 
 sand, 
 
 And grated soon with lifting keel 
 The sullen shores of Fatherhind. 
 
 No home for these ! — too well they knew 
 The mitred king behind the throne ; — 
 
 The sails were set, the pennons flew, 
 And westward ho ! for worlds unknown. 
 
 — And these were they who gave us birth. 
 The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, 
 
 Who won for us this virgin earth, 
 And freedom with the soil they gave. 
 
 The pastor slumbers by the Ehine, — • 
 In alien earth the exiles lie, — 
 
 Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, 
 His words our noblest battle-cry ! 
 
 Still cry them, and the world shall hear, 
 Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea ! 
 
 Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, 
 Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee ! 
 
 THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; 
 
 OR, THE WONDERFUL " ONE-HOSS SHAY." 
 
 A LOGICAL STORY. 
 
 Have you heard of the wonderful one- 
 
 hoss sliay. 
 That was built in such a logical way 
 It ran a hundred years to a day, 
 And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay, 
 1 '11 tell you what happened without delay, 
 Scaring the parson into tits, 
 Frightening ])eople out of their wits, — 
 Have you ever heard of that, I say ? 
 
 Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. 
 GcoTgins Secnndiis was then alive, — 
 Snufly old drone from the German hive. 
 That was the year when Lisbon-town 
 Saw the earth open and gulji her down, 
 And Braddock's army was done so brown, 
 Left without a scalp to its crown. 
 It was on the terrible Eaith(|uake-day 
 That the Deacon finished the one-hoss 
 shay. 
 
 Now in building of chaises, I tell you 
 
 what, 
 There is always someivhcrc a weakest 
 
 spot, — 
 In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 
 In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill. 
 In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lui'king 
 
 still. 
 Find it somewhere you must and will, — 
 Above or below, or within or w ithout, — 
 And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, 
 A chaise breaks down, but does n't wear 
 
 out. 
 
 But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do. 
 With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell 
 
 ycou ") 
 He would build one shayto beatthetaown 
 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; 
 It should be so built that it could n break 
 
 daown : 
 — "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty 
 
 plain
 
 222 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the 
 
 strain ; 
 'n' the way t' fix it, \\z I maintain, 
 
 Is only jest 
 T' make that jilace uz strong uz the rest." 
 
 So the Deacon iiKiuired of the village folk 
 Where he could tiud tlie strongest oak, 
 That could n't bo split nor bent nor 
 
 broke, —   
 That was for spokes and floor and sills ; 
 He sent for lancewood to make the 
 
 thills ; . 
 The crossbars were ash, from the straight- 
 
 est trees. 
 The panels of white-wood, that cuts like 
 
 cheese, 
 But lasts like iron for things like these ; 
 The hubs of logs from the "Settler's 
 
 ellum," — 
 Last of its timber, — they could n't sell 
 
 'em. 
 Never an axe had seen their chips. 
 And the wedges flew from between their 
 
 lips, 
 Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; 
 Step and pro]t-iron, bolt and screw, 
 Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 
 Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 
 Thorough brace bison-skin, thick and 
 
 wide ; 
 Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
 Foun<l in the pit when the tanner died. 
 That was the way he ' ' |)ut her through. " — 
 "There!" said the Deacon, "naowshe'll 
 
 dew!" 
 
 Do! I tell you, I rather guess 
 She was a wondci-, and nothing less ! 
 Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 
 Deacon and deaconess dropped away. 
 Children and granilchiklnm, — where were 
 
 they ? 
 But there stood the stout old one-hoss 
 
 shay 
 As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 
 
 Eighteen^ hundred; — it came and 
 
 found 
 The Deacon's masterpiece strong and 
 
 sound. 
 Eighteen hundred increased by ten; — 
 " Hahnsuni kerridge" they called it then. 
 Eighteen hundred and twenty came; — 
 Running as usual ; much the same. 
 Thirty and forty at last arrive. 
 And then come fifty, and fifty-five. 
 
 Little of all we value here 
 Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year 
 Without both feeling and looking queer. 
 In fact, there 's« nothing that keeps its 
 
 youth, 
 So far as I know, but a tree and truth. 
 (This is a moral that runs at large ; 
 Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra 
 
 charge.) 
 
 First of November, — the Earthquake- 
 day.— 
 There are traces of age in the one-hoss 
 
 shay, 
 A general flavor of mild decay. 
 But nothing local as one may say. 
 That could n't be, — for the Deacon's art 
 Had matle it so like in every part 
 That there was n't a chance for one to 
 
 start. • 
 
 For the wheels were just as strong as the 
 
 thills. 
 And the floorwasjust as strong as the sills. 
 And the panels just as strong as the floor. 
 And the vvhippletree neither less nor more. 
 And the back -crossbar a sstrongas the fore, 
 And spring and axle and hub encore. 
 And yet, as a whole,, it is past a doubt 
 In another hour it will be loarii oat! 
 
 First of November, 'Fifty-five ! 
 This morning the parson takes a drive. 
 Now, small boj^s, get out of the way ! 
 Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
 Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. 
 "Huddup !" said the parson. — Off went 
 they. 
 
 The parson was working his Sunday's 
 
 text, — 
 Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed 
 At what the — Moses — was coming next. 
 All at once the horse stood still. 
 Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. 
 
 — First a shiver, and then a thrill. 
 Then something decidedly like a spill, — 
 And the parson was sitting upon a ro(;k. 
 At half past nine by the meet'n'-house 
 
 clock, — 
 Just th(! hour of the Earthquake shock ! 
 
 — What do you think the parson found, 
 When he got up and stared around ? 
 Th(r poor old (diaise in a heap or mound, 
 As if it had been to the mill and grouml ! 
 You sec, of coui'se, if you 're not a dunce, 
 How it went to pieces all at once, —
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 223 
 
 All at once, and nothing first, 
 
 Just as bubbles fio when they burst. 
 
 End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 
 Logic is logic. That's all 1 say. 
 
 Leave thy low- vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than thelast, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
 vast, 
 Till thou at length art free, ^ 
 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life s 
 unresting sea ! 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NATTTILTJS. 
 
 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets 
 
 Sails the unshadowed main, — 
 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled 
 
 wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings. 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare. 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun 
 their streaming hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
 
 And every chambered cell, 
 AVhere its dim dreaming life was wont 
 
 As the fiairte'nant shaped his growing 
 
 shell, 
 Before thee lies revealed, — 
 
 Its irise.l ceiling rent, its sunless crypt 
 
 unsealed ! 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 Still, as the spiral grew 
 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the 
 
 Stole ^^it'h soft step its sinning archway 
 through. 
 Built up its idle door, 
 Stretched in his last-found home, and 
 knew the old no more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
 bv thee. 
 Child of the wandering sea, 
 Cast from her lap, f<irlorn ! _ 
 From, thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed 
 horn ! 
 While on mine ear it rings. 
 Through the deep caves of thought 1 hear 
 a voice that sings: — 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, my 
 soul, 
 As the swift seasons roU ! 
 
 UNDER THE VIOLETS. 
 
 Her hands are cold ; her face is white; 
 No more her pulses come and go; 
 
 Her eyes are shut to life and light ; — 
 Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, 
 And lay her where the violets blow. 
 
 But not beneath a graven stone. 
 To plead for tears with alien eyes ; 
 
 A slender cross of wood alone 
 Shall sav, that here a maiden lies 
 In peace beneath the peacetul skies. 
 
 And gray old trees of hugest limb 
 
 Shall wheel their circling shadows 
 round 
 To make the scorching sunlight dim 
 That drinks the greenness irom the 
 
 ground. 
 And drop their dead leaves on her 
 mound. 
 
 When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, 
 And through their leaves the robins 
 call. 
 
 And, rii-ening in the autumn sun. 
 The acorns and the chestnuts tall. 
 Doubt not that she will heed them all. 
 
 For her the morning choir shall sing 
 Its matins from the branches high, 
 
 And every minstrel-voice of Spring, 
 That trills beneath the April sky, , 
 Shall greet her with its earliest cry. 
 
 When, turning round their dial-track, 
 Eastward thelengtheningshadowspass, 
 
 Her little mourners, clad in black. 
 The crickets, sliding through the grass. 
 Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 
 
 At last the rootlets of the trees 
 
 Shall tind the prison where she lies, 
 
 And bear the burie.l dust they seize 
 In leaves and blossoms to the skies. 
 So may the soul that warmed it rise !
 
 224 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 
 
 If any, born of kindlier Mood, 
 
 Should ask, What maiden lies below? 
 
 Say only this : A tender bud, 
 
 That tried to blossom in the snow, 
 Lies withered where the violets blow. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 [v. S. A.] 
 
 THE HERITAGE. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits lands, 
 And jnlcs of brick, and stone, and gold, 
 
 And he inherits soft, white hands, 
 And tender Hesh that fears the cold, 
 Nor dares to wear a garment old ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits cares ; 
 
 The bank may break, the factory burn, 
 
 A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
 And soft, white hands couUl hardly earn 
 A living that would serve his turn ; 
 
 A lieritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 The rich man's son inherits wants, 
 His stomach crave.^. for dainty fare ; 
 
 With sated heart, he hears tlie pants 
 Of toiling hinds with brown arras bare, 
 And wearies in his easy chair; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 
 
 Whit doth the poor man's son inherit? 
 Stout muscles and'a sinewy heart, 
 
 A hardy frame, a liardier spirit ; 
 
 King of two hands, he does his part 
 In every useful toil and ait ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 Wliat doth the poor man's son inherit? 
 Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, 
   A rank adjudged by toil-won merit, 
 (Content that from employment springs, 
 A heart that in his labor sings ; 
 A lieritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to liold in fee. 
 
 What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
 
 A patience learned by lieiiig poor, 
 Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 
 
 A fellow-feeling that is sure 
 To make the outcast^less his door; 
 A heritage, it seems to me, 
 A king might wish to hold in fee. 
 
 O rich man's son ! there is a toil. 
 That with all others level stands ; 
 
 Large charity doth never soil, 
 
 But only whiten, soft, white hands, — 
 This is the best crop from thy lands; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 Worth being rich to hold in fee. 
 
 poor man's son ! scorn not thy state; 
 There is worse weariness than thine, 
 
 In merely being rich and great;. 
 Toil only gives the soul to shine. 
 And makes rest fragrant and benign ; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 Worth being poor to hold in fee. 
 
 Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
 Are equal in the earth at last ; 
 
 Both, children of the same dear God, 
 Prove title to your heirship vast 
 By record of a well-tilled past; 
 
 A heritage, it seems to me. 
 
 Well worth a life to hold in fee. 
 
 KEW ENGLAND SPRING. 
 (From " The Biglow Papers.") 
 
 I, coi'NTRV-BOKN' an' bred, know where 
 
 to find 
 Some blotmrs thet make the season suit 
 
 the mind. 
 An' seem to metch the donbtin' blue- 
 bird's notes, — 
 Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, 
 Blood-roots, whose rolled-np leaves ef 
 
 fur oncurl, 
 I Each on em 's cradle to a baby-]iearl, — • 
 ! 15ut these are jes' Spring's pickets ; sure 
 
 07. sin, 
   The rebble frosts '11 try to drive 'em in ; 
 Forhalf our May 's-soawfuUylikeMayn't 
 'T would rile a Shaker or an evrit'e saint ; 
 Though I own up I like our back'ard 
 i springs 
 
 Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' 
 
 things, 
 An' when you 'most give up, 'ithout more 
 
 words. 
 Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' 
 
 birds :
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 225 
 
 Thet 's Northun natur', slow an' apt to 
 
 doubt, * 
 But when it does git stirred, there 's no 
 
 gin-out ! 
 
 Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in 
 
 tall trees, 
 Au'settlin'tliingsin windy Congresses, — 
 Queer ])oliticians, though, lor I '11 be 
 
 skinned 
 Kf all ou 'em don't head against the wind. 
 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, 
 The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, 
 Then saffron swarms swing off from all 
 
 the willers, 
 So ])lump they look like fallercaterpillars, 
 Then grav hosschesnuts leetle hands un- 
 fold 
 Softer 'n a baby's be a' three days old : 
 Thet 's robin-redbreast's almanick; he 
 
 knows 
 Thet arter tliis ther' 's only blossom- 
 snows ; 
 So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, 
 He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. 
 
 /hen seems to come a hitch, — things lag 
 
 behind. 
 Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up 
 
 her mind. 
 An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh 
 
 their dams 
 Heaped up with ice thet dovetails in an' 
 
 jams, 
 A leak conies spirtin' thru some pin-hole 
 
 cleft, 
 Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' 
 
 left, 
 Then all the waters bow themselves an' 
 
 come, 
 Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin 
 
 foam, 
 Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune 
 An' gives one leap from April into Jun(^; 
 Then all comes crowdin' in ; afore you 
 
 think. 
 Young oak -leaves mist the side-hill woods 
 
 with pink ; 
 The cat-bird in the laylock-bush is loud ; 
 The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud ; 
 lled-cedars blossom tu, though few folks 
 
 know it, 
 An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet : 
 The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' 
 
 shade 
 An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet 
 
 trade ; 
 
 In ellum shrouds the flaShin' hang-bird 
 
 clings. 
 An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock 
 
 slings ; 
 All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' 
 
 bowers 
 The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden 
 
 flowers. 
 Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals 
 
 love to try 
 With ])ins — they '11 worry yourn so, 
 
 boys, bimeby ! 
 But I don't love your cat'logue style, — 
 
 do you? — 
 Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo ; 
 One word with blood in 't 's twice ez 
 
 good ez two : 
 Nutt' sed, June 's bridesman, poet of the 
 
 year. 
 Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here ; 
 Half hid in tiji-top ap^ile - blooms he 
 
 swings. 
 Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiv- 
 
 erin' wings, 
 Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair. 
 Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru 
 
 the air. 
 
 THE COURTIN'. 
 
 God makes sech nights, all white an' still 
 Fur 'z you can look or listen. 
 
 Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
 All silence an' all glisten. 
 
 Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
 An' peeked in thi'u the winder. 
 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 'Ith no one nigh to bender. 
 
 A fireplace filled the room's one side 
 With half a cord o' wood in — 
 
 There warnt no stoves (tell comfort died) 
 To bake ye to a puddin'. 
 
 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her, 
 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted 
 Theole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetched back from Concord busted. 
 
 The very room, coz she was in. 
 Seemed warm from floor to ceil in',
 
 226 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peeliu'. 
 
 'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
 
 On sech a blessed ci'etur, 
 A dogrose blushin' to a brook 
 
 Ain't niodester nor sweeter. 
 
 He was six foot o' man, A 1, 
 Clean grit an' human natur' ; 
 
 None coukl n't quicker pitch a ton 
 Nor dror a furrer straighter. 
 
 He M sparked it with full twenty gals, 
 Hed sipiired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em. 
 
 Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
 All is, he couldn't love 'em. 
 
 But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
 All crinkly like curled maple. 
 
 The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
 Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 
 
 Slie thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 
 
 Ez hisn in the choir ; 
 My ! when he made Ole Hiinderd ring. 
 
 She knoiced the Lord was nigher. 
 
 An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
 When her new meetin'-bunnet 
 
 Felt someliow thru its crown a pair 
 0' blue eyes sot upon it. 
 
 Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 
 
 Slie seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
 For she felt sartin-suie he 'd come, 
 
 Down to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
 
 A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
 All ways to once her feelins flew 
 
 Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, 
 
 Some doubt fie o' the sekle. 
 His heart kep' goiu' pity-pat, 
 
 IJut hern went pity Zekle. 
 
 An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
 Ez tliongli she wished liim furder, 
 
 An' on hrr apples kep' to work, 
 Parin' away like murder, 
 
 " Vou want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" 
 "Wal .... no .... I come da- 
 signin' " — 
 
 "To see my Ma ? She 's sprinklin' clo'es 
 Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 
 
 To say why gals act so or so, 
 Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 
 
 Mebby to mean yes an' say iio 
 Conies nateral to women. 
 
 He stood a spell on one foot fust, 
 Then stood a spell on t' otlier. 
 
 An' on which one he felt the wust 
 He could n't ha' told ye nuther. 
 
 Savs he, "I 'd better call agin" ; 
 
 "Says she, "Think likely. Mister"; 
 Thet last word pricked him like a pin. 
 
 An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. 
 
 When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
 All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she was jes' the quiet kind 
 
 Whose naturs never vary. 
 Like streams that keep a summer mind 
 
 Snowhid in Jenooary. 
 
 The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
 
 Too tight for all expressiu'. 
 Tell mother see how metiers stood. 
 
 An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 
 
 Then her red come back like the tide 
 
 Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
 An' all I know is they was cried 
 
 In meetiu' come nex' Sunday. 
 
 AMBROSE. 
 
 Never, snrely, was holier man 
 
 Than Ambrose, since the world began ; 
 
 With diet spaie and raiment thin 
 
 He shielded himself from the father of sin ; 
 
 With bed of iron and scourgings oft, 
 
 His heart to God's hand as wax made soft. 
 
 Through earnest prayer and watchings 
 
 long 
 He sought to know 'twixt right and 
 
 wrong, 
 Much wrestling with the blessed Word 
 To make it yield the sense of the Lord, 
 That he might build a .storm-])roof creed 
 To fold the liock in at their need. 
 
 At last he builded a perfect faith, 
 Fenced round about with The Lord thus 
 
 saith ; 
 To himself he fitted the doorway's size, 
 Meted the light to the need of his eyes.
 
 JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 22^ 
 
 And knew, by a sure and inward sign, 
 That the work of his fingers was divine. 
 
 Then Ambrose said, "All those shall die 
 The eternal death who believe not as 1 " ; 
 And some were boiled, some burned in Hre, 
 Some sawn in twain, that his heart's de- 
 sire, 
 For the good of men's souls, might be 
 
 satisfied. 
 By the drawing of all to the righteous 
 side. 
 
 One day, as Ambrose wasseekingthe truth 
 In his lonely walk, he saw a youth 
 Resting himself in the shade of a tree ; 
 It had never been given him to see 
 So shining a face, and the good man 
 
 thought 
 'T were pity he should not believe as 
 
 he ought. 
 
 So be set himself by the young man's side , 
 
 And the state of his soul with questions 
 tried ; 
 
 But the heart of the stranger was hard- 
 ened indeed, 
 
 Nor received the stamp of the one true 
 creed, 
 
 And the spirit of Ambrose waxed sore to 
 find 
 
 Such face the porcli of so narrow a mind. 
 
 "As each beholds in cloud and fire 
 The shape that answers his own desire, 
 So each," said the youth, "in the Law- 
 shall find 
 The figure and features of his mind ; 
 And to each in his mercy hath God al- 
 lowed 
 His several pillar of fire and cloud." 
 
 The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal 
 And holy wrath for the youngman's weal : 
 "Believest thou then, most wretched 
 
 youth," 
 Cried he, "a dividual essence in Truth? 
 I fear me thy heart is too cramped with 
 
 sin 
 To take the Lord in his glory in." 
 
 Now there bubbled beside them where 
 
 they stood 
 A fountain of watei-s sweet and good ; 
 The youth to the streamlet's brink drew 
 
 near 
 Saying, "Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, 
 
 look here!" 
 
 Six vases of crystal then he took, 
 And set them along the edge of the 
 brook. 
 
 "As into these vessels the water I pour, . 
 There sliall one hold less, another more. 
 And the water unchanged, in every ca^e, 
 Sliall put on the figure of the vase ; ' 
 
 tlion, who wouldtst unity make through 
 
 stiife, 
 Canst tliou fit this sign to the Water of 
 
 Lite ? " 
 
 When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone. 
 The youth and the stream and the va^es 
 
 were gone ; 
 But he knew, by a sense of humbled grace, 
 He had talked with an angel face to face. 
 And felt his heart change inwardly, 
 As he fell on his knees beneath the tree. 
 
 AFTER THE BURIAL. 
 
 Yes, faith is a goodly anchor ; 
 When skies are sweet as a psalm. 
 At the bows it lolls so stalwart. 
 In bluff, broad-shouldered calm. 
 
 And when over breakers to leewai'd . 
 'Wie tattered surges are bulled, 
 It may keep our head to the tempest, 
 With its grip on the base of the woild. 
 
 But, after the shipwreck, tell me 
 What help in its iron thews, 
 Still tiue to the broken hawser. 
 Deep down among sea-weed and ooze ? 
 
 In the breaking gulfs of sorrow, 
 When the helpless feet stietcli out 
 And find in the deeps of darkness 
 No footing so solid as doubt, 
 
 Then better one spar of Memory, 
 One broken plank of the Past, 
 Tiiat our human heart may cling to. 
 Though hojieless of shore at last ! 
 
 To the spirit its splendid conjectures, 
 To the flesh its sweet despair. 
 Its tears o'er the thin-woiii locket 
 With its anguish of deathless hair ! 
 
 Immortal ? I feel it and know it, 
 Wlio doubts it of such as she? 
 But that is the pang's very secret, — 
 Immortal away from me.
 
 228 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 There 's a narrow ridge in the grave3'ard 
 Would bcai-ce stay a ciiild in his race, 
 But to me and my thought it is wider 
 Than the star-sown vague of Space. 
 
 Your logic, my friend, is ])erfect, 
 Your morals most drearily true ; 
 But, since the earth clashed on her coffin, 
 I keep hearing that, and not you. 
 
 Console if you will, I can hear "it ; 
 'T is a well-meant alms of breatli ; 
 But not all the i)reaching since Adam 
 Has made Death other tlian Death. 
 
 It is pagan ; but wait till you feel it, — 
 That jar of our earth, that dull shock 
 When the ploughshare of deeper passion 
 Tears down to our primitive rock. 
 
 Communion in spirit ! Forgive me, 
 But I, who am earthy and weak, 
 Would give all my incomes from dream- 
 land 
 For a touch of her hand on my cheek. 
 
 That little shoe in the corner. 
 So worn and wrinkled and brown, 
 With its emptiness confutes you, 
 And argues your wisdom down. 
 
 COMMEMORATION ODE. 
 Harvard University, July 21, 1S65. 
 
   • • • • 
 
 Like may be given in many ways. 
 And loyalty to Truth be sealed 
 As bravely in the closet as the field, 
 So generous is Fate ; 
 But then to stand lieside her, 
 When craven churls deride her. 
 To front a lie in arms, and not to yield, — 
 Tliis sliows, metliinks, God's jilan 
 And measure of a stalwart man. 
 Limbed like the old heroic breeds. 
 Who stand self-poised on manhood's 
 
 solid earth. 
 Not forced to fiame excuses for liis 
 birth, 
 Fed from witliin with all the strength he 
 
 ne(Mls. 
 Such M-as he, our Martyr-Chief, 
 
 Whom late the Nation he had led, 
 With ashes on her licad. 
 Wept with the passion of an angry grief: 
 
 Forgive me, if from present things I 
 
 turn 
 To speak what in my heart will beat and 
 
 burn. 
 And hang my wreath on his world-hon- 
 ored urn. 
 Nature, they say, doth dote, 
 And cannot make a man 
 Save on some worn-out i)lan, 
 llepeating us ,by rote : 
 For him her Old-World moulds aside 
 she threw, 
 And, choosing sweet clay from the 
 
 breast 
 Of the unexhausted West, 
 With stuff untainted shaped a hero new. 
 Wise, steadfast in the strength of God, 
 and true. 
 How beautiful to see 
 Once more a shepherd of mankind indeed. 
 Who loved his charge, but never loved 
 
 to lead ; 
 One whose meek flock the people joyed 
 to be. 
 Not lured by any cheat of birth. 
 But by his clear-gi-ained human 
 worth. 
 And brave old wisdom of sincerity ! 
 
 They knew that outward grace is 
 
 dust ; 
 They could not choose but trust 
 In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering 
 skill. 
 And supple-tempered will 
 That bent like perfect steel to spiing 
 again and thrust. 
 His was no lonely mountain-peak 
 
 of mind. 
 Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy 
 
 bars, 
 A seamark now, now lost in vapors 
 
 blind ; 
 Broad prairie rather, genial, level- 
 lined, 
 Fruitful and friendly for all himinn 
 kind. 
 Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of 
 loftiest stars. 
 Nothing (if Europe here. 
 Or, then, of Europe fronting mornwaid 
 still. 
 Ere any names of Serf and Peer 
 Could Nature's ecjual sehenm deface ; 
 Here was a type of the true elder 
 race, 
 And one of Plutarcii's men talked with 
 us face to face.
 
 MARIA. WHITE LOWELL. 
 
 229 
 
 I praise him not ; it were too late ; 
 And some inuative vveakues.s there must 
 
 be 
 In him who condescends to victory 
 Such as the Present gives, and cannot 
 wait, 
 Safe in himself as in a fate. 
 So always firmly he : 
 He knew to bide his time, 
 And can his fame abide. 
 Still patient in his simple faith sublime. 
 Till the wise years decide. 
 Great captains, with their guns and 
 
 drums, 
 Disturb our judgment for the hour. 
 But at last silence comes : 
 These all are gone, and, standing like a 
 
 tower. 
 Our children shall behold his fame, 
 The kindly-earnest, brave, foreseeing 
 man. 
 Sagacious, patient, dreading praise, not 
 blame. 
 New birth of our new soil, the first 
 American. 
 
 We sit here in the Promised Land 
 That fiows with Freedom's honey and 
 
 milk : 
 But 'twas they won it, sword in hand, 
 Making the nettle danger soft for us as 
 silk. 
 We welcome back our bravest and our 
 
 best ; — 
 Ah, me ! not all ! some come not with 
 the rest. 
 Who went forth brave and bright as any 
 
 here ! 
 I strive to mix some gladness with my 
 strain, 
 But the sad strings complain, 
 And will not please the ear; 
 I sweep them for a paean, but they wane 
 
 Again and yet again 
 Into a dirge, and die away in pain. 
 Ill these brave ranks I only see the gaps, 
 Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb 
 
 turf wraps. 
 Dark to the triumph which they died to 
 gain : 
 Fitlier may others greet the living, 
 For me the past is unforgiving; 
 I with uncovered head 
 Salute the saci'ed dead, 
 Who went, and who return not. — 
 Sa}' not so ! 
 
 'T is not the grapes of Canaan that icpay, 
 
 But the high faith that failed not by the 
 way ; 
 
 Virtue treads paths that end not in the 
 grave ; 
 
 No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; 
 And to the saner nund 
 
 We rather seem the dead that stayed be- 
 hind. 
 
 Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! 
 
 For never shall their aureoled presence 
 lack : 
 
 I see them muster in a gleaming row. 
 
 With ever-youthful brows that nobler 
 show ; 
 
 W^e find in our dull road their shining 
 track ; 
 In ever}' nobler mood 
 
 We feel the orient of their spirit glow, 
 
 Part of our life's unalterable good. 
 
 Of all our saintlier aspiration ; 
 
 They come transfigured back, 
 
 Secure from change in their high-hearted 
 ways. 
 
 Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 
 
 Of morn on their white Shields of Ex- 
 pectation ! 
 
 MAPJA. WHITE LOWELL. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1821-1853.] 
 
 THE ALPINE SHEEP. 
 
 Whex on my ear your loss was knelled. 
 And tender sympathy upburst, 
 
 A little spiing from memory welled, 
 Which once had quenched my bitter 
 thirst. 
 
 And I was fain to bear to you 
 
 A portion of its mild relief. 
 That it might be as healing dew. 
 
 To steal some fever from your grief. 
 
 After our child's untroubled breath 
 Up to the Father took its way, 
 
 Anil on our home the shade of Death 
 Like a long twilight haunting lay, 
 
 And friends came round, with us to weep 
 Her little spirit's swift reniove. 
 
 The story of the Alpine sheep 
 Was told to us by one we love.
 
 230 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 They, in the valley's sheltering care, 
 Soon crop the meadow's tender prime, 
 
 And when the sod grows brown and bare. 
 The slicpherd strives to make them 
 climb 
 
 To airy slielves of pasture green, 
 
 That hang along the mountain's side, 
 
 \Vliere grass and Howcn's together lean, 
 And (iown through mist the sunbeams 
 slide. 
 
 But naught can tempt the timid things 
 The steep and rugged patlis to try. 
 
 Though sweet the shepherd calls and 
 sings, 
 And seared below the pastures lie, 
 
 Till in his anns their lambs he takes, 
 Along the dizzy verge to go ; 
 
 Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks. 
 They follow on, o'er rock and snow. 
 
 Anil in those pastures, lifted fair, 
 More dewy-soft than lowland mead, 
 
 The shepherd diojis his tender care. 
 And sheep and lambs together feed. 
 
 This parable, by Nature breathed, 
 Blew on me as the south-wind free 
 
 O'er frozen brooks, that flo^v unsheathed 
 From icy thraldom to the sea. 
 
 A V)lissful vision, tlirough the night. 
 Would all my hapjiy senses sway, 
 
 Of tile good Shepherd on the height, 
 Or climbing up the starry way. 
 
 Holding our little lamb asleep, — 
 While, like the murnmr of the sea, 
 
 Sounded that voice along the deep. 
 Saying, " Arise and follow me ! " 
 
 THOMAS W. PARSONS. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 CAMPANILE DE PISA. 
 
 Snow was glistening on the mountains, 
 but tlie air was that of June, 
 
 Leaves were falling, but tiie I'linni'ls play- 
 ing still their sunnner tune, 
 
 And the dial's lazy shadow hovered nigh 
 
 the brink of noon. 
 On the benches in tlie market, rows of 
 
 languid idlers lay, 
 When to I'isa's nodding belfry, with a 
 
 friend, 1 took my way. 
 
 From the top we looked around us, and 
 
 as far as eye might strain. 
 Saw no .sign of life or motion in the town, 
 
 or on the plain. 
 Hardly seemed the river moving, through 
 
 the willows to the main ; 
 Nor was any noise disturbing Pisa from 
 
 her drowsy hour. 
 Save the doves that fluttered 'neath us, 
 
 in and out and round the tower. 
 
 Not a shout from gladsome children, or 
 
 the clatter of a wheel. 
 Nor the spinner of the suburb, Avinding 
 
 his discordant reel, 
 Xor the stroke upon the pavement of a 
 
 hoof or of a heel. 
 Even the slumberers, in the churchyard 
 
 of the Campo Santo seemed 
 Scarce more quiet than the living world 
 
 that underneath us dreamed. 
 
 Dozing at the city's portal, heedless guard 
 
 tlie sentry kept. 
 More than oriental dulness o'er the sunny 
 
 farms had crept. 
 Near the walls the ducal herdsman by the 
 
 dusty roadside slept ; 
 While his camels, resting round him, 
 
 half alarmed the sullen ox, 
 Seeing those Arabian nionstei's pasturing 
 
 with Etruria's Hocks. 
 
 Then it was, like one who wandered, late- 
 ly, singing by the IJhine, 
 
 Strains ])erehanee to maiden's heaiing 
 sweeter tiian this verse of mine. 
 
 That we bade Imagination lift us on her 
 wing divine. 
 
 And the days of Pisa's greatness rose from 
 the sepulchral past, 
 
 Whcnathousan<l eonipiering galleys bore 
 her standard at the mast. 
 
 Jlemory for a moment crowned her sov- 
 ereign mistress of the seas, 
 
 When sheliraved, upon the billows, "N'en- 
 iee and the (Genoese, 
 
 Daring to deride the Pontiff, though he 
 shook his angry keys.
 
 THOMAS W. PARSONS. 
 
 231 
 
 When her admirals triumphant, riding 
 
 o'er the Sohlan's waves, 
 Brought from (.'alvary's lioly mountain 
 
 fitting soil for knightly graves. 
 
 When the Saracen surrendered, one by 
 
 one, his jiirate isles. 
 And Ionia's marbled trojdiies decked 
 
 Luiigarno's Gothic ])iles, 
 Where the festal music floated in the light 
 
 of ladies' smiles ; 
 Soldiers in the busy court-yard, nobles 
 
 in tiie hall above, 
 O, those days of arms are over, — arms ami 
 
 courtesy and love ! 
 
 Down in yonder square at sunrise, lo ! 
 
 the Tuscan troops arrayed, 
 Every man in Milan armor, forged in 
 
 Brescia every blade : 
 Sigismondi is their captain — Florence ! 
 
 art thou not dismayed ? 
 There 's Lanfranchi ! there the bravest of 
 
 Gherardesca stem, 
 Hugolino — with the bishop ; but enough, 
 
 enough of them. 
 
 Now, as on Achilles' buckler, next a 
 peaceful scene succeeds ; 
 
 Pious crowds in the cathedral duly tell 
 their blessed beads ; 
 
 Students walk the h^arned cloister; 
 Ariosto wakes the reeds ; 
 
 Science dawns ; and Galileo opens to the 
 Italian youth, 
 
 As he were a new Columbus, new dis- 
 covered realms of truth. 
 
 Hark ; what murmurs from the million 
 
 in the bustling market rise ! 
 All the lanes are loud with voices, all 
 
 the windows dark with eyes ; 
 ■Black with men the mai'ble l)ridges,heaped 
 
 the shores with merchandise ; 
 Turks and Greeks and Libyan merchants 
 
 in the square their councils hold. 
 And the Christian altars flitter gorgeous 
 
 with Byzantine gold. 
 
 Look ! anon the masqueraders don their 
 
 holiday attire ; 
 Every palace is illumined, — all the town 
 
 seems built of tire, — 
 Eainbow-colored lanterns dangle from 
 
 the top of every spire. 
 
 Pisa's patron saint hath hallowed to him- 
 self the joyful day, 
 
 Never on the tlnonged Kialto showed the 
 Carnival more gay. 
 
 Suddenly the bell beneath us broke the 
 
 vision with its chime ; 
 "Signors," quoth our gray attendant, 
 
 "it is almost vesper time" ; 
 Vulgar life resumed its empire, — down we 
 
 dropt from the sublime. 
 Here and there a fiiar passed us, as we 
 
 paced the silent stieets, 
 And a cardinal's lumbling carriage roused 
 
 the sleepers fiom the seats. 
 
 ON A BUST OF DANTE. 
 
 See, from this counterfeit of him 
 
 Whom Arno shall remember long, 
 How stern of lineament, how grim 
 
 The father was of Tuscan song. 
 There but the burning sense of wrong, 
 
 Perpetual care and scorn abide ; 
 Small friendship for the loi'dly throng; 
 
 Distrust of all the woild beside. 
 
 Faithful if this wan image be. 
 
 No dream his life was, — but a fight; 
 Could any Bj;atrice see 
 
 A lover in that anchorite? 
 To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight 
 
 Who could have guessed the visions 
 came 
 Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, 
 
 In circles of eternal flame? 
 
 The li[)s, as Cumoe's cavern close. 
 
 The cheeks, with fast and sorrow thin, 
 The rigid front, almost morose. 
 
 But for the patient hope within. 
 Declare a life whose course hath been 
 
 Unsullied still, though still severe. 
 Which, through the wavering days of sin, 
 
 Keep itself icy-chaste and clear. 
 
 Not wholly sucli his haggard look 
 
 When wandering once, forlorn he 
 strayed, 
 With no companion save his book, 
 
 To Corvo's hushed monastic shade: 
 Wheie, as the Benedictine laid 
 
 His palm upon the pilgrim -guest, 
 The sincfle boon for which he jirayed 
 
 The convent's charity was rest.
 
 232 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Peace dwells not here, — this rugged face 
 
 Fietrays no s[)irit of repose ; 
 The sullen wanior sole we trace, 
 ' The marble man of many woes. 
 Such was his mien wlicii lirst arose 
 
 The thought of that strange tale divine, 
 AVlien hell he peopled with his foes, 
 
 The scourge of many a guilty line. 
 
 War to the last he waged with all 
 
 The tyrant canker-worms of earth ; 
 Jiaron and duke, in holil and hall. 
 
 Cursed the dark hour that gave him 
 birth; 
 He used Rome's harlot for his mirth ; 
 
 I'luekcd bare hypocrisy and crime ; 
 But valiant souls of knightly worth 
 
 Transmitted to the rolls of Time. 
 
 O Time ! whose verdicts mock onr own, 
 
 The oidy righteous judge art thou ; 
 That ])oor old exile, sad and lone. 
 
 Is Latium's other Virgil now : 
 Before his name the nations bow : 
 
 His words are parcel of mankind, 
 Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow. 
 
 The marks have sunk of Dante's mind. 
 
 JOHN G. SAXE. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 WISHING. 
 
 Of all amusements for the mind, 
 
 From logic down to Kshing, 
 There is n't one that you can find 
 
 So very cheap as "wishing." 
 A very choice (liv(M-sion too, 
 
 If we but rightly use it. 
 And not, as we are apt to do, 
 
 Pervert it, and abuse it. 
 
 I wish — ^a common wish, indeed — 
 
 My purse were somewhat fatter, 
 That 1 might cheer the child of need, 
 
 And not my priile to Hatter ; 
 That I nnght make Opjiression reel. 
 
 As only gold can make it. 
 And br(>ak tlie Tyrant's rod of steel, 
 
 As only gold can break it. 
 
 I wish — that Sympathy and Love, 
 And every human passion 
 
 That has its origin above. 
 
 Would come and keep in fashion ; 
 That Scorn and Jealousy and Hate, 
 
 And every base emotion, 
 Were buried fifty fathom deep 
 
 Beneath the waves of Ocean ! 
 
 I wish — that friends were always true, 
 
 And motives always i)ure ; 
 I wish the good were not so few, 
 
 I wish the bad were fewer ; 
 I wish that ]iarsons ne'er forgot 
 
 To heed their pious teaching ; 
 I wish that jn-actising was not 
 
 So dili'erent from preaching ! 
 
 I wish — that modest worth might be 
 
 Appraised with truth and candor ; 
 I wish that innocence were free 
 
 From treachery and slander ; 
 I wish tliat men their vows would mind ; 
 
 That women ne'er were rovers ; 
 I wish that wives weie always kind, 
 
 And husbands always lovers ! 
 
 I wish — in fine — that Joy and Mirth, 
 
 And every good Ideal, 
 May come erewhile throughout the earth 
 
 To be the gloiions Real ; 
 Till Ood shall every creature bless 
 
 With his supremest blessing. 
 And Hope be lost in Happiness, 
 
 And Wishing in Possessing ! 
 
 SLEEP AND DEATH. 
 
 Two wandering angels, Sleep and Death, 
 Once met in sunny weather : 
 
 And while the twain wen^ taking breath, 
 They held discourse together. 
 
 Quoth Sleep (whose face, though twice 
 as fair, 
 
 AVas strangely like the other's, — 
 So like, in sooth, that anywhere 
 
 They nnght have passed for brothers) : 
 
 "A busy life is mine, I trow, 
 
 Would I were onmipresent ! 
 So fast and far have 1 to go ; 
 
 And yet my work is pleasant. 
 
 " I cast my potent poppies forth. 
 And lo ! — the cares that cumber
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 233 
 
 The toiling, suffering sons of earth 
 Are drowned in sweetest slumber. 
 
 "The student rests his weary brain, 
 And waits the fresher morrow ; 
 
 1 ease the patient of his pain, 
 Tlie mourner of his sorrow. 
 
 " 1 bar tlie gates where cares abide, 
 
 And open Pleasure's portals 
 To visioned joj's ; thus, far and wide, 
 
 I earn the praise of mortals." 
 
 " Alas ! " replied the other, " mine 
 
 Is not a task so grateful ; 
 Howe'er to mercy I incline, 
 
 To mortals 1 am hateful. 
 
 "They call me ' Kill-joy,' cverj' one. 
 And speak in sharp detraction 
 
 Of all I do ; yet have I done 
 Full many a kindly action." 
 
 " Tme ! " answered Sleep, "but all the 
 while 
 
 Thine office is berated, 
 'T is only liy the vile and weak 
 
 That thou art feared and hated. 
 
 "And though thy work on earth has 
 given 
 
 To all a shade of sadness ; 
 Consider — every saint in heaven 
 
 Remembers thee with gladness ! " 
 
 SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. 
 
 I LOVE to wander through tlie wood- 
 lands hoary 
 In the soft light of an autumnal day, 
 When Summer gathers up her robes of 
 glory. 
 And like a dream of beauty glides 
 away. 
 
 How through each loved, familiar path 
 she lingers. 
 Serenely smiling through the golden 
 mist, 
 
 Tinting the wild grape vtith her dewy 
 fingers 
 Till the. cool emerald turns to ame- 
 thyst : 
 
 Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, 
 shining 
 To light the gloom of Autumn's moul- 
 dering halls 
 With hoary plumes the clematis entwin- 
 ing ^ 
 Where o'er the rock her withered gar- 
 land falls. 
 
 Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands 
 waning 
 Beneath soft clouds along the horizon 
 rolled. 
 Till the slant sunbeams through their 
 fringes raining 
 Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. 
 
 The moist w-inds breathe of crisped 
 leaves and flowers 
 In the damp hollows of the woodland 
 sown. 
 Mingling the freshness of autumnal 
 showers 
 With spicy airs from cedarn alleys 
 blown. 
 
 Beside the brook and on the umbered 
 meadow. 
 Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded 
 ground, 
 With folded lids beneath their palmy 
 shadow 
 The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers 
 bound. 
 
 Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits 
 brooding. 
 Like a fond lover loath to say farewell, 
 Or with shut wings, through silken 
 folds intruding, 
 Creeps near her heart his drowsy tale 
 to tell. 
 
 The little birds upon the hillside lonely 
 Flit noiselessly along from si)ray to 
 spray. 
 Silent as a sweet wandering thought 
 that only 
 Show's its bright wings and softly 
 glides away.
 
 234 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 
 
 ALFRED B. STREET. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE SETTLER. 
 
 His eclioing axe the settler swung 
 
 Amid the sea-like solitude, 
 And, rushing, thundering, down were 
 Hung 
 
 The Titans of the wood ; 
 Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashed 
 From out his mossy nest, which crashed 
 
 With its sujiporting bough, 
 And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed 
 
 On the wolfs haunt below. 
 
 Iiudc was the garb, and strong the frame 
 
 Of him who plied his ceaseless toil : 
 To form that garb the wild-wood game 
 
 Contributed their spoil ; 
 The soul that warmed that frame dis- 
 dained 
 The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned 
 
 Where men their crowds collect ; 
 The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained. 
 
 This forest-tamer decked. 
 
 The paths which wound mid gorgeous 
 trees, 
 
 The stream whose bright lips kissed 
 their flowers. 
 The winds that swelled their liarmonies 
 
 Through those sun-hiding liowers, 
 The tenijde vast, the green arcnde. 
 The nestling vale, the grassy glade, 
 
 Dark cave, and swampy lair : 
 These scenes and sounds majestic made 
 
 His world, his pleasures, there. 
 
 His roof adorned a pleasant spot, 
 
 Mid the black logs green glowed the 
 grain. 
 And lierbs and plants the woods knew 
 not 
 
 Throve in the sun and rain. 
 Tiie smoke-wrrath curling o'er the dell. 
 The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell. 
 
 All made a landscape straiige, 
 Which was the living chronicle 
 
 Of deeds that wrought the change. 
 
 The violet sprung at spring's first tinge. 
 The rose of summer spread its glow. 
 
 Till- m;iizc hung out its autumn fringe, 
 Ihide winter bi-onght his snow ; 
 
 And stiy the lone one labored there, 
 
 His shout and whistle broke the air, 
 
 As cheerily he plied 
 His garden-si)ade, or drove his share 
 
 Along the hillock's side. 
 
 He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood 
 
 Roaiing and crackling on its i)ath. 
 And scorching earth, and melting wood, 
 
 Beneath its greedy wrath ; 
 He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot, 
 Trampling the pine-tree with its foot. 
 
 And darkening thick the day 
 With streaming liough and severed root. 
 
 Hurled whizzing on its way. 
 
 His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, 
 
 The grim bear hushed his savage growl ; 
 In blood and and foam the ])anther 
 gnashed 
 
 His fangs, with dying howl ; 
 The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, 
 Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, 
 
 And, with its moaning cry. 
 The beaver sank beneath the wound 
 
 Its pond-built Venice by. 
 
 Humble the lot, yet his the race, 
 
 AVhen Liberty sent forth her cry. 
 Who thronged in conflict's deadliest 
 place. 
 
 To fight, —to bleed, —to die ! 
 Who cumbered Bunker's height of red, 
 By hope through weary years were led. 
 
 And witnessed Yorktown's sun 
 Blaze on a nation's banner spread, 
 
 A nation's freedom won. 
 
 CHRISTOPHER P. CRANCH. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 KNOWING. 
 
 Thought is deeper than all speech, 
 Feeling deeper than all thought ; 
 
 Souls to souls can never teach 
 
 What unto themselves was taught. 
 
 We are spirits clad in veils ; 
 
 ^lan by man' was never sc>en ; 
 All our deep comnmning fails 
 
 To remove the shadowy screen. 
 
 Heart to heart was never known, 
 Mind with mind did never meet;
 
 WILLIAM E. CHANNING. — JULIA WAED HOWE. 
 
 235 
 
 We are columns left alone 
 Of ii temple once complete. 
 
 Like the stars that gem the sky, 
 Far apart, thougli seeming near, 
 
 In our light we scattered lie ; 
 All is thus but starlight here. 
 
 What is social company 
 
 But a l)abl)ling summer stream? 
 What our wise philosopliy 
 
 But the glancing of a dream ? 
 
 Only when the sun of love 
 
 Melts the scattered stars of thought ; 
 Only when we live above 
 
 What the dim-eyed world hath taught ; 
 
 Only when our souls are fed 
 
 By the Fount which gave them birth, 
 And by inspiration led, 
 
 Which they never drew from earth. 
 
 We like parted drops of rain 
 Swelling till they meet and run. 
 
 Shall Vie all absorbed again, 
 Melting, flowing into one. 
 
 WILLIAM E. CHANGING. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 SLEEPY HOLLOW. 
 
 No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral 
 stoops. 
 No winding torches paint the midnight 
 air; 
 Here the green pines delight, tlie aspen 
 droojis 
 Along the modest jiathways, and those 
 iair 
 Pale asters of the season spread their 
 plumes 
 Around this field, fit garden for our 
 tombs. 
 
 And shalt thou pause to hear some fu- 
 neral bell 
 Slow sti'aling o'er thy heart in this 
 calm place, 
 Not with a tlirol) of jiain, a feverish knell, 
 But in its kind and supplicating grace. 
 
 It says. Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be 
 more 
 Friend to the friendless than thou wast 
 before ; 
 
 Learn from the loved one's rest serenity; 
 To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall 
 sound, 
 And thou lepose beneath the whisper- 
 ing tree. 
 One tribute more to this submissive 
 ground ; — 
 Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride. 
 Nor these pale flowers nor this still 
 field deride : 
 
 Eather to those ascents of being turn, 
 Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the 
 year 
 Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires 
 buin 
 Of nnspent holiness and goodness 
 clear, — 
 Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, 
 God's mercy in thy thought and lifs 
 confest. 
 
 JULIA WARD HOWE. , 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 FROM "A TRIBUTE TO A SERVANT." 
 
 Not often to the parting soul 
 Does Life in dreary grimness show ; 
 Earth's captive, leaving ]n-ison-walls, 
 Beholds them touched with sunset glow. 
 
 And she forgot her sleepless nights, 
 Her weaiy tasks of foot and hand, 
 And, soothed with thoughts of pleasant- 
 ness, 
 Lay floating towards the silent land. 
 
 The talk of comfortable honrs, 
 The merry dancing tunes I played, 
 Gay ban(iuets with the children shared, 
 And summer days in greenwood shatle, — 
 
 The}' lay far scattered in the past. 
 Through the dim vista of disease ; 
 Viut when 1 spake, and held her hand, 
 The parting cloud showed things like 
 these.
 
 236 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 I (Hiestionod not her peace with God, 
 Nor i)rie(l into lier guiltless mind, 
 Like those unsivilt'ul surgeon-priests 
 Who rack the soul witli probings blind. 
 
 For I 've seen men who meant not ill 
 Compelling doctrine out of Death, 
 With Hell and Heaven acutely poised 
 Upon the turning of a breath; 
 
 Wliile agonizing judgments hung 
 Ev"n on the Saviour's helpful name; 
 As mild Madonna's form, of old, 
 A hideous torture-tool became. 
 
 I could but say, with faltering voice 
 And eyes that glanced aside to weep, 
 " Be strong in faith and hope, my child ; 
 He giveth his beloved sleep. 
 
 " .\nd though thou walk the shadowy vale 
 Whose end we know not. He will aid; 
 His rod and staff shall stay thy steps." 
 "1 know it well, "she smiled and said. 
 
 She knew it well, and knew yet more 
 My deepest hope, though uiiexprest. 
 The hope that God's appointed sleep 
 But heightens ravishment with rest. 
 
 My children, living flowers, shall come 
 And strew with seed this grave of thine. 
 And bid the blushing growths of Spring 
 Thy dreary painted cross entwine. 
 
 Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, 
 Sliall rest in emblems of her own ; 
 Beauty still springing from De(;ay, 
 The cross-wood budding to the crown. 
 
 BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of tlie 
 
 coming of the Lord : 
 He is trampling out tlie vintage where 
 
 the grapes of wrath are stored ; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of 
 
 his terrible swift sword ; 
 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen liim in the watch-fires of a 
 hundred circling camps; 
 
 They have buildeil him an altar in the 
 eveuimr dews ?nd damps; 
 
 I can read his righteous sentence bj' the 
 dim and Haring lamps. 
 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel, writ in bur- 
 nished rows of steel : 
 
 "As ye deal with my contemners, so 
 with you my grace shall deal ; 
 
 Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the 
 serpent with his heel, 
 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that 
 shall never call retreat ; 
 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before 
 his judgment-seat : 
 
 0, be swift, my soul, to answer him ! be 
 jubilant, my feet ! 
 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was 
 born across the sea, 
 
 With a glory in his bosom that trans- 
 figures you and me : 
 
 As he died to make men holy, let us die 
 to make men free, 
 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 H. D. TITOPiEAU. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 INSPIRATION". 
 
 If with light head erect I sing, 
 Though ail the Muses lend their force, 
 From my poor love of anything, 
 The verse is weak and shallow as its 
 source. 
 
 But if with bended neck I grope, 
 Listening behind me for my wit, 
 With faith superior to hope, 
 More anxious to keep back than for- 
 ward it ; 
 
 Making my soul accomplice there 
 Unto the flame my heart hath lit. 
 Then will the verse forever wear, — 
 Time cannot bend the line which God 
 has writ. 
 
 I hearing get, who had but ears, 
 I And sight, who had but eyes before ;
 
 ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. 
 
 C. F. ALEXANDER. 
 
 237 
 
 I moments live, who lived but years, 
 And tiutli discern, who knew but learn- 
 ing's lore. 
 
 Now chiefly is my natal hour, 
 And only now my prime of life, 
 Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 
 'T is peace's end, and war's beginning 
 strife. 
 
 It comes in summer's broadest noon. 
 By a gray wall, or some chance place, 
 Unseasoning time, insulting June, 
 And vexing day with its presuming face. 
 
 I will not doubt the love untold 
 Which not my worth nor want hath 
 
 bought. 
 Which wooed me young, and wooed me 
 
 old, 
 And to this evening hath me brought. 
 
 ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 MILTON'S PRAYER IN BLINDNESS. 
 
 I AM old and blind ! 
 Men point at me as smitten by God's 
 
 frown ; 
 Afflicted and deserted of my kind ; 
 
 Yet I am not cast down. 
 
 I am weak, yet strong ; 
 T murmur not that I no longer see ; 
 Poor, old, and helpless, I the more 
 belong. 
 
 Father supreme ! to thee. 
 
 merciful One ! 
 When men are farthest, then thou art 
 
 most near ; 
 When friends pass by me, and my weak- 
 ness shun. 
 Thy chariot I hear. 
 
 Thy glorious face 
 Is leaning towai-d me ; and its holy 
 
 light 
 Shines in upon my lonely dwelling- 
 place, — 
 And there is no more night. I 
 
 On my bended knee 
 I recognize thy purpose clearly shown : 
 My vision thou hast dimmed, that I 
 may see 
 
 Thyself, — thyself alone. 
 
 I have naught to fear ; 
 This darkness is the shadow of thy wing ; 
 Beneath it I am almost sacred ; here 
 
 Can come no evil thing. 
 
 0, I seem to stand 
 Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er 
 
 hath been, 
 Wiapped in the radiance of thy sinless 
 land. 
 Which ej^e hath never seen ! 
 
 Visions come and go : 
 Shapes of resplendent beauty round me 
 
 throng ; 
 From angel lips I seem to hear the flow 
 
 Of soft and holy song. 
 
 Is it nothing now; 
 When heaven is opening on my sight- 
 less ej'es ? — 
 When airs from paradise refresh my 
 brow. 
 The earth in darkness lies. 
 
 In a purer clime 
 My being fills with rapture, — waves of 
 
 thought 
 Roll in upon my spirit, — strains sublime 
 
 Break over me unsought. 
 
 Give me my lyre ! 
 I feel the stirrings of a gift divine : 
 Within my bosom glows unearthly fire, 
 
 Lit b}' no skill of mine. 
 
 C. F. ALEXANDER. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 
 In a vale in the land of Moab 
 
 There lies a lonely grave. 
 
 And no man knows that sepulchre. 
 
 And no man .saw it e er, 
 
 For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
 
 And laid the dead man there.  
 
 238 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 
 bat no man heard the trampling, 
 
 Or saw the train go forth : 
 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes back when night is done, 
 
 And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun. 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves, 
 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves ; 
 
 So without sound of music 
 
 Or voice of them that wept, 
 
 Silently down from the mountain's crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle 
 
 On gray Beth-Peor's height, 
 
 Out of his lonely eyrie 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
 
 Perchance the lion, stalking. 
 
 Still shuns that hallowed spot. 
 
 For beast and bird have seen and heard 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 But when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 
 AVith arms reversetl and muffled drum. 
 
 Follow his funeral car ; 
 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 They tell his battles won. 
 
 And after him lead his masterless steed, 
 
 AVhile peals the minute-gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land, 
 
 We lay the sage to rest. 
 
 And give the bard an honored place 
 
 With costly marble drest, 
 
 In the great miuster transept 
 
 Where lights like glories fall. 
 
 And the organ rings and the sweet choir 
 
 sings 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the truest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword. 
 
 This the most gifted [loet 
 
 That ever breathed a woi'il ; 
 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced with his golden pen. 
 
 On the deathless page, truths half so 
 
 sage 
 As he *n)te down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor, — 
 
 The hillside for a pall 
 
 To lie in state while angels wait 
 
 With stars for tapers tall. 
 
 And the dark rock-pines like tossing 
 
 plumes 
 Over his bier to wave. 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely 
 
 land, 
 Today him in the grave ? 
 
 In that strange grave without a name 
 
 Whence his uncottined clay 
 
 Shall break again, wondrous thought ! 
 
 Before the jmlgnient-day. 
 
 And stand with glory wrapt around 
 
 On the hills he never trod. 
 
 And speak of the strife that won our life 
 
 With the Incarnate Son of God. 
 
 lonely grave in Moab's land ! 
 
 dark Beth-Peor's hill ! 
 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 
 God hath his inysteries of grace, 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell ; 
 
 He hides them deep, like the hidden 
 
 sleep 
 Of him he loved so well. 
 
 E. H. SEARS. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 CHRISTMAS HYMN. 
 
 Calm on the listening ear of night 
 Come Heaven's melodious strains, 
 
 Where wild Judaa stretches far 
 Her silver-mantled plains ! 
 
 Celestial choirs, from courts above. 
 
 Shed sacred glories there ; 
 And angels, with their sparkling lyres, 
 
 Make music on the air. 
 
 The answering hills of Palestine 
 Send back the glad reply ; 
 
 And gi'eet, from all their holy heights, 
 The dayspring from on high. 
 
 On the blue depths of Galilee 
 There comes a holier calm. 
 
 And Shiiron waves, in solemn praise, 
 Her silent groves of palm.
 
 THEODORE PARKER. — FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. 
 
 239 
 
 "Glory to God ! " the sounding skies 
 Loud with their anthems ring ; 
 
 Peace to the earth, good-will to men, 
 From heaven's Eternal King ! 
 
 Light on thy hills, Jerusalem ! 
 
 The Saviour now is born ! 
 And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains 
 
 Breaks the first Christmas morn. 
 
 THEODOrtE PAEKER. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1812- i860.] 
 
 THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AKD THE LIFE. 
 
 THOU, great Friend to all the sons of 
 men, 
 Who once appeared in humblest guise 
 below. 
 Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, 
 And call thy brethren forth from \\ant 
 and woe, — 
 
 We look to thee ! thy truth is still the 
 Light 
 Which guides the nations, groping on 
 their way. 
 Stumbling and fallingindisastrousnight, 
 Yet hoping ever for the j)erfect day. 
 
 Yes ; thou art still the Life, thou art the 
 Way 
 The holiest know ; Light, Life, the 
 Way of heaven ! 
 And they who dearest hope and deepest 
 pray 
 Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which 
 thou hast given. 
 
 FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. 
 
 [i8is-*863.] 
 
 THE WILL OF GOD. 
 
 I WORSHIP thee, sweet Will of God ! 
 
 And all thy ways adore, 
 And every day I live I seem 
 
 To love thee more and moi'e. 
 
 When ob.stacles and trials seem 
 Like prison-walls to be, 
 
 I do the little I can do, 
 And leave the rest to thee. 
 
 I have no cares, blessed Will ! 
 
 For all my cares are thine; 
 I live in triumph, Lord ! for thou 
 
 Hast made thy triumphs mine. 
 
 And when it seems no chance or change 
 
 From grief can set me free, 
 Hope finds its strength in helplessness, 
 
 And gayly waits on thee. 
 
 Man's weakness waiting upon God 
 
 Its end can never miss. 
 For men on earth no work can do 
 
 Moi'e angel-like than this. 
 
 He always wins who sides with God, 
 
 To him no chance is lost ; 
 God's will is sweetest to him when 
 
 It triumphs at his cost. 
 
 Ill that he blesses is our good, 
 
 And unblest good is ill ; 
 And all is right that seems most wrong, 
 
 If it be liis sweet Will ! 
 
 THE EIGHT MUST WIN. 
 
 0, IT is liard to work for God, 
 
 To rise and take his part 
 Upon this battle-field of earth, 
 
 And not sometimes lose heart ! 
 
 He hides himself so wondrously. 
 As though there were no God ; 
 
 He is least seen when all the powers 
 Of ill are most abroad. 
 
 Or he deserts us at the hour 
 
 The fight is all but lost ; 
 And seems to leave us to ourselves 
 
 Just when we need him most. 
 
 Ill masters good, good seems to change 
 
 To ill with greatest ease ; 
 And, worst of all, the good with good 
 
 Is at cross-purposes. 
 
 Ah ! God is other than we think ; 
 
 His ways are far above. 
 Far beyond reason's height, and reached 
 
 Only bv childlike love.
 
 240 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Workman of God ! 0, lose not heart, 
 But learn what God is like ; 
 
 And in tiie darkest hattle- field 
 Thou blialt know where to strike. 
 
 Thrice West is he to whom is given 
 
 The instinct that can tell 
 That God is on the field when he 
 
 Is most invisible. 
 
 Blest, too, is lie who can divine 
 
 Where real right doth lie. 
 And dares to take the side that seems 
 
 AVrong to man's blindfold eye. 
 
 For right is right, since God is God ; 
 
 And right the day must win ; 
 To doubt would be disloyalty, 
 
 To falter would be sin ! 
 
 « — • 
 
 DAVID A.WASSaN. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 SEEN AND UNSEEN. 
 
 TifE wind ahead, the billows high, 
 A whited wave, but sable sky. 
 And many a league of tossing sea, 
 Between the hearts 1 love and me. 
 
 The wind ahead : day after day 
 These weary words tlie sailors say; 
 To weeks the days are lengthened now, — 
 Still mounts the surge to meet our prow. 
 
 Through longing day and lingering night 
 I still accuse Time's lagging flight, 
 Or gaze out o'er the envious sea, 
 Tiiat keeps the liearts I love from me. 
 
 Yet, ah, how shallow is all grief ! 
 How instant is the deep relief! 
 And what a hypocrite ani I, 
 To feign forlorn, to '])lain and sigh ! 
 
 The wind ahead? The wind is free ! 
 Forevermore it favoreth me, — 
 To shores of God still blowing fair, 
 O'er seas of God my bark doth bear. 
 
 The surging brine / do not sail. 
 This blast adveyse is not my gale ; 
 
 'T is here I only seem to be. 
 But really sail another sea, — 
 
 Another sea, pure sky its waves, 
 Whose beauty hides noheaving graves,— 
 A sea all haven, whereupon 
 No hapless bark to wreck hath gone. 
 
 The winds that o'er my ocean run, 
 Iteach through all heavens beyond the 
 
 sun ; 
 Through life and death, through fate, 
 
 "through time. 
 Grand breaths of God they sweep sub- 
 lime. 
 
 Eternal trades, they cannot veer, 
 And blowing, teach us how to steer ; 
 And well for him whose joy, whose care, 
 Is but to keep before them fair. 
 
 0, thou God's mariner, heart of mine, 
 Spread canvas to the airs divine ! 
 Spread sail ! and let thy Fortune be 
 Forgotten in thy Destiny ! 
 
 For Destiny pursues ns well, 
 
 By sea, by land, through heaven or hell; 
 
 It suIRts Death alone to die. 
 
 Bids life all change and chance defy. 
 
 Would earth's dark ocean suck thee down ? 
 Earth's ocean thou, O Life, shalt drown, 
 Shalt flood it with thy finer wave, 
 And, sepulchred, entomb thy grave ! 
 
 Life loveth life and good : then trust 
 What most the spirit would, it must ; 
 Deep wishes, in the heart that be, 
 Are blossoms of necessity, 
 
 A thread of Law runs through thy prayer, 
 Stronger than iron cables are ; 
 And Love and Longing toward her goal, 
 Are pilots sweet to'guide the soul. 
 
 So Life must live, and Soul must sail, 
 And Unseen over Seen prevail, 
 And all God's argosies come to shore, 
 Let ocean smile, or rage and roar. 
 
 And so, mid storm or calm, my bark 
 With snowy wake still nears her mark; 
 ('heerly the trades of being blow. 
 And sweeping down the wind I go.
 
 EICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 241 
 
 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 Sweet -VOICED Hope, thy fine discourse 
 
 Foretold not hah ate's good to nie : 
 Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force 
 to show how sweet it is to Be ! 
 Thy witching dream 
 And pictured scheme 
 To match the fact still want the power; 
 Thy promise brave 
 From birth to grave 
 Life's boon may beggar in an hour. 
 
 Ask and receive, —'t is sweetly said ; 
 Yet what to ])lead for know 1 not ; 
 For Wish is worsted, Hope o'ersped, 
 And aye to thanks returns my thought. 
 
 If I would pray, 
 
 I 've naught to say 
 But this, that God niay be God still ; 
 
 For Him to live 
 
 Is still to give, 
 And sweeter than my wish His will. 
 
 O wealth of life, beyond all bound ! 
 
 Eternity each moment given ! 
 What plummet may the Present sound? 
 Who promises a future heaven % 
 
 Or glad, or grieved. 
 
 Oppressed, relieved. 
 In blackest night, or brightest day, 
 
 Still ponrs the flood 
 
 Of golden good, 
 And more than heart-full fills me aye. 
 
 My wea'th is coumion ; I possess 
 
 No petty province, but the whole ; 
 What 's mine alone is mine far less 
 Than treasure shared by every soul. 
 Talk not of store, 
 Millions or more, — 
 Of values which the purse may hold, — 
 But this divine ! 
 I own the mine 
 Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. 
 
 I have a stake in every star, 
 
 In every V>eam that fills the day ; 
 All hearts of men my coffers are. 
 My ores arterial tides convey ; 
 The fields, the skies, 
 And sweet replies 
 Of thought to thought are my gold dust, - 
 The oaks, the brooks. 
 And speaking looks 
 Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust. 
 16 
 
 Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow 
 
 For him who lives above all years, 
 Who all-immortal makes the Now, 
 And is not ta'en in Time's arrears : 
 
 His life 's a hymn 
 
 The seraphim 
 Might hark to hear or help to sing. 
 
 And to his soul 
 
 The boundless whole 
 Its bounty all doth daily bring. 
 
 "All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith : 
 "The wealth I am, must thou become: 
 Richer and richer, breath by breath, — 
 Immortal gain, immortal room !" 
 
 And since all his 
 
 Mine also is. 
 Life's gift outruns my fiincies far. 
 
 And drowns the dream 
 
 In larger stream, 
 As morning drinks the morning star. 
 
 ROYALTY. 
 
 That regal soul I reverence, in whose 
 
 eyes 
 Suffices not all worth the city knows 
 To pay that del)t which his own heart 
 
 he owes; 
 For less than level to his bosom rise 
 The low ciowd's heaven and stars : above 
 
 their skies 
 Runneth the road his daily feet have 
 
 pressed ; 
 A loftier heaven he beareth in his breast, 
 And o'er the summits of achieving hies 
 With never a thought of merit or of meed ; 
 Choosing divinest labors through a jnide 
 Of soul, that holdeth appetite to feed 
 Ever on angel-herbage, naught beside; 
 Nor praises more liimself for hero-deed 
 Than stones for weight, or open seas for 
 
 tide. 
 
 RICHARD CHEKEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF GOD. 
 
 I SAV to thee, do thou repeat 
 
 To the first man thou mayest meet, 
 
 In lane, highway, or open street, — 
 
 That he, and we, and all men move 
 
 Under a canopy of Love, |^ 
 
 As broad as the blue sky aliove ;
 
 242 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
 And angui.sh, all are sorrows vain ; 
 That death itself bhall nut reuiaiu : 
 
 Tiiat weary deserts we may tread, 
 A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
 Through dark ways underground be led ; 
 
 Yet, if we will our Guide obey, 
 
 The dreariest path, tlie darkest way. 
 
 Shall issue out in heavenly day. 
 
 And wej on diveis shores now cast, 
 Shall meet, our perilous voj'age past, 
 All in our Father's home at last. 
 
 And ere thou leave them, say thou this. 
 Yet one word more : They only miss 
 The winning of that final bliss 
 
 "Who will not count it true that Love, 
 Blessing, not cursing, rules above. 
 And that in it we live and move. 
 
 And one thing further make him know, 
 That to believe these things are so. 
 This firm faith never to forego, — 
 
 Despite of all which seems at strife 
 With Itlessiiig, and with curses rife, — 
 That this is blessing, this is life. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 [1819-1861.] 
 
 THE NEW SINAI. 
 
 Lo, here is God, and there is God ! 
 
 Believe it not, O man ! 
 In such vain sort to this and that 
 
 The ancient heathen ran ; 
 Though old Religion shake her head, 
 
 And say, in bitter grief, 
 The day behold, at first foretold. 
 
 Of atheist unbelief: 
 Take better part, with manly heart, 
 
 Thine adult spirit can ; 
 Receive it not, lielieve it not. 
 
 Believe it not, Man ! 
 
 As men at dead of night awaked 
 With cries, "The king is here," 
 
 Rush forth and greet whome'er they meet. 
 Whoe'er sWall lirst a]ipear; 
 
 I And still repeat, to all the street, 
 
 ! "'T is he, — the king is here" ; 
 
 The long procession moveth on. 
 
 Each nobler form they see, 
 With changeful suit they still salute. 
 And cry, '"Tishe! 'tis he!" 
 
 So, even so, when men were young, 
 
 And earth anil heaven was new. 
 And His immediate presence he - 
 
 From human hearts withdrew. 
 The soul perjdexed and daily vexed 
 
 With sensuous False and True, 
 Amazed, bereaved, no less believed. 
 
 And fain would see Him too. 
 "He is!" the prophet-tongues pro- 
 claimed ; 
 
 In joy and hasty fear, 
 "He is !" aloud replied the crowd, 
 
 "Is, here, and here, and here." 
 
 "He is ! They are !" in distance seen 
 
 On yon Olympus high, 
 In those Avernian woods abide. 
 
 And walk this azure sky : 
 "They are ! They are ! " to every show 
 
 Its eyes the baby turned, 
 And blazes sacrificial, tall. 
 
 On thousand altars burned : 
 "They are! They are!" — On Sinai's 
 top 
 
 Far seen the lightning's shone. 
 The thunder broke, a trumpet spoke, 
 
 And God said, "I am One." 
 
 God spake it out, "T, God, am One" ; 
 
 The unheeding ages ran. 
 And baby thoughts again, again. 
 
 Have (logged the growing man : 
 And as of old from Sinai's top 
 
 God said that God is One, 
 By Science strict so speaks he now 
 
 To tell us, There is None ! 
 Earth goes by chemic forces ; Heaven 's 
 
 A Mecaniipie Celeste ! 
 And heart and mind of human kind 
 
 A watch-work as the rest ! 
 
 Is this a Yoice, as was the Voice 
 
 Whose speaking told abroad. 
 When thunder pealed, and mountain 
 reeled. 
 
 The ancient truth of God? 
 Ah, not the Voice ; 'tis but the cloud, 
 
 The outer darkness dense, 
 AVhere image none, nor e'er was seen 
 
 Similitude of sense.
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 243 
 
 'T is but the cloudy darkness dense, 
 That wrapt the Mount around ; 
 
 AVhile in amaze the peo]>le stays, 
 To hear the Coming Sound. 
 
 Some cliosen prophet-soul the while 
 
 Shall dare, subiiuiely meek, 
 "Within the shroud of blackest cloud 
 
 The Deity to seek : 
 Mid^theistic systems dark. 
 
 And darker hearts' desfiair. 
 That soul has heard perchance his word. 
 
 And on the dusky air, 
 His skirts, as passed He by, to see 
 
 Hath strained on their behalf, 
 "Who on the plain, with dance amain, 
 
 Adore the Golden Calf. 
 
 'T is but the cloudy darkness dense ; 
 
 Though blank the tale it tells, 
 Ko God, no Truth ! yet He, in sooth, 
 
 Is there, — within it dwells; 
 Witliin the sceptic darkness deep 
 
 He dwells that none may see, 
 Till idol forms and idol thoughts 
 
 Have passed and ceased to be : 
 No God, no Truth ! ah though, in sooth. 
 
 So stand the doctrine's half ; 
 On Egypt's tiack return not back, 
 
 Koi' own the Golden Calf. 
 
 Take better part, with manlier heart, 
 
 Thine adult spirit can : 
 No God, no Truth, receive it ne'er — 
 
 Believe it ne'er — Man ! 
 But turn not then to seek again 
 
 What first the ill began ; 
 No God, it saith ; ah, wait in faith 
 
 God's self-completing plan ; 
 Eeceive it not, but leave it not. 
 
 And wait it out, man ! 
 
 The Man that went the cloud within 
 
 Is gone and vanished quite ; 
 " He cometh not," the people cries, 
 
 "Nor bringeth God to sight" : 
 "Lo these thy gods, that safety give, 
 
 Adore and keep the feast!" 
 Deluding and deluded cries 
 
 The Prophet's brother-Priest : 
 And Israel all liows down to fall 
 
 Before the gilded beast. 
 
 Devout, indeed ! that priestly creed, 
 
 Man, reject as sin ! 
 The clouded hill attend thou still, 
 
 And him that went within. 
 
 He yet shall bring some worthy thing 
 
 For waiting souls to see ; 
 Some sacred word that he hath heard 
 
 Their light and life shall be ; 
 Some lofty part, than which the heart 
 
 Adopt no nobler can. 
 Thou slialt receive, thou shalt believe. 
 
 And thou shalt do, Man ! 
 
 FROM THE "BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA- 
 VUOLICH." 
 
 Where does Circumstanceend, and Prov- 
 idence, where begins it ? 
 
 What are we to resist, and what are we 
 to be friends with ? 
 
 If there is battle 't is battle by night ; I 
 stand in the darkness. 
 
 Here in the midst of men, Ionian and 
 Dorian on both sides. 
 
 Signal and password known; which is 
 friend, which is foeman ? 
 
 Is it a friend ? I doubt, though he speak 
 with the voice of a I31 other. 
 
 that the armies indeed were arrayed ! 
 joy of the onset ! 
 
 Sound, thou trumpet of God, come forth 
 Great Cause, and ariay us ! 
 
 King and leader appear, thy soldiers an- 
 swering seek thee. 
 
 Would that the armies indeed were 
 arrayed. where is the battle ! 
 
 Neither battle I se(>, nor arraying, nor 
 King in Israel, 
 
 Only infinite jumble and mess and dis- 
 location. 
 
 Backed by a solemn appeal, "For God's 
 sake do not stir there ! " 
 
 THE STREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 STREAM descending to the sea. 
 Thy mossy banks between, 
 
 The flow'rets blow, the grasses grow. 
 The leafy trees are green. 
 
 In garden plots the children play, 
 The fields the laborers till. 
 
 The houses stand on either hand. 
 And thou descendest still. 
 
 life descending into d^ath, 
 Our waking eyes behold,
 
 244 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 
 
 Parent and fiiend th}' lapse attend, 
 Companions young and old. 
 
 Strong purposes our minds possess, 
 
 Our hearts affections till, 
 We toil and earn, we seek and learn, 
 
 And thon descendest still. 
 
 end to which our currents tend. 
 
 Inevitable sea. 
 To which we flow, what do we know, 
 
 What shall we guess of thee? 
 
 A roar we hear npon thy shore, 
 
 As we onr conrse fullil ; 
 Scarce we divine a sun will shine 
 
 And be above us still. 
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 
 
 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, de- 
 scried ; 
 
 When fell the night, npsprung the breeze. 
 And all the darkling hours they plied. 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so, — but why the tale reveal 
 Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 
 
 Biief absence joined anew to feel, 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 
 
 At dead of night their sails- were fdled. 
 And onward each rejoicing steered : 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn ap[)eared ! 
 
 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 selves, be true. 
 
 But O blithe breeze, and great seas, 
 Though ne'er, that earliest partingpast. 
 
 On youi- wide phun they join again. 
 Together lead them home at last ! 
 
 One port, methought, alike they sought. 
 One ]uirpos(; hold where'er they fare, — 
 
 bounding breeze, rushing seas. 
 At last, at last, unite them there 
 
 SAMUEL LONGFELLOW. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE GOLDEN SUNSET. 
 
 The golden sea its mirror spreads 
 
 Beneath the golden skies. 
 And but a narrow strip between ^ 
 
 Of land and shadow lies. 
 
 Thecloud-likerocks, the rock-like clouds, 
 
 Dissolved in glory float. 
 And, midway of the radiant flood. 
 
 Hangs silently the boat. 
 
 The sea is but another skj'. 
 
 The sky a sea as well. 
 And which is earth, and wluch the heav- 
 ens, 
 
 The eye can scarcely tell. 
 
 So when for us life's evening hour 
 
 Soft passing shall descend. 
 May glory born of earth and heaven. 
 
 The earth and lieavens blend ; 
 
 Flooded with peace the spirit float, 
 
 With silent rapture glow. 
 Till where earth ends and heaven begins 
 
 The soul shall scarcely know. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 QUIET FROM GOD. 
 
 Quiet from God ! It cometh not to still 
 The vast and high aspirings of the soul. 
 The deep emotions which the s]iirit fill. 
 And speed its pu7'pose onward to the 
 goal ; 
 It dims not youth's bright eye, 
 
 Bends not joy's lofty brow. 
 No guiltless ecstasy 
 
 Need in its presence bow. 
 
 It comes not in a sullen form, to ]ilaee 
 Life's greatest good in an inglorious 
 rest ; 
 Through a dull, beaten track its way to 
 trace. 
 And to lethargic slumberlull the breast ; 
 Action may be its sphere. 
 
 Mountain paths, boundless fields, 
 O'er billows its career : 
 
 This is the power it yields.
 
 ELIZA SCUDDER. — SARAH F. ADAMS. 
 
 245 
 
 To sojourn in the world, and yet apart ; 
 To dwell with God, yet still with fiian 
 to feel ; 
 To bear about forever in the heart 
 
 The gladness which His spirit doth 
 reveal ; 
 Not to deem evil gone 
 
 From every earthly sceue ; 
 To see the storm come on. 
 But feel His shield between. 
 
 It giveth not a strength to human kind, 
 To leave all suffering powerless at its 
 feet. 
 But keeps within the tem})le of the mind 
 A golden altar, and a mercy-seat ; 
 A spiritual ark, 
 
 Bearing the peace of God 
 Above the waters dark, 
 And o'er the desert's sod. 
 
 How beautiful within our souls to keep 
 This treasure, the All-MerciCul hath 
 given ; 
 To feel, when we awake, and when we 
 sleep. 
 Its incense round us, like a breeze from 
 heaven ! 
 Quiet at heartli and home. 
 
 Where the heart's joys begin; 
 Quiet where'er we roam. 
 Quiet around, within. 
 
 Who shall make trouble? — not the evil 
 minds 
 Which like ashadow o'er creation lower. 
 The spirit peace liath so attuned, finds 
 There feelings that may own the 
 Calmer's power ; 
 What may she not confer, 
 
 E'en where she must condemn? 
 They take not peace from her. 
 She may speak peace to them ! 
 
 ELIZA SCUDDER. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE LOVE OF GOD. 
 
 Thou Grace Divine, encircling all, 
 A soundless, shoreless sea ! 
 
 Wherein at last our souls must fall, 
 Love of God most free ! 
 
 When over dizzy heights we go, 
 One soft hand blinds our eyes. 
 
 The other leads us, safe and slow, 
 Love of God most wise ! 
 
 And though we turn us from tliy face, 
 And wander wide and long, 
 
 Thou hold'st us still in thine embrace, 
 Love of God most strong ! 
 
 The saddened heart, the restless soul, 
 The toil-worn frame aiid mind. 
 
 Alike confess thy sweet control, 
 Love of God most kind ! 
 
 But not alone thy care we claim, 
 
 Our wayward steps to win ; 
 We know thee by a dearer name, 
 
 O Love of God within ! 
 
 And filled and quickened by thy breath. 
 Our souls are strong and free 
 
 To rise o'er sin and fear and death, 
 Love of God, to thee ! 
 
 SARAH F. ADAMS. 
 
 NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 
 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 
 That raiseth me ; 
 Still all my song shall be. 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 Though like the wanderer. 
 The sun gone down. 
 
 Darkness be over me. 
 My rest a stone ; 
 
 Yet in my dreams I 'd be 
 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 There let the way appear 
 Steps unto Heaven ; 
 
 All that thou send'st to me 
 In mercy given ; 
 
 Angels to beckon me 
 
 Nearei', my God, to thee, 
 Nearer to thee !
 
 246 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTUKIES. 
 
 Then with my waking thoughts 
 Bright witii thj' praise, 
 
 Out of my stony griefs 
 Bethel I '11 raise ; 
 
 So "by my woes to be 
 
 Nearer, my Goil, to thee. 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 Or if on joyful wing 
 
 Cleaving the sky, 
 Sun, moon, and stars forgot. 
 
 Upwards 1 Hy, 
 Still all my song shall be, 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee! 
 
 AKNA L. WARING. 
 
 MY TIMES AHE IN THY HAND. 
 
 Father, I know that all my life 
 
 Is portioned out for me. 
 And the changes that will surely come, 
 
 1 do not fear to see ; 
 But 1 ask thee for a present mind 
 
 Intent on pleasing thee. 
 
 I ask thee for a thoughtful love. 
 Through constant watching wise, 
 
 To meet tlie glad with joyful smiles, 
 And to wipe the weeping eyes ; 
 
 And a heart at leisure from itself, 
 To soothe and sympathize. 
 
 I would not have the restless will 
 
 Tliat iiurries to and fro. 
 Seeking for some great thing to do, 
 
 Or secret thing to know ; 
 I would lie treated as a cluld. 
 
 And guided where I go. 
 
 ^\'herever in the world I am, 
 
 In whatsoe'er estate, 
 1 liave a fellowsliip with hearts 
 
 To keep and cultivate ; 
 An<l a work of lowly love to do, 
 
 For tlie Lord on whom I wait. 
 
 So I ask thee for the daily strength. 
 
 To none that ask denied. 
 And a mind to blend witli outward life. 
 
 While keeping at thy side. 
 Content to till a little space, 
 
 If thou be jilorilied. 
 
 And if some things I do not ask 
 
 In my cup of blessing be, 
 I wouhi have my spirit filled the more 
 
 With grateful love to thee ; 
 And careful, less to serve thee much. 
 
 Than to please thee perfectly. 
 
 There are briers besetting every path. 
 Which call for patient care ; 
 
 There is a cross in every lot. 
 
 And an earnest need for prayer ; 
 
 But a lowly heart that leans on thee 
 Is happy anywhere. 
 
 In a service which thy love appoints. 
 
 There are no bonds for me ; 
 For riiy secret heart is taught "the truth" 
 
 That makes thy children "free" ; 
 And a life of self-renouncing love 
 
 Is a life of liberty. 
 
 JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 CANA. 
 
 Dear Friend ! whose presence in the 
 house. 
 
 Whose gracious word benign, 
 Conld once, at Cana's wedding feast, 
 
 Change water into wine ; 
 
 Come, visit ns ! and when dull work 
 
 Grows weary, line on line, 
 Eevive our souls, and let us see 
 
 Life's water turned to wine. 
 
 Gay mirth shall deepen into joy, 
 Earth's hojies grow half divine, 
 
 Wlicn Jesus visits us, to make 
 Life's water glow as wine. 
 
 The social talk, the evening fire, 
 The homely househould shrine, 
 
 Grow bright witli angel visits, when 
 The Lord pours out the wine. 
 
 For when self-seeking, turns to love, 
 Not knowing mine nor thine, 
 
 The mira(de again is wrought. 
 And \\ater turned to wine.
 
 HORATIUS BONAR. — W. ALEXANDER. 
 
 247 
 
 HORATIUS BONAR. 
 
 THE INNER CALM. 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
 While these hot breezes blow ; 
 
 Be like the night-dew's cooling balm 
 Upon earth's fevered brow. 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
 
 Soft resting on thy breast ; 
 Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm, 
 
 And bid my spirit rest. 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm ; 
 
 Let thine outstretched wing 
 Be like the shade of Elim's palm 
 
 Beside her desert spring. 
 
 Yes, keep me calm, though loud and 
 rude 
 
 The sounds my ear that gi'eet, 
 Calm in the closet's solitude, 
 
 Calm in the bustling street ; 
 
 Calm in the hour of buoyant health, 
 
 Calm in my hour of pain, 
 Calm in my poverty or wealth, 
 
 Calm in my loss or gain ; 
 
 Calm in the sufferance of wrong, 
 Like Him who bore my shame, 
 
 Calm mid the threatening, taunting 
 throng, 
 Who hate Thy holy name ; 
 
 Calm when the great world's news with 
 power 
 
 My listening spirit stir ; 
 Let not the tidings of the hour 
 
 E'er find too fond an ear ; 
 
 Calm as the ray of sun or star 
 Which storms assail in vain, 
 
 Moving unruffled through earth's war, 
 The eternal calm to gain. 
 
 THE MASTER'S TOUCH. 
 
 In the still air the music lies unheard ; 
 In the rough maible beauty hides 
 unseen : 
 To make the music and the beauty, 
 needs 
 The master's touch, the sculptor's 
 chisel keen. 
 
 Great Master, touch us with thy skilful 
 hand ; 
 Let not the music that is in us die ! 
 Great Sculptor, hew and palish us ; nor 
 let. 
 Hidden and lost, thy form within us 
 lie! 
 
 Spare not the stroke ! do with us as 
 thou wilt ! 
 Let there be naught unfinished, broken, 
 marred ; 
 Complete thy purpose, that we may be- 
 come 
 Thy perfect image, thou our God and 
 Lord ! 
 
 W. ALEXANDER. 
 
 UP ABOVE. 
 
 Down below, the wild November whist- 
 ling 
 Through the beech's dome of burning red, 
 And the Autumn sprinkling penitential 
 Dust and ashes on the chestnut's head. 
 
 Down beloW', a pall of airy piirple 
 Darkly hanging fioni the mountain-side ; 
 And the sunset fiom his eyebrow staring 
 O'er the long roll of the leaden tide. 
 
 Up above, the tree with leaf unfading. 
 By the everlasting river's brink ; 
 And the sea of glass, beyond whoseniargin 
 Never yet the sun was known to sink. 
 
 Down below, the white wings of the sea- 
 bird 
 
 Dashed across the furrows, dark with 
 mould. 
 
 Flitting, like the memories of our child- 
 hood. 
 
 Through the trees, now waxen pale and 
 old. 
 
 Down below, imaginations quivering 
 Through our human spirits like the wind; 
 Thoughts that toss, like leaves about the 
 
 woodland ; 
 Hope, like sea-birds, flashed across the 
 
 mind.
 
 248 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Up above, the host no man can number, 
 In white robes, a |)alin in every hand. 
 Each some \vori< sublime forever working, 
 In the spacious tracts of that great laud. 
 
 Up above, the thought.? that know not 
 
 anguish ; 
 Tender care, sweet love for us below ; 
 Noble pity, free from anxious terror; 
 Larger love, without a touch of woe. 
 
 Down below, a sad, m3''sterious music 
 Wailing through the woods and on the 
 
 shore, 
 Burdened with a grand majestic secret. 
 That keeps sweeping from us evermore. 
 
 Up above, a music that entwineth 
 Witli eternal threads of golden sound, 
 The great poem of this strange e.xistence, 
 All whose wondrous meaning hath been 
 found. 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE OTHER WORLD. 
 
 It lies around us like a cloud, — 
 
 A world we do not see ; 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye 
 
 May bring us there to be. 
 
 Its gejitle breezes fan our cheek ; 
 
 Amid our worldly cares 
 Its g'ntle voices whisper love. 
 
 And mingle with our prayers. 
 
 Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, 
 S veet heljiing liands are stirred. 
 
 And piiititati's the veil between 
 With breatliings almost heard. 
 
 Tlie silence — awful, sweet, and calm — 
 They liave no powei' to break ; 
 
 For mortal words are not for thcmi 
 To utter or partake. 
 
 So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, 
 So near to jiress they seem, —   
 
 They seem to lull us to our rest, 
 And melt into our dream. 
 
 And in the hush of rest they bring 
 
 T is easy now to see 
 How lovely and how sweet a pass 
 
 The hour of death may be. 
 
 To close the eye, and close the ear, 
 Wrap])ed in a trance of bliss. 
 
 And gently dream in loving aims 
 To swoon to that — from this. 
 
 Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep. 
 Scarce asking where we are, 
 
 To feel all evil sink away, 
 All sorrow and all care. 
 
 Sweet souls around us ! watch us still. 
 
 Press nearer to our side. 
 Into our thoughts, into our prayers. 
 
 With gentle helpings glide. 
 
 Let death between us be as naught, 
 A dried and vanished stream ; 
 
 Your joy be the reality, 
 
 Our suffering life the dream. 
 
 MRS. LEWES (GEORGE ELIOT). 
 
 O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE ! 
 
 MAY I join the choir invisible 
 
 Of those immortal dead who live again 
 
 In minds made better by their presence; 
 
 live 
 In pulses stirred to generosity. 
 In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn 
 Of miserable aims that end with self, 
 In thoughts sublime that pierce the 
 
 night like stars. 
 And with their mild persistence urge 
 
 men's minds 
 To vaster issues. 
 
 So to live is heaven : 
 To make undying music in the world, 
 Breathing a beauteous order, that con- 
 trols 
 With growing sway the growing life of 
 
 man. 
 So we inhei'it that sweet purity 
 For which we struggled, failed, and 
 
 agonized 
 With widening retrospect that bred de- 
 spair. 
 Rebellious tlesh that would not be sub- 
 dued,
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY, 
 
 249 
 
 A vicious parent shaming still its child, 
 Poor anxious penitence, is quick dis- 
 solved ; 
 Its discords quenched by meeting har- 
 monies, 
 Die in the large and charitable air. 
 And all our rarer, better, truer self. 
 That sobbed religiously in yearning song. 
 That watched to ease the burden of the 
 
 wo lid, 
 Laboriously tracing what must be. 
 And what may yet be better, — saw within 
 A worthier image for the sanctuary, 
 And shaped it forth before the multitude. 
 Divinely human, raising worsiiip so 
 To higher reverence more mixed with 
 
 love, — 
 That better self shall live till human 
 
 Time 
 Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky 
 Be gathei-ed like a scroll within the tomb. 
 Unread forever. 
 
 This is life to come. 
 Which martyred men have made more 
 
 glorious 
 For ns, who strive to follow. 
 
 May I reach 
 That purest heaven, — be to other souls 
 The cup of strength in some great agony. 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
 Begot tlie smiles that liave no cruelty, 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
 And in diifusion ever more intense ! 
 So shall I join the choir invisible, 
 "Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 '[1819-1874.] 
 
 THE THREE FISHERS. 
 
 Three fishers went sailing out into the 
 west. 
 Out into the westasthe sun went down ; 
 Each thought on the woman who loved 
 him the best. 
 And the children stood watching them 
 out of the town ; 
 For men must work, and women must 
 
 weep. 
 And there 's little to earn, and many to 
 keep, 
 Though the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three wives sat up in the lighthouse 
 tower. 
 And they trimmed the lamps as the 
 sun went down. 
 They looked at the squall, and they 
 looked at the shower, 
 And the night rack came rolling up 
 ragged and brown ! 
 But men must work, and women must 
 
 weep. 
 Though storms be sudden, and waters 
 deep. 
 And the harbor bar be moaning. 
 
 Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 
 In the morning gleam as the tide went 
 down. 
 And the women are weeping and wring- 
 ing their hands 
 For those who will never come back 
 to the town ; 
 For men must work, and women must 
 
 weep, 
 And the sooner it 's over, the sooner to 
 sleep, — 
 And good by to the bar and its 
 moaning. 
 
 THE SAKDS OF DEE. 
 
 "0 Mary, go and call the cattle home. 
 And call the cattle home. 
 And call the cattle home, 
 Across the sands of Dee" ; 
 The western wind was wild and dank wi' 
 foam. 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The western tide crept up along the sand, 
 And o'er and o'er the sand. 
 And round and round the sand. 
 As far as eye could see. 
 The rolling mist came down and hid the 
 land, — 
 And nfver home came she. 
 
 " 0, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair, — 
 A tress o' golden hair, 
 A drowned maiden's hair 
 Above the nets at sea ? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 They rowed her in across the rolling foam. 
 The cruel crawling foam,
 
 250 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 The cruel hungry foam, I Of the shearers that I see, 
 
 To her grave beside the sea : Is e'er a body kens me, 
 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the I Though 1 kent them a' at Strathairly ; 
 — **i" ^'— ■■" And this tisher-wife I pass, 
 
 cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee ! 
 
 A MYTH. 
 
 A FLOATING, a floating 
 Across the sleeping sea. 
 All night I heard a singing bird 
 Upon the topmast tree. 
 
 "0, came you fi-om the isles of Greece, 
 Or from the banks of Seine, 
 Or off some tree in forests free, 
 "Which fringe the Western main?" 
 
 "1 came not off the old world, — 
 Nor yet from off the new, — 
 But I am one of the birds of God 
 "Which sing the whole night througli." 
 
 "0 sing and wake the dawning, 
 whistle for the wind ; 
 The night is long, the current strong, 
 ily boat it lags behind." 
 
 " The current sweeps the old world. 
 The current sweeps the new ; 
 The wind will blow, the dawn will glow 
 Ere thou h^t sailed them through." 
 
 DINAH MULOCK CRAIK. 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 The lift is high and blue. 
 
 And the new moon glints through 
 
 The bonnie corn-stooks o' Strsithairly ; 
 My ship 's in Largo Bay, 
 And I ken it weel, — tiie way 
 
 Up the steep, steep brae of Strathairly. 
 
 When I sailed ower the sea, — 
 A laddie bold and free, — 
 
 The corn sprang green on Strathairly ; 
 Wlien I come ba(;k again, 
 'T is an aulil man walks his lane. 
 
 Slow and sad through the fields o' 
 Strathairly. 
 
 Can she be the braw lass 
 That I kissed at the back of Strathairly? 
 
 0, the land 's fine, fine ! 
 
 I could buy it a' for mine. 
 My gowd 's yellow as the stocks o' 
 Strathairly ; 
 
 But 1 fain yon lad wad be. 
 
 That sailed ower the salt sea. 
 As the dawn rose gray on Strathairly. 
 
 TOO LATE. 
 
 Could ye come back to me, Douglas, 
 Douglas, 
 
 In the old likeness that I knew, 
 I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 
 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
 I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels 
 do; — 
 
 Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 to call back the days that are not ! 
 My eyes were blinded, your words were 
 
 few : 
 Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 
 
 1 never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 
 
 Not half worthy the like of you : 
 Now all men beside seem to me like 
 shadows, — 
 I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, 
 Douglas, 
 Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 
 As I lay my heart on your dead heart, 
 Douglas, 
 Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 
 
 OUTWARD BOUND. 
 
 Out upon the unknown deep, 
 
 "Where the unheard oceans sound, 
 "Where the unseen islan<ls sleep, — 
 Outward bound.
 
 HARRIET WINSLOW SEW ALL. 
 
 251 
 
 Following towards tlie silent west 
 O'er the liorizon's curved riiu, 
 
 On, to islands of the blest ; 
 He with me and I with him, 
 Outward bound. 
 
 Nothing but a speck we seem 
 
 In the waste of waters round ; 
 Floating, floating like a dream. 
 
 Outward bound. 
 But within that tiny speck 
 
 Two brave hearts with one accord, 
 Past all tunnilt, pain, and wreck. 
 Look up calm, and praise the Lord, 
 Outward bound. ' 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 UNTIL DEATH. 
 
 Make me no vows of constanc)', dear 
 friend, 
 To love me, though I die, tliy whole 
 life long. 
 And love no other till thy days shall 
 end, — 
 Nay, it were rash and wrong. 
 
 If thou canst love another, be it so ; 
 
 1 would not reach out of my quiet grave 
 To bind thy heart, if it should choose to 
 
 go;— 
 
 Love should not be a slave. 
 
 My placid ghost, I trust, will walk serene 
 In clearer light than gilds those earthly 
 morns, 
 Above the jealousies and envies keen 
 
 AVhich sow this life with thorns. 
 
 Thou wouldstnot feel my shadowy caress. 
 If, after death, my soul should linger 
 here ; 
 Men's hearts crave tangible, close ten- 
 derness. 
 Love's presence, warm and near. 
 
 It would not make me sleep more peace- 
 fully 
 That thou wert w-asting all thy life in 
 woe 
 For my poor sake ; what love thou hast 
 for me. 
 Bestow it ei'e I go ! 
 
 Carve not upon a stone when I am dead 
 The praises which remorseful mourners 
 give 
 To women's graves, — a tardy recom- 
 pense, — 
 But speak them while I live. 
 
 Heap not the heavy marble on my head 
 To shut away the sunshine and the dew ; 
 Let small blooms grow there, and let 
 grasses wave. 
 And rain-drops filter through. 
 
 Thou wilt meet niany fairer and more gay 
 Than I ; but, trust me, thou canst never 
 find 
 One who will love and serve thee night 
 and day 
 With a more single mind. 
 
 Forget me when I die ! The violets 
 
 Above my rest will blossom just asblue. 
 Nor miss thy tears; e'en Nature's self 
 forgets ; — 
 But while I live, be true ! 
 
 HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 WHY THUS LONGING? 
 
 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
 For the far off, unattained, and dim. 
 
 While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 
 Offers up its low perpetual hymn ! 
 
 Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching 
 All thy restless yearnings it would 
 still. 
 Leaf and flower and laden bee are preach- 
 ing 
 Thine own sphere, though humble, 
 first to fill. 
 
 Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
 Thou no ray of light and joy canst 
 throw. 
 If no silken chord of love hath bound 
 thee 
 To some little world through weal 
 and woe ; 
 
 If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, 
 No fond voices answer to thine own,
 
 252 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
 By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 
 
 Not by deeds that gain the world's ap- 
 plauses, 
 Not by works that win thee world 
 renown, 
 Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses. 
 Canst thou win and wear the immor- 
 tal crown. 
 
 Daily struggling, though unloved and 
 lonely, 
 Every day a rich reward will give ; 
 Thou wilt find by hearty striving only. 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly 
 live. 
 
 Dost thou revel in the rosy morning 
 
 When all nature hails the Lord of light, 
 And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorn- 
 
 Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and 
 height ? 
 
 Other hands may grasp the field and 
 forest. 
 Proud proprietors in pomp may shine, 
 But with fervent love if thou adorest. 
 Thou art wealthier, — all the world is 
 thine. 
 
 Yet if through earth's wide domains 
 thou rovest. 
 Sighing that they are not thine alone. 
 Not those fair fields, but thyself thou 
 lovest. 
 And their beauty and thy wealth are 
 gone. 
 
 COYEXTRY PATMORE. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 
 All powers of the sea and air, 
 
 All interests of hill and plain, 
 I so can sing, in seasons fair. 
 
 That who liath felt may feel again : 
 Nay, more ; tlie gracious muses liless 
 
 At timi's my tongue, until 1 can 
 AVith moving emphasis express 
 
 The likeness of the perfect man : 
 Elated oft witli such free songs, 
 
 1 think with utterance free to raise 
 
 That hymn for which the whole world 
 longs,— 
 
 A worthy hymn in woman's praise ; 
 The best half of creation's best, 
 
 Its heart to feel, its eye to see, 
 The crown and complex of the rest, 
 
 Its aim and its ei)itome. 
 
 Yet now it is my chosen task 
 
 To sing her worth as maid and wife; 
 And were such post to seek, 1 'd ask 
 
 To live her laureate all my life. 
 On wings of love uplifted free. 
 
 And by her gentleness made great, 
 I 'd teach how noble man should be. 
 
 To match with such a lovely mate ; 
 Until (for who may hope too much 
 
 From hei- who wields the powers of love). 
 Our lifted lives at last should touch 
 
 That lofty goal to which they move; 
 Until we find, as darkness rolls 
 
 Far ott', and fieshly mists dissolve. 
 That nuptial contrasts are the jjoles 
 
 On which the heavenly spheres revolve. 
 
 THE CHASE. 
 
 She wearies Avith an ill unknown ; 
 
 In sleep she sobs and seems to float, 
 A water-lil}', all alone 
 
 Within a lonely castle-moat ; 
 And as the full moon, s[)ectral, lies 
 
 Within the crescent's gleaming arms, 
 The present shows her heedless eyes 
 
 A future dim with vague alarms : 
 She sees, and yet she scarcely sees ; 
 
 For, life-in-life not 'yet begun, 
 Too many are life's mysteries 
 
 For thought to fix t'ward any one. 
 
 She 's told that maidens are by youths 
 
 Extremely honored and desired ; 
 Andsighs, "If those sweet tales be truths, 
 
 What bliss to be so much admired I" 
 The suitors come ; she sees them grieve ; 
 
 Her coldness fills them with despair: 
 She 'd pity if she could believe ; 
 
 She 's soiry that she cannot care. 
 
 Who 's this that meets her on her way ? 
 
 Comes he as enemy, or friend; 
 Or both ? Her bosom seems to say 
 
 He cannot pass, and there an end. 
 Whom does he love ? Does he confer 
 
 His heart on worth that answers his ?
 
 LETITIA E. LANDON. 
 
 
 Peiliaps he's come to worship her: 
 yhe I'ears, she hopes, she thinks he is. 
 
 Advancing stepless, quick, and still. 
 
 As in the grass a s<'rpent glides, 
 He fascinates hei' lluttering will. 
 
 Then teriihes with dreadful strides : 
 At first, there 's nothing to resist : 
 
 He fights with all the forms of peace ; 
 He comes about her like a mist, 
 
 With subtle, swift, unseen increase ; 
 And then, unlooked for, strikes auiain 
 
 8oine sti'oke that frightens hertodeath ; 
 And grows all liainilessness again. 
 
 Ere she can cry, or get lier breath. 
 At times she stops, and stands at bay; 
 
 But he, in all more strong than she, 
 Sul)dues her with his pale dismay, 
 
 Or more admired audacity. 
 
 All people speak of him with praise : 
 
 How wise his talk ; how sweet his tone ; 
 What manly worship in his gaze ! 
 
 It nearly makes lier lieart his own. 
 With what an air he speaks lier name : 
 
 His manner always j'ecollects 
 Her sex : and still the; woman's claim 
 
 Is taught its scope by his respects. 
 Her cliarms, perceived to prosper first 
 
 In his beloved advertencies. 
 When in her glass they are rehearsed, 
 
 Prove his most powerful allies. 
 
 Ah, whither shall a maiden flee, 
 
 When a bold youth so swift jiursues, 
 And siege of tenderest courtesy. 
 
 With hope perseverant, still renews ! 
 W'hy fly so fast? Hei- flattered breast 
 
 Thanksliim who finds her fair and good ; 
 She loves her fears; veiled joys aiTCst 
 
 The foolish terrors of her blood ; 
 By secret, sweet degrees, her heart. 
 
 Vanquished, takes warmth frorft liis 
 desire : 
 She makes it more, with bashful art. 
 
 And fuels love's late dreaded lire. 
 
 The gallant credit he accords 
 
 To all the signs of good in her, 
 Eedeems itself; his ])raiseful words 
 
 What thej^ attribute still confer. 
 Her heart is thiice as rich in bliss. 
 
 She 's three times gentler than before : 
 He gains a right to call her his. 
 
 Now she through him is so much more ! 
 Ah, might he, when by doubts aggrieved, 
 
 Behold his tokens next her breast, 
 
 At all his words and sighs perceived 
 Against its blithe upheaval pressed. 
 
 But still she flies: should she be won. 
 It must not be believed or thought 
 
 She yields : she's chased to death, undone, 
 Surprised, and violently caught. 
 
 THE LOVER. 
 
 He meets, by heavenly chance express, 
 
 His destined wife; some hidden hand 
 Unveils to him that loveliness 
 
 Which others cannot understand. 
 No songs of love, no summer dreams 
 
 Did e'er his longing lancy fire 
 With vision like to this ; she seems 
 
 In all things better than desire. 
 His merits in her presenc-e grow, 
 
 To match the promise in her eyes. 
 And round her hajipy footsteps blow 
 
 The authentic airs of Paradise. 
 
 The least is well, yet nothing' s light 
 
 In all the lover does; for he 
 Who pitches hope at such a height 
 
 Will do all things with dignity. 
 She is so perfect, true, and pure. 
 
 Her virtue all virtue so endears. 
 That often, when he thinks of her. 
 
 Life's meanness fills his eyes with tears. 
 
 LETITIA E. LANDON. 
 
 THE SHEPHERD-BOY. 
 
 Like some vision olden 
 
 Of far other time, 
 When the age was golden. 
 
 In the young world's prime 
 Is thy soft pipe ringing, 
 
 O lonely shepherd-boy. 
 What song art thou singing, 
 
 In thy youth and joy? 
 
 Or art thou complaining 
 
 Of thy lowly lot. 
 And thine own disdaining. 
 
 Dost ask what thou hast not ? 
 Of the future dreaming, 
 
 Weaiy of the ])ast, 
 For the present scheming, 
 
 All but what thou hast.
 
 254 
 
 SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. 
 
 No, thou art delighting 
 
 In tliy suniiner home, 
 Where the Howeis inviting 
 
 Tempt tlie bee to luani ; 
 Wlieie the eow.slip bending 
 
 With its golden bells, 
 Of each glad hour's ending 
 
 With a sweet chime tells. 
 
 All wild creatures love him 
 
 When lie is alone, 
 Every bird above him 
 
 Sings its softest tone, 
 Thankful to high Heaven, 
 
 Humble in thy joy, 
 Much to thee is given, 
 
 Lowly shepherd-boy. 
 
 DEATH AND THE YOUTH. 
 
 "Not yet, the flowers are in my path, 
 
 The sun is in the sky ; 
 Not yet, my heart is full of hope, 
 
 I cannot bear to die. 
 
 "Not yet, I never knew till now 
 ' How precious life could lie; 
 My heart is full of love, O Death ! 
 I cannot come with thee !" 
 
 But Love and Hope, enchanted twain, 
 Passed in their falsehood by ; 
 
 Death came again, and then he said, 
 " I 'm ready now to die !" 
 
 AUBREY DE VERE. 
 
 THE SISTERS. 
 
 " I KNOW not how to comfort thee; 
 
 Yet dare not say, Weep on I 
 I know how little life is worth 
 
 When love itself is gone. 
 
 "The mighty with the weak contend; 
 
 The many with the few : 
 The hard and heavy hearts ojipress 
 
 The tender and tlie true. 
 
 "Had he been capable of love, 
 His love had clung to thee ; 
 
 He was too weak a thing to bear 
 That noble energy. 
 
 "Lift, lift your forehead from my lap, 
 
 And lay it on my breast : 
 I too have wept ; but you I deemed 
 
 Still safe within your nest." 
 
 Her words were vain, but not her tears ; 
 
 The mourner raised her eyes. 
 Subdued by the atoning power 
 
 Of pitying sympathies : 
 
 Subdued at first, erelong consoled, 
 
 At last she ceased to moan ; 
 For those who feel another's pain 
 
 Will soon forget their own. 
 
 ,ve whom broken vows bereave, 
 Your vows to heaven restore ; 
 
 ye for blighted love who grieve, 
 Love deeper and love more ! 
 
 The arrow cannot wound the air, 
 
 Nor thunder rend the sea, 
 Nor injury long afflict the heart 
 
 That rests, Love, in thee ! 
 
 The winds may blow, the waves may swell; 
 
 But soon those tumults cease, 
 And the pure element subsides 
 
 Into its native peace. 
 
 ALICE CAREY. • 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 KRUMLEY. 
 
 BLFSHINO flowers of Krumley ! 
 'T is she who makes you sweet. 
 
 1 envy every silver wave 
 That laughs about her feet. 
 
 How dare the waves, how dare the flowers, 
 Rise up and kiss her feet ? 
 
 Ye wanton woods of Krumley ! 
 
 Ye clas]) her with your boughs, 
 And stoop to kiss her all the way 
 
 Beside her homeward cows. 
 I hate ye, woods of Krundey, 
 
 I 'm jealous of your boughs !
 
 ALICE CAKEY. 
 
 255 
 
 I tell ye, banks of Krnmley, 
 
 'T is not your sunny days 
 That set your meadows up and down 
 
 With blossoms all ablaze. 
 The Howers that love her crowd to bloom 
 
 Along her trodden ways. 
 
 dim and dewy Krumle}^ 
 
 'T is not your birds at all 
 That make the air one warble 
 
 From rainy spring to tall. 
 They only mock the sweeter songs 
 
 Tliat from her sweet lips fall. 
 
 bold, bold winds of Krumley, 
 Do ye mean my heart to break, 
 
 So light ye lift her yellow hair, 
 So lightly kiss her cheek? 
 
 flower and bird, wave and wind, 
 Ye mean my heart to break ! 
 
 THE SURE WITNESS. 
 
 The solemn wood had spread 
 Shadows around my head, — 
 "Curtains they are," I said, 
 "Hung dim and still about the house of 
 
 prayer" ; 
 Softly among the limbs, 
 Turning the ieaves of hymns, 
 I hear the winds, and ask if God were 
 
 there. 
 No voice replied, but while I listening 
 
 stood. 
 Sweet peace made holy hushes through 
 
 the wood. 
 
 AVith ruddy, open hand, 
 
 I saw the wild rose stand 
 
 Beside the green gate of the summer hills, 
 
 And pulling at her dress, 
 
 I cried, "Sweet hermitess. 
 
 Hast thou beheld Him who the dew dis- 
 tils?" 
 
 No voice replied, but while I listening 
 bent. 
 
 Her gracious beauty made my heart con- 
 tent. 
 
 The moon in splendor shone, — 
 "She walketh Heaven alone, 
 And seeth all things," to myself I mused; 
 "Hast thou beheld Him, then, 
 Who hides himself from men 
 In that gicat power through nature in- 
 terfused?" 
 
 No speech made answer, and no sign ap- 
 peared, 
 
 But in the silence I was soothed and 
 cheered. 
 
 Waking one time, strange awe 
 
 Thrilling my soul, I saw 
 
 A kingly s])lendor round al)out the night ; 
 
 Such cunning work tlie hand 
 
 Of spinner never planned,- — 
 
 The finest wool may not be washed so 
 
 white. 
 "Hast thou come out of Heaven ?" 
 I asked ; and lo ! 
 The snow was all the answer of the snow. 
 
 Then my heart said. Give o'er; 
 
 Question no more, no more ! 
 
 The wind, the snow-storm, the wild her- 
 mit flower. 
 
 The illuminated air. 
 
 The pleasure after ]irayer. 
 
 Proclaim the unoriginated Power! 
 
 The mystery that hides him here and 
 there. 
 
 Bears the sure witness he is everywhere. 
 
 HER LAST POEM. 
 
 Eakth with its dark and dreadful ills. 
 
 Recedes and fades away; 
 Lift up your heads, ye heavenly hills ; 
 
 Ye gates of death, give way ! 
 
 My soul is full of whispered song, — 
 My blindness is my sight; 
 
 The shadows that I feared so long 
 Are full of life and light. 
 
 My pulses faint and fainter beat, 
 My faith takes wider bounds ; 
 
 I feel grow firm beneath my feet 
 The green, immortal grounds. 
 
 The faith to me a courage gives. 
 
 Low as the grave to go, — 
 I know that mv Redeemer lives, — 
 
 That I shairiive I know. 
 
 The palace walls I almost see 
 Where dwells my Lord and King. 
 
 grave, where is thy victoiy? 
 death, where is thy sting?
 
 256 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 PHEBE CAREY. 
 
 [u. s. a] . 
 
 FIELD PREACHING. 
 
 I HAVE been out to-day in field and wood, 
 Listening to praises sweet and con nsel good 
 Such as a little child had understood, 
 
 That, in its tender youtli, 
 Discerns the simple eloquence of truth. 
 
 The modest blossoms, crowding round 
 
 my way, 
 Thongh they had nothing great or grand 
 
 to say. 
 Gave out their fragrance to the wind all 
 
 day ; 
 Because His loving breath, 
 "With soft persistence, won them back 
 
 from death. 
 
 And the right royal lily, putting on 
 Her robes, more rich than those of Solo- 
 mon, 
 Opened her gorgeous missal in the sun. 
 And thanked Him, soft and low. 
 Whose gracious, liberal hand had clothftl 
 her so. 
 
 When wearied, on the meadow-grass I 
 
 sank ; 
 So narrow was the rill from which I drank. 
 An infant might have stepped from bank 
 
 to bank ; 
 And tlie tall rushes near 
 Lapping together, hid its waters clear. 
 
 Yet to the ocean joyously it went ; 
 And rippling in the fulness of content. 
 Watered the pretty flowers that o'er it 
 
 leant ; 
 For all the banks were spread 
 With delicate flowers that on its bounty 
 
 fed. 
 
 The stately maize, a fair and goodly sight. 
 With serried speai-points bristling sharp 
 
 and bright. 
 Shook out his yellow tresses, for delight, 
 
 To all their tawny length, 
 Like Samson, glorying in his lusty 
 
 strength. 
 
 And every little bii'd upon the tree, 
 Kuliling his plumage bright, for ecstasy, 
 
 Sang in the wild insanitj' of glee ; 
 
 And seemed, in the same lays, 
 Calling his mate and uttering songs of 
 praise. 
 
 Thegolden grasshopper did chirpand sing; 
 The plain bee, busy with her housekeep- 
 ing, 
 Kept humming cheerfully upon the wing. 
 
 As if she understood 
 That, with contentment, labor was a good. 
 
 I saw each creature, in his own best place, 
 To the Creator lift a smiling face. 
 Praising continually his wondrous grace ; 
 
 As if the best of all 
 Life's countless blessings was to live at all ! 
 
 So with a book of sermons, plain and true, 
 Hid in my heart, where I might turn 
 
 them through, 
 I went home softly, through the falling 
 
 dew. 
 Still listening, ra]it and calm, 
 To Xature giving out her evening psalm. 
 
 While, far along the west, mine eyes dis- 
 cerned. 
 
 Where, lit by God, the fires of sunset 
 burned. 
 
 The tree-tops, unconsumed, to flame were 
 turned ; 
 And I, in that great hush. 
 
 Talked with His angels in each burning 
 bush ! 
 
 NEARER HOME. 
 
 One sweetly welcome thought. 
 Comes to me o'er and o'er ; 
 
 I 'm nearer home to-day 
 
 Than I 've ever been before; 
 
 Nearer my Father's house 
 
 Where tlie many mansions be ; 
 
 Nearer the Great White Throne, 
 Nearer the Jasper Sea ; 
 
 Nearer that bound of life. 
 
 Where we lay our burdens down, — 
 Nearer leaving the cross. 
 
 Nearer gaining the crown. 
 
 But lying dimly between. 
 
 Winding down through the night. 
 Lies the dark and uncertain stream 
 
 That leads us at length to the light.
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 257 
 
 Closer and closer my steps 
 
 Come to the dark abysm, 
 Closer Death to my li[is 
 
 Presses the awful chrism ; 
 
 Father, perfect my trust ! 
 
 Strengthen my feeble faith ! 
 Let me feel as 1 shall, when I stand 
 
 On the shores of the river of death : 
 
 Feel as I would, were my feet 
 
 Even now slipping over the brink, - 
 
 For it may be 1 am nearer home, 
 Nearer now, than I think ! 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Land, of every land the best, — 
 Land, whose glory shall increase ; 
 
 Now in your whitest raiment drest 
 For the great festival of peace : 
 
 Take from your flag its fold of gloom, 
 And let it float undimmed above. 
 
 Till over all our vales shall bloom 
 The sacred colors that we love. 
 
 On mountain high, in valley low, 
 Set Freedom's living fires to burn ; 
 
 Until the midnight sky shall show 
 A redder glory than the morn. 
 
 Welcome, with shouts of joy and pride. 
 Your veterans fiom the war-path's 
 track ; 
 
 You gave your boys, untrained, untried ; 
 You bring them men and heroes back ! 
 
 And shed no tear, though think you must 
 "With sorrow of the martyred band ; 
 
 Not even for him whose hallowed dust 
 Has made our prairies holy land. 
 
 Though by the places where they fell, 
 The places that are sacred ground, 
 
 Death, like a sullen sentinel, 
 Paces his everlasting round. 
 
 Yet when they set their country free. 
 And gave her traitors fitting doom. 
 
 They left their last great enemy, 
 Baflled, beside an empty tomb. 
 17 
 
 Not there, but risen, redeemed, they go 
 Where all the paths are sweet with 
 flow'ers ; 
 
 They fought to give us peace, and lo ! 
 They gained a better jjeace than ours, 
 
 SYDNEY DOBELL. 
 
 KEITH OF RAVELSTON. 
 
 HAPPY, hajipy maid, 
 
 1 n the year of war and death 
 She wears no sorrow ! 
 
 By her face .so young and fair, 
 
 By the ha])py wi-eath 
 
 That rules her happy hair, 
 
 She might be a bride to-morrow ! 
 
 She sits and sings within her moonlit 
 bower. 
 
 Her moonlit bower in rosy June, 
 
 Yet ah, her bridal breath. 
 
 Like fragrance from some sweet night- 
 blowing flower. 
 
 Moves from her moving lips in many a 
 mournful tune ! 
 
 She sings no song of love's despair, 
 
 She sings no lover lowly laid, 
 
 No fond peculiar giief 
 
 Has ever touched or bud or leaf 
 
 Of her unblighted spring. 
 
 She sings because she needs must sing ; 
 
 She sings the sorrow of the air 
 
 Whereof her voice is made. 
 
 That night in Britain howsoe'er 
 
 On any chords the fingers strayed 
 
 They gave the notes of care. 
 
 A dim sad legend old 
 
 Long since in some pale shade 
 
 Of some far twilight told. 
 
 She knows not when or where. 
 
 She sings, with trembling hand on trem- 
 bling lute-strings laid : — 
 
 The murmur of the mourning ghost 
 That keeps the shadowy kine, 
 
 "O Keith of Eavel.ston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! " 
 
 Eavelston, Eavelston, 
 
 The merry path that leads 
 Down the golden morning hill. 
 
 And through the silver meeds ; 
 
 Eavelston, Eavelston, 
 
 The stile beneath the tree,
 
 258 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 The maid that kept her mother's kine, 
 The song that sang she ! 
 
 She sang her song, she kept her kine, 
 
 She sat benentli the tliorn 
 When Andrew Keith of Ravelston 
 
 Rode through the Monday nioin ; 
 
 His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring. 
 
 His belted jewels shine ! 
 Keith of Ravelston, 
 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 Year after year, where Andrew came, 
 Conies evening down the glade, * 
 
 And still tliere sits a moonshine; ghost 
 Where sat the sunshine maid. 
 
 Her misty hair is faint and fair. 
 She keeps the shadowy kine ; 
 
 Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 1 lay my hand upon the stile, 
 The stile is lone and cold, 
 
 Tlie burnie that goes babbling by 
 Says naught that can be told. 
 
 Yet, stranger ! here, from year to year. 
 She keeps her shadowy kine ; 
 
 Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 Step out three steps, where Andrew stood : 
 Why blanch thy cheeks for fear? 
 
 The ancient stile is not alone, 
 'T is not the burn I hear ! 
 
 She makes her immemorial moan, 
 She keeps her shadowy kine ; 
 
 Keith of Ravelston, 
 The sorrows of thy line ! 
 
 TnOMAS BURBIDGE. 
 
 EVENTIDE. 
 
 Comes something down with eventide. 
 Beside the sunset's golden bars, 
 
 B^'side the floating scents, beside 
 The twinkling shadows of the stars. 
 
 Upon the river's rippling face, 
 Flash after flash the white 
 
 Broke up in many a shallow place; 
 The rest was soft and bright. 
 
 By chance my eye fell on the stream ; 
 
 How many a marvellous power 
 Sleeps in us, — sleeps, and dotli not 
 dream ! 
 
 This knew I in that hour. 
 
 For then my heart, so full of strife, 
 
 No more was in me stirred; 
 My life was in the river's life. 
 
 And I nor saw nor heard. 
 
 I and the river, we were one : 
 The sliade beneath the bank, 
 
 I felt it cool ; the setting sun 
 Into my spirit sank. 
 
 A rushing thing in power serene 
 
 I was ; the mj-stery 
 I felt of having ever been 
 
 And being still to be. 
 
 Was it a moment or an honr ? 
 
 I knew not ; but I mourned 
 Wlien, from that realm of awful power 
 
 I to these fields returned. 
 
 ROSE TERRY COOKE. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE ICONOCLAST. 
 
 A THorsAXD 5^ears shall come and go, 
 A thousand years of night and day. 
 
 And man, through all their changing 
 show. 
 His tragic drama still shall play. 
 
 Ruled by some fond ideal's power, 
 Cheated by passion or despair. 
 
 Still shall he waste life's trembling hour, 
 In worship vain, and useless prayer. 
 
 Ah ! where are they who rose in might. 
 Who fired the temple and the shrine, 
 
 And hurled, through earth'schaotic night, 
 The helpless gods it deemed divine? 
 
 Cease, longing soul, thy vain desire ! 
 
 What idol, in its stainless prime. 
 But falls, untouched of axe or fire, 
 
 Before the steady eyes of Time ?
 
 ANNE C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. 
 
 259 
 
 He looks, and lo ! our altars fall, 
 The shrine reveals its gilded elay. 
 
 With deeent hands we spread the pall, 
 And, cold with wisdom, glide away. 
 
 0, where were courage, faitli, and truth, 
 If man went wandering all his day 
 
 In golden clouds of love and youth, 
 Nor knew that both his steps betray ? 
 
 Come, Time, while here we sit and wait. 
 Be faithful, spoiler, to thy trust ! 
 
 No death can further desolate 
 
 The soul that knows its god was dust. 
 
 "IT IS MORE BLESSED." 
 
 Give! as the morning that flows out of 
 
 heaven ; 
 Give ! as the waves when their channel 
 
 is riven ; 
 Give ! as the free air and sunshine are 
 
 given ; 
 Lavishly, utterly, carelessly give. 
 Not the waste drops of thy cup overflow- 
 ing, 
 Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever 
 
 glowing. 
 Not a pale bud from the June rose's 
 
 blowing ; 
 Give as He gave thee, who gave thee 
 
 to live. 
 
 Pour out thy love like the rush of a river 
 Wasting its waters, for ever and ever. 
 Through the burnt sands that reward 
 
 not the giver; 
 Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea. 
 Scatter thy life as the Summer shower's 
 
 pouring ! 
 What if no bird through the pearl-rain 
 
 is soaring? 
 What if no blossom looks upward adoring ? 
 Look to the life that was lavished for 
 
 thee! 
 
 Give, though thy heart may be wasted 
 
 and weary. 
 Laid on an altar all ashen and dreary; 
 Though from its pulses a faint miserere 
 
 Beats to thy soul the sad presnge of fate. 
 Bind it with cords of unshrinking devo- 
 tion ; 
 Smile at the song of its restless emotion ; 
 'T is the stern hymn of eternity's ocean ; 
 
 Hear ! and in silence thy future await. 
 
 So the wild wind strews its perfumed 
 
 caresses, 
 Evil and thankless the desert it blesses, 
 Bitter the wave thatitssoftpinion presses. 
 
 Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. 
 What if the hard heart give thorns for 
 
 thy roses? 
 What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes ? 
 Sweetest ismusic with nunor-keyed closes. 
 
 Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling. 
 
 Almost the day of thy giving is over ; 
 Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted 
 
 clover, 
 Thorr wilt have vanished from friend and 
 
 from lover. 
 Wliat shall thy longing avail in the 
 
 grave ? 
 Give as the heart gives whose fetters are 
 
 breaking, 
 Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and 
 
 thy waking. 
 Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slak- 
 
 inf^ 
 Thou shalt know God and the gift that 
 
 he gave. 
 
 ANNE C. (LYNCH) BOTTA. 
 
 [t. S. A.] 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Go forth in life, friend! not seeking 
 love, 
 A mendicant that with imjiloiing eye 
 And outstretched hand asks of the 
 passers-by 
 The almshis strong necessities may move : 
 For such poor love, to pity near allied, 
 Thy generous spirit ma}' not stoop and 
 wait, 
 A suppliant whose prayer may be denied 
 Likeaspurned beggar'satapalace-gate ; 
 But thy heart's atfluence lavish uncon- 
 trolled, — 
 The largess of thy love give full and 
 free. 
 As monarchs in their progress scatter 
 gold ; 
 And be thy heart like the exhaustless 
 sea, 
 That must its wealth of cloud and dew 
 
 bestow. 
 Though tributary streams or ebb or flow.
 
 260 
 
 SONGS OF THEEE CENTURIES. 
 
 LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 [U. S. A., I79I- 1865.] 
 
 INDIAN NAMES. 
 
 Yk say they all have passed away, 
 
 That noble race and brave ; 
 That their light canoes have vanished 
 
 From oH' the crested wave ; 
 That mid the forests where they roamed 
 
 There rings no hunter's shmit; 
 But their name is on your waters, 
 
 Ye may not wash it out. 
 
 'T is where Ontario's billow 
 
 Like ocean's surge is curled, 
 Wlieie strong Niagara's thunders wake 
 
 Tlie echo of the world. 
 Where red Missouri bringeth 
 
 Rich tribute from the West, 
 And Ra]>pahaunock sweetly sleeps, 
 
 On green Virginia's breast. 
 
 Ye sa}' their cone-like cabins, 
 
 That clustered o'er the vale, 
 Have Hed away like withered leaves 
 
 Before tlie autumn gale ; 
 But their memory liveth on your hills, 
 
 Their baptism on your shore. 
 Your everlasting rivers speak 
 
 Their dialect of yore. 
 
 Old Massachusetts wears it 
 
 Upon her lordly crown, 
 And broad Ohio bears it 
 
 Amid his young renown ;, 
 Connecticut hath wreatlied it 
 
 Where her (piiet foliage waves ; 
 And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse 
 
 Through all her ancient caves. 
 
 Wachusett hides its lingering voice 
 
 Witliiii his rocky heai't, 
 And Alleghany graves its tone 
 
 Througliout liis lofty chart ; 
 ^lonadnock on his forehead lioar 
 
 Dotli .seal the .sacred tiust ; 
 Your mountains build tlicir monument, 
 
 Though ye destroy their dust. 
 
 Ye call these red-browed brethren 
 
 Tlie in.sects of an hour, 
 Crushed like the noteless worm amid 
 
 The regions of their power; 
 Ye drive them from their fathers' lands, 
 
 Ye break of faitli the seal, 
 
 But can ye from the court of Heaven 
 
 Exclude their last appeal ? 
 
 Ye see their unresisting tribes. 
 
 With toilsome step and slow, 
 On through the trackless desert pass, 
 
 A caravan of woe ; 
 Think ye tlie Eternal Ear is deaf? 
 
 His sleepless vision dim? 
 Think ye the soul's blvod niajr not cry 
 
 From that I'ar land to him i 
 
 WILLIAM H. FURNESS. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 ETERNAL LIGHT. 
 
 Slowly, by God's hand unfurled, 
 Down around the weary world. 
 Falls the darkness ; O, how still 
 Is the working of his will ! 
 
 Mighty Spirit, ever nigh. 
 Work in me as silently ; 
 Veil the day's distracting sights. 
 Show me heaven's eternal lights. 
 
 Living stars to view be brought 
 Hi the boundless realms of tliought; 
 High and infinite desires, 
 Flaming like those upper fires. 
 
 Holy Truth, Eternal Eight, 
 Let them break ujion my sight; 
 Let them shine serene and .still. 
 And with light my being fill. 
 
 JAMES T. FIELDS. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The grass liung wet on Eydal banks. 
 The golden day with pearls adorning, 
 
 Wlien side by side with hiiu we walked 
 To meet midway the summer morning. 
 
 Tli(> west-Avind took a softer breath. 
 The sun himself seemed brighter shin-
 
 HENRY HOWAKD BROWN ELL. 
 
 261 
 
 As through the porch the minstrel 
 stepped, — 
 His eye sweet Nature's look enshrining. 
 
 He passed along the dewy sward, 
 
 The bluebird sang aloft "good mor- 
 row ! " 
 He plucked a bud, the flower awoke. 
 And smiled without one pang of sor- 
 row. 
 
 He spoke of all that graced the scene. 
 In tones that fell like music round irs; 
 
 We felt the cliarm descend, nor strove 
 To break tlie rapturous spell that bound 
 us. 
 
 We listened with mysterious awe. 
 
 Strange feelings mingling with our 
 ])leasure ; 
 We heard that day prophetic words. 
 High tlioughts the heart must always 
 treasure. 
 
 Great Nature's Priest ! thy calm career 
 With that sweet moin on earth has 
 ended : 
 But who shall say thy mission died 
 When, winged for Heaven, thy soul 
 ascended ! 
 
 HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1820- 1872.] 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE DANE. 
 
 Blue gulf all around us. 
 
 Blue sky overhead, — 
 Mu'-ter all on the quarter. 
 
 We must bury the dead ! 
 
 It is but a Danish sailor, 
 
 Kugged of front and form ; 
 A common son of the forecastle, 
 
 Grizzled with sun and storm. 
 
 His name and the strand he hailed from 
 We know, — and there 'snotbingmore ! 
 
 But perhaps his mother is waiting 
 In the lonely island of Fohr. 
 
 Still, as he lay there dying. 
 
 Reason drifting awreek, 
 "'Tis my watch," he would mutter, 
 
 "I must go upon deck !" 
 
 Ay, on deck, — by the foremast! — 
 But watch and lookout are done; 
 
 The Union-Jack laid o'er him. 
 How (piiet he lies in tlie sun ! 
 
 Slow the ponderous engine, 
 
 Staj^ the hurrying shaft ! 
 Let the roll of the ocean 
 
 Cradle our giant craft, — 
 Gather around the grating. 
 
 Carry your messmate aft ! 
 
 Stand in order, and listen 
 
 To the holiest page of prayer ! 
 
 Let everj' foot be quiet. 
 Every head be bare, — 
 
 The soft trade-wind is lifting 
 A hundred locks of hair. 
 
 Our captain reads the service 
 (A little spray on his cheeks). 
 
 The grand old words of burial. 
 
 And the trust a true lieart seeks, — 
 
 "We therefore commit his body 
 To the deep," — and, as he speaks, 
 
 Launched from the weather-railing, 
 Swift as the eye can mark. 
 
 The ghastly, shotted hammock 
 Plunges, away from the shark, 
 
 Down, a thousand fathoms, 
 Down into the dark ! 
 
 A thousand summers and winters 
 The stormy Gulf shall roll 
 
 High o'er his canvas coffin, — 
 But, silence to doubt and dole ! 
 
 There's a quiet haibor somewhere 
 For the poor a-weary soul. 
 
 Free the fettered engine, 
 
 Speed the tireless shaft ! 
 Loose to'gallant and to])sail, 
 
 The breeze is fair abaft ! 
 
 Blue sea all around us, 
 
 Blue sky biight o'erhoad, — 
 
 Every man to his duty ! 
 We have buried our dead.
 
 262 
 
 SONGS OF THEEE CENTUKIES. 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE MOUNTAINS. 
 (From "The Masque of the Gods.") 
 
 Howk'er the wheels of Time go round, 
 
 We cannot wholly be discrowned. 
 
 We hind, in form, and hue, and height, 
 
 The Finite to the Infinite, 
 
 And, lifted on our shoulders bare, 
 
 The races breathe an ampler air. 
 
 Thearms that clasped, thelipsthatkissed. 
 
 Have vanished from the morning mist ; 
 
 The dainty shapes that Hashed and passed 
 
 In sj)ray the plunging torrent cast. 
 
 Or danced through woven gleam and 
 
 shade, 
 The vapors and the sunbeams braid. 
 Grow thin and pale : each holy haunt 
 Of gods or spirits ministiant 
 Hath something lost of ancient awe ; 
 Yet from the stoojiing heavens we draw 
 A beauty, mystery, and might. 
 Time cannot change nor worship slight. 
 The gold of dawn and sunset sheds 
 Unearthly glory on our heads ; 
 The secret of the skies we keep ; 
 And whispers, round each lonely steep, 
 Allure and promise, yet withhold. 
 What bard and prophet never told. 
 While Man's slow ages come and go, 
 Our dateless chronicles of snow 
 Their changeless old inscription show, 
 And men therein forever see 
 The unread speech of D(;ity. 
 
 AN ORIENTAL IDYL. 
 
 A SILVER javelin which the hills 
 Have hurled upon the jdain below, 
 
 The lieetest of the Pharpar's rills. 
 Beneath me shoots in flasliing How. 
 
 I hear the never-(;nding laugh 
 
 Of jostling waves that come and go. 
 
 And suck the bul)l)ling ]>ipe, and quatf 
 The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. 
 
 The links of sunshine gleam like stars 
 Ueiieath the canopy of shade ; 
 
 And in the distant, dim bazaars, 
 1 scarcely hear the luini of trade. 
 
 No evil fear, no dream forlorn. 
 
 Darkens my heaven of perfect blue ; 
 
 My blood is tempered to the morn, — 
 My very heart is stee[)ed in dew. 
 
 What Evil is I cannot tell; 
 
 But half I guess what Joy may be ; 
 And, as a pearl within its shell, 
 
 The happy spirit sleeps in rae. 
 
 I feel no more the pulse's strife, — 
 The tides of Passion's ruddy sea, — 
 
 But live the sweet, unconscious life 
 That breathes fromyonderjasmine-tree. 
 
 Upon the glittering pageantries 
 Of gay Damascus streets I look 
 
 As idly as a babe that sees 
 
 The painted pictures of a book. 
 
 Forgotten now are name and race; 
 
 The Past is blotted fiom my brain ; 
 For Memory sleeps, and will not trace 
 
 The weary pages o'er again. 
 
 I only know the morning shines. 
 And sweet the dewy morning air. 
 
 But does it play with tendrilled vines? 
 Or does it lightly lift my hair? 
 
 Deep-sunken in the charmed repose, 
 This ignorance is bliss extreme ; 
 
 An<l whether 1 be Man, or Hose, 
 
 0, pluck me not from out my dream ! 
 
 THE VOYAGERS. 
 
 No longer spread the sail ! 
 
 No longer strain the oar! 
 For never yet has blown the gale 
 
 Will bring us nearer shore. 
 
 The swaying keel slides on. 
 The helm obeys the hand ; 
 
 Fast we have sailed from dawn to dawn, 
 Yet never reach the land. 
 
 Each morn we see its peaks, 
 Made beautiful with snow ; 
 
 Each eve its vales and winding creeks, 
 That sleep in mist below. 
 
 At noon Ave mark the gleam 
 
 Of temples tall and fair; 
 At midnight watch its bonlires stream 
 
 In the auroral air.
 
 SAKA J. LIPPINCOTT (GRACE GREENWOOD). 
 
 263 
 
 And still the keel is swift, 
 And still the wind is iree, 
 
 And still as far its mountains lift 
 Beyond the enchanted sea. 
 
 Yet vain is all return, 
 
 Though false the goal before ; 
 The gale is ever dead astern, 
 
 The current sets to shore. 
 
 shipmates, leave the ropes ; 
 
 And what though no one steers, 
 We sail no faster lor our hopes, 
 
 No slower for our fears. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 
 
 "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried. 
 The outer trenches guarding, 
 
 When the heated guns of the camps allied 
 Grew weary of bombarding. 
 
 The dark Redan, in silent scoff. 
 Lay, grim and threatening, under ; 
 
 And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
 No longer belched its thunder. 
 
 Tliere was a pause. A guardsman said : 
 " We storm the forts to-morrow; 
 
 Sing while we maj', another day 
 Will bring enough of sorrow." 
 
 They lay along the battery's side. 
 
 Below the smoking cannon : 
 Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, 
 
 And from the banks of Shannon. 
 
 They sang of love, and not of fame ; 
 
 Forgot was Britain's glory : 
 Each heart recalled a different name, 
 
 But all sang "Annie Laurie." 
 
 Voice after voice caught up the song. 
 
 Until its tender passion 
 Rose like an anthem, rich and strong, — 
 
 Their battle-eve confession. 
 
 Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, 
 But, as the song grew louder, 
 
 Sonietliing upon the soldier's cheek 
 Washed off the stains of powder. 
 
 Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
 
 The bloody sunset's embers. 
 While the Crimean valleys learned 
 
 How English love remembers. 
 
 And once again a fire of hell 
 
 Rained on the Russian ([uarters, 
 
 With scream of shot, and burst of shell, 
 And bellowing of the mortars ! 
 
 And Irish Nora's eyes aie dim 
 For a singer, dumb and gory ; 
 
 And English Mary mourns for Idni 
 Who sang of "Annie Laurie." 
 
 Sleep, soldiers ! still in honored rest 
 Your truth and valor wearing ; 
 
 The bravest are the tenderest, — 
 The loving are the daring. 
 
 SAPvl J. LIPPINCOTT (GRACE 
 GPiEENWOOD). 
 
 [U. S A.] 
 
 THE POET OF TO-DAY. 
 
 More than the soul of ancient song is 
 given 
 To thee, poet of to-day ! — thy 
 dower 
 Comes, from a higher than Olympian 
 heaven. 
 In holier beauty and in larger power. 
 
 To thee Humanit}^ her woes revealing. 
 Would all her griefs and ancient 
 wrongs rehearse ; 
 Would mnke thy song the voice of her 
 appealing. 
 And sob her mighty sorrows througli 
 thy verse. 
 
 While in her season of great darkness 
 sharing, 
 Hail thou the coming of each promise- 
 star 
 Which climbs the midnight of her long 
 despairing. 
 And watch for morning o'er the hills 
 afar. 
 
 Wherever Truth her holy warfare w-ages. 
 Or Freedom pines, there let thy voice 
 be heard ; 
 Sound like a prophet-warning down the 
 ages 
 The human utterance of God's living 
 word.
 
 264 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 But briiif,' not thou the battle's stormy 
 chorus, 
 The tramp of armies, and the roar of 
 liglit, 
 Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet 
 morn o'er us, 
 Nor bhize of piHage, reddening ujj the 
 night. 
 
 O, let thy lays prolong that angel-sing- 
 ing, 
 Girdling with music the Eedeemer's 
 star. 
 And breathe God's peace, to earth 'glad 
 tidings ' bringing 
 From the near heavens, of old so dim 
 and far ! 
 
 ALEXANDER SMITH. 
 
 [1830-1867.] 
 
 LADY BARBARA. 
 
 Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara, 
 High-thoughted Barbara, so white and 
 
 cold ! 
 'Mong broad-branched beeches in the 
 
 summer shaw, 
 
 He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath, 
 Came charging like a star across the 
 lists of death. 
 
 Trembled, and passed before her high 
 
 rebuke : 
 And then she sat, her hands clasped 
 
 round her knee : 
 Like one far-thoughted was the lady's 
 
 look. 
 For in a morning cold as misery 
 She saw a lone sliip sailing on the sea ; 
 Before the north 't was driven like a 
 
 cloud. 
 High on the poop a man sat mournfully : 
 The wind was whistling through mast 
 
 and shroud. 
 3 the whistli 
 sing aloud : — 
 
 And to the whistling wind thus did he 
 
 " Didst look last night upon my native 
 
 vales, 
 Thou Sun ! that from the drenching sea 
 
 hast clomb ? 
 Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping 
 
 sails. 
 Upon the salt sea must I ever roam. 
 Wander forever on the barren foam ? 
 0, happy are ye, resting mariners ! 
 Death, that thou wouldst come and 
 
 and take me home ! 
 
 In soft green light his passion he has -A- hand unseen this vessel onward steers, 
 
 told. 
 
 When rain-beat winds did shriek across 
 the wold. 
 
 The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear 
 
 Framed passion-trembled ditties mani- 
 fold ; 
 
 Silent slie sat his amorous breath to 
 hear. 
 
 With calm and steady eyes ; her heart 
 was otherwhere. 
 
 He sighed for her through all the sum- 
 mer weeks ; 
 
 Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful 
 boughs 
 
 Bore gloi-ious npjdcs with smooth, shin- 
 ing cheeks. 
 
 Earl Gawain came and whispered, "Lady, 
 rouse ! 
 
 Thou art no vestal lirld in holy vows; 
 
 Out witli our falcons to tlie pleasant 
 heath." 
 
 Her fatlirr's blood leapt up unto lier 
 brows, — 
 
 And onward I must float through slow, 
 moon-measured years. 
 
 "Ye winds ! when like a curse ye drove 
 
 us on, 
 Frothing the waters, and along our way. 
 Nor cape nor headland through red 
 
 mornings shone. 
 One wept aloud, one shuddered down to 
 
 pray, 
 One howled ' Upon the deep we are 
 
 astray.' 
 On our wild hearts his words fell like a 
 
 blight : 
 In one short hour niy hair was stricken 
 
 g'-a.v, 
 For all the crew sank gha.stly in my 
 
 siglit 
 As we went driving on through tlie 
 
 cold starry night. 
 
 "Madness fell on me in my lonelines.s. 
 The .sea foamed curses, and the reeling 
 sky
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 265 
 
 Became a dreadful face which did oppress , 
 Me with the weight of its unwinking 
 
 eye. 
 It fied, when I burst forth into a cr)', — 
 A shoal of fiends came on me from the 
 
 deep ; 
 I hid, but in all corners they did jny, 
 And dragged me forth, and round did 
 
 dance and leap ; 
 They mouthed on me in dream, and tore 
 
 me from sweet sleep. 
 
 "Strange constellations burned above 
 
 my head, 
 Strange birds around the vessel shrieked 
 
 and tlew, 
 Strange shapes, like shadows, through 
 
 the clear sea fled. 
 As our lone ship, wide-winged, came 
 
 rippling through, 
 Angering to foam the smooth and sleep- 
 ing blue." 
 The lady sighed, "Far, far upon the sea. 
 My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! 
 The wind blows shrill between my love 
 
 and me." 
 Fond heart ! the space between was but 
 
 the apple-tree. 
 
 There was a cry of joy, with seeking 
 
 hands 
 She fled to him, like worn bird to her 
 
 nest; 
 Like washing water on the figured sands, 
 His being came and went in sweet un- 
 rest, 
 As from the mighty shelter of his breast 
 The Lady Barbara her head uprears 
 With a wan smile, "Methinks I 'm but 
 
 half blest : 
 Now when I 've found thee, after weary 
 
 years, 
 I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am 
 with tears." 
 
 MATTHEW AENOLD. 
 
 THE TERRACE AT BERNE. 
 
 Ten years! — and to my waking eye 
 Once more the roofs of Berne appear 
 
 The rocky banks, the terrace high, 
 The stream, — and do 1 linger here ? 
 
 The clouds are on the Oberland, 
 
 Tlie Jungfrau snows look faint and far ; 
 
 But blight are those green fields at hand. 
 And through those fields comes down 
 the Aar, 
 
 And from the blue twin lakes it comes. 
 Flows by the town, the churchyard 
 fair, 
 And 'neath the garden-walk it hums, 
 The house, — and is my Marguerite 
 there ? 
 
 Ah, shall I see thee, wliile a flush 
 Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, 
 
 Quick through the oleanders brush. 
 And clap thy hands, and cry, ' T is 
 thou? 
 
 Or hast thou long since wandered back, 
 Daughter of France ! to France, thy 
 home ; 
 
 And flitted down the flowery track 
 Where feet like tliine too lightly come ? 
 
 Doth riotous laughter now replace 
 Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, 
 
 Thy cheek's soft hue and fluttering lace 
 The kerchief that enwound thy hair? 
 
 Or is it over? — art thou dead? — 
 Dead? — and no warning shiver ran 
 
 Across my heart, to say thy tliread 
 Of life was cut, and closed thy sjian ! 
 
 Could from earth's ways that figure slight 
 Be lost, and I not ieel 't was so ? 
 
 Of tliat fresh voice the gay delight 
 Fail fi'om earth's air, and I not know ? 
 
 Or shall I find thee still, but changed. 
 But not the ilarguerite of thy prime ? 
 
 With all thy being rearranged. 
 
 Passed through the crucible of time ; 
 
 With spirit vanished, beauty waned, 
 And liardly yet a glance, a tone, 
 
 A gesture, — anything, — retained 
 
 Of all that was my ]\Iarguerite's own ? 
 
 I will not know ! — for wherefore try 
 To things by mortal course that live 
 
 A shadowy durability 
 
 For which they were not meant to give ? 
 
 Like driftwood spars which meet and pass 
 Upon the boundless ocean-plain.
 
 266 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 So on the sea of life, alas ! 
 
 Man nears man, meets, and leaves again. 
 
 I knew it when my life was young, 
 I feel it still, now youth is o'er ! 
 
 The mists are on tlie mountain hung, 
 And Mai'sueiite I shall see no more. 
 
 URANIA. 
 
 She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, 
 While we for hopeless passion die ; 
 Yet she could love, those eyes declare. 
 Were but men nobler than they are. 
 
 Eagerly once her gracious ken 
 Was turned upon the sons of men; 
 But light the serious visage grew, — 
 She looked, and smiled, and saw them 
 through. 
 
 Our petty souls, our strutting wits, 
 Our labored puin' passion-fits, — 
 Ah, may she scorn them still, till we 
 Scorn them as bitterly as she ! 
 
 Yet 0, that Fate would let her see 
 One of some worthier race than we, — 
 One for whose sake she once might pi'ove 
 How deeply she who scorns can love. 
 
 His eyes be like the starry lights, — 
 His voice like sounds of sumraernights, —   
 In all his lovely mien let ])ierce 
 The magic of the universe ! 
 
 And she to him will reach her hand, 
 And gazing in his eyes will stand, 
 And know her friend, and weep for glee ! 
 And cry, Long, long I've looked for thee ! 
 
 Then will she weep, — with smiles, till 
 tlien. 
 Coldly she mocks the sons of men. 
 Till then her lovely ey(!s maintain 
 Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. 
 
 THE LAST WORD. 
 
 Creep into thy narrow bed, 
 Creep, ami let no more be said ! 
 Vain thy onset ! all stands fast ; 
 Thou thyself must break at last. 
 
 Let the long contention cease ! 
 Geese are swans, and swans are geese. 
 Let them have it how they will ! 
 Thou art tired ; best be still ! 
 
 They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore 
 
 thee. 
 Better men fared thus before thee; 
 Fired their ringing shot and passed, 
 Hotly charged, — and broke at last. 
 
 Charge once more, then, and be dumb ! 
 Let the victors, when they come, 
 When the forts of folly fall. 
 Find thy body by the walL 
 
 KOBEKT LORD LYTTON. 
 
 THE ARTIST. 
 
 Artist, range not over-wide : 
 Lest what thou seek be haply hid 
 
 In bramble-blossoms at thy side. 
 Or shut within the daisy-lid. 
 
 God's glory lies not out of reach. 
 
 The moss we crush beneath our feet. 
 The pebbles on the Avet sea-beach, 
 
 Have solemn meanings strange and 
 sweet. 
 
 The peasant at his cottage door 
 
 May teach thee more than Plato knew ; 
 
 See that thou scorn him not: adore 
 God in him, and thy nature too. 
 
 Know well thy friends. The woodbine's 
 breath. 
 
 The woolly tendril on the vine, 
 Are more to thee than Cato's death. 
 
 Or Cicero's words to Catiline. 
 
 The wild rose is thy next in blood : 
 Share Nature with her, and thy heart. 
 
 The kingcu])S are thy sisterhood : 
 Consult them duly on thine art. 
 
 The Genius on thy daily ways 
 
 Shall ineet, and take thee by the hand: 
 But serve him not as who obeys : 
 
 He is thy slave if thou command : 
 
 And blossoms on the blackberry-stalks 
 He shall enchant as thou dost pass.
 
 ROBERT LORD LYTTON. 
 
 267 
 
 Till they drop gold upon thy walks, 
 And diamonds in the dewy grass. 
 
 Be quiet. Take things as they come : 
 Each hour will draw out some surprise. 
 
 With blessing let the days go home: 
 Thou shalt have thanks from evejiing 
 skies. 
 
 Lean not on one mind constantly : 
 
 Lest, where one stood before, two fall. 
 
 Something God hath to say to thee 
 Worth hearing from the lips of all. 
 
 All things are thine estate: yet must 
 Thou first display the title-deeds, 
 
 And sue the world. Be; strong : and trust 
 High instincts more than all the creeds. 
 
 The world of Thought is packed so tight, 
 Jf thou stand up another tumbles : 
 
 Heed it not, though thou have to fight 
 With giants ; whoso follows stumbles. 
 
 Assert thyself: and by and by 
 
 The world will come and lean on thee. 
 
 But seek not praise of men : thereby 
 Shall false shows cheat thee. Boldly 
 be. 
 
 Each man was worthy at the first : 
 God spake to us ei'e we weie born : 
 
 But we forget. The land is curst : 
 We plant the brier, reap the thorn. 
 
 Remember, every man He made 
 Is different : has some deed to do. 
 
 Some work to work. ' Be undismayed. 
 Though thine be humble : do it too. 
 
 Not all the wisdom of the schools 
 
 Ls wise for thee. Hast thou to speak ? 
 
 No man hath s]ioken for thee. Rules 
 Are well : but never fear to break 
 
 The scaffolding of other souls: 
 
 It was not meant for thee to mount ; 
 
 Though it may serve thee. Separate 
 wholes 
 Make up the sum of God's account. 
 
 Earth's number-scale is near us set ; 
 
 The total God alone can see ; 
 But each some fraction : shall I fret 
 
 If you see Four where I saw Three? 
 
 A unit's loss the sum would mar ; 
 Therefore if 1 have One or Two, 
 
 I am as rich as others are, 
 
 And help the whole as well as you. 
 
 This wild white rosebud in my hand 
 Hath meanings meant for me alone, 
 
 Which no one else can understand : 
 To you it breathes with altered tone : 
 
 We go to Nature, not as lords, 
 
 But servants; and she treats us thus: 
 
 Speaks to us with indifferent words. 
 And from a distance looks at us. 
 
 Let us go boldh^ as we ought, 
 And say to her, " We are a part 
 
 Of that supreme original Thought 
 
 Which did conceive thee what thou art : 
 
 " We will not have this lofty look : 
 Thou shalt fall down, and recognize 
 
 Thy kings : we will write in thy book ; 
 Command thee with our eyes." 
 
 She hath nsurpt us. She should be 
 Our model ; but we have become 
 
 Her miniature-painters. So when we 
 Entreat her softly, she is dumb. 
 
 Nor serve the subject overmuch : 
 
 Nor rhythm and rhyme, nor color and 
 form. 
 
 Know Truth hath all great graces, such 
 As shall with these thy work inform. 
 
 We ransack History's tattered page : 
 We prate of epoch and costume : 
 
 Call this, and that, the Classic Age : 
 Choose tunic now, now helm and jdume: 
 
 But while we halt in weak debate 
 
 'Twixt that and this appropriate theme. 
 
 The offended wild-flowers stare and wait. 
 The bird hoots at us from the stream. 
 
 Next, as to laws. What 's beautiful 
 We recognize in form and face : 
 
 And judge it thus, and thus, by rule. 
 As perfect law brings perfect grace : 
 
 If through the effect we drag the cause, 
 
 Dissect, divide, anatomize, 
 Results are lost in loathsome laws, 
 
 And all the ancient beauty dies: 
 
 Till we. instead of bloom and light, 
 See only sinews, nerves, and veins; 
 
 Nor will the effet't and cause unite, 
 For one is lost if one remains :
 
 268 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTUEIES. 
 
 But from some higher point Lehold 
 Tliis dense, perjilexing complication; 
 
 And laws involved in laws untold, 
 And orb into thy contemplation. 
 
 God, when he made the seed, conceived 
 The flower ; and all the work of sun 
 
 And rain, before the stem was leaved. 
 In that prenatal thought was done ; 
 
 The girl who twines in her soft hair 
 The orange-flower, with love's devotion, 
 
 By the mere act of being fair 
 
 Sets countless laws of life in motion ; 
 
 So thou, by one thought thoroughlv great, 
 Shalt, without heed thereto, fulfll 
 
 All laws of art. Ci'eate ! create ! 
 
 Dissection leaves the dead dead still. 
 
 Burn catalogues. Write thine own books. 
 
 What need to pore o'er Greece and Rome? 
 When whoso through his own life looks 
 
 Shall find that he is fully come, 
 
 Through Greece and Rome, and Middle 
 Age : 
 
 Hath been by turns, ere yet full-grown, 
 Soldier, and Senator, and Sage, 
 
 And worn the tunic and the gown. 
 
 Cut the world thoroughly to the heart. 
 
 The sweet and bitter kernel crack. 
 Have no half-dealings with thine art. 
 
 All heaven is waiting : turn not back. 
 
 If all the world for thee and me 
 One solitai-y shape jiossessed. 
 
 What shall I say ? a single tree, 
 Whereby to type and hint the rest, 
 
 And I could imitate the bark 
 
 And foliage, both in form and hue, 
 
 Or silvery-gray, or brown and dark. 
 Or rough with moss, or wet with dew, 
 
 But thou, with one form in thine eye, 
 Coulilst penetrate all forms : possess 
 
 The soul of form : and multiply 
 A million like it, more or less, — 
 
 Which were the Artist of us twain ? 
 
 The moral 's clear to understand. 
 Where'er we walk, by hill or plain, 
 
 Is there no mystery on the land ? 
 
 The osiered, oozy water, ruffled 
 
 By tlutteiing swifts that dip and wink : 
 
 Deep cattle in the cowslips nmffled. 
 Or lazy-eyed upon the brink : 
 
 Or, when — a scroll of stars — the night 
 (By God withdrawn) is roiled away, 
 
 The silent sun, on some cold height. 
 Breaking the great seal of the day : 
 
 Are these not words more rich than ours? 
 
 0, seize their im])oit if you can ! 
 Our souls are parched like withering 
 flowers, 
 
 Our knowledge ends where it began. 
 
 AVhile yet about us fall God's dews; 
 
 And whisper secrets o'er the earth 
 Worth all the weary years we lose 
 
 In learning legends of our birth, 
 
 Arise, Artist ! and restore 
 
 Their music to the moaning winds, 
 
 Love's broken pearls to life's bare shore, 
 And freshness to our fainting minds. 
 
 ANNE WHITNEY. 
 
 [V S. A.] 
 
 BERTHA. 
 
 The leaves have fallen from the trees; 
 For under them grew the buds of May, 
 And such is Nature's constant way; 
 
 Let us aceej)t the work of her hand. 
 Still, if the winds sweep bare the height, 
 Something is left for hearts' delight. 
 
 Let us but know and understand. 
 
 Bertlialooked down from the rocky clilT, 
 Whose feet the tender foam-wreaths kist. 
 Toward the outer circle of mist 
 
 That hedged the old and wonderful sea. 
 Below her, as if with endless hope, 
 Up the beach's marbled s]o])e. 
 
 The waters clomb eternally. 
 
 ^lany a long-bleached sail in sight 
 Ilovereil awhih', tlien flitted away. 
 Beyond the ojiening (if tlie bay ; 
 
 Fair Bertha entered her cottage late; 
 "He does not come,"she said, and smiled,
 
 J. H. PERKINS. 
 
 269 
 
 "But the shore is dark, and the sea is wild, 
 And, dearest father, we still must wait." 
 
 She hastened to her inner room, 
 And silently mused there alone ; 
 " Three springs have come, three winters 
 gone. 
 
 And still we wait from hour to hour; 
 But earth waits long i'or her harvest-time, 
 And the aloe, in the northern clime, " 
 
 Waits an hundred years for its flower. 
 
 "Under the apple-boughs as I sit 
 In May-time, when the robin's song 
 Thrills the odorous winds along. 
 
 The innermost heaven seems to ope ; 
 I think, though the old joys pass from 
 
 sight, 
 Still something is left for hearts' delight. 
 
 For life is endless, and so is hope. 
 
 "If the aloe waits an hundred years, 
 And God's times are so long indeed 
 For simple things, as flower and weed, 
 
 That gather only the light and gloom. 
 
 For what great treasures of joy and dole. 
 
 Of life and death, perchance, must the 
 
 soul, 
 
 Ere it flower in heavenly peace, find 
 
 room ? 
 
 "I see that all things wait in trust. 
 As feeling afar God's distant ends. 
 And unto every creature he sends 
 
 That measuie of good that fills its scope ; 
 The marmot enters the stiffening mould. 
 And the worm its dark sepulchral fold, 
 
 To hide there with its beautiful hope." 
 
 Still Bertha waited on the cliff", 
 To catch the gleam of a coming sail, 
 And the distant whisper of the gale. 
 
 Winging the unforgotten home; 
 And hope at her yearning heart would 
 
 knock, 
 When a sunbeam on a far-off" rock 
 
 Married a wreath of wandering foam. 
 
 Was it well? you ask — (nay, was it 
 ill?) — 
 Who sat last year by the old man's hearth ; 
 The sun had passed below the earth. 
 And tlie first star locked its western 
 gate. 
 When Berthaentered hisdarkeninghome. 
 And smiling said, "He does not come, 
 But, dearest father, we still can wait ! " 
 
 J. n. rERKiNs, 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE UPRIGHT S0I7L. 
 
 Late to our town there came a maid, 
 A noble woman, true and ])ure. 
 
 Who, in the little while she stayed. 
 Wrought works that shall endure. 
 
 It was not anything she said, — 
 It was not anything she did : 
 
 It was the movement of her head, 
 The lifting of her lid. 
 
 Her little motions when she spoke. 
 The presence of an upright soul, 
 
 The living liglit that from her broke, 
 It was the perfect whole : 
 
 We saw it in her floating hair. 
 We saw it in her laughing eye ; 
 
 For every look and feature there 
 AVrought works that cannot die. 
 
 For she to many spirits gave 
 
 A reverence for tlie true, the pure. 
 
 The perfect, that lias power to save, 
 And make the doubting sure. 
 
 She passed, she went to other lands. 
 She knew not of the work she did ; 
 
 The wondrous product of her hands 
 From her is ever hid. 
 
 Forever, did I say? 0, no ! 
 
 The time must come wlien she will look 
 Upon her pilgrimage below, 
 
 And find it in God's book, 
 
 That, as she trod her path aright, 
 Power from her very garments stole; 
 
 For such is the mysterious might 
 God grants the upright soul. 
 
 A deed, a word, our careless rest, 
 
 A simple thought, a common feeling. 
 
 If He be present in the breast, 
 Has from him powers of healing. 
 
 Go, maiden, witli thy golden tresses. 
 Thine azure eye and changing cheek. 
 
 Go, and forget tlie one who blesses 
 Thy presence through the week.
 
 270 
 
 SOKCxS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Forget him : he will not forget, 
 But strive to live and testify 
 
 Thy goodness, when earth's sun has set, 
 And Time itself rolled by. 
 
 GEORGE MACDONALD. 
 
 O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL! 
 
 LASSIE avont the hill ! 
 Come ower the tap o' the hill. 
 Or roim' the neuk o' the hill^ 
 For I want ye sair the nicht, 
 
 1 'm needin' ye sair the nicht, 
 For I 'm tired and sick o' mysel', 
 
 A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — 
 
 lassie, come ower the hill ! 
 
 Gin a bodj' could be a thocht o' grace. 
 And no a sel' ava ! 
 
 1 'm sick o' my held, and my ban's and 
 
 my face, 
 An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ; 
 I 'm sick o' the warl' and a' ; 
 The licht gangs by wi' a hiss ; 
 For thro' my een Ihe sunbeams fa'. 
 But my weary heart they miss. 
 
 lassie ayont the hill ! 
 Come ower the tap o' the hill. 
 Or roun' the neuk o' the hill ; 
 Bidena ayont the hill ! 
 
 For gin ance I saw }'er bonnie heid, 
 
 And the sunlicht o' yer hair, 
 
 The ghaist o' mysel' "wad fa' doun deid ; 
 
 1 wad be mysel' nae mair. 
 I wad be mysel' nae mair. 
 Filled o' the sole remeid ; 
 
 Slain by the arrows o' liclit frae j-er hair. 
 Killed by j-er body and heid. 
 
 lassie ayont the" hill, etc. 
 
 But gin ye lo'ed me ever sae .sma', 
 For the sake o' my bonnie dame, 
 Wlian I cam' to life, as she gaed awa', 
 
 1 could bide my body and name, 
 
 I niicht bide by mysel' the weary same; 
 
 Aye setting n]i its heid 
 Till I turn frae the claes that cover my 
 
 fianie. 
 As gin they war roun' the deid. 
 lassie ayont the liill, etc. 
 
 But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e j'ou, 
 
 I wad ling my ain deid knell ; 
 
 Mysel' wad vanish, shot through and 
 
 through 
 Wi' the shine o' yer sunny sel', 
 By the licht aiieath yer broo, 
 I wad dee to mysel', and ring my bell, 
 And only live in you. 
 
 lassie ayont the hill ! 
 Come ower the tap o' the hill. 
 Or roun' the neuk o' the hill. 
 For I want ye sair the nicht, 
 
 1 'm needin' ye sair the nicht, 
 For I 'm tired and sick o' mysel', 
 
 A body's sel' 's the sairest weicht, — 
 lassie, come ower the hill ! 
 
 HYMN FOR THE MOTHER. 
 
 My child is lying on my knees ; 
 
 The signs of heaven she reads; 
 My face is all the heaven she sees, 
 
 Is all the heaven she needs. 
 
 And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss. 
 If heaven is in my face, — 
 
 Behind it is all tenderness 
 And truthfulness and grace. 
 
 I mean her well so earnestly, 
 Unchanged in changing mood ; 
 
 My life would go without a sigh 
 To bring her something good. 
 
 I also am a child, and I 
 
 Am ignorant and weak ; 
 I gaze upon the starry sky. 
 
 And then I must not speak ; 
 
 For all behind the starry sky. 
 Behind tlie world so broad. 
 
 Behind men's hearts and souls doth lie 
 The Infinite of God. 
 
 Ay, true to her, though troubled sore, 
 
 I cannot choose but be : 
 Thou who art peace forevermore 
 
 Art very true to me. 
 
 If I am low and sinful, bring 
 More love where need is rife ; 
 
 TJwii knowest what an awful thing 
 It is to be a life.
 
 ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. 
 
 271 
 
 Hast thcu not wisdom to enwrap 
 My w'aywardness about, 
 
 In doubting safety on the lap 
 Of Love that knows no doubt ? 
 
 Lo ! Lord, I sit in thy wide space, 
 My child upon my knee ; 
 
 She looketli up into my face, 
 And I look up to thee. 
 
 ELIZA SPROAT TURNER. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 AN ANGEL'S VISIT. 
 
 She stood in the harvest-iield at noon, 
 And sang aloud for the joy of living. 
 
 She said : '"T is the sun that I drink like 
 wine. 
 To my heart this gladness giving." 
 
 Eank upon rank the wheat fell slain ; 
 
 The reapers ceased. "'Tis sure the 
 splendor 
 Of sloping sunset light that thrills 
 
 My breast with a bliss so tender." 
 
 Up and up the blazing hills 
 
 Climbeil the night from the misty 
 meadows. 
 "Can they be stars, or living eyes 
 
 That bend on me from the shadows?" 
 
 "Greeting ! " "And may vou speak, in- 
 deed?" 
 
 All in the dark her sense grew clearer; 
 She knew that she had, for company. 
 
 All day an angel near her. 
 
 "May }'ou tell us of the life divine. 
 To us unknown, to angels given?" 
 
 "Count me your earthly joys, and I 
 May teach you those of heaven." 
 
 "They say the pleasures of earth are vain ; 
 
 Delusions all, to lure from duty ; 
 But while God hangs his bow in tlie rain, 
 
 Can I help my joy in beauty? 
 
 "And while he quickens theairwith song. 
 My breaths with scent, my fruits with 
 flavor. 
 
 Will he, dear angel, count as sin 
 My life in sound and savor ? 
 
 "See, at our feet the glow-worm shines, 
 Lo ! in the east a star arises ; 
 
 And thought may climb from worm to 
 world 
 Forever through fresh surprises : 
 
 "And thought is jo}-. . . . And, hark! 
 in the vale 
 Music, and merry steps pursuing ; 
 They lea]) in the dance, — a soul in my 
 blood 
 Cries out, Awake, be doing ! 
 
 "Action is joy; or power at play. 
 Or power at work in world or emprises ; 
 
 Action is life ; part from th^ deed, 
 More from the doing rises." 
 
 "And are these all ? " She flushed in the 
 dark. 
 
 "These are not all. I have a lover; 
 At sound of his voice, at touch of his hand, 
 
 The cup of my life runs over. 
 
 "Once, unknowing, we looked and 
 neared. 
 And doubted, and neared, and rested 
 never, 
 Till life seized life, as flame meets f.auie, 
 To escape no more forever. 
 
 "Lover and husband; then was love 
 The wine of my life, all life enhancing : 
 
 Now 't is my bread, too needful and sweet 
 To be kept for feast-day chancing. 
 
 " I have a child." She seemed to change ; 
 The deep content of some brooding 
 creature 
 Looked from her eyes. "0, sweet and 
 strange ! 
 Angel, be thou my teacher : 
 
 " When He made us one in a babe. 
 Was it for joy, or sorest jiroving? 
 
 For now T fear no heaven could win 
 Our hearts from earthly loving. 
 
 "I have a friend. Howso I err, 
 
 I see her ujilifting love bend o'er me; 
 
 Howso I climb to my best, 1 know 
 Her foot will be there before me.
 
 272 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 "Howso parted, we must he nigh, 
 Held by old years of every weather ; 
 
 The best new love would be less than ours 
 Who have lived our lives together. 
 
 "Now, lest forever I fail to see 
 
 Eight skies, through elouds so bright 
 and tender, 
 
 Show me true joy." The angel's smile 
 Lit all the night with splendor. 
 
 "Save that to Love and Learn and Do 
 In wondrous measure to us is given ; 
 
 Save that we see the face of God, 
 
 You have named the joys of heaven." 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 
 
 AFTER DEATH. 
 
 The curtains were half drawn, the floor 
 was swept 
 And strewn with rushes ; rosemary and 
 
 may 
 Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, 
 "Where through the lattice ivy-shadows 
 
 crept. 4 
 
 He leaned above me, thinking that I slept. 
 And could not hear him ; but I hearil 
 
 him say, 
 "Poor child! poor child!" and as he 
 turned away, 
 Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. 
 He did not touch the shroud, or raise 
 the fold 
 That hid my face, or take my hand in his. 
 Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my liead. 
 He did not love me living : but once 
 dead 
 He pitied me ; and very sweet it is 
 To know he still is warm, though I am 
 cold. 
 
 WEARY. 
 
 I WOULD have gone ; God bade me stay : 
 I would have worked; God bade me 
 rest. 
 He broke my will from day to day ; 
 He read my yearnings unexpressed, 
 And said me nay. 
 
 Now I would stay ; God bids me go : 
 Now I would rest ; God bids me work. 
 
 He breaks my heart tossed to and fro ; 
 My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk 
 And vex it so ! 
 
 I go. Lord, where thou sendest me ; 
 
 Day after day I plod and moil ; 
 But, Christ my Lord, when will it be 
 
 That I may let alone my toil 
 And rest with thee ? 
 
 DORA GREENWELL. 
 
 THE SUNFLOWER. 
 
 Till the slow daylight pale, 
 A willing slave, fast bound tu one above, 
 I wait ; he seems to speed, and change, 
 and fail ; 
 
 I know he will not move. 
 
 I lift my golden orb 
 To his, unsmitten when the roses die, 
 And in my broad and burning disk ab- 
 sorb 
 
 The sjjlendors of his eye. 
 
 His eye is like a clear 
 Keen flame that searches through me ; I 
 
 must droop 
 Upon my stalk, I cannot reach his sphere ; 
 
 To mine he cannot stoop. 
 
 I win not my desire. 
 And yet I fail not of my guerdon ; lo ! 
 A thousand flickering darts and tongues 
 of tire 
 
 Around me spread and glow; 
 
 All rayed and crowned, I miss 
 No queenly state until the summer wane, 
 The hours flit by; none knoweth of my 
 bliss. 
 
 Anil none has guessed my pain ; 
 
 I follow one above, 
 I track the shadow of iiis steps, I grow 
 Most like to him I love 
 
 Of all that shines below.
 
 ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER. 
 
 273 
 
 VESPERS. 
 
 When I have said mj quiet say, 
 When I have sung my little song, 
 How sweetly, sweetly dies the day 
 The valley and the hill along ; 
 How sweet the summons, "Come away," 
 That calls nie tVom the busy throng ! 
 
 I thought beside the watei-'s flow 
 Awhile to lie beneath the leaves, 
 I thought in Autumn's harvest glow 
 To rest my head upon the sheaves ; 
 But, lo ! methinks the day was brief 
 And cloudy ; flower, nor fruit, nor leaf 
 1 bring, and yet acce]ited, free. 
 And blest, my Lord, 1 come to thee. 
 
 What matter now for promise lost. 
 Through b'.ast of spring or summer rains ! 
 AVhat matter now lor ]]urpose crost. 
 For broken hoj)es and wasted pains ; 
 What if the olive little yields, 
 What if the grape be blighted ? Thine 
 The corn u])on a thousand fields. 
 Upon a thousand hills the vine. 
 
 Thou lovest still the poor ; 0, blest 
 In poverty beloved to be ! 
 Less lowly is my choice confessed, 
 I love the rich in loving Thee ! 
 JMy spirit bare before thee stands, 
 I bring no gift, I ask no sign, 
 I come to thee with empty hands. 
 The surer to be filled from thine ! 
 
 ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER. 
 
 [U. S. A., 1816-1848.] 
 
 CHARITY. 
 
 Tpie pilgrim and sti'anger, who, through 
 
 the day. 
 Holds over the desert his trackless v.-ay, 
 Where the terrible sands no shade have 
 
 known. 
 No sound of life save his camel's moan. 
 Hears, at last, through the mercy of 
 
 Allah to all. 
 From his tent-door, at evening, the Bed- 
 ouin's call : 
 ' ' Whoever thou art, whose need isgreat, 
 In the namcof (iod, the (^omjiassionate 
 And Merciful One, for thee I wait!" 
 18 
 
 For gifts, in his name, of food and rest. 
 The tents of Islam of God are blest. 
 Thou, who hast faith in the Christ above, 
 Shall the Koran teach thee the Law of 
 
 Love ? 
 Christian ! — open thy heart and door, — 
 Cry, east and west, to the wandering 
 poor, — 
 "Whoever thou art, whose need isgreat. 
 In the name of Christ, the Compas- 
 sionate 
 And Merciful One, for thee I wait ! " 
 
 THE MEETING "WATERS. 
 
 Close beside the meeting waters, 
 Long I stood as in a dream. 
 
 Watching how the little liver 
 Fell into the broader stream. 
 
 Calm and still the mingled current 
 Glided to the waiting sea ; 
 
 On its breast serenely pictured 
 Floating cloud and skirting tree. 
 
 And I thought, "O human spirit ! 
 
 Stiong and deep and pure and blest. 
 Let the stream of my existence 
 
 Blend with thine, and find its rest !" 
 
 I could die as dies the river, 
 In that curent deeji and wide; 
 
 I would live as lives its waters. 
 Flashing from a stronger tide ! 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 WHEN THE GRASS SHALL COVER ME. 
 
 WiiEX the grass shall cover nie. 
 Head to foot where 1 am lying; 
 When not any wind that blows, 
 Summer bloom or winter snow.s, 
 Shall awake me to your sighing : 
 Close above me as you pass, 
 You will say, "How kind she was," - 
 You \^■ill say, "How true she was," 
 When the grass grows over me. 
 
 When the grass shall cover me, 
 Ho'den close to earth's warm bosom ; 
 While I laugh, oi' weep, or sing, 
 Nevermore for anything
 
 274 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 
 
 You will find in blade and Llossom, 
 Swet't small voices, odorous, 
 Tt-ndcr [jleudeis of my cause, 
 That shall speak nie as I was, — 
 
 "When the grass grows over me. 
 
 Wlien the grass shall cover nie I 
 Ah, beloved in my sorrow, 
 
 Very patient can 1 wait ; 
 
 Knowing that or soon or late, 
 There will dawn a clearer morrow : 
 
 When your heart will moan, "Alas, 
 
 Now I know how true she was ; 
 
 Now 1 know how dear sh<; was," — 
 Wiien the grass grows over me. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 AGAIN. 
 
 O, swEKT and fair ! 0, rich and rare ! 
 
 That day so long ago. 
 Theautuimi sunshine everywhere, 
 
 Tlie heather all aglow, 
 Tlu^ ferns were clad in cloth of gold, 
 
 The w'aves sang on the shore. 
 Such suns will shine, such waves will sing 
 
 Forever evermore. 
 
 0, tit and few ! 0, tried and true ! 
 
 Tiie friends wlio met tiiat day. 
 Each one the other's spirit knew, 
 
 .\nd so in earnest play 
 The hours Ih'w past, until at last 
 
 The twilight kissed the shore. 
 "We said, "Such days shall come again 
 
 I'orever evermore." 
 
 One day again, no cloud of pain 
 
 A shadow o'er us cast ; 
 And yet w-e strove in vain, in vain, 
 
 To conjure up the past; 
 Like, hut unlike, — the sun that shone, 
 
 Tlie waves that beat the shore, 
 Th;; words we said, the songs we sung, 
 
 Like, — unlike, — evermore. 
 
 For gho.sts unseen crept in between, 
 
 And, when our songs flowed free. 
 Sang discords in an undertone, 
 
 And marreil our harmony. 
 "The past is ours, not yours," they said : 
 
 "The waves that beat the shore. 
 Though like the s<nne, are not the same, 
 
 O, never, never more ! " 
 
 LUCY LARCOM. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 A STRIP OF BLUE. 
 
 I no not own an inch of land, 
 
 But all 1 see is mine, — 
 The orchard and the mowing-fields. 
 
 The lawns and gardens fine. 
 The winds my tax-collectors are, 
 
 They bring me tithes divine, — 
 Wild scents and subtle essences, 
 
 A tribute rare and free : 
 And more magnificent than all, 
 
 My window keeps for me 
 A glimpse of blue immensity, — 
 
 A little strip of sea. 
 
 Richer am I than he who owns 
 
 Great fieets and argosies; 
 I have a share in every ship 
 
 Won by the inland breeze 
 To loiter on yon airy road 
 
 Above the apple-trees. 
 I freight them with my untold dreams. 
 
 Each bears my own ])icked crew ; 
 And nobler cargoes wait for them 
 
 Than ever India knew, — • 
 
 My ships that sail into the East 
 
 Across that outlet blue. 
 
 Sometimes they seem like livingshapes, — 
 
 The people of the sky, — 
 Guests in white raiment coming down 
 
 From Heaven, which is close by: 
 I call them by familiar names. 
 
 As one by one draws nigh. 
 So white, so light, so spirit -like. 
 
 From violet mists they bloom ! 
 The aching wastes of the unknown 
 
 Are half reclaimed from gloom. 
 Since on life's hospitable sea 
 
 All souls find sailing-room. 
 
 The ocean grows a weariness 
 
 With nothing else in sight ; 
 Its east and west, its north and south, 
 
 Spread out from morn to night : 
 Wo miss the «arm, caressing shore, 
 
 Its brooding shade and light. 
 A ]iart is greater than the whole; 
 
 ny hints are mysteries toldj 
 The fringes of eternity, — 
 
 God's sweejiing garment-fold. 
 In that bright slired of glinnnering sea, 
 
 I reach out for, and hold.
 
 LUCY LARCOM. 
 
 275 
 
 The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 
 
 Float ill upon the mist; 
 The waves are broken precious stones, — 
 
 Sa]iplui'e and amethyst, 
 AVashed from celestial basement walls 
 
 liy suns unsetting kissed. 
 Out through the utmost gates of space, 
 
 Past where the gay stars drift, 
 To tlie widening Intinite, my soul 
 
 Glides on, a vessel swift ; 
 Yet loses not her anchorage 
 
 In yonder azure rift. 
 
 Here sit 1, as a little child : 
 
 The thresliold of God's door 
 Is that clear band of chrysoprase ; 
 
 Now the vast temjjle iloor, 
 Ti:e blinding glory of the dome 
 
 1 bow my head bei'ore : 
 The universe, God, is home, 
 
 In height or depth, to me; 
 Yet here upon thy footstool green 
 
 Content am I to be ; 
 Glad, when is opened to my need 
 
 Some sea-like glimjise of thee. 
 
 • BY THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 What is it fades and flickers in the fire, 
 Mutters and sighs, and yields reluctant 
 breath. 
 As if in the red embers some desire, 
 Some word prophetic burned, defying 
 death ? 
 
 Lords of the forests, stalwart oak and pine, 
 Lie down for us in flames of martyr- 
 dom : 
 A human, household warmth, theirdeath- 
 iires shine ; 
 Yet fragrant with high memories they 
 come; 
 
 Bringing the mountain-winds that in 
 their boughs 
 Sang of the torrent, and the plashy 
 edge 
 Of storm-swept lakes ; and echoes that 
 arouse 
 The eagles from a splintered eyrie- 
 ledgc ; 
 
 And breath of violets sweet about their 
 roots ; 
 And earthy odors of the moss and fern ; 
 
 And hum of rivulets ; smell of ripening 
 fruits ; 
 And green leaves that to gold and 
 crimson turn. 
 
 What clear Septembers fade out in a 
 spark ! 
 What rare Octobers drop with every 
 coal! 
 Within these costly ashes, dumb and 
 dark, 
 Are hid spring's budding hoi)e, and 
 summer's soul. 
 
 Pictures far lovelier smoulder in the fire. 
 Visions of friends who walked among 
 these trees. 
 Whose presence, like the free air, could 
 inspire 
 A winged^ life and boundless sym- 
 pathies. 
 
 Eyes with a glow like that in the brown 
 beech, 
 When sunset through its autumn 
 beauty shines ; 
 Or the blue gentian's look of silentspeech. 
 To heaven ajipealing as earth's light 
 declines ; 
 
 Voices and steps forever fled away 
 
 From the familiar glens, the haunted 
 hills,— 
 Most pitiful and strange it is to stay 
 Without you in a world your lost love 
 fills. 
 
 Do you forget us, — under Eden trees, 
 Or in full sunshine on the hills of 
 God, — 
 Who miss you from the shadow and the 
 breeze. 
 And tints and peifumes of the wood- 
 land sod ? 
 
 Dear for your sake the fireside where we 
 sit 
 Watching these sad, bright pictures 
 come and go 
 That waning years are with your memory 
 lit. 
 Is the one lonely comfort that we know. 
 
 Is it all memory ? Lo, these forest-boughs 
 Burst on the hearth into fresh leaf 
 and bloom ;
 
 276 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 "Waft a vague, far-off sweetness through 
 the house, 
 And give close walls the hillside's 
 breathing-room. 
 
 A second life, more spiritual than the first, 
 They find, a life won only out of 
 death. — 
 
 sainted souls, within you still is nursed 
 For us a Hanie not fed by mortal breath ! 
 
 Unseen, ye bring to us, who love and 
 wait, 
 Wafts from the heavenly hills, immor- 
 tal air ; 
 No flood can quench your hearts' 
 warmth, or abate ; 
 Ye are our gladness, here and every- 
 where. 
 
 CHARLOTTE P. HAWES. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 DOWN THE SLOPE. 
 
 Who knoweth life but questions death 
 With guessings of that dimmer day 
 When oiie is slowly lift from clay 
 On winged breath ? 
 
 l^iit man advances: far and high 
 His forces lly with lightning stroke: 
 Till, worn with 
 
 He turns to di( 
 
 years, his vigor broke, 
 
 Wlien lo ! lie finds it still a life ; 
 New ministration and new trust; 
 Along a liaji|)y way that 's just 
 Asi<le from strife. 
 
 And all day following friendly feet 
 That lead on bravely to the light. 
 As one walks downward, strong 
 bright, 
 The slanted street, — 
 
 and 
 
 And feels earth's benedictions wide, 
 Alike on forest, lake, or town ; 
 Nor marks the sloi)e, — he going down 
 The suiini(^st side. 
 
 0, bounteous natures everywhere! 
 Perchance at least one need not fear 
 A change to cross from your love here 
 To God's love there. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE TWO WORLDS. 
 
 Two worlds there are. To one our eyes 
 
 we strain. 
 Whose magic joys we shall not see again : 
 Bright haze of moi'ning veils its glim- 
 mering shore. 
 Ah, truly breathed we thei'e 
 Intoxicating air, — 
 Glad were our hearts in that sweet 
 realm of 
 Nevermore. 
 
 The lover there drank her deliciousbreath 
 Whose love has yielded since to change 
 or death ; 
 The mother kissed her child whose 
 days are o'er. 
 Alas ! too soon have fled 
 The ii'reclaimalile dead : 
 We see them — visions strange — amid 
 the 
 Nevermore. 
 
 The merry song some maiden used tcfeing, 
 The brown, brown hair that once v.as 
 ■wont to cling 
 To temples longclaj^-cold : to the veiy 
 core 
 They strike our weary hearts 
 As some vexed memory starts 
 From that long faded land, —the 
 realm of 
 Nevermore. 
 
 It is perpetual summer there. But here 
 Sadly we may remember rivers clear. 
 And harebells (|uivering on the mead- 
 ow-floor. 
 For brighter bells and bluer. 
 For tendei'cr hearts and truer, 
 People that hayqiylaud — the i-ealm of 
 Nevermore. 
 
 Upon the frontier of this shadowy land 
 We, pilgrims of eternal sorrow, stand : 
 What realm lies forward, with its hap- 
 pier store 
 Of forests green and deep. 
 Of valleys hushed in sleep. 
 And lakes most peaceful? 'T is the 
 land of 
 Evermore.
 
 ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. — NANCY A. W. PRIEST. 
 
 277 
 
 Very far off its marble cities seem, — 
 Vervfaroff—bevondoursensual dream- 
 Its woods, unruffled by the wild winds 
 roar : 
 Yet does the turbulent surge 
 Howl on its very verge. _ _ 
 
 One moment, —and we breathe withiu 
 the 
 Evermore. 
 
 They whom we loved and lost so long 
 
 ago, . 
 
 Dwell in those cities, far from mortal 
 
 woe, I 
 
 Haunt those fresh woodlands, whence 
 sweet carollings soar. 
 Eternal peace have they : 
 God wipes their tears away : 
 They drink that river of life which 
 flows for 
 Evermore. 
 
 Thither we hasten through these regions 
 
 dim, 
 But lo ! the wide wings of the serapfnm 
 Shine in the sunset ! On that joyous 
 shore 
 Our lightened hearts shall know 
 • The life of long ago : 
 The sorrow-burdened past shall fade lor 
 Evermore. 
 
 •I WILL ABIDE IN THINE HOUSE." 
 
 Among so many, can He care? 
 Can special love be everywhere ? 
 A myriad homes, —a myriad ways, — 
 And God's eye over every place. 
 
 Over; but in? The world is full ; 
 A grand omnipotence must rule ; 
 But is there life that doth abide 
 With mine own living, side by side ? 
 
 So many, and so wide abroad : 
 Can any heart have all of God? 
 From the great spaces, vague and dim. 
 May one small household gather Hun? 
 
 I asked: my soul bethought of this:— 
 In just that very place of his 
 Where He hath put and keepeth you, 
 God hath no other thing to do ! 
 
 ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 SUNLIGHT AND STARLIGHT. 
 
 God sets some souls in shade, alone ; 
 They have no daylight of their own : 
 Only in lives of happier ones 
 They see the shine of distant suns. 
 
 Go,l knows. Contentthee withthynight, 
 Thv rrreater heaven hath grander light. 
 To-dav is close ; the hours are small ; 
 Thou sit' St afar, and hast them all. 
 
 Lose the less joy that doth but blind ; 
 l!each forth a larger bliss to find. 
 T"-dny is bri.'F: the inclusive spheres 
 Kain raptures of a thousand years. 
 
 NANCY A. W. PRIEST. 
 
 [U S. A.] 
 
 OVER THE RIVER. 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me, — 
 Loved ones who've crossed to the far- 
 ther side ; 
 The gleam of their snowy robes I see, 
 But their voices are drowned in the 
 rushing tide. 
 There 's one with ringlets of sunny gokl. 
 And eyes, the reflection of heaven's 
 own blue ; , , , 
 
 He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold. 
 And the pale mist hid hnn from mortal 
 view. . 
 
 We sawnot the angelswho met hini theie; 
 The gates of the city we could not see; 
 Over the river, over the river. 
 
 My brother stands waiting to welcome 
 me ! 
 
 Over the river, the boatman pale 
 
 Carried another, —the household pet: 
 Her brown curls waved in thegentlegale — 
 
 Darling Minnie ! I see her yet. 
 She crossed on her bosom her dimpled 
 hands. 
 And fearlessly entered the phantom 
 bark;
 
 278 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 
 
 We watched it gllile from the silver sands, 
 And all our sunshine grew strangely 
 .lark. 
 
 We know she is safe on the farther side, 
 Where all the ransonied and angels be ; 
 
 Over the river, tlie mystic river, 
 
 My childhood's idol is waiting for me. 
 
 For none return from those quiet shores, 
 Who ci'oss with the Ijoatnjan cold and 
 ])ale ; 
 We hear the dip of the golden oars. 
 
 And catch a gleam of the snowy sail, — 
 And lo I they have passed from our yearn- 
 ing heart ; 
 They cross the stream, and ore gone for 
 aye ; 
 We may not sunder the veil apart. 
 That hides from our vision the gates 
 of day. 
 We only know that their barks no more 
 May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea ; 
 Yet somewhere, 1 know, on the unseen 
 shore, 
 Tiiey watch, and beckon, and wait for me. 
 
 And 1 sit and think, when the sunset's 
 gold. 
 Is flushing river, and hill, and shore, 
 I shall one day stand by the water cold. 
 And list foi- the sound of the boatman's 
 oar ; 
 1 shall watch for a gleaui of the flapping 
 sail ; 
 I shall hear the boat as 
 strand ; 
 
 I shall pass fiom sight, with tlie boat- 
 man pale. 
 To the better shore of tlie spirit land ; 
 I shall know the loved who have gone 
 before, — 
 And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, 
 AVhen over the river, the ]»eaeeful river, 
 The Angel of Death shall carry me. 
 
 it gains the 
 
 ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. 
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 JuDOE not; the workings of his brain 
 And of his heart thou canst not see; 
 
 What looks to thy dim eyes a stain. 
 In God's pure light may only be 
 
 A scar, brought from some well- won field, 
 Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. 
 
 The look, the air, that frets thy sight 
 
 May be a token that below 
 The soul has closed in deadly fight 
 
 With some infernal fieiy foe, 
 Whose glance would scorch thy smiling 
 
 grace, 
 And cast thee shuddering on thy face! 
 
 The fall thou darest to despise,— 
 May be the angel's slackened hand 
 
 Has suff'ered it, that he may rise 
 And take a firmer, surer stand ; 
 
 Or, trusting less to earthly things. 
 
 May henceforth learn to use his wings. 
 
 And judge none lost ; but wait and see, 
 Willi lioi)eful pity, not disdain; 
 
 The depth of the abyss may be 
 The measure of the height of pain 
 
 And love and glory that may i-aise 
 
 This soul to God iu after davs ! 
 
 FRIEND SORROW. 
 
 Do not cheat thy heart, and tell her, 
 
 "Grief will pass away ; 
 Hope for fairer times in future, 
 
 And forget to-day." 
 Tell her, if you will, that Sorrow 
 
 Need not come in vain ; 
 Tell her that the lesson taught her 
 
 Far outweighs the pain. 
 
 Cheat her not with the old comfort 
 
 (Soon she will forget); — 
 Bitter truth, — alas ! but matter 
 
 Rather for I'cgret. 
 •Bid her not seek other pleasures. 
 
 Turn to other things ; 
 Eather, nurse her caged Sorrow 
 
 Till the captive sings. 
 
 Bid her rather go forth bravely, 
 
 And the stranger greet. 
 Not as foe, with shield and buckler, 
 
 But as dear friends meet. 
 Bid her with a .strong grasp hold her 
 
 By the dusky wings. 
 And she '11 whisper, low and gently, 
 
 Blessings that she brings.
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 279 
 
 THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 Within his sober realm of leafless trees 
 The russet year inhaled the dreamy air ; 
 
 Like some tanned reaper in his hour ol'ease, 
 When all the fields are lying brown 
 and bare. 
 
 The gra\' barns looking from their hazy 
 
 hills 
 
 O'er tlie dim waters widening in the 
 
 vales, 
 
 Sent down the air a greetinf; to the mills, 
 
 On the dull thunder of alternate tlails. 
 
 All sights were mellowed and all sounds 
 subdued, 
 The hills seemed fartherand the streams 
 sang low ; 
 As in a dream the distant woodman hewed 
 His \\inter log with manj' a muffled 
 blow. 
 
 The embattled forests, erewhile armed in 
 gold. 
 Their banners bright with every martial 
 hue, 
 Now stood, like some sad beaten host of 
 old, 
 Withdrawn afar in Time's remotest 
 blue. 
 
 On slumb'rons wings the vulture held 
 his flight; 
 The dove scarce heard its sighingmate's 
 complaint ; 
 And like a star slow drowning in theli<;ht, 
 The village church-vane seemed to pale 
 and faint. 
 
 The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew, 
 Crew thrice, and all was stiller than 
 before, — 
 Silent till some replying warder blew 
 His alien horn, and then was heard no 
 more. 
 
 Where erst the ja}', within the elm's tall 
 crest, 
 Made garrulous trouble round her un- 
 fledged young, 
 
 And where the oriole hung her swaying 
 nest. 
 By every light wind like a censer 
 swung: — 
 
 Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves, 
 The busy swallows circling ever near. 
 
 Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes. 
 An early harvest and a plenteous 
 year; — 
 
 Where every bird which charmed the 
 vernal feast, 
 Shook the sweet slumber from its wings 
 at morn. 
 To warn the reaper of the rosy east, — 
 All now was songless, empty, and Ibr- 
 lorn. 
 
 Alone from out the stubble ]iiped tliequail, 
 And croaked the crow through all the 
 dreamy gloom ; 
 
 Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, 
 Made echo to the distant cottage loom. 
 
 There was no bud, no bloom, upon the 
 bowers ; 
 The spiders wove their thin shrouds 
 night by night ; 
 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flow- 
 ers, 
 Sailed slowly bj', passed noiseless out 
 of sight. 
 
 Amid all this, in this most cheerless air. 
 
 And where the woodbine shed upon 
 
 the porch 
 
 Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood 
 
 there 
 
 Firing the floor with his inverted torch ; 
 
 Amid all this, the centre of the scene. 
 The white-haired matron with monoto- 
 nous tread, 
 Plied the swift wheel, and with her joy- 
 less mien. 
 Sat, like a Fate, and watched the flying 
 thread. 
 
 She had known Sorrow, — he had walked 
 with her. 
 Oft supped and broke the bitter ashen 
 crust ; 
 And in the dead leaves still he heard the 
 stir 
 Of his black mantle trailing in the 
 dust.
 
 280 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 AVhile yet her clipck was bright with 
 suiiiiucr bloom, 
 Her coiuitiv suimnoned and she gave 
 her alf; 
 And twice War bowed to her his sable 
 plume, — 
 Regave the swoids to rust upon her wall. 
 
 Kegave the swords, — but not the hand 
 that drew 
 
 Ami struck for Liberty its dying blo'w, 
 Nor him who, to his sire and country true, 
 
 Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. 
 
 Long, but not loud, the droning wheel 
 
 went on. 
 
 Like the low murmur of a hive at noon ; 
 
 Long, butnotloud, fliememoryof thegone 
 
 Breathed through her lips a sad and 
 
 trenmlous tune. 
 
 At last the thread was snapped : her head 
 was boweil ; 
 Life dropt the distaff through his hands 
 serene ; 
 And loving neighbors smoothed her care- 
 ful shroud. 
 While deatli and winter closed the 
 autumn scene. 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF 
 LINCOLNSHIRE. 
 
 (1571.) 
 
 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 
 Tlie ringers ran by two, by three; 
 
 " Pull, if ye never puUed before ; 
 Good ringers, pull your best, "quoth he. 
 
 " I'iay uppr, i>l;iy uppe, Boston bells! 
 
 Ply all your cliiinges, all your swells, 
 
 J'lay uppe 'The iJiides of Enderby.'" 
 
 Jlen say it was a stolen tyde — 
 
 The Lord that sent it, he knows all ; 
 15 it in myne ears doth still abide 
 
 Tlie message that tlu^ hells let fall : 
 Ami there was naught of strange, beside 
 The Mights of mews and peewits pied 
 By millions crouched on the old sea- 
 wall. 
 
 I sat and spun within the doore, 
 
 My thread brake otf, 1 raised myne 
 eyes ; 
 The level sun, like ruddy ore. 
 
 Lay sinking in the barren skies ; 
 And dark against day's golden death 
 She moved where Lindis wandereth. 
 My Sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 '' Cu.sha ! Cusha ! Cusha 1 " calling, 
 Ere the early dews were falling, 
 Farre away I heard her song. 
 "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; 
 Where the reedy Lindis lloweth, 
 
 Floweth, fioweth. 
 From the meads where melick groweth 
 Faintly came her milking song. 
 
 "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha !" calling, 
 " For the dews will soon be falling; 
 Leave your meadow grasses mellow, 
 
 Mellow, mellow ; 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
 Comme uppe Whitefoot, come up[)e 
 
 Lightfoot, 
 Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, 
 
 Hollow, hollow; 
 Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
 From the clovers lift your head ; 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come ujipe 
 
 Lightfoot, 
 Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, 
 Jetty, to the niilking-shed." 
 
 If it be long, aj'e, long ago. 
 
 When I beginne to think howe long, 
 Againe I hear the Lindis flow. 
 
 Swift as an arro^ve, sharp and strong ; 
 And all the aire it seemeth me 
 Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), 
 That ring the tune of Enderby. 
 
 AUe fresh the level pasture lay, 
 And not a shadowe mote be scene. 
 
 Save where full fyve goo<l miles away 
 The steeple towered from outtlu^greene., 
 
 And lo ! the great bell farre and wide 
 
 Was heard in all the country side 
 
 That Saturday at eventide. 
 
 The swannerds where their .^edges are 
 Moved on in sunset's golden bieath, 
 The slii'pherde lads 1 heard afarre. 
 And my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth ; 
 Till floating o'er the grassy sea 
 Came downe that kvndly message free, 
 The " Brides of Mavis Enderby.'
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 281 
 
 Then some looked uppe into tlie sky, 
 And all along where Lindis flows 
 
 To where the goodly vessels lie, 
 
 And where the lordly steeple shows. 
 
 They sayde, "And why should this 
 thing be, 
 
 What danger lowers by land or sea ? 
 
 They ring the tune of Euderby ! 
 
 "For evil news from Mablethorpe, 
 Of ]>yrate galleys warping down ; 
 For shippes ashore beyond the seorpe. 
 They have not spared to wake the 
 towne ; 
 But while the west bin red to see. 
 And storms be none, and ])yrates flee, 
 Why ring ' The Brides of Enderby ' V 
 
 I looked without, and lo ! n)y sonne 
 Came riding downe with might and 
 main, 
 
 He raised a shout as he drew on. 
 Till all the welkin rang again, 
 
 "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" 
 
 (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) 
 
 "The olde sea-wall (he eried) is downe. 
 The rising tide comes on apace. 
 
 And boats adrift in yonder towne 
 Go sailing uppe the market-place." 
 
 He shook as one that looks on death: 
 
 "God save you, mother!" straight he 
 saith ; 
 
 "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" 
 
 "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away 
 With her two bairns 1 marked her, 
 long ; 
 And ere yon bells beganne to jilay 
 Afar I heard her milking song." 
 He looked across the grassy sea. 
 To light, to left, "Ho Enderby !" 
 They rang, "The Brides of Enderby !" 
 
 With that he cried and beat his breast ; 
 
 For lo ! along the river's bed 
 A mighty eygre reared his crest. 
 
 And uppe the Lindis raging sped. 
 It swept with thunderous noise, loud ; 
 Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud. 
 Or like a demon in a shroud. 
 
 And rearing Lindis backward pressed. 
 Shook all hertremblingbankesamaine ; 
 
 Then madly at the eygie's breast 
 
 Flung uppe her weltering walls again. 
 
 Then bankes came downe with ruin and 
 
 rout, — 
 Then beaten foam flew round about, —   
 Then all the mighty floods were out. 
 
 So farre, so fast the eygre drave. 
 
 The heart had hardly time to beat. 
 Before a shallow seething wave 
 
 Sobbed in the grasses at our feet : 
 The feet had hardly time to flee 
 Before it brake against the knee, 
 And all the world was in the sea. 
 
 L^pon the roofe we sate that night. 
 The noise of bells went swee]>ing by: 
 
 I marked the lofty beacon-light 
 
 Stream from the church-tower, red and 
 high,— 
 
 A lurid nuirk and dread to see ; 
 
 And awesome bells they were to mee. 
 
 That in the dark rang "Enderby." 
 
 They rang the sailor-lads to guide 
 
 From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed ; 
 
 And r — my sonne Mas at my side. 
 And yet the ruddy beacon glowed : 
 
 And yet he jnoaned beneath his breath, 
 
 "O come in life, or come in death ! 
 
 lost! my love, Elizabeth." 
 
 And didst thou visit him no more? 
 
 Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter 
 deare ; 
 The waters laid thee at his doore. 
 
 Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
 The pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
 The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
 Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. 
 
 That flow strewed wrecks about the grass. 
 That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea ; 
 
 A fatal ebbe and flow, alas ! 
 
 To manye more than myne and me : 
 
 But each will mourn his own (she saith). 
 
 And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath 
 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth. 
 
 1 shall never hear her more 
 By the reedy Lindis shore, 
 "Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling. 
 Ere the early dews be falling ; 
 
 I shall never hear her song, 
 "Cusha, Cusha!" all along. 
 Where the sunny Lindis floweth, 
 
 Goeth, floweth ; 
 From the meads where mclick groweth.
 
 282 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 
 
 "When the water winding down 
 Onward Uoweth to the town. 
 
 I shall never .sec her more 
 
 Where the reeds and rushes quiver, 
 
 Shiver, quiver ; 
 Stand beside the solibing river, 
 Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, 
 To the sandy lonesome sliore : 
 I shall never hear her calling, 
 "Leave your meadow grasses mellow; 
 
 Mellow, mellow ; 
 Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow ; 
 Come uppe Whitefoot, come u]>pe Light- 
 foot ; 
 Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, 
 
 Hollow, hollow; 
 Come ujijie Lightfoot, rise and follow; 
 
 Lightfoot, Whitefoot ; 
 From your clovers lift the head ; 
 Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, 
 Jetty, to the milking-shed." 
 
 SEVEN TIMES FOUR. 
 
 MATERNITir. 
 
 Hr.iGH-no ! daisies and buttercups ! 
 Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall ! 
 "Wlien the wind wakes how they rock in 
 
 the grasses. 
 And. dance with the cuckoo-buds slender 
 
 and small ! 
 Here's two bonny boys, and. here's 
 
 mother's own lasses. 
 Eager to gather them all. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups t 
 
 ^lother shall thread them a daisy chain ; 
 
 Sing them a song of the pretty hedge- 
 sparrow. 
 
 That loved her brown little ones, loved 
 them full fain ; 
 
 Sing, "Heart, thou art wide though the 
 house be but narrow," 
 Sing once, and sing it again. 
 
 Hcigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 
 Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and 
 
 they bow ; 
 A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters. 
 And haply one musing dotli stand at her 
 
 prow. 
 bonny brown sons, and sweet little 
 
 daughters, 
 Maybe he tiiinks on you now. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and buttercups ! 
 
 Fair yellow datibdils stately and tall ! 
 
 A sunshiny world full of laughter and 
 leisure. 
 
 And fresh hearts unconscious of sorrow 
 and thrall ! 
 
 Send down on their pleasure smiles pass- 
 ing its measure, 
 God that is over us all ! 
 
 SEVEN TIMES SEVEN. 
 
 LONGING FOR HOME. 
 
 A SONG of a boat : — 
 There was once a boat on a billow : 
 Lightly she rocked to her port remote. 
 And the foam was white in her wake like 
 
 snow. 
 Arid her frail mast bowed when the breeze 
 would blow, 
 And bent like a wand of willow. 
 
 I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 
 
 Went curtsying over the billow, 
 I marked her coui'se till, a dancing mote, 
 She faded out on the moonlit foam, 
 And I stayed behind in the dear-loved 
 home ; 
 And my thoughts all day were about the 
 boat, 
 And my dreams upon the pillow. 
 
 I pray you hear my song of a boat. 
 
 For it is but short : — 
 My boat you shall find none fairer afloat, 
 , In river or port. 
 Long I looked out for the lad she bore. 
 
 On the open desolate sea. 
 And I think he sailed to the heavenly 
 shore. 
 
 For he came not back to me — 
 
 Ah me ! 
 
 A song of a nest : — 
 There was once a nest in a hollow ; 
 Down in the mosses and knot-grass 
 
 pressed. 
 Soft and warm and full to the brim. 
 Vetches leaned over it purple and dim. 
 With buttercup-buds to follow. 
 
 I pray yon hear my song of a nest, 
 
 For it is not long : 
 You shall never ligiit in a summer quest 
 
 The bushes among, —
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 283 
 
 Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 
 A fairer nestt'ul, nor ever know 
 
 A softer sound than their tender twitter, 
 That wind-like did cohie and go. 
 
 I had a nestt'ul once of my own, 
 
 Ah, ha|>j)}', hapj)y I ! 
 Right dearly 1 loved them ; hut when 
 they were grown 
 
 They spread out their wings to fly. 
 0, one after one they Hew away, 
 
 Far up to the heavenly blue. 
 To the better country, the upper day, 
 
 And — I wish 1 was going too. 
 
 I pray you, what is the nest to me. 
 
 My eni^rty nest? 
 And what is the shore where I stood to 
 - _ see 
 
 My boat sail down to the west ? 
 Can I call that home where I anchor yet. 
 
 Though my good man has sailed ? 
 Can I call that home where my nest was 
 set, 
 
 Now all its hope hath failed ? 
 
 Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 
 And the land where my nestlings be : 
 There is the home where my thoughts 
 are sent. 
 The only home for me — 
 
 Ah me! 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 BEFORE THE RAIN. 
 
 We knew it would rain, for all the morn, 
 A spirit on slender ropes of mist 
 
 Was lowering its golden buckets down 
 Into the vapory amethyst 
 
 Of marshes and swampsand dismal fens, — 
 Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers. 
 
 Dipping the jewels out of the sea. 
 
 To s})rinkle them over the land in 
 showers. 
 
 We knew it would rain, for the poplars 
 showed 
 The white of their leaves, the amber 
 grain 
 Shrunk in the wind, — and the lightning 
 now 
 Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain ! 
 
 AFTER THE RAIN. 
 
 The rain has ceased, and in my room 
 The sunshine pours an airy flood ; 
 And on the church's dizzy vane 
 The ancient Cross is bathed in blood. 
 
 From out the dripping ivy-leaves, 
 Antiquely carven, gray and high, 
 A dormer, facing westward, looks 
 Upon the village like an eye : 
 
 And now it glimmers in the sun, 
 A square of gold, a disk, a speck : 
 And in the belfry sits a Dove 
 With purple ripples on her neck. 
 
 PISCATAQUA RIVER. 
 
 Thou singest by the gleaming isles, 
 By woods, and fields of corn. 
 
 Thou singest, and the heaven smiles 
 Upon iny birthday morn. 
 
 But I within a city, I, 
 
 So full of viigue unrest. 
 Would almost give my life to lie 
 
 An hour upon thy breast ! 
 
 To let the wherry listless go, 
 And, wrapt in dreamy joy. 
 
 Dip, and surge idl}' to and fro, 
 Like the red harbor-buoy ; 
 
 To sit in happy indolence, 
 
 To rest upon the oars, 
 And catch the heavy earthy scents 
 
 That blow from summer shores ; 
 
 To see the rounded sun go down. 
 
 And with its ])arting tires 
 Light up the windows of the town 
 
 And burn the tapering spires ; 
 
 And then to hear the muffled tolls 
 From steeples slim and white. 
 
 And watch, among the Isles of Shoals, 
 The Beacon's orange light. 
 
 Uiver ! flowing to the main 
 
 Through woods, and fields of corn.
 
 284 
 
 SONGS OF TIlPwEE CENTURIES. 
 
 Hear tlion my longing and my pain 
 This sunny birthday morn ; 
 
 And take this song which sorrow shapes 
 
 To music like thine own, 
 And sing it to the cliffs and capes 
 
 And crags where I ani known ! 
 
 ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 THE GREEN GNOME. 
 
 A MELODY. 
 
 Ring, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath 
 bells ! 
 
 Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through 
 dales and dells ! 
 
 Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- 
 bath bells ! 
 
 Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields 
 and lells ! 
 
 And I galloped and I galloped on my 
 
 palfrey white as milk, 
 !My robe was of the sea-green woof, my 
 
 serk was of the silk ; 
 My hair was golden-yellow, and it floated 
 
 to my shoe ; 
 My eyes weie like two harebells bathed 
 
 in little drops of dew ; 
 My palfrey, never stopping, made a music 
 
 sweetly blent 
 With the leaves of autumn dropping all 
 
 around me as I went ; 
 And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far 
 
 behind me peal and play. 
 Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed 
 
 to die away ; 
 And beside a silver runnel, on a little 
 
 heap of sand, 
 I saw the green gnome sitting, with his 
 
 cheek upon his hand. 
 Then he started up to see me, and he ran 
 
 with a cry and bound, 
 And drew nic fiom my paltVcy white and 
 
 set me on the ground. 
 O crimson, crimson were his locks, his 
 
 face was green to .see, 
 Hut he cried, "O light-haired las.sie, you 
 
 are bound to many me!" 
 He clasped me round the middle small, 
 
 he kissed me ou the check, 
 
 He kissed me once, he ki.ssed me twice, 
 
 I could not stir or speak ; 
 He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice ; 
 
 but wheii he kissed again, 
 I called aloud upon the name of Hinr 
 
 who died for men. 
 
 Sing, sing ! ring, ring ! pleasant Sabbath 
 bells! 
 
 Chime, rhyme ! chime, rhyme ! through 
 dales and dells ! 
 
 Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- 
 bath bells ! 
 
 Chime, sing ! rhyme, ring ! over fields 
 and fells ! 
 
 faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and 
 
 maids to pray. 
 So faintly, faintly, taiutly rang the bells 
 
 far away ; 
 And as 1 named the Blessed Name, as in 
 
 our need we can, 
 The ugly green gnome became a tall and 
 
 comely man : 
 His hands were white, his beard was gold, 
 
 his eyes were black as sloes. 
 His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken 
 
 were his hose ; 
 A pensive light from faeryland still lin- 
 gered on his cheek. 
 His voice was like the running brook 
 
 when he began to speak : 
 "0, you have cast away the charm my 
 
 step-dame put on me. 
 Seven years have I dwelt in Faeryland, 
 
 and you have set me free. 
 0, I will niount thy ])alfrey white, and 
 
 ride to kirk witli thee. 
 And, by those dewy little eyes, we twain 
 
 will wedded be!" 
 
 Back we galloped, never .stopping, he 
 before and I behind. 
 
 And the autumn leaves were dropping, 
 red and yellow in the wind ; 
 
 And the sun was shining clearer, and my 
 heart was high and pioud. 
 
 As nearer, nearer, nearer rang the kirk- 
 bells sweet and loud. 
 
 And we saw the kirk, before us, as we 
 trotted down the fells. 
 
 And nearer, clearer, o'er u.s, rang the 
 
 welcome of the bells. ' » 
 
 Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! pleasant Sabbath 
 
 bells ! 
 Chime, ihyme ! cliime, rhyme! through 
 
 dales and dells !
 
 E. C. STEDMAN. 
 
 285 
 
 Rhyme, ring ! chime, sing ! pleasant Sab- 
 bath bells ! 
 
 Chime, sing! rhyme, ring! over fields 
 and i'ells ! 
 
 E. C. STEDMAN. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE DOORSTEP. 
 
 The conference-meeting through at last, 
 We boys around the vestry waited 
 
 To see the girls ('onie tri])iiiiig past, 
 Like snowbirds willing to be mated. 
 
 Not braver he that leaps the wall 
 By level musket-Hashes litten. 
 
 Than 1, who stepped before tiiem all, 
 Who longed to see me get the mitten. 
 
 But no ; she blushed, and took my arm ! 
 
 We let the old folks have the highway, 
 And started toward the Majde Farm 
 
 Along a kind of lovei's by-way. 
 
 I can't remember what we said, 
 
 'T was nothing woi-th a song or story. 
 
 Yet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seemed all transformed, and in a glory. 
 
 The snow was crisp beneath our feet. 
 The moon was full, the fields were 
 gleaming ; 
 By hood and tippet sheltered sweet. 
 Her face with youth and health was 
 beaming. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff — 
 sculptor, if you could butmouldit ! — 
 
 So lightly touched my jacket-cuff, 
 To keep it warm 1 had to hold it. 
 
 To have her with me there alone, — 
 'T was love and fear and triumph 
 blended. 
 
 At last we reached the foot-worn stone 
 Where that delicious journey ended. 
 
 The old folks, too, were almost home; 
 
 Her diinjiled hand the latches fingered. 
 We heard the voices nearer come, 
 
 Yet on the doorstep still we lingered. 
 
 She shook her ringlets from her hood. 
 And with a "Thank you, Ned," dis- 
 sembled ; 
 
 But yet I knew she understood 
 
 With what a daring wish 1 trembled. 
 
 A cloud passed kindly overhead. 
 
 The moon was slyly jieeping through it. 
 
 Yet hid its face, as if it said, 
 
 "Come, now or never ! do it ! do it!" 
 
 My lips till then had only known 
 The kiss of mother and of sister, 
 
 But somehow, full upon her own 
 
 Sweet, rosy, darling moutii, — I kissed 
 her ! 
 
 Perhaps 't was boyish love, yet still, 
 
 listless woman, weary lover ! 
 To feel once more that fresh, wild thrill , 
 But who can live youth 
 over ? 
 
 1 'd give — 
 
 PAN IS WALL STREET. 
 
 A. D. 1867. 
 
 JiTST where the Treasury's marble front 
 
 Looks over AVall Street's mingled na- 
 tions, — 
 Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont 
 
 To throng for trade and last quota- 
 tions, — 
 Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold 
 
 Outrival, in the ears of people. 
 The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled 
 
 From Trinity's undaunted steeple ; — 
 
 Even there I heard a strange, wild strain 
 
 Sound high above the modern clamor, 
 Above the cries of greed and gain, 
 
 The curbstone war, the auction's ham- 
 mer, — 
 And swift, on Music's misty ways. 
 
 It led, from all this strife for nullions, 
 To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days 
 
 Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians. 
 
 And as it stilled the multitude. 
 
 And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, 
 I saw the minstrel where he stood 
 
 At ease against a Doric pillar : 
 One hand a droning organ played, 
 
 The other held a Pan'.s-])ipe (fashioned 
 Like those of old) to li|)s that made 
 
 The reeds give out that strain impas- 
 sioned.
 
 286 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 'T was Pail himsplf had waiidcMPtl here 
 
 A-stroUiiiii tliroiigli this sordid city, 
 Aiil piping to the civic ear 
 
 The prelude of some jiastoral ditty ! 
 The demigod had crossed the seas, — 
 
 From liaunts of shcplurd, nym]ili, and 
 satyr, 
 And Syracusan times, — to these 
 
 Far shores and twenty centuries later. 
 
 A ragged cap was on his head : 
 
 But — hidden thus — there -was no 
 douViting 
 That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, 
 His gnarled horns were somewhere 
 sprouting ; 
 His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, 
 Were crossed, as on some frieze you 
 see them. 
 And trousers, patched of divers hues, 
 Concealed his crooked shanks beneath 
 them. 
 
 He filled the quivering reeds with sound. 
 And o'er his mouth their changes 
 shifted. 
 And with his goat's-eyes looked around 
 Wheie'er the i)assing current drifted; 
 And soon, as on Trinacrian hills 
 
 The nymphs and lienlsmen ran to hear 
 him, 
 Even now the tradesman from their tills. 
 With clerks ami ])oiters, crowded near 
 him. 
 
 The hulls and hears together drew 
 
 From Jauncey Court and New' Street 
 Alley, 
 As erst, if pastorals be true. 
 
 Came beasts from every wooded valley ; 
 The random ]nss2rs stayed to list, — 
 
 A boxer -flgon, rough and merry, — 
 A Hroadway Daphnis, on his tryst 
 
 With Xais at the Brooklyn Ferry. 
 
 A one-eyed Cyclops halted long 
 
 In tattered cloak of army pattern. 
 And Galatea joined the throng, — 
 
 A blowsy, api>le-vending slattern ; 
 While old Silenus staggered out 
 
 From some new-fangled lunch-house 
 handy. 
 And bade the piper, with a shout, 
 
 To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy ! 
 
 A newsboy and a peanut-girl 
 
 Like little Fauns began to caper : 
 
 His hair was all in tangled curl, 
 
 Her taway legs were liaie and taper; 
 
 And still the gathering larger grew, 
 Andgave its pence and crowded nigher, 
 
 While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew 
 His pipe, and struck the gamut higher. 
 
 heart of Nature, beating still 
 
 With throbs her vernal passion taught 
 her, — 
 Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, 
 
 Or by the Arethusan water ! 
 New forms may fold the speech, new lands 
 
 Arise within these ocean-portals. 
 But JIusic waves eternal wands, — 
 
 Enchantress of the souls of mortals ! 
 
 So thought I, — but among us trod 
 
 A man in blue, with legal baton. 
 And scoffed the vagrant demigod. 
 
 And pushed hiin from the step I sat on. 
 Doubting I mused upon the cry, 
 
 "Great Pan is dead!."— aiid all the 
 people 
 "Went on theirways : — and clear and high 
 
 The quarter sounded from the steeple. 
 
 ALGEPtXON CHAELES 
 SWINBUENE. 
 
 A MATCH. 
 
 If love were what the rose is, 
 And I were like the leaf, 
 
 Our lives would grow together 
 
 In sad or singing weather, 
 
 Blown fields or ilowerful closes. 
 Green pleasure or gray grief; 
 
 If love were what the rose is. 
 And I w-ere like the leaf. 
 
 If I were what the words are. 
 
 And love were like the tune, 
 With double sound and single 
 Delight our lips would mingle, 
 "With kisses glad as birds are 
 
 That get sweet rain at noon ; 
 If I were what the words ai'e 
 And love were like the tune. 
 
 If you were life, my darling, 
 
 And I your love were death, 
 "We 'd shine and snow together 
 Ere March made sweet the weather
 
 E. H. STODDARD. — J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 287 
 
 With daffodil and starling 
 And lidurs ot" IVuittul bruath ; 
 
 If you were life, my darling, 
 And 1 j'our love were death. 
 
 If you were thrall to sorrow, 
 
 And 1 were page to joy, 
 We 'd play for lives and seasons. 
 With loving looks and treasons, 
 And tears of night and morrow. 
 
 And laughs of maiil and boy ; 
 If you were thrall to sorrow. 
 
 And 1 were Jiage to joy. 
 
 If you were April's lady. 
 
 And I were lord in May, 
 We 'd throw with leaves for hours, 
 And draw for days with flowers. 
 Till day like night were shady, 
 
 And night were bright like day ; 
 If you were April's lady, 
 And I were lord in May. 
 
 If you were queen of pleasure, 
 
 And I were king of pain, 
 We 'd hunt down love together, 
 Plnck out his flying-feather. 
 And teach his feet a measure. 
 And find his mouth a rein ; 
 If you were queen of pleasure, 
 And I were king of pain. 
 
 R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 NEVER AGAIN. 
 
 TliERK are gains for all our losses. 
 
 There are balms for all our pain : 
 But when youth, the dream, departs, 
 It takes something from our hearts. 
 And it never comes again. 
 
 We are stronger, and are better. 
 
 Under manhood's sterner reign : 
 Still we feel that something sweet 
 Followed youth, with flying feet, 
 And will never come again. 
 
 Something beautiful is vanished, 
 And we sigh for it in vain : 
 
 We seek it everywhere. 
 
 On the earth and in the air. 
 But it never comes again ! 
 
 LANDWARD. 
 
 The sky is thick upon the sea, 
 The sea is sown with lain. 
 
 And in the passing gusts we hear 
 The clanging of the crane. 
 
 The cranes are flying to the south ; 
 
 We cut the northern foam : 
 The dreary land they leave behind 
 
 Must be our future home. 
 
 Its barren shores aie long and dark, 
 And gray its autumn sky ; 
 
 But better these than this gray sea. 
 If but to land — and die ! 
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 The wild November comes at last 
 
 Beneath a veil of rain ; 
 The night-wind blows its folds aside, 
 
 Her face is full of jjain. 
 
 The latest of her race, she takes 
 The Autumn's vacant throne : 
 She has liut one short moon to live. 
 And she must live alone. 
 
 A barren realm of withered fields : 
 Bleak woods of fallen leaves : 
 
 The palest morns that ever dawned : 
 The dreariest of eves : 
 
 It is no wonder that she comes. 
 Poor month ! with tears of pain : 
 
 For what can one so hopeless do 
 But weep, and weep again ! 
 
 J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 The night was made for cooling shade. 
 
 For silence, and for sleep; 
 And when I was a child, I laid 
 My hands upon my breast, and prayed, 
 
 And sank to slumbers deep. 
 Childlike, as then, I lie to-night. 
 And watch my lonely cabin-light.
 
 288 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Each movpineiit of the swaying lamp 
 
 Sliows how the vessel reels, 
 And o'er her deck the billows tramp, 
 And all her timbers strain and cramp 
 
 With every shock she feels ; 
 It starts and shudders, while it burns, 
 And in its hinged socket turns. 
 
 Jsow swinging slow, and slanting low, 
 
 It almost level lies : 
 And yet I know, while to and fro 
 1 watch the seeming pendule go 
 
 With restless fall and rise. 
 The steady shaft is still upright, 
 Poising its little globe of light. 
 
 hand of God ! lamp of peace ! 
 promise of my soul ! 
 
 Though weak and tossed, and ill at ease 
 Amid the roar of smiting seas, — - 
 The ship's convulsive roll, — 
 
 1 own, with love and tender awe, 
 Yon perfect type of faith and law. 
 
 A heavenly trust my spirit calms, — 
 My soul is filled with liglit ; 
 
 Tlie ocean sings his solemn psalms; 
 
 The wild winds chant ; I cross my palms ; 
 Happy, as if to-night. 
 
 Under the cottage roof again, 
 
 I heard the soothing summer rain. 
 
 ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN 
 (FLOltENCE PEPtCY). 
 
 [u. s. a] 
 IN THE DEFENCES. 
 
 AT WASHINGTON. 
 
 A[,ONG the ramparts which surround the 
 town 
 I walk with evening, marking all the 
 while 
 How night and autumn, closing softly 
 down. 
 Leave on the land a blessing and a 
 smile. 
 
 In the broad streets the sounds of tumult 
 cease, 
 The gorgeous sunset reddens roof and 
 spire, 
 
 The city sinks to quietude and peace, 
 Sleeping, like Saturn, in a ring of fire.; 
 
 Circled with forts, whose grim and threat- 
 ening walls 
 Frown black with cannon, whose abated 
 breath 
 Waits the command to send the fatal balls 
 Upon theirerrandsof dismay and death. 
 
 And see, directing, guiding, silently- 
 Flash from afar the mystic signal-lights. 
 
 As gleamed the fiery pillar in the sky 
 LeatUng by night the wandering Israel- 
 ites. 
 
 The earthworks, draped with summer 
 weeds and vines, 
 The riHe-pits, half hid with tangled 
 briers, 
 But wait their time ; for see, along the 
 lines 
 Else the faint smokes of lonesome 
 picket-lires. 
 
 Where sturdy sentinels on silent heat 
 Cheat the long hours of wakeful lone- 
 liness 
 With thoughts of home, and faces dear 
 and sweet. 
 And, on the edge of danger, dream of 
 bliss. 
 
 Yetataword, how wildand fierce achange 
 Would rend and starthi all the earth 
 and skies 
 With blinding glare, and noises dread 
 and strange. 
 And shrieks, and shouts, and. deathly 
 agonies. 
 
 The wide-mouthed guns would war, and 
 hissing shells 
 Would pierce the shuddering sky with 
 fiery thrills. 
 The battle rage and roll in thunderous 
 swells, 
 And war's fierce anguish shake the 
 solid hills. 
 
 But now how tranquilly the golden gloom 
 Creeps up the gorgeous forest-slopes, 
 and flows 
 Down valleys blue with fringy aster- 
 i bloom, — 
 
 I An atmosphere of safety and repose.
 
 EDXA DEAN PROCTOR. 
 
 289 
 
 Against the sunset lie the darkeninghills, 
 Mushroomed with tents, the sudden 
 growth of war ; 
 Tlie frosty autumn air, tliat blights and 
 chills. 
 Yet brings its own full recompense 
 therefor ; 
 
 Rich colors light the leafy solitudes, 
 
 And far and near the gazer's eyes behold 
 The oak's deep scarlet, warming all the 
 woods, 
 And spendthrift majiles scattering 
 their gold. 
 
 The pale beech shivers with prophetic 
 woe, 
 The towering chestnut ranks stand 
 blanched and thinned. 
 Yet still the fearless sumach dares the foe. 
 And waves its bloody guidons in the 
 wind. 
 
 "Where mellow haze the hill's sharji out- 
 line dims. 
 
 Bare elms, like sentinels, watch silently. 
 The delicate tracery of their slender limbs 
 
 Pencilled in purple on the salfron sky. 
 
 Content and quietude and plentj' seem 
 Blessing the place, and sanctifying all ; 
 
 Andhark ! liowpleasantlyahiddenstream 
 Sweetens the silence with its silver fall ! 
 
 The failing grasshopper cliirps faint and 
 shrill, 
 The cricket calls, in massy covert hid. 
 Cheery and loud, as stoutly answering 
 still 
 The soft persistence of tlie katydid. 
 
 With dead moths tangled in its blighted 
 bloom. 
 The golden-rod swings lonesome on its 
 throne, 
 Forgotof bees ; and in thethicket'sgloom. 
 The last belated peewee cries alone. 
 
 The hum of voices, and the careless laugh 
 Of cheerful talkers, fall upon the ear; 
 
 The flag flaps listlessly adown its staff; 
 And still the katydid pipes loud and 
 near. 
 
 And now from far the bugle's mellow 
 thioat i 
 
 Pours out, in rippling flow, its ^silver 
 tide ; 1 
 
 19 
 
 And up the listening hills the echoes float 
 Faint and more faint and sweetly 
 multiplied. 
 
 Peace reigns ; not now a soft-eyed nymph 
 that sleeps 
 Unvexed by dreams of strife or con- 
 queror. 
 But Power, that, open-eyed and watchful, 
 keeps 
 Unwearied vigil on the brink of war. 
 
 Night falls ; in silence .sleep the patriot 
 bands ; 
 The tireless cricket yet repeats its tunc. 
 And the still figure of the sentry stands 
 In i)lack relief against the low full 
 moon. 
 
 EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. 
 
 [v. S. A.] 
 
 OUR HEROES. 
 
 The winds that once the Argo bore 
 Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines. 
 And her hull is the drift of the deep sea 
 
 floor. 
 Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. 
 You may seek her crew in every isle. 
 Fair in the foam of iEgean seas. 
 But out of thfir sleep no charm can wile 
 Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. 
 
 And Priam's voice is heard no more 
 B}' windy Ilium's sea-built walls; 
 From the washing wave and the lonely 
 
 shore 
 No wail goes up as Hector falls. 
 On Ilia's mount is the shining snow. 
 But Jove has gone from its brow away, 
 And red on the plain the popjiies grow 
 Where Greek and Trojan fouglit that day. 
 
 Mother Earth ! Are thy heroes dead ? 
 Do they thrill the soul of the years no 
 
 more ? 
 Are the gleaming snows and the poppies 
 
 red 
 All that is left of the brave of yore ? 
 Are there none to fight as Theseus fought. 
 Far in the young world's misty dawn ? 
 Orteachasthegray-haired Nestor taught, 
 Mother Eartli ! Are thy heroes gone?
 
 290 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Gone? — in a nobler form tlipy rise ; 
 Dead? — we may clasp their hands in ours, 
 And catch the light of their glorious ej^es, 
 And wreathe their brows with iinnKutal 
 
 flowers. 
 Wherever a noble deed is done, 
 There are the souls of our heroes stin'ed; 
 Wherever a field for truth is won, 
 Tiiere are our heroes' voices heard. 
 
 Their armor rings on a fairer field 
 
 Tlian Greek or Trojan ever trod. 
 
 For Freedom's sword is the blade they 
 
 wield. 
 And the light above them the smile of 
 
 God ! 
 So, in his isle of calm delight, 
 Jason may dream the years away, 
 But the heroes live, and the skies are 
 
 briglit. 
 And the world is a braver world to-day. 
 
 GEORGE H. BOKER. 
 
 [v. S. A.] 
 
 DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. 
 
 Closr his eyes ; his work is done ! 
 
 What to hiui is friend or foeman, 
 Rise of moon, or set of sun. 
 
 Hand of man, or kiss of woman? 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he ? he cannot know : 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 As man may, he fought his fight, 
 
 Pioved his truth by his endeavor; 
 Let him sleep in solemn night, 
 Sleep forevei- and forever. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 1 71 the clover or the snow ! 
 Wliat cares he? he cannot know: 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 Fold him in his country's stars, 
 
 Roll the drum and lire the volley! 
 Wliiit to him are all our wars. 
 
 What but death-bemocking folly? 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 What cares he? he cannot know: 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 Leave him to God's watcliing eye. 
 
 Trust him to the hand that made him. 
 Mortal love weeps idly by: 
 
 God alone has power to aid him. 
 Lay him low, lay him low, 
 In the clover or the snow ! 
 Wiiat cares he? he cannot know: 
 Lay him low ! 
 
 LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW. 
 
 It .stands in a sunny meadow. 
 The house so mossy and brown. 
 
 With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, 
 And the gray roof sloping down. 
 
 The trees fold their green arms round it, — 
 
 The trees a century old ; 
 And the winds go chanting through 
 them. 
 
 And the sunbeams drop their gold. 
 
 The cowslips spring in the marshes, 
 
 The roses bloom on the hill. 
 And beside the brook in the pasture 
 
 The herds go feeding at will. 
 
 Within, in the wide old kitchin, 
 
 The old folks sit in the sun. 
 That creeps through the sheltering Avood- 
 bine. 
 
 Till the day is almost done. 
 
 Their children have gone and left them ; 
 
 They sit in the sun alone ! 
 And the old wife's ears are failing 
 
 As she harks to the well-known tone 
 
 That won her heart in her girlhood. 
 That has soothed her in many a care. 
 
 And praises her now for the brightness 
 Her old face used to wear. 
 
 She thinks again of her bridal, — 
 How, dressed in her robe of white, 
 
 She stood by her gay young lover 
 In the morning's ros}' light. 
 
 0, the morning is rosy as ever. 
 
 But the rose from her cheek is fled ;
 
 NORA PERKY. 
 
 291 
 
 And the sunshine still is golden, 
 But it falls on a silvered head. 
 
 And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, 
 Come back in her winter-time. 
 
 Till lier feeble pulses tremble 
 
 With the thrill of spring-time'.s prime. 
 
 And looking forth from the window, 
 8he thinks how the trees have grown 
 
 Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, 
 She crossed the old door-stone. 
 
 Though dimmed her ej'es' bright azure. 
 And dimmed her hair's young gold, 
 
 The love in her girlhood plighted 
 Has never grown dim or old. 
 
 They sat in peace in the sunshine 
 Till the day was almost done, 
 
 And then, at its close, an angel 
 Stole over the threshold stone. 
 
 He folded their hands together, — 
 He touched their eyelids with balm, 
 
 And their last breath floated outward. 
 Like the close of a solemn ])salm ! 
 
 Like a bridal pair they traversed 
 
 The unseen, mvstical road 
 That leads to the" Beautiful City, 
 
 Whose builder and maker is God. 
 
 Perhaps in that miracle country 
 They will give her lost youth back. 
 
 And the flowers of the vanished spring- 
 time 
 Will bloom in the spirit's track. 
 
 One draught from the living waters 
 
 Shall call back his manhood's prime ; 
 And eternal years shall measure 
 'i The love that outlasted time. 
 
 But the shajK's that they left behind them. 
 The wrinkles and silver hair, — 
 
 Made holy to us by the kisses 
 The angel had printed there, — 
 
 We will hide away 'neath the willows, 
 Wlien the (lay is low in the west, 
 
 Where the sunVieams cannot find them, 
 Nor the winds distuib their rest. 
 
 And we '11 suffer no telltale tombstone. 
 With its age and date, to lise 
 
 O'ei' the two who are old no longer. 
 In the Father's house in the skies. 
 
 THE LATE SPRING. 
 
 She .stood alone amidst the April fields, — 
 Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and 
 bare. 
 "The Sluing is late," she said, " the 
 faithless spring. 
 That should have come to make the 
 meadows fair. 
 
 "Their sweet South left too soon, among 
 the trees 
 The birds, bewildered, flutter to and 
 fro ; 
 For them no green boughs wait, — their 
 memories 
 Of last year's April had deceived them 
 so." 
 
 She watched the homeless birds, the 
 .slew, sad spring. 
 The barren fields, and shivering, naked 
 trees. 
 "Thus God has dealt with me, his child," 
 she saitl ; 
 " I wait my spring-time, and am cold 
 like these. 
 
 "To them will come the fulness of their 
 time ; 
 Their spring, though late, will make 
 the meadows fair; 
 Shall L ^\'lio wait like them, like them 
 be blessed ? 
 I am His own, — doth not mv Father 
 care?" 
 
 NORA PERRY. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 IN JUNE. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the roses in their 
 blowing. 
 So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; 
 So blithe and gay the humming-biid 
 agoing 
 From Hower to flower, a hunting with 
 the bee. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the calling of the 
 thrushes. 
 The calling, cooing, wooing, every- 
 where ;
 
 292 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 So sweet the water's song through reeds 
 and ruslies, 
 The plover's piping note, now here, 
 now there. 
 
 So sweet, so sweet from off the fiehls of 
 clover. 
 The west-wind blowing, blowing up 
 the hill; 
 So sweet, so sweet with news of some 
 one's lover, 
 Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer 
 still. 
 
 So near, so near, now listen, listen, 
 thrushes ; 
 Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let 
 me hear ; 
 And, water, hush your song through reeds 
 and rushes, 
 That I may know whose lover cometh 
 near. 
 
 So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their 
 calling, 
 Plover or blackbird never heedinc; me ; 
 So loud the mill-stream too kept Iretting, 
 falling, 
 O'er bar and bank, in brawling, bois- 
 terous glee. 
 
 So loud, so loud; yet blackbird, thrush, 
 nor plover. 
 Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and 
 fall, 
 Could drown the voice, the low voice of 
 my lover, 
 My lover calling through the thrushes' 
 call. 
 
 "Come down, come down!" he called, 
 and straight the thrushes 
 From mate to mate sang all at once, 
 "Come down I" 
 And while the water laughed through 
 reeds and rushes. 
 The blackbiril chirped, the plover 
 pil)ed, "Come down !" 
 
 Then down and off, and through the 
 ticlds of clover, 
 I followed, followed, at my lover's call ; 
 Listening no more to blacklnrd, thrush, 
 or plover. 
 The water's hnigh, the mill-stream's 
 fret and fall. 
 
 AFTER THE BALL. 
 
 They sat and combed their beautiful hair, 
 Tiieir long, brigiit tresses, one by one,. 
 
 As they laughed and talked in the cham- 
 ber there. 
 After the revel was done. 
 
 Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille. 
 Idly they laughed, like other girls. 
 
 Who over the fire, when all is still, 
 Comb out their braids and curls. 
 
 Kobe of satin and Brussels lace, 
 Knots of flowers and ribbons, too. 
 
 Scattered about in every place, 
 For the revel is through. 
 
 And Maud and Madge in robes of white. 
 The prettiest nightgowns under the sun, 
 
 Stockingless, sli]iperless, sit in the night. 
 For the revel is done, — 
 
 Sit and comb their beautiful hair. 
 
 Those wonderful waves of brown and 
 gold, _ 
 
 Till the lire is out in the chamber there. 
 And the little bare feet are cold. 
 
 Then out of the gathering winter chill, 
 All o'.it of the bitter St. Agnes weather, 
 
 AVhiJe the fire is out and the house is still, 
 I.Iaiul anil Madge together, —   
 
 Maud and Madge in robes of white, 
 Th'.ipi-ettii'st nightgowns 11 ndertliesnn. 
 
 Curtained away from the chilly night, 
 Attcv the ravel is done, — 
 
 Float along ia a splendid dieam. 
 To a golden gitteru's tinkling tune, 
 
 "While a thousand lustres shimmering 
 stream 
 In a palace's grand saloon. 
 
 Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, 
 Trojiical odors sweeter than nuisk. 
 
 Men and women with beautiful faces, 
 And eyes of tropical dusk, — 
 
 And one face shining out like a star. 
 One face haunting the dreams of each, 
 
 And one voice, sweeter than otheis are. 
 Breaking into silvery speech, — 
 
 Telling, through lips of bearded bloom, 
 An old, old story over again,
 
 G. W. THORNBURY. 
 
 293 
 
 As down the royal bannered room, 
 To the golden gittern's strain, 
 
 Two and two, they dreamily walk, 
 Wliile an unseen spirit walks beside. 
 
 And all unheard in the lovers' talk. 
 He clainieth one for a bride. 
 
 0, Maud and Madge, dream on together. 
 With never a pang of jealous fear! 
 
 Foi', ere the bitter St. Agnes weather 
 Siiall whiten another year, 
 
 ■Robed for the bridal, and robed for the 
 tomb, 
 Biaided brown hair and golden tress. 
 There '11 be only one of you left for the 
 bloom 
 Of the bearded lips to press, — 
 
 Only one for the bridal ])earls. 
 
 The robe of satin and Brussels lace, — 
 Only one to blush through her curls 
 
 At the sight of a lover's face. 
 
 O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, 
 For you the revel has just begun ; 
 
 But for her who sleeps in your arms to- 
 night 
 The revel of Life is done ! 
 
 But robed and crowned with your saintly 
 bliss. 
 
 Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, 
 beautiful Maud, you '11 never miss 
 
 The kisses another hath won ! 
 
 G. W. THOPiNBUPtY. 
 
 THE JESTER'S SERMON. 
 
 The Jester shook his liead and bells, and 
 
 leaped upon a cliair. 
 The pages laughed, the women screamed, 
 
 and tossed their scented hair; 
 The falcon whistled, staghounds bayed, 
 
 the lapdog barked without. 
 The scullion dropjied the pitcher brown, 
 
 the cook railed at the lout ! 
 The steward, counting out his gold, let 
 
 pouch and money fall. 
 And why? because the Jester rose to say 
 
 grace in the hall ! 
 
 The page played with the heron's plume, 
 
 the steward with his chain. 
 The butler drumnu'd upon the board, and 
 
 laughed with might and main ; 
 The grooms beat on their metal cans, and 
 
 roared till they were red. 
 But still the Jester shut his eyes aTid 
 
 rolled his witty head ; 
 And when they grew a little still, read 
 
 half a yard of text. 
 And, waving hand, struck on the desk, 
 
 then frowned like one perplexed. 
 
 "Dear sinners all," the fool began, 
 
 "man's life is but a jest, 
 A dream, a shatlow, bubble, air, a vapor 
 
 at the best. 
 In a thousand pounds of law I find not 
 
 a single ounce of love ; 
 A bliud man killed the parson's cow in 
 
 shooting at the dove ; 
 The fool that eats till he is sick nnist 
 
 fast till he is well ; 
 The wooer who can Hatter most will bear 
 
 away the belle. 
 
 "Let no man halloo he is safe till he is 
 
 through the wood; 
 He who will not when he may, onust 
 
 tarrj' when he should ; 
 He who laiighs at crooked men should 
 
 need walk very straight; 
 0, he who once has won a name may lie 
 
 abed till eight ! 
 Make hast<! to jmrchase house and land, 
 
 be very slow to wed ; 
 True coral needs no jiainter's brush, nor 
 
 need be daubed with red. 
 
 "The friar, preaching, cursed the thief 
 
 (the pudding in his sleeve). 
 To fish for spiats with golden hooks is 
 
 foolish, by your leave, — 
 To travel well, — an iiss's ears, ape's face, 
 
 hog's mouth, and ostrich legs. 
 He does not care a pin for thieves who 
 
 limps about and begs. 
 Be always first man at a feast and last 
 
 man at a fiay ; 
 The short way round, in spite of all, is 
 
 still the longest way. 
 When the hungry curate licks the knife, 
 
 there 's not muc'h for the clerk ; 
 "When the pilot, turning ])ale ami sick, 
 
 looks up, — thestornigiowsdark."
 
 294 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Then loud they laughed, the fat cook's 
 
 tears ran down into tlie pan : 
 The steward shook, that he was forced 
 
 to drop the brimming can ; 
 And then again the women screamed, 
 
 and every stagliound bayed, — 
 And why? because tlie motley fool so 
 
 wise a sermon made. 
 
 ANNIE FIELDS. 
 
 (U. S. A.] 
 
 CLIMBING. 
 
 He said, "O brother, where 's the use of 
 cliinbing ? 
 
 Come rather to the shade beside me 
 here. 
 
 And break the bread, and pour the plen- 
 teous wine ! 
 
 "Why thus forever climbing one sad 
 
 way? 
 Rather burn cedar on the marble hearth. 
 And sleep, and wake, and hear the singers 
 
 pass. 
 
 "Come! Stay thy feet, and pant and 
 climb no more ! 
 
 Stay Jollity, stay Wit, and Grace, and 
 Ease, 
 
 Nor spend your strength of days in scal- 
 ing heights!" 
 
 But Wit had clomb full well, and passed 
 
 beyond. 
 While he who stayed, cried, "Brother, 
 
 Where's the use?" 
 And Jollity went mingling with the 
 
 sad, 
 
 Still passing onward, up the difficult 
 
 road, 
 While Grace accompanied, —and all, but 
 
 Ease ; 
 And Ease and he two dull companions 
 
 made. 
 
 Forever after said he not, "What use !" 
 Grew weary of sweet cedar and soft couch ; 
 And wistful gazed to watch those climb- 
 ing feet. 
 
 HELEN HUNT. 
 
 [U. S A.] 
 
 CORONATION. 
 
 At the king's gate the subtle noon 
 Wove hlmy yellow nets of sun; 
 
 Into the drowsy snare too soon 
 The guards fell one by one. 
 
 Through the king's gate, unquestioned 
 tln-n, 
 A beggar vent, and laughed, "This 
 brings 
 Me chance, at last, to see if men 
 Fare better, being kings." 
 
 The king siit bowed beneath his crown. 
 Propping his face with listless hand ; 
 
 Watching the hour-glass sifting down 
 Too slow its shining sand. 
 
 "Poor man, what wouldst thou have of 
 me?" 
 
 The beggar turned, and, pitying. 
 Replied, like one in a dream, "Of thee, 
 
 Nothing. 1 want the king." 
 
 Uprose the king, and from his head 
 Shook off the crown and threw it by. 
 
 "Oman, thou must have known," he said, 
 "A greater king than 1 !" 
 
 Through all the gates, unquestioned then. 
 Went king and beggar liand in hand. 
 
 Whispered the king, "Shall I know when 
 Before his throne I stand? ' 
 
 The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste 
 Were wiping from the king's hot brow 
 
 The crimson lines the crown had traced. 
 "This is his presence now." 
 
 At the king's gate, the crafty noon 
 Unwove its 3'ellow nets of sun ; 
 
 Out of tlieir sleep in terror soon 
 The guanls waked one by one. 
 
 "Ho here ! Ho there ! Has no man seen 
 Tlie king?" The cry ran to and fro; 
 
 Beg':;ar and king, they laughed, 1 ween. 
 The laugh that free men know. 
 
 On the king's gate the moss grew gray: 
 The king came not. They called him 
 (lead ; 
 
 And made his eldest son om; day 
 Slave in his father's stead.
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. — CELIA THAXTER, 
 
 295 
 
 THE WAY TO SING. 
 
 The birds must know. Who wisely sings 
 
 Will sing :is they; 
 The connnon air has generous wings, 
 
 Songs make their way. 
 No messenger to run before, 
 
 Devising plan ; 
 No mention of the place or hour 
 
 To any man ; 
 No waiting till some sound betrays 
 
 A listening ear ; 
 No diffen^nt voice, no new delays. 
 
 If stejjs draw near. 
 
 "What bird is that? Its song is good." 
 
 And eager eyes 
 Go peering through the dusky wood. 
 
 In glad surprise ; 
 Then late at night, when by his fiie 
 
 The traveller sits, 
 Watchingthe tlame grow brighter, higher. 
 
 The sweet sons? Hits 
 By snatches through his weary brain 
 
 To help him rest ; 
 When next he goes that road again, 
 
 An empty nest 
 On leaHess bough will make him sigh, 
 
 "Ah me ! last spiing 
 Just here I heard, in passing by. 
 
 That rare bird sing!" 
 
 But while he sighs, remembering 
 
 How sweet the song, 
 The little bird, on tireless wing, 
 
 Is borne along 
 In other air, and other men 
 
 With weary feet, 
 On other roads, the simple strain 
 
 Are finding sweet. 
 The birds nmst know. Who wisely sings 
 
 Will sing as they ; 
 The conmion air has generous wings, 
 
 Songs make their way. 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 THE SEA-LIMITS. 
 
 Consider the sea's listless chime ; 
 Time's self it is made audible, — 
 The murmur of the eaith'sown shell. 
 
 Secret continuance sublime 
 
 Is the era's end. Our sight may pass 
 No furlong farther. Since time w.is, 
 This sound hath told the lapse of time. 
 
 No quiet which is death's, — it hath 
 The niournfulness of ancient life. 
 Enduring always at dull strife. 
 
 As the world's heart of rest anil wrath, 
 Its i)ainful pulse is on the; sands. 
 Lost utterly, the whole sky stands 
 
 Gray and ziot known along its path. 
 
 Listen alone beside the sea. 
 
 Listen alone among the woods ; 
 
 Those voices of twin solitudes 
 Shall have one sound alike to thee. 
 
 Hark where the murmurs of thronged 
 men 
 
 Surgeand sink back and surge again, — 
 Still the one voice of wave and tiee. 
 
 Gather a shell from the strewn beach. 
 And listen at its lijis; they sigh 
 The same desire and mystery. 
 
 The echo of the wliole sea's speech. 
 And all mankind is thus at heart 
 Not anything but what thou art ; 
 
 And earth, sea, man, are all in each. 
 
 CELIA THAXTER. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 A SUMMER DAY. 
 
 At daybreak in the fresh light, joyfully 
 The fishermen drew in their laden net ; 
 
 The shon; shone rosy purple, and the sea 
 Was streaked with violet. 
 
 And pink with sunrise, many a shadowy 
 sail 
 Lay southward, lighting up the sleep- 
 ing bay ; 
 And in the west the white moon, still and 
 pale. 
 Faded before the day. 
 
 Silence was everywhere. The rising tide 
 Slowly filled every cove and inlet small ; 
 
 A musiital low whisper, multiplied. 
 You heard, and that was all.
 
 296 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CEXTUEIES. 
 
 No clouds at dawn, but as the sun climbed 
 Iiigliei', 
 White columns, thunderous, splendid, 
 up the sky 
 Floated and stood, heaped in his steady 
 fire, 
 A stately company. 
 
 Stealing along the coast from cape to cape 
 The weird mirage crept tremulously on, 
 
 In many a magic change and wondrous 
 shape, 
 Throbbing beneath the sun. 
 
 At noon the wind rose, swept the glassy 
 sea 
 To sudden ripple, thrust against the 
 clouds 
 A strenuous shoulder, gathering steadily 
 Drove them before in crowds; 
 
 Till all the west was dark, and inky black 
 The level-rulfled water underneath, 
 
 Andup the wind-cloud tossed, — aghostly 
 rack , — 
 In many a ragged wreath. 
 
 Then sudden roared the thunder, a great 
 peal 
 Magnificent, that broke and rolled 
 away ; 
 And down tlie wind plunged, like a furi- 
 ous keel. 
 Cleaving the sea to spray ; 
 
 And brought the rain sweeping o'er land 
 and sea. 
 And then was tumult ! Lightning 
 sharp and keen. 
 Thunder, wind, rnin, — a mighty jubilee 
 Tlie licaven and earth between ! 
 
 Loud the roused ocean sang, a chorus 
 grand ; 
 
 A solemn music rolled in undertone 
 Of waves that broke about on cither hand 
 
 The little island lone; 
 
 Wliere, joyful in his tempest as his calm, 
 Held in the hollow of that hand of his, 
 
 I joined with heart and soul in God's 
 gi'eat ])salm. 
 Thrilled with a nameless bliss. 
 
 Soon lulled the wind, the summer storm 
 soon died ; 
 The shattered clouds went eastward, 
 drilting slow ; 
 
 From the low sun the rain-fringe swept 
 aside, 
 Bright in his rosy glow, 
 
 And wide a splendor streamed through 
 all the sky ; 
 O'er sea and land one soft, delicious 
 blush. 
 That touched the gray rocks lightly, 
 tenderly ; 
 A transitory flush. 
 
 Warm, odorous gusts blew off the distant 
 la ml. 
 With spice of pine-woods, breath of hay 
 new-mown, 
 O'er miles of waves and sea-scents cool 
 and bland, 
 Full in our faces blown. 
 
 Slow faded the sweet light, and peacefully 
 The (]uiet stars came out, one after one : 
 
 The holy twilight fell upon the sea, 
 The summer day was done. 
 
 Such unalloyed delight its hours had 
 given. 
 Musing, this thought rose in my grate- 
 ful mind, 
 That God, who watches all things, up in 
 heaven. 
 With patient eyes and kind; 
 
 Saw and was pleased, perhaps, one child 
 of his 
 Dared to be happy like the little birds, 
 Because He gave his children days like 
 this, 
 Rejoicing beyond words; 
 
 Dared, lifting up to Him untroubled eyes 
 hi gratitude that worship is, andpiayei-, 
 
 Sing and be glad with ever new surprise, 
 He made his world so fair ! 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 The sy)aiTow sits and sings, and sings; 
 Softly the sunset's lingering light 
 Lies rosy over rock and turf, 
 And reddens where the restless surf 
 Tosses on high its plumes of white. 
 
 Gejitly and clear the s])arrow sings, 
 While twilight steals across the sea,
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. — HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL. 
 
 297 
 
 And still and bright the evening star 
 Twinkles above the golden bar 
 Tliat in the west lies quietly. 
 
 O, steadfastly the sparrow sings, 
 
 And sweet the sound ; and sweet the 
 touch 
 Of wooing winds ; and sweet the sight 
 Of happy Nature's deep delight 
 In her fair spring, desired so much ! 
 
 But while so clear the .sparrow sings 
 A cry of death is in my ear; 
 
 The Clashing of the riven wreck, 
 Breakers that sweep the shuddering 
 deck, 
 And sounds of agony and fear. 
 
 How is it that the birds can sing? 
 Life is so full of bitter jjain ; 
 
 Hearts are so wrung with hopeless 
 
 grief; 
 Woe is so long and joy so brief; 
 Nor shall the lost return again. 
 
 Though rapturously the sparrow sings, 
 No bliss of Nature can restore 
 
 The friends whose hands I clasped 
 
 so warm, 
 Sweet souls that through the night 
 and storm 
 Fled from the earth forevermore. 
 
 Yet still the sparrow sits and sings, 
 Till longing, mourning, sorrowing love. 
 Groping to find what hope may be 
 Within death's awful mystery. 
 Reaches its empty arms above ; 
 
 And listening, while the spaj-row sings. 
 And soft the evening shadows fall. 
 Sees, through the crowding tears 
 
 that blind, 
 A little light, and seems to find 
 And clasp God's hand, who wrought it 
 all. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 Slayer of winter, art thou here again ? 
 welcome, thou that bring'st the sum- 
 mer nigh ! 
 
 The bitter wind makes not thy victory 
 
 vain. 
 Nor will we mock thee for thy faiut blue 
 
 sky. 
 Welcome, O March ! whose kindly days 
 
 and dry 
 Make April ready for the throstle's song, 
 Thou first redresser of the winter's wrong ! 
 
 Yea, welcome, March ! and though I die 
 
 ere June, 
 Yet for the hope of life I give thee praise, 
 Striving to swell the burden of the tune 
 That even now I hear thy brown birds 
 
 raise, 
 Unmindful of the past or coming days ; 
 Wiu) sing, "0 joy ! a new j'ear is begun ! 
 What happiness to look upon the sun !" 
 
 O, what begetteth all this storm of bliss. 
 But Deathhimself, who, crying solemnly. 
 Even from the heart of sweet Forgetful- 
 
 ress. 
 Bids us, "Rejoice ! lestpleasurelessyedie. 
 Within a little time must ye go by. 
 Stretch forth your open hands, and, Avhile 
 
 ye live. 
 Take all the gifts that Death and Life 
 
 may give"? 
 
 HARRIET McEWEN KIMBALL. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE CRICKETS. 
 
 Pipe, little minstrels of the waning year, 
 
 In gentle concert pipe ! 
 Pipe the warm noons ; the mellow har- 
 vest near; 
 
 The apples dropping ripe ; 
 
 The tempered sunshine, and the softened 
 shade ; 
 The trill of lonely bird ; 
 The sweet, sad hush on Nature's glad- 
 ness laid ; 
 The sounds through silence heard ! 
 
 Pipe tenderly the passing of the year ; 
 
 The sunnner's brief reprieve ; 
 The dry husk rustling round the yellow 
 ear; 
 
 The chill of morn and eve !
 
 298 
 
 SONGS OF THKEE CENTURIES. 
 
 Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year ; 
 
 Pipe low the painless pain ; 
 Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer; 
 
 The year is in the wane. 
 
 ALL'S WELL. 
 
 The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep, 
 My weary spirit seeks repose in thine ; 
 Father! forgive my trespasses, and keep 
 This little life of mine. 
 
 With loving-kindness curtain thou my 
 bed, 
 And cool in rest my burning pilgrim 
 feet; 
 Thy pardon be the pillow for my head, — 
 So shall my sleep be sweet. 
 
 At peace with all the world, dear Lord, 
 and thee. 
 No fears my soul's unwavering faith 
 can shake ; 
 All 's well, whichever side the grave for 
 me 
 The morning light may break ! 
 
 HARRIET W. PRESTON. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE SURVIVORS. 
 
 In this sad hour, so still, so late, 
 
 When flowers are dead, and birds are 
 flown. 
 
 Close-sheltered from the blasts of Fate, 
 Our little love burns brightly on, 
 
 Amiil the wrecks of dear desire 
 
 Tliat ride the waves of life no more ; 
 
 As stranded voyagers light their fire 
 Upon a lonely island shore. 
 
 And though we deem that soft and fair. 
 Beyond the tempest and the sea. 
 
 Our h»'art's true homes are smiling, where 
 In life we never more shall be, — 
 
 Yet we are saved, and we may rest ; 
 
 And, ht-aring each the other's voice, 
 We cannot hold ourselves unblest. 
 
 Although we may not quite rejoice. 
 
 We '11 warm our hearts, and softly sing 
 Thanks for the shore whereon we 're 
 driven ; 
 Storm-tossed no more, we '11 fold the 
 wing, 
 And dream forgotten dreams of heaven. 
 
 HIRAM RICH. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 m THE SEA. 
 
 The salt wind blows upon my cheek, 
 
 As it blew a year ago, 
 When twenty boats were crushed among 
 
 The rocks of Norman's Woe. 
 'T was dark then ; 't is light now, 
 
 And the sails are leaning low. 
 
 In dreams, I pull the sea-weed o'er. 
 
 And find a face not his, 
 x\nd hope another tide will be 
 
 More pitying than this : 
 The wind turns, the tide turns, — 
 
 They take what hope there is. 
 
 My life goes on as life must go, 
 With all its sweetness spilled : 
 
 My God, why should one heart of two 
 Beat on, when one is stilled ? 
 
 Through heart-wreck, or home-wreck, 
 Thy happy sparrows build. 
 
 Though boats go down, men build again 
 
 Whatever wind may blow ; 
 If bliglit be in the wheat one year, 
 
 They trust again, and sow. 
 Th(> grief comes, the change conies, 
 
 The tides run high or low. 
 
 Some have their dead, where, sweet and 
 calm. 
 
 The summers bloom and go ; 
 The sea withholds my dead, — I walk 
 
 The bar when tides are low, 
 And wonder how the grave-grass 
 
 Can have the heart to grow !
 
 FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 
 
 299 
 
 Flow on, uTiconsenting sea, 
 Ami keep my dead below; 
 
 The night-watch set for me is long, 
 But, thiough it all, I know, 
 
 Or lite comes or death comes, 
 God leads the eternal How. 
 
 FRANCIS BRET HARTE. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 CONCHA. 
 
 PEESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO. 
 
 1800. 
 
 I. 
 
 Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills 
 stands the t'ortres.s, old and (luaiiit. 
 
 By the San Francisco friars lifted to their 
 patron saint, — 
 
 Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apos- 
 tate to the creed, 
 
 On whose youthful walls the Padre saw 
 the angel's golden reed ; 
 
 All its trophies long since scattered, all 
 its blazon brushed away. 
 
 And the flag that flies above it but a 
 triumph of to-day. 
 
 Never scar of siege or battle challenges 
 
 the wandering eye, — 
 Never breach of warlike onset holds the 
 
 curious passer-by ; 
 
 Only one sweet human fancy interweaves 
 
 its threads of gold 
 With the plain and homespun present, 
 
 and a love that ne'er grows old ; 
 
 Only one thing holds its crumbling walls 
 above the meaner dust, — 
 
 Listen to the simjtle story of a woman's 
 love and trust. 
 
 II. 
 
 Count von Resanofl', the Eussian, envoy 
 
 of the mighty Czar, 
 Stood beside the deep embrasures where 
 
 the brazen cannon are. 
 
 He with grave provincial magnates long 
 
 had held serene debate 
 On the Treaty of Alliance and the high 
 
 att'airs of state ; 
 
 He, from grave provincial magnates, oft 
 had turned to talk apait 
 
 With the Comandante's daughter, on the 
 questions of the heart, 
 
 Until points of gravest import yielded 
 
 slowly, one by one, 
 x\nd by Love was consummated what 
 
 Diplomacy begun ; 
 
 Till beside the deep embrasures, where 
 
 the brazen cannon are. 
 He received the twofold contract for 
 
 approval of the Czar ; 
 
 Till beside the brazen cannon the be- 
 trothed bade adieu, 
 
 And, from sally-poit and gateway, north 
 the Rus.sian eagles tiew. 
 
 III. 
 
 Long beside the deep embrasures, where 
 
 the brazen cannon are, 
 Did they wait the jii'omised bndegi'oom 
 
 and the answer of the Czar ; 
 
 Day by day on wall and bastion beat the 
 hollow empty breeze, — 
 
 Day by day the sunlight glittered on the 
 vacant, smiling seas ; 
 
 Week by week the near hills whitened 
 in their dusty leather cloaks, — 
 
 Week by week the far hills darkened 
 from the fringing plain of oaks ; 
 
 Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on 
 the fierce southwester tost. 
 
 Dashed the whole long coast with color, 
 and then vanished and were lost. 
 
 So each year the seasons shifted ; wet and 
 warm and diear and dry ; 
 
 Haifa )'ear of clouds and flowers, — half 
 a year of dust and sky. 
 
 Still it brought no ship nor message, — 
 brought no tidings ill nor meet 
 
 For the statesmanlike Commander, for 
 the daughter fair and sweet.
 
 r.oo 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Yet she heard the varj'ing message, 
 voiceh'ss to all ears beside : 
 
 ".He will eoirie," the flowers whispered; 
 "Come no more," the dry hills 
 
 sighed. 
 
 Still she found liim with the waters lifted 
 by th(! morning breeze, — 
 
 Still she lost hiiTi with the folding of the 
 great white-tented seas ; 
 
 Until hollows chased the dimydes from 
 her cheeks of olive brown, 
 
 And at times aswit't, shy moisture dragged 
 the long sweet lashes down ; 
 
 Or the small mouth curved and quivered 
 as for some denied caress. 
 
 And the fair young brow was knitted in 
 an infantine distress. 
 
 Then the grim Commander, pacing where 
 
 the biazen cannon are, 
 Comforted the maid with proverbs, — 
 
 wisdom gathered i'roni afar ; 
 
 Bits of ancient observation by his fathers 
 
 garnered, each 
 jAs a pebble worn and i)olished in the 
 
 current of his speech : 
 
 " 'Those who wait the coming rider travel 
 
 twice as far as he ' ; 
 .'Tired wench and coming butter never 
 
 did in time agree.' 
 
 '"He that getteth himself lioney, though 
 a clown, he shall have Hies' ; 
 
 'In the end God grinds the miller' ; 'In 
 the dark the mole has eyes.' 
 
 " ' He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial 
 
 hath no fear,' — 
 And be sure the Count has reasons that 
 
 will make his conduct <dear." 
 
 So wdth proverbs and caresses, half in 
 faith and half in doubt, 
 
 Everv day some hope was kindled, flick- 
 ered, faded, and went out. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came 
 the stately cavalcade. 
 
 Bringing revel to vacjuero, joy and com- 
 fort to eaidi nuud ; 
 
 Bringing days of formal visit, social feast 
 
 and rustic sport ; 
 Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love- 
 
 makinar in the court. 
 
 Vainly then at Concha's lattice, — vain'.y 
 
 as the idle wind 
 Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that 
 
 bespoke the youth too kind; 
 
 Yainly, leaning from their saddles, ca- 
 
 balleros, bolel and fleet. 
 Plucked for her the buried chicken from 
 
 beneath their mustang's feet ; 
 
 So in vain the barren hillsides with their 
 
 gay scrapes blazed, 
 Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud 
 
 that their flying hoofs had raised. 
 
 Then the drum called from the rampart, 
 and once moi'e with jiatient mii'u 
 
 The Commander and his daughter each 
 took up the dull routine, — - 
 
 Each took up the petty duties of a life 
 
 apart and lone. 
 Till the slow years wrought a music in 
 
 its drearv monotone. 
 
 V. 
 
 Tiien the voice sententious faltered, and ^'orty years on wall and bastion swept 
 
 the wisdom it would teach 
 Lost itself in fondest trifles of his .soft 
 
 Castilian speech ; 
 
 -And on "Concha," "Conrhitita," and 
 "Conchita," he would dwell 
 
 AVith the fond reiteration which the 
 Spiiniard knows so well. 
 
 the hollow idle breeze, 
 Since the Russian eagle fluttered fioin 
 the California seas. 
 
 Forty years on wall and bastion wrought 
 its slow liut sure decay ; 
 
 And Sl^ George's cross was lifted in the 
 port of Monterey.
 
 FRANCIS BRET IIARTE. 
 
 301 
 
 And the citadol vas lighted, and the liall 
 
 was gayly drest, 
 All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous 
 
 traveller and guest. 
 
 Far and near the people gathered to the 
 
 costly banquet set, 
 And exchanged congratulation with the 
 
 English baronet; 
 
 Till the formal speeches ended, and 
 amidst the laugh and wine 
 
 Some one spoke of Concha's lover, — 
 heedless of the warning sign. 
 
 Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : 
 "Speak no ill of him, I pray. 
 
 He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty 
 years ago this day, 
 
 "Died while speeding home to Russia, 
 falling from a fractious horse. 
 
 Left a sweetheart too, they tell me. 
 Married, I suppose, of course ! 
 
 " Lives she yet ? "' A death-like silence 
 fell on br.nqiu't, guests, and hall, 
 
 And a trembling iigure rising lixed the 
 awe-struck gaze of all. 
 
 Two black eyesin darkened orbitsgleamed 
 beneath the n\in's white hood ; 
 
 Black serge hid the wasted figure, l)owed 
 and stricken where it stood. 
 
 "Lives she yet?" Sir George repeated. 
 
 All were hushed as Concha drew 
 Closer yet her nun's attire. "Senor, 
 
 pardon, she died too !" 
 
 DICKEKS IN CAMP. 
 
 Aroye the pines the moon was slowly 
 drifting. 
 
 The river sang below ; 
 The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
 
 Their minarets of snow. 
 
 The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, 
 ]iainted 
 The ruddy tints of health 
 On haggard face, and form that drooped 
 and fainted 
 In the fierce race for wealth ; 
 
 Till one arose, and from his pack's scant 
 treasure 
 A hoarded volume drew. 
 And cards were dropped from hands of 
 listless leisure 
 To hear the tale anew ; 
 
 And then, while round them shadows 
 gathered faster. 
 And as the firelight fell. 
 He read aloud the book wherein the 
 Master 
 Had writ of "Little Nell." 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy, — for the 
 reader 
 Was youngest of them all, — 
 But, as he read, from clustering pine and 
 cedar 
 A silence seemed to fall ; 
 
 The fir-trees, gathering closer in the 
 shadows. 
 Listened in ever}' spray. 
 While the whole caniji, with " Nell " on 
 English meadows, 
 Wandered and lost their way. 
 
 And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken 
 As by some spMl divine — 
 
 Their cares dropyied from them like the 
 needles shaken 
 From out the gusty pine. 
 
 Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : 
 And he who wrought that spell? 
 
 Ah, toweling jiine, and stately Kentish 
 si)ire, 
 Ye have one tale to tell ! 
 
 Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant 
 story 
 Blend with the breath that thiilis 
 With hop-vines' incense all the pensive 
 glorv 
 That fills the Kentish hills. 
 
 And on tliat grave where English oak 
 and holly 
 And lauH'l wreaths entwine. 
 Deem it not all a too presuni])tuou3 
 folly,— 
 This spray of Western pine !
 
 302 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 ANNIE D. GREEN (MAIUAN 
 DOUGLAS). 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE PURITAN LOVERS. 
 
 DiiAWN out, like lingering bees, to share 
 The last, sweet suniiiier weather, 
 
 Beneath the reddening maples walked 
 Two Puritans together, — 
 
 A vouth and maiden, heeding not 
 
 the" woods which round them bright- 
 ened. 
 
 Just conscious of each other's thoughts. 
 Half happy and half frightened. 
 
 Grave were their brows, and few their 
 woids. 
 
 And coarse their garb and simple ; 
 The maiden's very cheek seemed shy 
 
 To own its woi-ldly dimple. 
 
 For stem the time; they dwelt with 
 Care ; 
 
 And Fear was oft a comer ; 
 A sober April ushered in 
 
 The Pilgrim's toilful summer. 
 
 And stern their creed ; they tarried here 
 Mere desert-land sojourners : 
 
 They must not dream of mirth or rest, 
 God's humble lesson-learners. 
 
 The temple's sacred perfume round 
 Their week-day robes was clinging ; 
 
 Their mirth was but the golden bells 
 On iiriestly garments ringing. 
 
 But as to-day they softly talked, 
 That serious youth andniaiden. 
 
 Their |)lainest words strange lieauty wore, 
 Like weeds with dewdrops laden. 
 
 The saddest theme had something sweet. 
 The gravest, something tender. 
 
 While with slow steps they wandered on. 
 Mill summer's fading splendor. 
 
 He said, "Next week the church will 
 hold 
 
 A day of ]irayer and fasting" ; 
 And then he stopped, and bent to pick 
 
 A white life-everlasting, — 
 
 A silvery bloom, with fadeless leaves ; 
 
 He gave it to her, sighing; 
 A mute confession was his glance, 
 
 Her blush a mute replying. 
 
 "Mehetabel !" (at last he spoke), 
 "My fairest one and dearest ! 
 
 One thought is ever to my heart 
 The sweetest and the nearest. 
 
 "You read my soul ; you know my wish ; 
 
 0, grant me its fulhlling ! " 
 She answered low, "If Heaven smiles, 
 
 And if my father 's willing !" 
 
 No idle passion swayed her heart, 
 t This quaint New England beauty! 
 Faith was the guardian of her life, — 
 Obedience was a duty. 
 
 Too truthful for reserve, she stood, 
 H(!r brown eyes earthward casting, 
 
 And held with trembling hand the while 
 Her white life-everlasting. 
 
 Her sober answer pleased the youth, — 
 Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful ; 
 
 He left her at her father's door. 
 Too happy to be fearful. 
 
 She looked on high,, with earnest plea. 
 And Heaven seemed bright above her ; 
 
 And when she shyly spoke his name. 
 Her father praised her lover. 
 
 And when, that night, she sought her 
 couch, 
 
 "With head-board high and olden. 
 Her prayer was praise, her ]>illow down, 
 
 And all her dreams were golden. 
 
 And still upon her throbbing heart. 
 In bloom and breath undying, 
 
 A few life-everlasting flowers, 
 Her lover's gift, were lying. 
 
 Venus" myrtles, fresh and green ! 
 
 O ("upid's blushing roses ! 
 Not on your classic ilowers alone 
 
 The sacred light reposes ; 
 
 Though gentler care may shield your buds 
 Fnim north-winds rude antl blasting, 
 
 As dear to Love, those few, pale Ilowers 
 Of white life-everlasting.
 
 WILLIAM D. IIOWELLS. — S. M. B: PIATT. 
 
 303 
 
 WILLIAM D. HOWELLS. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 BEFORE THE GATE. 
 
 They gave the whole long day to idle 
 laughter, 
 
 To fitful song and jest, 
 To moods of soberness as idle, after, 
 
 And silences, as idle too as the rest. 
 
 But when at last upon their way return- 
 ing. 
 Taciturn, late, and loath, 
 Through the broad meadow in the sun- 
 set burning. 
 They reached the gate, one fine spell 
 hindered them both. 
 
 Her heart was troubled with a subtile 
 anguish 
 Such as but women know 
 That wait, and lest love speak or .speak 
 not languish, 
 And what they would, would rather 
 they would not so ; . 
 
 Till he said, — man-like nothing compre- 
 hending 
 Of all the wondrous guile 
 That women won win themselves with, 
 and bending 
 Eyes of relentless asking on her the 
 while, — 
 
 "Ah, if beyond this gate the path united 
 
 Our steps as far as death. 
 And I might open it! — " His voice, 
 
 affrighted 
 At its own daring, faltered under his 
 
 breath. 
 
 Then she — whom both his faith and fear 
 enchanted 
 Far beyond words to tell. 
 Feeling her woman's finest wit had 
 wanted 
 The art he had that knew to blunder 
 so well — 
 
 Shyly drew near, a little step, and mock- 
 ing, 
 "Shall we not be too late 
 For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn 
 out with walking : 
 Yes, tlianks, your arm. And will you 
 — open the gate?" 
 
 S. M. B. riATT. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 MY OLD KENTUCKY NURSE 
 
 I KNEW a Princess: she was old. 
 
 Crisp-haired, Hat-featured, with a look 
 
 Such as no dainty pen of gold 
 Would write of in a Fairy Book. 
 
 So bent she almost crouched, her face 
 Was like the Sjihinx's face, to me. 
 
 Touched with vast patience, desert grace, 
 And lonesome, brooding mystery. 
 
 What wonder that a faith so strong 
 As hers, so sorrr'wful, so still. 
 
 Should watch in bitter sands so long, 
 Obedient to a burdening will ! 
 
 This Princess was a Slave, — like one 
 
 I read of in a painted tale ; 
 Yet free enough to see the sun, 
 
 And all the flowers, without a vail. 
 
 Not of the Lamp, not of the Ring, 
 The helpless, powerful Slave was she, 
 
 But of a subtler, fiercer Thing: 
 She was the Slave of Slavery. 
 
 Court-lace nor jewels had she seen : 
 She wore a ])recious smile, so rare 
 
 That at her side the whitest queen 
 Were dark, ^her darkness was so fair. 
 
 Nothing of loveliest loveliness 
 
 This strange, sad Piincess seemed to 
 lack ; 
 Majestic with her calm distress 
 
 She was, and beautiful though black : 
 
 Black, but enchanted black, and shut 
 In some vague Giant's tower of air. 
 
 Built higher than her hope was. But 
 The True Knight came and found her 
 there. 
 
 The Knight of the Pale Horse, he laid 
 His shadowv lance against the spell 
 
 That hid her Self: as if afraid. 
 
 The cruel blackness shrank and fell. 
 
 Then, lifting slow her plensant sleep, 
 Hetookherwitli him through the night. 
 
 And swum a Kiver cold and deep. 
 And vanished up an awful Height.
 
 304 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTL^RIES. 
 
 And, in her Fiithei's House beyond, | When the world was in rhythm and life 
 
 They gave her lieauty, robe, and crown, i was its rhyme ; 
 
 — On me, 1 think, fai', faint, and fond, Whei'e the stream of the years flowed so 
 Her eyes to-day look, yearning, down. noiseless and narrow. 
 
 That across it there floated the song of 
 
 . the sparrow ; 
 For a sprig of green caraway carries me 
 
 there. 
 To the old village church and the old 
 
 village choir, 
 "When clear of the floor my feet slowly 
 
 swung 
 And timed the sweet pulse of the praise 
 as they sung 
 I HAVE fancied sometimes, the old Bethel- Till the glory aslant from the afternoon 
 
 bent beam, ' ^^^ 
 
 That trembled to earth in the Patriarch's Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple 
 
 dream, i begun ! 
 
 Was a ladder of song in that wilderness You may smile at the nasals of old Dea- 
 rest ^ '^'^" Brown, 
 From the pillow of stone to the Blue of ^^^^o followed by scent till he ran the 
 
 the Blest, I tune down, — 
 
 And the angels descending to dwell with ^^'^ *1'-"' "^i^ter Green, with more good- 
 
 B. F. TAYLOR. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE OLD-FASHIONED CHOIR. 
 
 us he 
 
 ness than grace. 
 
 "Old Hundred" and "Corinth" and Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood 
 
 "China" and "Mear." I in her place, 
 
 I And where. "Coronation" exultantly 
 All the hearts are not dead, nor under . flows, 
 
 the sod, I Tried to reach the liigh notes on the tips 
 
 That those breaths can blow open to of her toes ! 
 
 Heaven and God ! , To the land of the leal they have gone 
 
 Ah, "Silver Street" leads by a bright with their song, 
 
 golden road. Where the choir and the chorus together 
 
 — 0, not to the hymns that in harmony belong. 
 
 flowed, — 0, be lifted, ye Gates ! Let me hear them 
 
 But those sweet human psalms in the again, — 
 
 old-fashioned choir, Blessed song, blessed Sabbath, forever 
 
 To the girl that sang alt^j, — the girl tliat Amen ! 
 
 sang air ! 
 "Let us sing in His praise," the good 
 
 minister said, 
 All the psalm-books at once fluttered oiien 
 
 at "York," 
 Sunned their long dotted wings in the 
 
 Wdnls that he read. 
 While the leader leaped into the tune just 
 
 ahead, 
 And politely picked up the key-note vith ' -A- light is out in Italy, 
 
 LAURA C. REDDEN. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 MAZZINI. 
 
 a fork, 
 
 A golden tongue of purest flame. 
 
 And the vicious old viol went growling , We watched it burning, long and lone, 
 along, I And every watcher know its name, 
 
 At the iieels of the girl.s, in the rear of -^"'^ knew from whence its fervor came: 
 the song. I That one rare light of Italy, 
 
 , Which ))ut self-seeking souls to shame ! 
 
 I need not a wing, — bid no genii come, i 
 
 With a wonderful web from Arabi>" loom, Tin's Hglil which burnt for Italy 
 
 To bear mc ag.iin up tiie river of Time, 1 Through all the blackness of her night,
 
 JOHN HAY. 
 
 305 
 
 She doutted, once upon a timo, 
 Because it took away her sight, 
 
 She looked and said, "There is no light !" 
 It was thine eyes, poor Italy I 
 
 That knew not dark ajiart liom bright. 
 
 This flame which burnt for Italy, 
 It wouhl not let her hatei'S sleep. 
 
 They blew at it with angiy breath, 
 And only fed its upward lea]). 
 
 And only made it hot and deep. 
 Its burning showed us Italy, 
 
 And all the hopes she had to keep. 
 
 This light is out in Italy, 
 
 Her eyes shall seek for it in vain ! 
 For her sweet sake it spent itself. 
 
 Too early flickering to its wane, — 
 Too long blown over by her pain. 
 
 Bow down and -weep, Italy, 
 Thou canst not kindle it again ! 
 
 UNAWARES. 
 
 The wind was whispering to the vines 
 The secret of the summer night ; 
 The tinted oriel window gh.'anied 
 But faintly in the misty light ; 
 Beneath it we together sat 
 In the sweet stillness of content. 
 
 Till from a slow-consenting cloud 
 Came forth Diana, bright and bold, 
 And drowned u.s, ere we were aware, 
 In a great shower of liquid gold ; 
 And, shyly lifting up my eyes, 
 I made ac(iuaintance with your face. 
 
 And sudden something in me stirred, 
 And moved me to impulsive speech, 
 "With little fluttei-ings between. 
 And little pauses to beseech. 
 From your sweet graciousness of mind, 
 Indulgence and a kindly ear. 
 
 Ah ! glad was I as any bird 
 Tliat softly pipes a timid note. 
 To hear it taken up and trilled 
 Out cheerily by a stronger throat. 
 When, free from discord and constraint, 
 Your thought responded to my thought. 
 
 I had a carven missal once. 
 With graven scenes of "Christ, hisWoe." 
 One picture in that quaint old book 
 Will never from my niemorv go, 
 
 20 
 
 Though merely in a childish wise 
 I used to search for it betimes. 
 
 It showed the face of God in mau 
 Abandoned to his watch of pain. 
 And given of his own good-will 
 To eveiy weaker thing's dii-dain ; 
 But fi-om the darkness ovei-hend 
 Two pitying angel eyes looked down. 
 
 How often in the bitter night 
 Have I not fallen on my face. 
 Too sick and tired of heart to ask 
 God's pity in my grievous case ; 
 Till the dank deadness of the dark. 
 Receding, left me, pitiless. 
 
 Then have I said : "Ah ! Christ the Lord ! 
 God sent his angel unto thee; 
 But both ye leave me to myself, — 
 Perchance ye do not even see ! " 
 Then was it as a mighty stone 
 Above my sunken heart were rolled. 
 
 Now, in the moon's transfiguring light, 
 I seemed to see you in a dream ; 
 Your listening face was silvered o'er 
 By one divinely radiant beam ; 
 I leant towards you, and my talk 
 Was dimly of the haunting past. 
 
 I took you through deep soundings where 
 My fieighted shi[is went dow n at noon, — 
 Gave glimpses of dellowered plains. 
 Blown over by the hot Simoon ; 
 Then I was silent i'or a space : 
 " God sends no angel unto nie ! " 
 
 My heart withdrej^' into itself, 
 When lo ! a knocking at the door: 
 " Am 1 so soon a stranger here, 
 Who was an honored guest before?" 
 Then looking in your eyes, I knew 
 You were God's angel sent to me ! 
 
 JOHN HAY. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 A WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 AsEXTiNEL angel sitting high in glory 
 Heard this shrill wail ring out from Pur- 
 gatory : 
 "Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my 
 story !
 
 306 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 "I loved, — and, Wind with passionate 
 
 love, I fell. 
 Love b7'(>iight me down to death, and 
 
 death to Hell. 
 For God is just, and death for sin is well. 
 
 " I do not rage again.st his high decree. 
 Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
 Rut for my love on eaith who mourns 
 for me. 
 
 "Great Sinrit! Let me see my love 
 
 again 
 And comfort him one hour, and I were 
 
 fain 
 To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." 
 
 Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, 
 repent 
 
 That wild vow ! Look, the dial-finger's 
 bent 
 
 Down to the last hour of thy punish- 
 ment ! " 
 
 But still .she wailed, "T pray thee, let 
 
 me go ! 
 1 cannot rise to peace and leave liim so. 
 0, let me soothe hini in his bitter woe !" 
 
 The bi-azen gates gronnd snllenly ajar. 
 And upward, joyous, like a rising star. 
 She ro.se and vanished in the ether far. 
 
 But soon adown tlie dying sunset sailing, 
 And like a wounded bird her pinions 
 
 trailing. ' 
 
 She fluttered back, with broken-hearted 
 
 wailing. • 
 
 She sobbed, "1 found him by the simi- 
 
 mer sea 
 Reclined, his head upon a maiden's 
 
 knee, — 
 She GUI led liis hair and kissed him. Woe 
 
 is me ! " 
 
 She wept, "Now let my punishment 
 
 begin ! 
 1 have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
 To expiate my sorrow and my sin." 
 
 The angel answered 
 
 go higher ! 
 To be deceived in your 
 
 desire 
 Was bitterer than a thousand years of That in the waiting heart of God forever 
 
 ^""•^ • " ' Thou too shalt find the sea. 
 
 "Nay, sad soul, 
 true heart's 
 
 ELIZABETH STUAET PHELPS. 
 
 [v. S. A.] 
 
 ON THE BRroGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 It chanceth once to every soul, 
 AVithin a narrow hour of doubt and dole, 
 
 Upon Life's Bridge of Sighs to stand, 
 A palace and a prison on each hand. 
 
 palace of the rose-heart's hue ! 
 How like a flower the warm light falls 
 from you ! 
 
 prison with the hollow eyes ! 
 Beneath your stony stare no flowers arise. 
 
 palace of the rose-sweet sin ! 
 
 How safe the heart that doe.s not enter in ! 
 
 blessed prison-walls ! how true 
 The freedom of the soul that chooseth 
 you! 
 
 ALL THE RIVERS. 
 
 "All the rivers run into the sea." 
 Like tlie pulsing of a river, 
 The motion of a song, 
 Wind the olden words along 
 The tortuous windings of my thought, 
 whenever 
 I sit beside the sea. 
 
 All the rivers run into the sea. 
 you little leaping river, 
 Laugh on beneath your breath ! 
 With a heart as deep as death, 
 Strong stream, go patient, brave and 
 hasting never, 
 I sit beside the sea. 
 
 All the rivers run into the sea. 
 Why the striving of a river, 
 The ])a.ssion of a soul ? 
 Calm the eternal waters roll 
 Upon the eternal shore. Somewhere, 
 whatever 
 Seeks it finds tlie sea. 
 
 All the rivers run into the sea. 
 
 O tliou bounding, burning river, 
 
 Hurrying heart I — 1 .seem 
 
 To know (so one knows in a dream)
 
 EEBECCA S. PALFREY. — WILLIAM C. GANNETT. 
 
 307 
 
 REBECCA S. PALFPiEY. 
 
 [v. S. A.] 
 
 WHITE UNDERNEATH. 
 
 Into a city street, 
 
 Nariow and noisome, chance had led my 
 
 feet ; 
 Poisonous to every sense ; and the sun's 
 
 rays 
 Loved not the unclean place. 
 
 It seemed that no pure thing 
 
 Its whiteness here would ever dare to 
 
 bring ; 
 Yet even into this dark place and low, 
 God had sent down his snow. 
 
 Here, too, a little child 
 
 Stood by the drift, now blackened and 
 
 defiled ; 
 And with his rosy hajjds, in earnest^play, 
 Scraped the dai'k crust away. 
 
 Checking my hurried pace, 
 To watch the busy hands and earnest face, 
 I heard him laugh aloud in y)ure delight. 
 That underneath, 't was white. 
 
 Then, through a broken pane, 
 
 A woman's voice summoned him in again, 
 
 With softened mother-tones, that half 
 
 excused 
 The unclean words she used. 
 
 And as I lingered near. 
 His baby accents fell u]ion my ear : 
 "See, I can make the snow again for you. 
 All clean and white and new !" 
 
 Ah ! surely God knows best. 
 
 Our sight is short ; faith trusts to him 
 
 the rest. 
 Sometimes, we know, he gives to human 
 
 hands 
 To work o»t his commands. 
 
 Perhaps he holds apart, 
 
 Py baby fingers, in that mother's heart. 
 
 One fair, clean spot that yet may spread 
 
 and grow, 
 Till all be white as snow. 
 
 WILLIAM C. GAI^NETT. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 LISTENING FOR GOD. 
 
 I HEAR it often in the dark, 
 
 I hear it in the light, — 
 Where is the voice that calls to me 
 
 With such a quiet might ? 
 It seems but echo to my thought, 
 
 And yet beyond the stars ; 
 It seems a heart-beat in a hush, 
 
 And yet the planet jars. 
 
 0, may it be that far within 
 
 My inmost soul there lies 
 A spirit-sky, that o})ens with 
 
 Those voices of surprise? 
 And can it be, by night and day, 
 
 That firmament serene 
 Is just the heaven where God himself, 
 
 The Father, dwells unseen ? 
 
 God within, so close to me 
 
 Tha1#every thought is plain. 
 Be judge, be friend, be Father still. 
 
 And in thy heaven reign ! 
 Thy heaven is mine, — my very soul ! 
 
 Thy words are sweet and strong; 
 They fill my inward silences 
 
 With music and with song. 
 
 They send me challenges to right, 
 
 And Ipi'^ rebuke my ill ; 
 They ring my bells of victory. 
 
 They breathe rfiy "Peace, "be still!" 
 They ever seem to say, "My child, 
 
 Why seek me so all day? 
 Now journey inward to thyself. 
 
 And listen by the way." 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 GOD KNOWETH. 
 
 I KNOW not what shall befixU me, 
 
 God hangs a mist o'er my eyes. 
 
 And so, each step in my onward path, 
 
 He makes new scenes to rise, 
 
 And every joy he sends me 
 
 Comes as a sweet surprise.
 
 308 
 
 SOXGS OF TIIEEE CENTURIES, 
 
 I see not a step before me, 
 
 As I tread on another year ; 
 
 But tlu; past is still in God's keeping, 
 
 The future his mercy will clear ; 
 
 And what looks dark in the distance 
 
 M 
 
 ay brighten as I draw near. 
 
 For perhaps the dreariest future 
 Has less bitter than I think ; 
 The Ijord may sweeten the waters 
 Before I stoop to drink ; 
 Or, if Manih must be Marah, 
 He will stand beside the brink. 
 
 It may be he has waiting 
 For the coming of my feet 
 Some gift of such rare blessedness. 
 Some joy so strangely sweet, 
 That my lijjs shall only tremble 
 With the thoughts I cannot speak. 
 
 blissful, restful ignorance ! 
 'T is blessed not to know. 
 
 If it ke(!ps me so still in those ai-ms 
 That will not let me go. 
 And hushes my soul to rest * 
 In the bosom that loves me so. 
 
 So I go on, not knowing ; 
 
 1 would not if I might ; 
 
 I would lather walk in the dark with 
 
 God, 
 Than go alone in the light ; 
 1 would ratiier walk with hinft by faith 
 Tlian walk alone by sight. 
 
 My heart shrinks back from trials 
 "\Vhi(di the future may disclose; 
 Yet I never have a sorrow 
 But what the dear Lord chose ; 
 So I send the coming tear back. 
 With the whispered word. He knows ! 
 
 JOHN W. CHADWICK. 
 
 [U. S. A.) 
 
 A SONG OF TRUST. 
 
 Love Divine, of all that is 
 The sweetest still and best. 
 
 Fain would I comc! and re.st to-night 
 Upon thy tender breast ; 
 
 As tired of sin as any child 
 
 Was ever tired of play, 
 When evening's hush has folded iu 
 
 The noises of the day ; 
 
 When just for very weariness 
 
 The little one will creep 
 Into the arms that have no joy 
 
 Like holding him in sleep ; 
 
 And looking upward to thy face, 
 So gentle, sweet, and strong, 
 
 In all its looks for those who love, 
 So pitiful of wrong, - 
 
 I pray thee turn me not away, 
 
 For, sinful though I be. 
 Thou knowest everything I need. 
 
 And all my need of thee. 
 
 And yet the spirit in my heart 
 Says, Wheiefore should I pray 
 
 That thou shouldst seek me with thy love. 
 Since thou dost_seek alway ; 
 
 And dost not even wait until 
 
 I urge my steps to thee ; 
 But in the darkness of my life 
 
 Art coming still to me ? 
 
 I pray not, then, because I would ; 
 
 I pray because 1 must ; 
 There is no meaning in my prayer 
 
 But thankfulness and trust. 
 
 I would not have thee otherwise 
 
 Than what thou ever art : 
 Be still thyself, and then I know 
 
 We cannot live apart. 
 
 But still thy love will beckon me, 
 And still thy streiigtii will come. 
 
 In many ways to bear me up 
 And bring me to my home. 
 
 And thou wilt hear the thought I mean. 
 
 And not the words I say ; 
 Wilt hear the thanks among the words 
 
 That only seem to ))ray ; 
 
 As if thou wert not always good. 
 
 As if thy loving care 
 Could ever miss me in the midst 
 
 Of this thy temple fair. 
 
 For, if I ever doubted thee, 
 How could I any more !
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 
 
 309. 
 
 This very night mj' tossing bark 
 Has reached the happy shore ; 
 
 And still, for all my sighs, my heart 
 
 Has sung itself to rest, 
 O Love Divine, most far and near, 
 
 Upon thy tender breast. 
 
 PAUL H. HAYNE. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 PRE- EXISTENCE. 
 
 While sauntering through the crowded 
 
 street. 
 Some lialf-remembered face I meet, 
 
 Albeit upon no mortal shore 
 
 That face, methinks, has smiled before. 
 
 Lost in a gay and festal throng, 
 I tremble at some tender song, — • 
 
 Set to an air whose golden bars 
 I must have heard iu other stars. 
 
 In sacred aisles I pause to share 
 The blessings of a priestly prayer, — 
 
 When the whole scene which greets mine 
 
 eyes 
 In some strange mode I recognize 
 
 As one whose every mystic part 
 I ieel prefigured in my heart. 
 
 At sunset, as I calmty stand, 
 A stranger on an alien strand, 
 
 Familiar as my childhood's home 
 Seems the long stretch of wave and foam. 
 
 One .sails toward me o'er the bay. 
 And what he comes to do and say 
 
 I can foretell. A prescient lore 
 Springs from some life outlived of yore. 
 
 O swift, instinctive, startling gleams 
 Of deep soul-knowledge ! not as dreams 
 
 For aye ye vaguely dawn and die. 
 But oft with lightning certainty 
 
 Pierce through th(! dark, oblivious brain, 
 To make old thoughts and memories 
 plain, — 
 
 Thoughts which perchance must travel 
 
 back 
 Across the wild, bewildering track 
 
 Of countless aeons ; memories far. 
 High-reaching as yon pallid star, 
 
 Unknown, scarce seen whose flickering 
 
 grace 
 Faints on the outmost rings of space ! 
 
 FROM THE WOODS. 
 
 Why should I, with a mournful, morbid 
 
 spleen. 
 Lament that here, in this half-desert 
 scene, 
 My lot is placed? 
 At least the poet-winds are bold and 
 
 loud, — 
 At least the sunset glorifies the cloud, 
 And forests old and proud 
 Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the 
 waste. 
 
 Perchance 't is best that I, whose Fate's 
 
 eclipse 
 Seems final, — I, whose sluggish life- 
 wave slips 
 Languid away, — 
 Should here, w ithin these lowly walks, 
 
 apart 
 From the fierce throbbings of the j'op- 
 ulous mart. 
 Commune with mine own heart, 
 While Wisdom blooms from buried 
 Hope's decay. 
 
 Nature, though wild her forms, sus- 
 tains me still ; 
 The founts are musical, — the barren 
 hill 
 Glows with strange liglits ; 
 Through solemn pine-groves the small 
 
 rivulets fleet 
 Sparkling, as if a Naiad's silvery feet. 
 In quick and coy retreat. 
 Glanced through the j tar-gleams on calm' 
 summer nights;
 
 310 
 
 SONGS. OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 And the great sky, the royal heaven 
 
 above, 
 Darkens with storms or melts in liues 
 of love ; 
 "While far remote, 
 Just where the suulight smites the 
 
 woods with tire, 
 Wakens tlie multitudinous sylvan 
 choir ; 
 Their innocent love's desire 
 Poured in a rill of song from each har- 
 monious throat. 
 
 My walls are crumbling, hut immortal 
 
 looks 
 Smile on me here from faces of rare 
 books: 
 Shakespeare consoles 
 Myheartwithtruephilosophies ; abalm 
 Of spirituiil dews from humbler song 
 or psalm 
 Fills me with tender calm. 
 Or through hushed heavens of soul Mil- 
 ton's deep thunder rolls ! 
 
 And more than all, o'er shattered 
 
 wrecks of Fate, 
 The relics of a happier time and .state, 
 
 My nobler life 
 Shines on untpienched ! deathless 
 
 love that lies 
 In the clear midnight of those passion- 
 ate eyes ! 
 Joy waneth I Fortune flies ! 
 What then ? Thou still art here, soul of 
 my soul, my Wife ! 
 
 ISA CRAIG KNOX. 
 
 BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QTJAIR. 
 
 A STiLi,NKSS crept about the house, 
 At eveiifall, in noontide glare ; 
 
 Upon the silent hills looked forth 
 The many-windowed House of Quair. 
 
 The peacock on the terrace screamed ; 
 
 iJrowsed on the lawn the timid hare; 
 The great trees grew i' the avenue. 
 
 Calm by the sheltered House of Quair. 
 
 Tlie j)ool was still ; around its brim 
 The aldeis sickened all the air: 
 
 There came no murmur from the streams, 
 Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, 
 and Quair. 
 
 The days hold on their ^yonted pacp. 
 And men to court and camp repair,, 
 
 Their ])art to flll, of gt)od or ill. 
 
 While women keep the House of Quair. 
 
 And one is clad in widow's weeds, 
 And one is maiden-like and fair, 
 
 And day by day they seek the paths 
 About the lonely fields of Quair. 
 
 To see the trout leap in the streams, 
 The summer clouds reflected there,* 
 
 The maiden loves in pensive dreams 
 To hang o'er .silver Tweed and Quair. 
 
 Within, in pall-black velvet clad, 
 Sits stately in her oaken chair — 
 
 A stately dame of ancient name — 
 The mother of the House of Quair. 
 
 Her daughter broiders by lier side, 
 With heavy drooping golden hair, 
 
 And listens to her frequent plaint, — 
 "111 fare the brides that come to Quaii^ 
 
 "For more than one hath lived in pine. 
 And more than one hath died of care^ 
 
 And more than one hath sorely sinned. 
 Left lonely in the House of Quair. 
 
 "Alas ! and ere thy father died 
 I had not in his heart a sliare. 
 
 And now — may God forfend her ill — 
 Thy brother brings his bride to Quair." 
 
 She came ; they kissed her in the hall, 
 They kissed her on the winding stair, 
 
 They led her to the chamber high, 
 The fairest in the House of Qaair. 
 
 They bade her from the window look. 
 And mark the scene how ]>assing fair. 
 
 Among whose ways the (juiet days 
 Would linger o'er the wife of Quair. 
 
 "'T is fair," slie said on looking forth, 
 "But what although 'twere bleak and 
 bare — " 
 
 She looked the love she did not sjieak. 
 And broke the ancient curse of Quair. 
 
 "Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes, 
 I His dangers and his toils I share." 
 What need be said, — she was not one 
 Of the ill-fated brides of Quair.
 
 HENRY TIMROD. — WALTER F. MITCHELL. 
 
 311 
 
 HE^'RY TIMROD. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 SPRING IN CAROLINA. 
 
 t 
 Spring, with that nameless pathos in the 
 
 air 
 Which dwells with all things fair. 
 Spring, with her golden suns and silver 
 
 rain. 
 Is with lis once again. 
 
 Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns 
 Its fragrant lamps, and turns 
 Into a royal court with green festoons 
 The banks of dark lagoons. 
 
 In the deep heart of every forest ti'ee 
 
 The blood is all aglee, 
 
 And there's a look about the leafless 
 
 bowers 
 As if they dreamed of flowers. 
 
 Yet still on eveiy.side we trace the hand 
 
 Of Winter in the land, 
 
 Save where the maple reddens on the 
 
 lawn, 
 Flushed by the season's dawn ; 
 
 Or where, like those strange semblances 
 
 we find 
 Tliat age to childhood bind, 
 The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn. 
 The brown of autumn corn. 
 
 As yet the turf is dark, although j'ou 
 
 know 
 That, not a span below, 
 A thousand germs are groping through 
 
 the gloom. 
 And soon will burst their tomb. 
 
 In gardens you may note amid the dearth. 
 
 The crocus breaking earth ; 
 
 And near the snowdrop's tender white 
 
 and green. 
 The violet in its screen. 
 
 But many gleams and shadows need must 
 
 pass 
 Along the budding grass. 
 And weeks go by, before'the enamored 
 
 South 
 Shall kiss the rose's mouth. 
 
 Still there 's a sense of blossoms yet un- 
 
 boin 
 In the sweet airs of morn ; 
 One almost looks to see the very street 
 Grow purple at his feet. 
 
 At times a fragrant breeze comes floating 
 
 And brings, you know not why, 
 
 A feeling as when eager crowds await 
 
 Before a palace gate 
 
 Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce 
 
 wouhl start. 
 If from a beech's heart, 
 Ablue-e3-ed Dryad, stepping forth, should 
 
 say, 
 •'Behold me! I am May!" 
 
 WALTER F. MITCHELL. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE. 
 
 The weather-leech of the topsail sbivers. 
 The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds 
 
 slacken. 
 The braces are taut, thelithebooni quivers, 
 And the waves with the coming ifpiall- 
 
 cloud blacken. 
 
 Open one point on the weather-bow. 
 
 Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island 
 
 Head ? 
 There 's a shade of doubt on the captain's 
 
 brow, 
 And the pilot watches the heaving lead. 
 
 I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye, 
 To sea and to sky and to sliore I gaze. 
 Till the muttered orderot'" FiiU andbn!" 
 Is suddenly changed tlir ' 'Full for stay i! " 
 
 The ship bends lower before the breeze, 
 As her broadside i'air to the blast shelays ; 
 And she swifter springs to the rising .■■eas, 
 As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!" 
 
 It is silence all, as each in his place, 
 With the gatliered coil in liis hardened 
 
 hands, 
 By tack and bowline, by sheet and lirac<«, 
 Waiting the watchword impatient stands.
 
 312 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES, 
 
 And the light on Fire Island Head draws 
 
 near, 
 As, trnnipet-win<^ed, the pilot's shout 
 From his post ou the bowsprit's heel I 
 
 hear, 
 "With the welcome call of, "Ready! 
 
 About!" 
 
 No time to spare ! It is touch and go ; 
 And the captain growls, "Down, helm! 
 
 hard down ! " 
 As my weight on the whirling spokes I 
 
 throw, 
 "While heaven grows black with thcstorni- 
 
 cloud's frown. 
 
 High o'er the knightdieads flies thespray. 
 As we meet the shock of the plunging 
 
 sea ; 
 And my shoulder stifT to the wheel I lay. 
 As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a, 
 
 he!" 
 
 With the swerving leap of a startled steed 
 The sliijt Hies fast in the eye of the wind, 
 « The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, 
 And the headland white we have left 
 behind. 
 
 The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, 
 And belly and tug at the groaning cleats ; 
 Tiie sjjanker slats, and the mainsail flaps ; 
 And thunders the order, "Tacks and 
 sheets!" 
 
 ^lid the rattle of blocks and the tramp 
 
 of the crew, 
 Hisses the rain of the rushing squall : 
 The sails are aback from clew to clew. 
 And now is the moment for, "Mainsail, 
 
 haul!" 
 
 And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, 
 IJy tifty strong arms are swiftly swung ; 
 She holds her way, and 1 look with Joy 
 Forthefiist white spray o'er tlie bulwarks 
 flung. 
 
 " Let go, and haul !" 'T is the last com- 
 mand. 
 
 And the head-.sails fill to the blast once 
 mora; 
 
 Astern and to leeward lies the land, 
 
 "With its breakers whit(! on the shingly 
 shore. 
 
 What matters the reef, or the rain, or the 
 
 s(]uall ! 
 I steady the helm for the open sea; 
 The first mate clamors, "Belay there, 
 
 all!" 
 And the captain's breath once more comes 
 
 free. 
 
 And so off shore let the good ship ily ; 
 Little care I how the gusts may blow. 
 In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. 
 Eight bells have struck, and my watch is 
 below. 
 
 IIARPJET PRESCOTT SPOFFOllD. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 HEREAFTER. 
 
 Love, when all these years .are silent, 
 
 vanished quite and laid to rest. 
 When you and I are sleeping, folded 
 
 breathless breast to breast. 
 When no morrow is before us, and the 
 
 long grass tosses o'er us. 
 And our grave remains forgotten, or by 
 
 alien footsteps pressed, —   
 
 Still that love of ours will linger, that 
 
 great love enrich the earth, 
 Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes 
 
 blowing joyous mirth ; 
 Fragrance fanning off from flowers, 
 
 melod}' of sunmier showers. 
 Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the 
 
 happy autumn hearth. 
 
 That 's our love. But you and I, dear, 
 
 — shall we linger with it yet. 
 Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one 
 
 sunbeam's golden net, — 
 On the violet's ]nirple bosom, I the 
 
 sheen, but you tiie blossom. 
 Stream on sunset winds and be the haze 
 
 with which some hill is wet? 
 
 Or, beloved, — if aseending, — when we 
 
 have endowed the woi'ld 
 With tiie best bloom of our l>eing, whither 
 
 will our way be whirled. 
 Through wliat vast and starry spaces, 
 
 toward what awful holy jilaces. 
 With a white light on our faces, spirit 
 
 over spirit fuiled ?
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. — JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 
 313 
 
 Only this our 3'earning answers, — where- 
 
 soVr tliat way defile, 
 Not a film sliall part us through the seons 
 
 of that mighty wliile, 
 In the fair eternal weather, even as 
 
 {)hantoms still together, 
 Floating, floating, one forever, in the 
 
 light of God's great smile ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 In the summer twilight, 
 
 While yet the dew was hoar, 
 I went jjlucking purple pansies 
 
 Till my love should come to shore. 
 The fishing-lights their dances 
 
 Were keeping out at sea. 
 And, "Come," I sang, "my true love, 
 
 Come hasten home to me !" 
 
 But the sea it fell a-moaning. 
 
 And the white gulls rocked thereon. 
 And the young moon dro]>ped from heaven. 
 
 And the liglits hitl, one by one. 
 All silently thcii- glances 
 
 Slii)]ied down the cruel sea. 
 And, "Wait," cried the night and wind 
 and storm, — 
 
 "Wait till I come to thee." 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 :- [v. S. A.] 
 
 AZRAEL. 
 
 CoMEwith a smile, when come thou must, 
 Evangel of the world to be. 
 
 And touch and gloiify this dust, — 
 This shnddeiing dust that now is me, — 
 And from this prison set me free ! 
 
 Long in those awful eyes I quail. 
 That gaze across the grim profound : 
 
 Upon that sea there is no sail, 
 Nor any light, nor any sound. 
 From the far shore that girds it round. 
 
 * 
 
 Onlv — two still and steady rays. 
 
 That those twin oibs of doom o'ertop ; 
 
 Only — a quiet, patient gaze 
 
 Tliat drinks my being, drop by drop. 
 And bids the pulse of nature stop. 
 
 Come with a smile, auspicious friend, 
 To usher in the eternal day ! 
 
 Of these weak terrors make an end. 
 And charm the jialtry chains away 
 That bind me to this timorous clay ! 
 
 And let me know my soul akin 
 To sunrise and the winds of morn, 
 
 And every gramleur that has been 
 Since this all-glorious world was born, 
 Nor longer droop in my own scorn. 
 
 Come, when the way grows dark and chill. 
 Come, when the baffled mind is weak. 
 
 And in the heart that voice is still 
 Which used in happier days to speak, 
 Or only whisj^ers sadly meek. 
 
 Come with a smile that dims the sun ! 
 With pitying heart and gentle hand ! 
 
 And waft me, from a work that 's done, 
 To ]ieace that waits on thy command, 
 lu God's mysterious better land! 
 
 JOAQUIN MILLER. 
 
 [O. S. A.] 
 
 FROM "WALKER IN NICARAGUA." 
 
 Success had made him more than king; 
 
 Defeat made him the vilest thing 
 
 In name, contempt or liate can bring; 
 
 So much the loaded dice of war 
 
 Do make or mar of character. 
 
 Speak ill who will of him, he died 
 
 In all disgrace; say of the dead 
 
 His heart was black, his hands were 
 
 red, — 
 Say this much, and be satisfied. 
 
 I lay this crude wreath on his dust, 
 Inwove with sad, sweet memories 
 Recalled here by these colder seas. 
 I leave the wild bird with his trust, 
 To sing and say him nothing wrong; 
 I wake no rivalry of song. 
 
 He lies low in the levelled sand, 
 Unsheltered from the tropic sun, 
 .\nd now of all he knew, not one 
 AVIU speak him fair, in that far land. 
 Perhaps 't was this that made me seek, 
 Disguised, his grave one winter-tide;
 
 314 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 A weakness for the weaker side, 
 A silling with the helpless weak. 
 
 A palm not far held out a liand ; 
 Hard by a long green bamboo swung, 
 Anil bent like some great bow unstrung, 
 And quivered like a willow wand; 
 Beneath a broad banana's leaf. 
 Perched on its fruits that crooked hung, 
 A bird in rainbow splendor sung 
 A low, sad song of tempered grief. 
 
 No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, 
 Bit at his side a cactus green 
 U[)held its lances long and keen ; 
 It stood in iiot red sands alone. 
 Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears ; 
 One l)loom of crimson crowned its head, 
 A droj) of blood, so bright, so red, 
 Yet redolent as roses' tears. 
 In my left liand I held a shell, 
 All rosy lipped and pearly red; 
 I laid it by his lowly bed. 
 For he did love so passing well 
 The giand songs of the solemn sea. 
 
 shell ! sing well, w'ild, with a will, 
 When storms blow iiard and birds be still. 
 The wildest sea-song known to thee ! 
 
 1 said some things, with folded hands, 
 Soft whispeivd in the dim sea-sound, 
 And eyes held humbly to the ground, 
 And frail knees sunken in the sands. 
 He had done more than this for me, 
 And y^t I could not well do more: 
 
 I turned me down the olive shore. 
 And set a sad face to the sea. 
 
 SUNRISE IN VENICE. 
 
 Night seems troubled and scarce asleep; 
 Her brows are gathered in broken rest; 
 Sullen old lion of dark St. Mark, 
 And a star in the east starts up from the 
 
 deep ; 
 White as my lilies that grow in the west. 
 Hist! men are passing hurriedly. 
 I see the yellow wide wings of a bark 
 Sail silently over my morning-star. 
 I see men move in the moving dai'k, 
 Tall and silent as columns are, — 
 Great sinewy men that are good to see, 
 With hair pushed back and with open 
 
 breasts ; 
 Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats, 
 Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats, — 
 
 Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea. 
 First to their labors and last to their rests. 
 
 Ships are moving! I hear a horn ; 
 A silver trumpet it sounds to me, 
 Deep-voiced and musical, far a-sea . . . 
 Answers back, and again it calls. 
 'T isthesentinel boats that watch the town 
 All niglit, as mounting her watery walls, 
 And watching for pirate or smuggler. 
 
 Down 
 Over the sea, and reaching away. 
 And against the east, a soft light falls, — • 
 Silvery soft as the mist of morn. 
 And I catch a breath like the breath of 
 
 day. 
 
 The east is blossoming ! Yea, a rose, 
 Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss. 
 Sweet as the presence of wonuin is, 
 Kises and reaches and widens and grows 
 Right out of the sea, as a blossoming tree ; 
 Richer and licher, so higher and higher, 
 Deeper and deeper it takes its hue ; 
 Brighter and brighter it reaches through 
 The space of heaven and the place of star.s. 
 Till all is as rich as a rose can be, 
 Andmy rose-leaves fall into billows of fire. 
 Then beams reach upward as arms from 
 
 a sea ; 
 Then lances and arrows are aimed at me. 
 Tiien lanees and spangles and spars and 
 
 bars 
 Are broken and shivered and strown on 
 
 the sea ; 
 And around and about me tower and spire 
 Start from the billows like tongues of fire. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW. 
 
 Saith the white owl to the martin folk. 
 In the belfry tower so grim and gray : 
 
 "Why do they deafen us with these bells ? 
 Is any one dead or born to-day?" 
 
 A martin peeped over the rim of its nest. 
 And answered crossly: "Why, ain't 
 you heard 
 That an heir is coming to the great 
 estate?" 
 "I 'aven't," the owl said, "'pon my 
 word."
 
 ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. 
 
 315 
 
 "Are men born so, with that white cock- 
 : ade?" 
 
 Said the little field-mouse to the old 
 brown rat. 
 "Why, you silly child," the sage replied, 
 "This is the bridegroom, — they know 
 him by that." 
 
 Saith the snail sosnuginhisdappledshell, 
 Slowly stretching one cautious horn, 
 
 As the beetle was hurrying by so brisk. 
 Much to his snailship's inward scorn : 
 
 "Why does that creature ride by so fa.st? 
 Has a fh-e broke out to the east or 
 west?" 
 "Your Grace, he rides to the wedding- 
 feast," — 
 "Let the madman go. What I want 's 
 
 rest. 
 
 The 
 
 swallows around the woodman 
 
 skimmed, 
 
 Poising and turning on flashing wing ; 
 
 One said : " How liveththislumpot' earth? 
 
 in theair, he canneithersoarnorspring. 
 
 "Over the meadows we sweep and dart, 
 Down with the flowers, or up in the 
 skies ; 
 While these poor lumberers toil and slave. 
 Half starved, for how can they catch 
 their flies?" 
 
 Quoth the dry-rot worm to his artisans 
 In the carpenter's shop, as they bored 
 away : 
 "Hark to the sound of the saw and file! 
 What are these creatures at work at, — 
 say?" 
 
 From his covered passage a worm looked 
 
 out. 
 
 And eyed the beings so busy o'erhead : 
 
 "I scarcely know, my lord ; but I think 
 
 They 're making a box to bury their 
 
 dead!" 
 
 Says a butterfly with his wings of blue 
 All in a flutter of careless joj% 
 
 As he talks to a dragon-fly over a flower: 
 "Ours is a life, sir, with no alloy. 
 
 "What are those black things, row arid 
 row, 
 
 Winding alongby the new-mown hay ?" 
 "That is a funeral," .says the fly : 
 
 "The carpenter buries his son to-day." 
 
 ANNA BOYNTON AVEEILL. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 BIRCH STREAM. 
 
 At noon, within the dusty town. 
 Where the wild river rushes down, 
 
 And thunders hoarsely all day long, 
 I think of thee, my hermit stream. 
 Low singing in thy summer dream. 
 
 Thine idle, sweet, old, tranciuil song. 
 
 Northward, Katahdin's chasnied jiile 
 Looms througli thy low, long, leafy aisle. 
 
 Eastward, Olamon's summit shines ; 
 And I upon thy grassy shore. 
 The dreamful, happy child of yore, * 
 
 Worship before mine olden shrine.s. 
 
 Again the sultry noontide hush 
 Is sweetly broken by the thrush. 
 
 Whose clear bell rings and dies away 
 Beside thy banks, in coverts deep, 
 Where nodding buds of orchis sleep 
 
 In dusk, and dream not it is day. 
 
 Again the wild cow-lily floats 
 Her golden-freighted, tented boats, 
 
 ln»thy cool coves of softened gloom, 
 O'ershadowed by the whispering reed. 
 And purple ])lumes of pickerel-weed. 
 
 And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom. 
 
 The startled minnows dart in flocks 
 Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks. 
 
 If liut a zeph^T stirs the brake ; 
 The silent swallow swoops, a flash 
 Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, 
 
 A ring of ripj)les in her wake. 
 
 — Without, the land is hot and dim ; 
 The level fields in languor swim. 
 
 Their stubble-grasses brown as dust; 
 And all along the upland lanes, 
 Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns, 
 
 Dead roses wear their crowns of rust. 
 
 Within, is neither blight nor death. 
 The fierce sun woos with ardent breath, 
 
 But cannot win thy sylvan heart. 
 Only the child who loves thee long. 
 With faithful worship yuire and strong. 
 
 Can know how dear and sweet thou art.
 
 316 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 So loved I thee in days gone by, 
 
 So love I yet, though leagues may lie 
 
 Between us, and the years divide; — 
 A breath of coolness, dawn, and dew, - 
 A joy forever fiesh and true. 
 
 Thy memory doth with me abide. 
 
 KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
 He turned them into tlie river lane; 
 
 OiiQ,after another he let them pass, 
 Tlien fastened the meadow bars again. 
 
 Under the willows, and over the hill. 
 He patiently followed their sober pace ; 
 
 The merry whistle for once was still, 
 And something shadowed the sunny 
 face. 
 
 Only a boy ! and his father had said 
 He never could let his youngest go: 
 
 Two already were lying dead, 
 
 Under tlie feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was doiie. 
 And the frogs were loud in the mead- 
 ow-swamp, 
 Over hi§ shoulder he slung his gun. 
 And stealthily followed the footpath 
 damp. 
 
 Across the clover, and through the wheat, 
 With rcsohite lieartaud purpose grim, 
 Though colli was the d(!w on his hurry- 
 ing feet, 
 And the blind bat's flitting startled 
 him. 
 
 Thricesince then had the lanesbeen white, 
 And tlie oichards swe(;t with ajiple- 
 bloom ; 
 And now, when tlie cows came back at 
 night. 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely farm 
 That three were lying where two had 
 
 lain ; 
 And the old man's tremulous, palsied 
 
 arm 
   Could never lean on a son's again. 
 
 The summer day grew cool and late : 
 He went for the cows when the work 
 was done ; 
 
 But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
 He saw them coming, one by one : 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 Shaking their horns in the evening 
 wind ; 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the 
 grass, — 
 But who was it following close behind ? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping 
 hair, 
 Looked out a face that the father knew. 
 
 For Southern prisons will sometimes 
 yawn. 
 And j'ield their dead unto life again : 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy 
 dawn 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting 
 eyes ; 
 For the heart must speak when the 
 li()s are dumb : 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 LIZZIE G. PARKER. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 For a foot that will not come, 
 For a song that will not sound, 
 
 I hearken, wait and moan alway, 
 And weary months go round. 
 
 Never again in the world 
 Sliall that lost footstep be ; 
 
 Nor sea, nor bird, nor reedy wind 
 Can match that song to me. 
 
 But in the chants of heaven, 
 Ami down tlie gohlen stieet, 
 
 My heart shall single out that song 
 And know that touch of feet.
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 317 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE SECRET OF DEATH. 
 
 "She is dead ! " they said to him. "Come 
 
 away ; 
 Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay ! " 
 
 They smoothed her tresses of dark brown 
 
 hair ; 
 On her forehead of stone they laid it fair ; 
 
 Over her eyes which gazed too nuich, 
 They drew the lids with a gentle touch ; 
 
 With a tender touch they closed np well 
 The sweet, thin lips that had secrets to 
 tell ; 
 
 About her brows and beautiful fixce 
 They tied her veil and her marriage-lace, 
 
 And drew on her white feet her white 
 
 silk shoes ; 
 Which were the whitest no eye could 
 
 choose ; 
 
 And over her bosom they crossed her 
 hands, — 
 
 "Come awa}'," they said, "God under- 
 stands !" 
 
 But there was a silence, and nothingthere 
 But silence, and scents of eglantare. 
 
 And jessamine and I'oses, and rosemary. 
 And they said, "As a lady should lie, 
 lies she." 
 
 And they held their breath as they left 
 
 the room 
 With a shudder, to glance at its stillness 
 
 and gloom. 
 
 But he who love<^l her too well to dread 
 The sweet, the .stately, and the beautiful 
 dead. 
 
 He lit his lamp and took the key 
 
 And turned it. Alone again — heand she. 
 
 He and she ; yet she would not speak, 
 Though he kissed, in the old place, the 
 quiet cheek. 
 
 He and she ; still she did not move 
 To any one passionate whisper of love. 
 
 Then he said: "Cold lips, and breast 
 
 without breath ! 
 Is there no voice ! no language of death ? 
 
 "Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, 
 But to heart and soul distinct, intense ? 
 
 "See now ; I will listen with soul, not ear ; 
 What was the secret of dying, dear? 
 
 "Was it the infinite wonder of all 
 That you ever could let life's flower fall? 
 
 "Or was it a greater marvel to feel 
 The perfect calm o'er the agony steal ? 
 
 "Was the miracle deeper to find how deep. 
 Beyond all dieams, sank downward that 
 sleep ? 
 
 "Did life roll back its record, dear, 
 And show, as they say it does, past things 
 clear ? 
 
 "0 perfect dead ! dead most dear, 
 I hold the breath of my soul to hear. 
 
 "I listen, as deep as to horrible hell, 
 As high as to heaven, and you do not tell ! 
 
 "Theremustbe a pleasureiii dying, sweet. 
 To make you so placid from head to feet ! 
 
 " I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, 
 And 't were your hot tears upon my brow 
 shed ; ' • 
 
 "I would say, though the angel of death 
 
 had laid 
 His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. 
 
 "You should not ask vainly, with stream- 
 ing eves, 
 
 Which of ail death's was the chief sur- 
 prise ! 
 
 "The very strangest and suddenest thing. 
 Of all the surprises that dying must 
 bring." 
 
 He and she ; yet they would not smile. Ah, foolish world ! most kind dead !_ 
 Though he called her the name she loved Though he told me, who will believe it 
 
 erewhile. 
 
 was said ?
 
 318 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Who will believe what he heard her say, | Monster fishes swam the silent main, 
 AVith a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old 
 way? 
 
 "The utmost wonder is this, — I hear. 
 And see you, and love you, and kiss you, 
 dear. 
 
 "And am j-our angel, who was your bride. 
 And know that, though dead, I have 
 never died." 
 
 JOHN A. DOPiGAN. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 FATE. 
 
 These withered hands are weak. 
 
 But they shall do my bidding, though 
 so frail ; 
 These lips are thin and white, but shall 
 not fail 
 The appointed words to speak. 
 
 Thy sneer I can forgive. 
 
 Because I kiiowthestrength of destiny ; 
 Until my task is done, I cannot die; 
 
 And then, I would not live. 
 
 MARY BOLLES BRANCH. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE PETRIFIED FERN. 
 
 In a valley, centuries ago, 
 
 Grew a little fern-leaf, green and 
 
 slender, 
 Veining delicate and fibres tender; 
 Waving when the wind crept down so 
 
 low; : 
 Rushes tall, anil moss, and grass grew 
 
 round it, 
 Plavful sunbeams darted in and found 
 
 'it. 
 Drops of dew stole in by night, and 
 
 crowned it. 
 But no foot of man e'er trod that 
 
 way; 
 Earth was young and keeping holiday. 
 
 Stately forests waved their giant 
 branches. 
 
 Mountains hurled their snowy ava- 
 lanches. 
 Mammoth creatures stalked across the 
 plain ; 
 
 Nature revelled in grand mysteries ; 
 
 But the little fern was not of these. 
 
 Did not numl)er with the hills and 
 trees, 
 
 Only grew and waved its wild sweet 
 way, 
 
 No one came to note it day by day. 
 
 Earth, one time, put on a fiolic mood, 
 Heaved the rocks and changed the 
 
 mighty motion 
 Of the deep, strong currents of the 
 
 ocean ; 
 Moved the plain and shook the ha>jglity 
 
 wood. 
 Crushed' the little fern in soft moist 
 
 clay. 
 Covered it, and hid it safe awa}'. 
 0, the long, long centuries since that 
 
 day ! 
 0, the agony, 0, life's bitter cost. 
 Since that useless little fern Mas lost ! 
 
 Useless ! Lost ! There came a thought- 
 ful man 
 
 Searching Nature's secrets, far and 
 deep ; 
 
 From a fissure in a rocky steep 
 He withdrew a stone, o'er which there 
 ran 
 
 Fairy pencillings, a quaint design, 
 
 Veinings leafage, fibres clear and fine. 
 
 And the fern's life lay in every line ! 
 
 So, I think, God hides some souls 
 away. 
 
 Sweetly to surprise us the last day. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 UNSEEN. 
 
 At the spring of an arch in the great 
 north tower. 
 High up on the wall, is an angel's 
 head ; 
 And beneath it is carved a lily flower. 
 With delicate wings at the side out- 
 spread.
 
 HARRIET 0. NELSON. 
 
 ;i9 
 
 They say that the sculjitor wrought from 
 the face 
 Of his youth's lost love, of his prom- 
 ised bride, 
 And when he had added the last sad 
 grace 
 To the features, he dropped his chisel 
 and died. 
 
 And the worshippers throng to the shrine 
 below, 
 And the sight-seers come with their 
 curious eyes. 
 But deep in the shadow, where none 
 may know 
 Its beauty, the gem of his carving lies. 
 
 Yet at early morn on a midsummer's 
 day, 
 When the sun is far to the north, for 
 the space 
 Of a few short minutes, there f^lls a ray 
 Through an amber pane on the angel's 
 face. 
 
 It was wrought for the eye of God, and 
 it seems 
 That he blesses the work of the dead 
 man's hand 
 Witli a ray of the golden light that 
 streams 
 On the lost that are found in the 
 deathless land. 
 
 HARRIET 0. NELSON. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE QUIET MEETING. 
 
 Dear fiiend of old, whom memory links 
 Witli sunny hour and summer weather, 
 
 Do you witli me remember yet 
 That Sabbath morn together, 
 
 "When straying from our wonted ways. 
 From ])iayer and song and priestly 
 teaclier, 
 Those kind, sweet helps by which the 
 Lord y 
 
 Stoops to his yearning ci'eature. 
 
 And led by some faint sense of need 
 Which each in each perceived unut- 
 tered, 
 
 Some craving for an unknown good, 
 That in tlie spirit fluttered, 
 
 Our footsteps sought the humble house 
 Unmarked by cross or towering steeple. 
 
 Where for their First-day gathering came 
 God's plain and simple people ? 
 
 The air was soft, the sky was large. 
 The grass as gay with golden flowers 
 
 As if the last night's sky had fallen 
 On earth in starry showers. 
 
 And, as we walked, the apple-trees 
 Shed their late bloom for every comer; 
 
 Our souls drank deep of joy and peace, 
 For it was youth and summer. 
 
 Yet through the doorway, rude and low, 
 The plain -robed folk we followed after, 
 
 Our ste]is, like theirs, demure and slow, 
 Our lijjs as free from laughter. 
 
 We sat apart; but still were near 
 As souls may draw unto each other 
 
 Who seek through stronger love to God 
 A nobler love to brother. 
 
 How deep the common silence was ; 
 
 How pure and swc^et those woman faces, 
 Wliich jiatience, gentleness, and peace 
 
 Had stamped with heavenly graces. 
 
 No noise ofprayer came through the hush, 
 No praise sang through the portals 
 lowly, 
 
 Save meiTy bird-songs from without, 
 And even those seemed holy. 
 
 Then daily toil was glorified. 
 
 And love was something rarer, finer; 
 
 The whole earth, sanctified through 
 Christ, 
 And human life, diviner. 
 
 And when at length, by lips of age. 
 The silent hour was fitl}' broken. 
 
 Our hearts found echo in the words 
 From wise experience spoken. 
 
 Then at the elder's clasp of hand 
 
 We rose and met beneath the portal; 
 
 Some earthly dust our lives had lost. 
 And something gained immortal. 
 
 Since then, when sermon, psalm, and rite, 
 And solemn organ's tuneful pealing,
 
 320 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 All fail to raise my sluggish sense 
 To higher thought and feeling, 
 
 My mind goes back the winding track 
 Of years whose Might hath left me lonely, 
 
 Once more my soul is upward drawn, 
 And hears the spirit only. 
 
 W. J. LINTON. 
 
 MTDWrNTTER. 
 
 MinwiNTKR comes to-morrow 
 
 My welcome guest to be ; 
 White-haired, wide-winged sorrow, 
 
 With Christmas gifts for me. 
 Thy angel, God 1 — I thank thee still, 
 Thy will be done, thy better will ! 
 
 I thank thee. Lord! — the whiteness 
 
 Of winter on my heart 
 Sliall keep some glint of brightness, 
 
 Thougli sun and stars depart. 
 Thou sniilest on the snow ; thy will 
 Is dread and drear, but lovely still. 
 
 DEFINITIONS. 
 WISDOM. 
 
 The perfect sight of duty ; thought which 
 
 moulds 
 A rounded life, and its true aims beholds. 
 
 REVERENCE. 
 
 Obeisance unto greatness understood ; 
 The first step of a human life toward good. 
 
 SERVICE. 
 
 Think what God doth for man ; so mayst 
 
 thou know 
 How godlike service is, and serve also. 
 
 DESPAIR. 
 
 The shadow of a .slave who turns his back 
 On the liglit, and cries, "The universe 
 is black ! " 
 
 DOL^BT. 
 
 The mountain's image trembling in the 
 
 lake: 
 Look up. Perhaps the mountain does 
 
 not quake. 
 
 DEFEAT. 
 
 One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not 
 
 to count 
 What you have trampled on. Look up, 
 
 and mount. 
 
 FAILURE. 
 
 Who knows? — Each year, as does the 
 
 wheat-seed, dies ; 
 And so God harvests his eternities. 
 
 FORGIVENESS. 
 
 The condonation of a wrong. What 
 thoi ? 
 
 Even the wrong-doers are our brother- 
 men ! 
 
 OBSTINACY. 
 
 A mule with blinkers. Ay, he goes quite 
 
 straight, 
 Runs at the gate-post, and will miss the 
 
 gate. 
 
 PRUDENCE. 
 
 The saddle-girth of valor. Thou art wise 
 To gird it well, but not around thy eyes. 
 
 PATRIOTISM. 
 
 Not the mere holding a great flag un- 
 furled, 
 
 But making it the goodliest in the 
 world. 
 
 NARROWNESS. 
 
 Be narrow ! — as the bud, the flame, the 
 
 dart ; 
 But narrow in thy aim, not at thy heart. 
 
 WEALTH. 
 
 Cornelia's jewels ; blind old Jlilton'o 
 
 thought ; 
 Job's patience ; and the lesson Lazanis 
 
 taught.
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 
 
 321 
 
 MARGARET J. PRESTON. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 READY. 
 
 I WOULD be ready, Lord, 
 
 My house in order set, 
 None of tlie work thou gavest me 
 
 To do, uniinished yet. 
 
 I would be watching, Lord, 
 
 W;th latnji well trimmed and clear, 
 Quick to tlirow open wide the door, 
 
 What time thou drawest near. 
 
 I would be waiting, Lord, 
 
 Because I cannot know 
 If in the night or morning watch, 
 
 I may be called to go. 
 
 I would be working. Lord, 
 
 Each day, each hour, foi' thee ; 
 
 Assured that thus 1 wait thee well, 
 Whene'er thy coining be. 
 
 I would he living, Lord, 
 
 As ever in thine eye; 
 For whoso lives the nearest thee 
 
 The fittest is to die. 
 
 A BIRD'S MINISTRY. 
 
 From his home in an Eastern bungalow, 
 
 In sight of the everlasting siiow 
 
 Of the grand Himalayas, row on row. 
 
 Thus wrote my friend : — 
 
 "I had travelled far 
 From the Afghan towers of Candahar, 
 Tlirough the sand-white plains of Sinde- 
 Sagar ; 
 » 
 " Andonce, when the daily march waso'er, 
 As tired I sat in my tented door, 
 Hope failed me, as never it failed before. 
 
 "In swarming city, at wayside fane, 
 By the Indus' bank, on the scorching 
 
 plain, 
 I had taught, — and my teaching all 
 
 seemed vain. 
 
 Have gloomed their worship this thou- 
 sand years. 
 
 " 'For Christ and his truth I stand alone 
 In the midst of millions: a sand-grain 
 
 blown 
 Against yon temple of ancient stone 
 
 "'As soon may level it I' Faith forsook 
 My soul, as I turned on the pile to look: 
 Then rising, my saddened way 1 took 
 
 "To its lofty roof, for the cooler air: 
 I gazed, and marvelled ; — how crumbled 
 
 were 
 The walls I had deemed so firm and fair ! 
 
 "For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone, 
 Most i)lainly rent by its roots alone, 
 A beautiful peepul-tree had grown : 
 
 "Whose gradual stresswould still expand 
 The crevice, and topple upon the sand 
 The temple, while o'er its wreck sliould 
 stand 
 
 "The tree in its living verdure ! — Who 
 Could compass the thought? — The bii-d 
 
 that tlew 
 Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew, 
 
 "Did more to shiver this ancient wall 
 Than earthquake,   — war, — simoon, — or 
 
 all 
 Tlie centuries, in their lapse and fall ! 
 
 "Then I knelt by the riven granite there. 
 And my soul shook ofl' its weight of care, 
 As my voice rose clear on the tropic air : — • 
 
 "'The living seeds I have dropped remain 
 In the cleft : Lord, quicken with dew and 
 
 rain, 
 Then tem[de and mosque shall be rent 
 
 in twain!'" 
 
 ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 
 
 [U. S. A-l 
 
 WHAT IS THE USE? 
 
 " 'No glimmerof light (I sighed) appears ; I SAW a man, by some accounted wise, 
 The Moslem's Fate and the Buddhist's : For some things said and done before 
 fears I their eyes, 
 
 21
 
 322 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Quite overcast, and in a restless muse, 
 Pacing a path about. 
 And often giving out : 
 "What is the use?" 
 
 Then I, with true respect : What meanest 
 
 thou 
 By those strange words, and that unset- 
 tled brow? 
 Health, wealth, the fair esteem of ample 
 views. 
 To these things thou art born 
 But he, as one forlorn : 
 "What is the use?" 
 
 "I have surveyed the sages and their 
 
 books, 
 Man, and the natural world of woods and 
 
 bi'ooks. 
 Seeking that perfect good that I would 
 choose ; 
 But find no perfect good, 
 Settled and understood. 
 What is the use ? 
 
 "Life, in a poise, hangs trembling on the 
 
 beam. 
 Even in a breath boundingto each extreme 
 Of joy and sorrow; therefore I refuse 
 AH beaten ways of bliss, 
 And oidv answer this : 
 What'is the use? 
 
 "The hoodwinked world is seeking hap- 
 piness. 
 'Which way!' they cry, 'here?' 'no!' 
 
 'there?' 'who can guess?' 
 And so they grope, and grope, and gi'ope, 
 and cruise 
 On, on, till life is lost. 
 At bliudnian's with a ghost. 
 What is the use? 
 
 "Love first, with most, then wealth, dis- 
 tinction, fame. 
 Quicken tlie l)lood and spirit on the game. 
 Some try them all, and idl alike accuse : 
 'I have been all,' said one, 
 'And find that all is none.' 
 Wliat is the use? 
 
 "Ill woman's love we sweetly are undone. 
 Willing to attract, but harder to b(^ won. 
 Harder to keep is she whose love we choose. 
 
 Loves are like Howers that grow 
 
 111 soils on fire Ijelow. 
 What is the use? 
 
 "Some j>ray for wealth, and seem to pray 
 
 aright; 
 They heap until themselves are out of 
 
 sight; 
 Yet stand, in charities, not over shoes, 
 And ask of their old age 
 As an old ledger jiage, 
 What is the use? .... 
 
 "The strife for fame and the high praise 
 
 of power. 
 Is as a man, who, panting up a tower. 
 Bears a great stone, then, straining all his 
 thews. 
 Heaves it, and sees it make 
 A splashing in a lake. 
 What is the use ? . . . . 
 
 ' ' Should some new star, in the fair even- 
 ing sky. 
 Kindle a blaze, startling so keen an eye 
 Of llamings eminent, athwart the dews. 
 Our thoughts would say, Ko doubt 
 That star will soon burn out. 
 What is the use ? 
 
 "Who'll care for me, when I am dead 
 
 and gone ? 
 Not many now, and surely, soon, not one ; 
 And should I sing like an immortal Muse, 
 Men, if they read the line, 
 Read for their good, not mine ; 
 W'hat is the use ? . . . . 
 
 "Spirit of Beauty! Breath of golden 
 
 lyres ! 
 Perpetual tremble of immortal wires ! 
 Divinely torturing rapture of the Muse ! 
 Conspicuous wretchedness ! 
 Thou stariy, sole success ! — 
 What is the use ? 
 
 ' ' Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow, 
 That he who makes it is not easy now, 
 But hopes to be? Vain hope that dost 
 abuse ! 
 Coquetting with thine eyes. 
 And fooling liim who sighs. 
 What is the use ? 
 
 "Go pry the lintels of the pyramids; 
 Lift the old kings' mysterious coffin dills — 
 This dust was theirs whose names these 
 stones confuse, 
 These mighty monuments 
 Of mighty discontents. 
 What is the use?
 
 ERASTUS W. ELLSWORTH. 
 
 nctn 
 
 " Did not he vSimi it all , whose Gate of Pearls 
 Blazed royal Upliir, Tyre, and Syrian 
 
 girls, — 
 Tlie great, wise, famous monarch of the 
 Jews? 
 Though rolled in grandeur vast. 
 He said of all, at last : 
 What is the use ? 
 
 "0, but to take, of life, the natural good. 
 Even as a lierinit caverned in a wood, 
 More sweetly tills my sober-suited views. 
 
 Than sweating to attain 
 
 Any luxurious pain. 
 What is the use? 
 
 •'Give me a hermit's life, without his 
 
 beads, — 
 His lantern-jawed, and moral-mouthing 
 
 creeds ; 
 Systems and creeds the natural heart 
 abuse. 
 What need of any book, 
 Or spiritual ci'ook ? 
 Wliat is the use ? 
 
 "I love, and God is love ; and I behold 
 Man, Nature, God, one triple chain of 
 
 gold, — 
 Nature in all sole oracle and muse. 
 What should I seek, at all. 
 More than is natural ? 
 What is the use?" 
 
 Seeing this man so heathenly inclined, — 
 So wilted in the mood of a good mind, 
 I felt a kind of heat of earnest thought; 
 And studying in reply. 
 Answered him, eye to eye: 
 
 Thou dost amaze me that thou dost mis- 
 take 
 The wanderingri vers for the fountain lake. 
 "What is the end of living? — happiness? 
 
 An end that none attain, 
 
 Argues a purpose vain. 
 
 Plainly, this world is not a scope for bliss. 
 But duty. Yet we see not all that is. 
 Or may be, some day, if we love the 
 light. 
 W^hat man is, in desires, 
 Whispers where man aspires. 
 
 But what and where are we? what now 
 — to-day ? 
 
 Souls on a globe that spins our lives 
 
 away, — 
 A multitudinous world, where Heaven 
 and Hell, 
 Strangely in battle met. 
 Their gonfalons have set. 
 
 Dust though we are, and shall return to 
 
 dust. 
 Yet being born to battles, fight we must ; 
 Under which ensign is our only choice. 
 
 We know to wage our best, 
 
 God only knows the rest. 
 
 Then since we see about us sin and dole, 
 And some things good, why not, with 
 
 hand and soul, 
 W^restle and succor out of wrong and 
 sorrow, — 
 Grasping the swords of strife, 
 iLaking the most of life ? 
 
 Yea, all that we can wield is worth the end, 
 If sought as God's and man's most loyal 
 
 friend. 
 Naked we come into the world, and take 
 
 Weapons of various skill, — 
 
 Let us not use them ill. 
 
 As for the creeds. Nature is dark at 
 
 best; 
 And darker still is the deep human breast. 
 Therefore consider well of creed^ and 
 books. 
 Lest thou niayst somewhat fail 
 Of things beyond the vail. 
 
 Nature was dark to the dim starry ago 
 Of wistful Job : and that Athenian sa;-e. 
 Pensive in piteous thought of Faith's 
 distress ; 
 For still she cried, with tears : 
 "More light, ye crystal spheres !" 
 
 But rouse thee, man ! Shake off this 
 
 hideous death ! 
 Be man ! Stand up ! Draw in a mighty 
 
 breath ! 
 This world has quite enough emasculate 
 hands. 
 Dallying with doubt and sin. 
 Come — here is work — begin ! 
 
 Gome, here is work — and a rank field— ^ 
 
 begin. 
 Put thou thine edge to the great weeds 
 
 of sin ;
 
 324 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 So slialt thou find the use of life, and see | To make me own this hind of princes 
 
 Thy Lord, at set of sun, 
 Approach and say, "Well done !" 
 
 This at the last : They clutch the sapless 
 
 fruit, 
 Ashes and dust of the Dead Sea, who 
 
 suit 
 Their course of life to compass happiness ; 
 But be it understood 
 That, to be greatly good, 
 All is the use. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 
 (From " The London Punch. ") 
 
 You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's 
 bier, 
 You, who with mocking pencil wont 
 to trace, 
 Broad for the self-complacent British 
 sneer. 
 His length of shambling limb, his far- 
 rowed face. 
 
 His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, 
 bristling hair, 
 Hisgarbuneouth, hisbearingill at ease. 
 His lack of all we prize as debonair. 
 Of power or will to shine, of art to 
 please. 
 
 You, whose smart pen backed up the 
 pencil's laugh. 
 Judging eai'h step, as though the way 
 were plain ; 
 Eeckless, so it could point its ])aragraph. 
 Of chief's perplexity or people's pain. 
 
 Beside this corpse, that bears for wind- 
 ing-sheet 
 The stars and stripes he lived to rear 
 anew. 
 Between the mourners at his head and 
 feet. 
 Say, scurril-jester, is there room for 
 you ? 
 
 Yes, he had lived to shame me from my 
 sneer, 
 To lame my pencil, and confute my 
 pen, — 
 
 peer. 
 This rail-splitter a true-born king of 
 men. 
 
 My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, 
 
 Noting how to occasion's height he rose, 
 
 How his quaint wit made home-truth 
 
 seem more true. 
 
 How, iron -like, his temper grew by 
 
 blows. 
 
 How humble, yet howhopeful he could be ; 
 
 How in good fortune and in ill the 
 same : 
 Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he. 
 
 Thirsty for gold, nor leverish for fame. 
 
 He went about his work, — such woik 
 as few 
 Ever had laid on head and heart and 
 hand, — 
 As one who knows, where there 's a task 
 to do, 
 Man's honest will must Heaven's good 
 grace command ; 
 
 "Who trusts the strength will with the 
 burden grow, 
 That God makes instruments to work 
 his will. 
 If but that will we can arrive to know, 
 Nor tamper with the weights of good 
 and ill. 
 
 So he went forth to battle on the side 
 That he felt clear was Liberty's and 
 Right's, 
 As in his ptjasant boyhood he had plied 
 His warfiire with rude Nature's thwart- 
 inij mights, — 
 
 The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil. 
 The iron bark that turns the lumberers 
 axe. 
 The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's 
 toil, 
 The prairie, hiding the mazed wander- 
 er's tracks. 
 
 The ambushed Indian, and the prowling 
 bear, — 
 Such were the needs that helped his 
 youth to train :
 
 MES. MILES. 
 
 ^^^5 
 
 OZ( 
 
 Rough culture, — but such trees large 
 fruit may bear, 
 If but their stocks be of right girth and 
 grain. 
 
 So he grew up, a destined work to do, 
 And lived to do it ; four long-suffering 
 years' 
 111 -fate, ill-feeling, ill -report, lived 
 through, 
 And then he heard the hisses change 
 to clieers. 
 
 The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise. 
 And took both with the same unwaver- 
 ing mood : 
 Till, as he came on light, from darkling 
 da}'s. 
 And secmeil to touch the goal from 
 where he stood, 
 
 A felon had, between the goal and him, 
 Keached from behind his back, a trigger 
 prest, — 
 And those perplexed and patient eyes 
 were dim. 
 Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were 
 laid to rest ! 
 
 The words of mercy were upon his lips, 
 Forgiveness in his heart and on his pen, 
 When this vile murderer brought swift 
 eclipse 
 To thoughts of peace on earth, good- 
 will to men. 
 
 The Q\d World and the New, from sea 
 to sea, ' 
 
 Utter one voice of sympathy and 
 shame! 
 Sore heart, so stopped when it at last 
 beat high ; 
 Sad life, cut short just as its triumph 
 came. 
 
 A deed accurst ! Strokes have been struck 
 before 
 By the assassin's hand, whereof men 
 doubt 
 If more of horror or disgrace they bore ; 
 But thy foul Clime, like Cain's, stands 
 darkly out. 
 
 Vile hand, that brandest murder on a 
 strife, 
 Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly 
 striven ; 
 
 And with the martyr's crown crownest a 
 life 
 With much to praise, little to be for- 
 
 MES. MILES. 
 
 HYMN TO CHRIST. 
 
 Thou, who didst stoop below 
 
 To drain the cup of woe. 
 Wearing the form of frail mortality. 
 
 Thy blessed labors done, 
 
 Thy crown of victory won. 
 Hast passed from earth, — passed to 
 thy throne on high. 
 
 Our eyes behold thee not, 
 Yet luist thou not forgot 
 Those who have placed their hope, their 
 trust, in thee: 
 Before thy Father's face 
 Thou liast prepared a place, 
 That where thou art, there may they also 
 be. 
 
 It was no path of flowers. 
 Through this dark world of ours, 
 
 Beloved of the Father, thou didst tread ; 
 And shall we in dismay 
 Shrink from the narrow way. 
 
 When clouds and darkness are around it 
 spread ? 
 
 Thou who art our life. 
 Be with us through the strife ; 
 Was not thy head by earth's fierce tem- 
 pests bowed? 
 Eaise thou our eyes above 
 To see a Father's love 
 Beam, like a bow of promise, through the 
 cloud. 
 
 E'en through the awful gloom. 
 Which hovers o'er the tomb. 
 That light of love our guiding star shall 
 be; _ 
 Our spirits shall not dread 
 The shadowy way to tread, 
 Friend ! Guardian ! Saviour ! whicli doth 
 lead to thee !
 
 32G 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 F. M. FINCH. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 
 
 By the flow of tlie inland river, 
 Whence the fleets of iron have tied, 
 Where the blades of the grave -grass quiver, 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead; — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 Waiting tlie judgment day ; — 
 Under the one, the Blue;" 
 Under the other, the Gray. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours 
 Tlie desolate inourners go. 
 Lovingly laden with Howers 
 Alike for the friend and the foe; — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 AVaiting the judgment day; — 
 Under the i-oses, the Blue; 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So with an equal splendor 
 The morning sun-rays fall, 
 With a touch, impartially tender. 
 
 On the blossoms blooming for all; 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 Waiting the judgment day ;^ 
 'Bioidered with gold, the*BIue; 
 Mellowed with' gold, the Gray. 
 
 So, when the sumnier calleth, 
 On forest and field of grain 
 With an equal murmur falleth 
 The cooling drip of the rain; — 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 Waiting the judgment day; — 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue; 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 
 
 Sadly, but not with upbraiding. 
 
 The genei-ous deed was done ; " 
 
 J 11 the storm of the years that are fading, 
 
 No braver battle Avas won ; 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day; 
 
 Iniiler the blossoms, the Blue; 
 I'nder the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 No more shall the war-cry sever, 
 
 _<)r the winding rivers be red ; 
 
 Tlu'v banish our anger forever 
 
 Wiieii tUey laurel the graves of our dead ! 
 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 AVaiting the judgment day ; — 
 Love and teai-s for the Blue, 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE STATUE. 
 
 Ijf Athens, when all learning centred 
 
 there. 
 Men leared a column of surpassing 
 
 height 
 In honor of Minerva, wise and fair, 
 And on the top, that dwindled to the 
 
 sight, 
 A statue of the goddess was to stand. 
 That wisdom might obtain in all the 
 
 land. 
 
 And he who, Avith the beauty in his heart. 
 Seeking in faultless work immortal 
 
 youth, 
 AVould mould this statue with the finest 
 
 art. 
 Making the wintry marble glow with 
 
 truth. 
 Should gain the prize. Two sculptors 
 
 sought the fame ; 
 The prize they craved was an enduring 
 
 name. 
 
 Alcamenes soon can'ed his little best ; 
 But Phidias, beneath a dazzling 
 thought 
 That like a bright sun in a cloudless west 
 Lit up his wide, great soul, witli pure 
 love wrought 
 A statue, and its face of changeless stone 
 With calm, far-sighted wisdom towered 
 and shone. 
 
 Then to be judged the lal>ors were un- 
 veiled ; 
 But at the marble thought, that by 
 degi'ees 
 
 OfhardshipPhidias cut, thepeople railed. 
 "The lines are coarse; the form too 
 large," said these; 
 
 "And he who sends this rough result of 
 haste 
 
 Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste."
 
 JOHN •BUREOUGHS. — SAEAH AVOOLSEY. 
 
 
 Alcairienes' praised work was lifted liigh 
 Upon the capital wlieie it niif,dit stand ; 
 But there it seemed too small, and 'gainst 
 the sky 
 Had no proportion from the uplooking 
 land ; 
 So it was lowered, and (juickly put aside, 
 Aud the scorned thought was mounted 
 to be tried. 
 
 Surprise swept o'er thefaees of the crowd, 
 Aud changed them as a sudden breeze 
 may change 
 A field of tickle grass, and long and loud 
 Their mingled shouts to see a sight so 
 strange. 
 The statue stood completed in its place, 
 Each coarse line melted to a line of 
 gi'ace. 
 
 So bold, great actions, that are seen too 
 near. 
 Look rash and foolish to unthinking 
 eyes; 
 
 They need the past for distance to ap- 
 pear 
 In their true grandeur. Let us yet be 
 wise 
 
 And not too soon our neighbor's deed 
 malign. 
 
 For what seems coarse is often good and 
 fine. 
 
 JOHN BURROUGHS. 
 
 [O. S. A.] 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 Serene, I fold my hands and wait. 
 Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea ; 
 
 I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, 
 For lo ! my own shall come to me. 
 
 I stay my haste, T make dela5's. 
 For what avails this eager pace ? 
 
 I stand amid the eteinal ways, 
 
 And what is mine shall know my face. 
 
 Asleep, awake, by night or day. 
 The friends I seek are seeking me ; 
 
 No wind can drive my bark astiay. 
 Nor change the tide of destiny. 
 
 What matter if I stand alone? 
 
 I wait with joy the coming years ; 
 My heart shall rea]) where it has sown, 
 
 Aud garner up its fruit of tears. 
 
 The Avaters know their own and draw 
 Thebrook that springsin yonder height; 
 
 So Hows the good with equal law 
 Unto the soul of pure delight. 
 
 The stars come nightly to the sky ; 
 
 The tidal wave unto the sea; 
 Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, 
 
 Can keep my own away from me. 
 
 SAEAH WOOLSEY. 
 
 [u. s. a] 
 
 IN THE MIST. 
 
 Sitting all day in a silver mist, 
 In silver silence all the day. 
 Save for the low, soft hiss of spray 
 
 And the lisp of .sands by waters kissed. 
 As the tide draws up the bay. 
 
 Little I hear and nothing I see, 
 
 Wrajiped in that veil by fairies spun ; 
 The solid earth is vanished for me 
 And the shining hours speed noiseles.sly, 
 A woof of shadow and sun. 
 
 Suddenly out of the shifting veil 
 
 A magical bark, by the sunbeams lit, 
 Flits like a dream — or seems lo Hit — 
 
 With a golden prow and a gossamer sail. 
 And the waves make room for it. 
 
 A fair, swift bark from some radiant realm. 
 Its diamond cordage cuts the sky 
 In glittering lines, all silently 
 
 A seeming sjiirit holds the helm 
 And steers. AVill he pass me by ? 
 
 Ah ! not for me is the vessel here, 
 
 Noiseless and swift as a sea-bird's flight 
 She swerves and vanishes from the 
 sight ; 
 
 No flap of sail, no parting cheer, — 
 She has passed into the light. 
 
 Sitting some day in a deejiei' mist. 
 Silent, alone, some other day,
 
 828 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 An unknown bark, from an unknown 
 bay, 
 By unknown waters hipped and kissed, 
 Shall near me through the spray. 
 
 No flap of sail, no scraping of keel, 
 
 Sliadowy, dim, with a banner dark. 
 It will hover, will pause, and I shall feel 
 A hand which grasps me, and shivering 
 steal 
 To the cold strand, and embark. 
 
 Embark for that far, mysterious I'ealni 
 Where the fatlioniless, trackless waters 
 
 flow. 
 Sliall 1 feel a Presence dim, and know 
 Thy dear hand, Lord, upon the helm, 
 
 Nor be afraid to go ? 
 And through black waves and stormy 
 blast 
 And out of the fog-wreaths, dense and 
 
 dun. 
 Guided by thee, shall the vessel run. 
 Gain the fair haven, night being past. 
 And anchor in the sun? 
 
 JOHN JAMES riATT. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE MORNING STREET. 
 
 Alone I walk the morning street, 
 Filled with the silence vague and sweet : 
 All seems as strange, as still, as dead, 
 As if unnumlicrcd years had lied. 
 Letting the noisy Babel lie 
 Breathless and (lunib against the sky ; 
 The liglit wind walks with me alone 
 Where the hot day flame-like was blown, 
 Where the wheels roared, thi; dust was 
 
 beat ; 
 The dew is in the morning street. 
 
 Where are the restless throngs that pour 
 
 Along this niigiity corridor 
 
 While the noon shines? — the hurrying 
 
 crowd 
 Whose footsteps make the city loud,^ — 
 Tlie myriad faces, — hearts that beat 
 No more in the d(^';erted street? 
 Tiiose f()otste]is in their dreaming maze 
 Cross thresholds of forgotten days ; 
 
 Those faces brighten from the years 
 I n rising suns long set in tears ; 
 Those hearts, — far in the Past they beat. 
 Unheard within the morning street. 
 
 .\ city of the world's gray prime, 
 Lost in some desert fur from Time, 
 Where noiseless ages, gliding through. 
 Have only sifted sand and dew, — 
 Yet a mysterious hand of man 
 Lj'ing on all the haunted plan. 
 The jjassions of the human heart 
 Quickening the marble breast of Ail, — 
 Were not more strange to one who hrst 
 Upon its ghostly silence burst 
 Than this vast (juiet where the tide 
 Of life, upheaved on either side. 
 Hangs trembling, ready soon to beat 
 With human waves the morning street. 
 Ay, soon the glowing morning flood 
 Breaks through the charmed solitude : 
 Tills silent stone, to music won, 
 Shall murmur to the rising sun ; 
 The busy ])lace, in dust and heat, 
 Shall rush with wheels and swarm with 
 
 feet ; 
 The Arac hiie-threads of Purpose stream 
 Unseen within the morning gleam ; 
 The life shall move, the death be plain ; 
 The bridal throng, the funeral train, 
 Together, face to f ce, shall meet 
 And pass within the moniing street. 
 
 EICHAED W. GILDER. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 DAWN. 
 
 The night was dark, though sometimes 
 
 a faint star 
 A little while a little space made bright. 
 The night was long and like an iron 
 
 bar 
 I^ay heavy on the land : till o'er the sea 
 Slowly, within the East, there grew a 
 
 light 
 Which half was starlight, and half seemed 
 
 to be 
 The herald of a greater. The pale 
 
 white 
 Turned slowly to pale rose, an<l up the 
 
 height 
 Of heaven slowly climbed. The gray
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
 329 
 
 Rose-colored like the sky. A white gull 
 tlew 
 
 Straight toward the utmost boundary of 
 the East, 
 
 Where slowly the rose gathered and in- 
 creased. 
 
 It was as on the opening of a door 
 
 By one that in his hand a lamp doth 
 hold, 
 
 W^hose tiame is hidden by the garment's 
 fold, — 
 
 The still air moves, the wide room is less 
 dim. 
 
 More bright the East became, the ocean 
 turned 
 
 Dark and more dark against the bright- 
 ening .sky, — 
 
 Sharper against the sky the long sea line. 
 
 The hollows of the breakers on the shore 
 
 Were green like leaves whereon no sun 
 doth shine. 
 
 Though white the outer branches of the 
 tree. 
 
 From rose to red the level heaven burned ; 
 
 Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on 
 high, 
 
 A blade of gold flashed on the horizon's 
 rim. 
 
 THE SOWER. 
 
 A Sower went forth to sow, 
 
 His eyes were wild with woe; 
 
 He crushed the flowers beneath his feet. 
 
 Nor smelt the perfume, warm and sweet, 
 
 That prayed for pity everywhere. 
 
 He came to a field that was liarried 
 
 By iron, and to heaven laid bare : 
 
 He shook the seed that he carried 
 
 O'er that brown and bladeless place. 
 
 He shook it, as God shakes hail 
 
 Over a doomed land. 
 
 When lightnings interlace 
 
 The sky and the earth, and his wand 
 
 Of love is a thunder-flail. 
 
 Thus did that Sower sow ; 
 His seed was iiuman blood. 
 And teai's of women and men. 
 And I, who near him stood. 
 Said : When the crop comes, then 
 There will be sobbing and sighing, 
 Weeping and wailing and crying, 
 And a w oe that is worse than woe. 
 
 II. 
 
 It was an autumn day 
 
 When next I went that way. 
 
 And what, think you, did I see ? 
 
 What was it thatl heard? 
 
 The song of a sweet-voiced bird ? 
 
 Nay, — but the songs of many, 
 
 Tlirilled through with praising prayer. 
 
 Of all those voices not any 
 
 Were sad of memory : 
 
 And a sea of sunlight flowed. 
 
 And a golden harvest glowed! 
 
 On my face I fell down there ; 
 I hid my weeping eyes, 
 I said : God, thou art wise ! 
 And I thank thee, again and again, 
 For the Sower whose name is Pain. 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
 THE DANCE. 
 
 (From " The Witch's Ballad.") 
 
 0, I HAE come from far away, 
 Fi'om a warm land far away, 
 A southern land ayont the sea, 
 With sailor lads about the mast 
 Merry and canny and kiiid to me. 
 
 And I hae been to yon town. 
 
 To try my luck in yon town ; 
 Nort, and Mysie, Elsjue too. 
 Right braw we were to pass the gate 
 Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue. 
 
 Mysie smiled wi' miming mouth. 
 
 Innocent mouth, miming mouth; 
 Elspie wore her scarlet gown, 
 Nort's gray eyes were unco' gleg. 
 My Castile comb was like a crown. 
 
 We walked abreast all up the street, 
 
 Into tlie market u]) the street : 
 Our hair wi' mar3'golds was wound. 
 Our bodices wi' love-knots laced, 
 Our merchandise wi' tansy bound. 
 
 Nort had chickens, I had cocks, 
 
 GamesouK^ cocks, loud-crowing cocks; 
 Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes. 
 For a wee groat or a pound. 
 We lost nae time wi' gives and takes.
 
 330 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Lost nae time, for weel we knew, 
 
 In our sleeves fu' weel we knew. 
 When the jiloaming came that night, 
 Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock, 
 Would be found by candlelight. 
 
 When our chaffering a' was done, 
 All was paid for, sold and done, 
 We drew a glove on ilka hand, 
 We sweetly curtsied eatdi to each, 
 And deftly danced a saraband. 
 
 The market lasses looked and laughed, 
 
 Left their gear and looked and laughed; 
 They made as they would join the game, 
 But soon their mithers, wild and wiid, 
 Wi' whack and screech they stopped the 
 same. 
 
 Sae loud the tongues o' raudies grew, 
 
 The flitin' and the skirlin' grew, 
 At a' the windows i' the place, 
 Wi' spoons and knives, wi' needle or awl. 
 Was thrust out ilka hand and face. 
 
 And down each stair thej'thronged anon ; 
 
 Gentle, simjile, thronged anon ; 
 Souter and tailor, frowzy Nan, 
 The ancient widow j'ouug again 
 Simpering behind her fan. 
 
 Without choice, against their will. 
 Doited, dazed against their will. 
 The market lassie and her niither, 
 The farmer and his husbandman, 
 Hand in hand danced a' thegether. 
 
 Slow at first, but faster soon. 
 
 Still increasin' wild and fast. 
 Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, 
 lilindly doffed, and frae them cast, 
 Lc(t them naked, heads and toes. 
 
 They would hae torn us limb frae limb. 
 
 Dainty limb frae dainty limb ; 
 But never ane o' them could win 
 Across the line that 1 had diawn 
 Wi' bleeding thumb a-witherskin. 
 
 There was Jeff the provost's son, 
 
 Jeff the provost's only son ; 
 There was Father Auld iiimsel', 
 The Lombard frae the hostelrie, 
 And the lawyer Peter Fell. 
 
 All goodly men we singled out, 
 Waled them well and singled out, 
 
 And drew them b}' the left hand in, — 
 Mysie the priest, and Elspie won 
 The Lombard, Nort the lawyer curie, 
 And I my niysel' the provost's son. 
 
 Then wi' cantrip kisses seven, 
 
 Thiee times round wi' kisses seven, 
 Warped and woven there spun we. 
 Arms and legs and flaming hair, 
 Like a whirlwind on the sea. 
 
 Like the wind that sucks the sea. 
 
 Over and in and on the sea. 
 Good sooth, it was a mad delight ; 
 And ilka man o' all the four 
 Shut his eyes and laughed outright, — 
 
 Laughed as long as they had breath. 
 
 Laughed while they had sense or breath ; 
 And close about us coiled a mist 
 Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies ; 
 Like the whirlwind shaft it rist. 
 
 Drawn up was I right off my feet, 
 
 Lito the mist and off my feet; 
 And, dancing on each chimnej'-top, 
 I saw a thousand darling imps 
 Keeping time wi' skip and hop. 
 
 We '11 gang ance niair to yon town, 
 
 Wi' better luck to yon town : 
 We'll walk in silk and cramocsie. 
 And I shall wed the prevost's son ; 
 My lady o' the town I '11 be ! 
 
 J'or I was born a crowned king's child, 
 
 Born and nursed a king's child, 
 King o' a land ayont the sea. 
 Where the Blackamoor kissed me first 
 And taught me art and glamourie. 
 
 The Lombard shall be Els]ne's man, 
 
 Elspie's gowden husbandman ; 
 Nort shall take the lawyer's hand ; 
 The priest shall swear another vow. 
 We '11 dance again the saraband ! 
 
 JOSEPH BREXXAN. 
 
 COME TO ME, DEAREST. 
 
 Come to me, dearest, 1 'm lonely with- 
 out thee, 
 
 Day-time and night-time, I 'm thinking 
 about thee ;
 
 CHARLES Ct. LELAND. 
 
 331 
 
 Niglit-time and day-time, in dreams I 
 
 behoUl tliee ; 
 Unwelcome the waking wliich ceases to 
 
 fold thee. 
 Come to me, darling, my sorrows to 
 
 lighten. 
 Come in thy beauty to bless and to 
 
 brighten ; 
 Come in thy womanhood, meekly and 
 
 lowly, 
 Come intliy lovingness, queenly and holy. 
 
 Swallows will flit round the desolate 
 ruin. 
 
 Telling of spring and its joyous renew- 
 ing 
 
 And thoughts of thy love, and its mani- 
 fold treasure, 
 
 Are circling my heart with a promise of 
 ])leasure. 
 
 Springof my spirit, Mayof mybosom. 
 
 Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon 
 and blossom ; 
 
 The waste of my life has a rose-root 
 within it. 
 
 And thy fondness alone to the sunshine 
 can win it. 
 
 Figure that moves like a song through 
 
 the even, 
 Features lit up by a reflex of heaven ; 
 Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our 
 
 mother, 
 Where shadow and sunshine are chas- 
 ing each other ; 
 Smiles coining seldom, but childlike and 
 
 simple, 
 Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet 
 
 dimple; — 
 0, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy 
 
 seeming 
 Is left to the exile to brighten his 
 
 dreaming. 
 
 You have been glad when you knew I 
 
 was gladdened ; 
 Dear, are you sad now to hear I am 
 
 saddened? 
 Our hearts ever answer in tune and in 
 
 time, love. 
 As octave to octave, and rhyme unto 
 
 rhyme, love : 
 I cannot weep but your tears will be 
 
 flowing, 
 You cannot smile but my cheek will be 
 
 glowing ; 
 
 I would not die without you at my side, 
 
 love. 
 You will not linger when I shall have 
 
 died, love. 
 
 Come to me, dear, ere 1 die of my sorrow, 
 Rise on my gloom like the sun of to- 
 morrow ; 
 Strong, swift, and fond as the words 
 
 which I speak, love. 
 With a song on your lip and a smile on 
 
 your cheek, love. 
 Come, for my heart in your absence is 
 
 weary, — 
 Haste, for my spirit is sickened and 
 
 dreary, — 
 Come to the arms Avhich alone should 
 
 caress thee. 
 Come to the l^art that is throbbing to 
 
 press thee ! 
 
 CHARLES G. LELAND. 
 
 . [U. S. A.] 
 
 THE MUSIC-LESSON OF CONmCIirS. 
 
 The music-lesson of Koung-tseu the wise. 
 Known as Confucius in the western 
 world. 
 
 Of all the sages of the Flowery Land 
 None knew so well as great Confucius 
 The ancient rites ; and when his mother 
 
 died. 
 Three years he mourned alone beside 
 
 her tomb 
 As the Ohl Custom bade, nor did he miss 
 A single detail of the dark old forms 
 Required of the bereaved, for he had 
 
 made 
 Himself a model for all living men : 
 A minor and a pattern of the Past. 
 
 Now when the years of mourning with 
 
 their rites 
 Were at an end, Confucius came forth 
 And wandered as of old with other men. 
 Giving his counsel unto many kings ; 
 But still tlie hand of grief was on his 
 
 heart, 
 And his dark hue set forth his darkened 
 
 liours. 
 To drive away these sorrows from his 
 
 soul.
 
 O'>o 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Keinembering that music had been made 
 A iu»ral motive in the golden books 
 OF wisdom by the sacred ancestors, 
 He played upon the Kin — the curious 
 
 lute 
 Invented bj' Fou-Hi in days of old ; 
 Fou-Hi of the bull's head and dragon's 
 
 form, 
 The Lord of Learning who upraised 
 
 mankind 
 From being silent brutes to singing men. 
 
 In vain Confucius played upon the lute; 
 H.' found that music would not be to 
 
 him 
 What it had been of old, — a pastime 
 
 gay : 
 For he had borne through three long 
 
 years of grief . 
 Stupendous knowledge, and his mighty 
 
 soul, 
 Grasping the lines which link all earthly 
 
 lore. 
 Had been by suffering raised to greater 
 
 power : 
 For he who knows and suffers, if he will 
 May raise himself unnumbered scales 
 
 o'er man. 
 
 The music spoke no more its wonted 
 
 sounds. 
 Rut whispered mysteries in a broken 
 
 tongue 
 Which urged him sorely. Then Con- 
 fucius said : 
 " secret Music ! saci-ed tongue of God ! 
 1 hear thee calling to me, and I come ! 
 Of old I did but know thy outer form, 
 And dreamed not of the spirit hid 
 
 within ; 
 The Goddess in the Lotus. Yes, I come, 
 And will not rest, — nor will 1 calm my 
 
 doubt I 
 
 Till I have seen thee plainly with nunc 
 
 eyes. 
 And palpably have touched thee with 
 
 my hand, 
 Then shall I know thee, — raised to life 
 
 fpr WW. 
 For what thou truly art. ' 
 
 Lo ! 1 have heard 
 That in the land of Kin a master lives, 1 
 So deeply skilled in nuisic, that mankind 
 Begin again to give a glowing faith i 
 
 Unto the golden stories wliicli are told 
 Of the strange iiarmonics which built 
 
 the world, I 
 
 And of the melody whose key is God. 
 Now I will travel to the land of Kin, 
 And know this sage of music, great 
 
 Siang, 
 And learn the secret lore which hides 
 
 within 
 All sweet well-ordered sounds." He 
 
 went his waj'. 
 Nor rested till he stood before the man. 
 
 Thus spoke Siang unto Confucius : 
 "Of all the arts, great Music is the art 
 To raise the soul above all earthly storms ; 
 For in it lies that purest harmony 
 Which lifts us over self and up to 
 
 God. 
 Thou who hast studied deeply the ^r^i^a — 
 The eight great symbols of created 
 
 things — 
 Knovvest the sacred power of the line 
 Which when unbroken Hies to all the 
 
 worlds 
 As light unending, — but in broken fonns 
 Falls short as sky and eailh, clouds, 
 
 winds, and hre, 
 The deep blue ocean and the mountain 
 
 high. 
 And the red lightning hissing in the wave. 
 The mighty law which formed what thou 
 
 canst see. 
 As clearly lives in all that thou canst 
 
 hear. 
 And more than this, in all that thou 
 
 canst feel. 
 Here, take thy lute in hand. I teach 
 
 the air 
 Made by the sage Wen Wang of ancient 
 
 days." 
 
 Confucius took the lute and played the 
 
 air 
 Till all his soul seemed passing into 
 
 song; 
 Tlieu he fell deep into the solemn chords 
 As though his body and the lute were 
 
 one. 
 And every chord a wave which bore him 
 
 on 
 Through the great sea of ecstasy. His 
 
 hands 
 Then ceased to play, — butinhisraiitured 
 
 look 
 The)' saw him following out the harmony. 
 
 Five days went by, and still Confueins 
 Played all day long the ancient simple 
 air;
 
 CHARLES G. LELAND. 
 
 ooo 
 
 And when Siang would teach him more^ 
 
 lie said : 
 "Not yet, my master, I would seize the 
 
 thoiKjht, 
 The subtle thought which hides within 
 
 the tune." 
 To which the master answered: "It is 
 
 well. 
 Take five days more!" And when the 
 
 time was passed 
 Unto Siaug thus spoke Confucius : 
 "I do begin to see, ^ — yet wliat I see 
 Is very dim. I am as one who looks 
 And nothing sees except a luminous 
 
 cloud : 
 Give me but five more days, and at the 
 
 end 
 If I have not attained the great idea 
 Hidden of old within the melody, 
 I will leave music as beyond my power." 
 "Do as thou wilt, pupil !" cried Siang 
 In deepest admiration; "never yet 
 Had 1 a scholar who was like to thee." 
 
 And on the fifteenth day Confucius rose 
 And stood before Siang, and cried aloud : 
 "The mist which sliadowed me is blown 
 
 away, 
 I am as one who stands upon a cliff 
 And gazes far and wide ujion the world, 
 For I have mastered every secret thought. 
 Yea, every shadow of a feeling dim 
 AVliieh flitted through tlie spirit of Wen 
 
 Wang 
 When he composed that air. I speak to 
 
 Iiim, 
 I hear him clearlj' answer me again ; 
 And more than that, I see his very form : 
 A man of middle stature, with a hue 
 Half blended with tlie dark and with the 
 
 fair ; 
 His features long, and large sweet eyes 
 
 whieli beam 
 With great benevolence, — a noble fa^e ! 
 His voice is deep and full, and all his air 
 Inspires a sense of virtue and of love. 
 1 know that I behold the very man. 
 The sage of ancient days. Wen Wang the 
 
 just." 
 
 Then good Siang lay down upon the dust. 
 And said : " Thou art my master. Even 
 
 thus 
 The ancient legend, known to none but 
 
 ine. 
 Describes our first great sire. And thou 
 
 hast seen 
 
 ! That which I never yet mj'self beheld, 
 Though I have played the sacred song 
 
 for years. 
 Striving with all my soul to penetrate 
 Its mystery unto the master's form, 
 Whilst thou hast reached it at a single 
 
 bound : — 
 Henceforth the gods alone can teach thee 
 
 tune." 
 
 MINE OWN. 
 
 And 0, the longing, burning eyes ! 
 
 And 0, the gleaming hair 
 Which waves around nie, night and day, 
 
 U'er chamber, hall, and stair! 
 
 And 0, the step, half drtamt, half heard ! 
 
 And 0, the laughter low I 
 And memories of merriment 
 
 Which faded long ago! 
 
 0, art thou Sylph, — or truly Self, — 
 
 Or either at thy choice? 
 0, speak in breeze or beating heart, 
 
 But let me hear thy voice ! 
 
 "0, some do call me Laughter, love; 
 
 And some do call me Sin" : — 
 "And they may call thee what they will. 
 
 So I th}' love may win. 
 
 "And some do call me Wantonnes.s, 
 And some do call me Play" : — 
 
 "(), they might call thee what tliey wou'.d 
 If thou wert mine alway ! " 
 
 "And some do call me Sottow, love, 
 
 And some do call me Tears, 
 And some thei'e be who name me Hope, 
 
 And some that name me Fears. 
 
 "And some do call me Gentle Heart, 
 And some Forgetfulness" : — 
 
 "And if tliou cora'st as one or all. 
 Thou comest but to bless !" 
 
 "And some do call me Life, sweetheart, 
 And some do call me Death ; 
 
 And he to whom the two are one 
 Has won my heart and faith.' 
 
 She twined her white arms round his 
 neck : — 
 
 The tears fell down like rain, 
 "And if I live or if 1 die. 
 
 We'll never part again."
 
 oo4 
 
 SOXGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK. 
 
 URVASI. 
 
 'T IS a story told by Kalulasa, — 
 Hindoo poet, — in melodious rhyme, 
 
 How with train of maidens, young Urvasi 
 Came to keep great Indra's festal time. 
 
 'T was her part in worshipful confession 
 Oi' the god-name on that sacred day, 
 
 AValking Hower-crowned in the long pro- 
 cession, 
 "I love Puru-shotta-ma" to say. 
 
 Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges. 
 Heaven -descended, soon to heaven 
 withdrawn, 
 Faii'er than the moon-flower of the 
 Ganges, 
 Was Urvasi, Daughter of the Dawn. 
 
 But it happened that the gentle maiden 
 Loved one Puru-avas, — fateful name ! — 
 
 And her heart, with its sweet secret laden. 
 Faltered when her time of utterance 
 came. 
 
 "I love" — then she stopped, and people 
 wondered ; 
 "I love" — she must guard her secret 
 well ; 
 Then from sweetest lips that ever blun- 
 dered, 
 "I love Puru-avas," trembling fell. 
 
 Ah, what terror seized on poor Urvasi ! 
 
 JMisty grew the violets of her eyes. 
 And iier form bent like a broken daisy, 
 
 While around her rose the mocking 
 cries. 
 
 But great Indra said, "The maid shall 
 many 
 Him whose image in her faithful heart 
 She so near to that of God doth carry. 
 Scarce her lips can keep their names 
 apart. " 
 
 Call it*then not weakness or dissem- 
 bling, 
 If, in striving the high name to reach, 
 Tlnougli our voices runs the tender 
 trembling 
 Of an earthly name too dear for 
 speech ! 
 
 Ever dwells the lesser in the greater; 
 * In God's love the human : we by these 
 Know he holds Love's simplest stam- 
 mering sweeter 
 Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL. 
 
 Up on the breezy headland the fisher- 
 man's grave they made, 
 Where, over the daisies and clover bells, 
 
 the birchen branches swayed ; 
 Above us the lark was singing in the 
 
 cloudless skies of June, 
 And under the clifl's the billows were 
 
 chanting their ceaseless tune : 
 For the creamy line was curving along 
 
 the hollow shore, 
 Where tiie dear old tides were flowing 
 
 that he would ride no more. 
 The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird, 
 
 and the priest's low tone were blent 
 In the breeze tliat blew from the moor- 
 land, all laden with country scent ; 
 But never a thought of the new-mown 
 
 hay tossing on sunnj' plains. 
 Or of lilies dee]) in the wild-wood, or 
 
 roses gemming the lanes. 
 Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed 
 
 men who gathered around the 
 
 grave. 
 Where lay the mate who had fought with 
 
 them the battle of wind and wave. 
 
 How boldly he steered the coble across 
 
 the foaming bar. 
 When the sky was black to the eastward 
 
 and the breakers whiteon the Scar ! 
 How his keen eye caughtthesquallahead, 
 
 how his strong handfurledthesail. 
 As we drove o'er the angry waters before 
 
 the raging gale ! 
 How cheery he kejjt all the long dark 
 
 night ; and never a parson spoke 
 Good words, like those he said to us, 
 
 when at last the morning broke ! 
 
 So thought the dead man's comrades, as 
 silent and sad they stood. 
 
 While the prayer was prayed, tlie blessing 
 said, and the dull earth struck the 
 wood ;
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 335 
 
 And the widow's soh niid tlio or)>han's 
 
 wail jarred tlirough the joyous air ; 
 How could the light wind o'er the sea, 
 
 blow on so fresh and fair? 
 How could the gay waves laugh and leap, 
 
 landward o'er sand and stone, 
 While he, who knew and loved them 
 
 all lay lapped in clay alone ? 
 
 But for long, when to the beetling heights 
 
 the anow-tipped billows roll. 
 When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart 
 
 aiound the herring shoal ; 
 When gear is sorted, and sails are set, 
 
 and the meny breezes blow. 
 And away to the deep sea-harvest the 
 
 stalwart reapers go, 
 A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they 
 
 will give to him who lies 
 Where the clover springs, and the heather 
 
 blooms, beneath the northern skies. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOU::- 
 TAINS IN WINTER, AFTER MANY 
 YEARS. 
 
 Long yeai-s ago I wandered here, 
 In the midsummer of the year, — 
 
 Life's summer too ; 
 A score of horsemen here we rode. 
 The mountain world its glories showed, 
 
 All fair to view. 
 
 These scenes in glowing colors drest. 
 Mirrored the life within my breast, 
 
 Its world of hopes ; 
 Thewhisperingwoods and fragrant breeze 
 That stirred the grass in verdant seas 
 
 On billowy slopes, 
 
 And glistening crag in sunlit sky, 
 
 Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, 
 
 Were joys to me ; 
 My path was o'er the prairie wide. 
 Or here on grander mountain-side, 
 
 To choose, all free. 
 
 The rose that waved in morning air. 
 And spread its dewy fragrance there 
 
 In careless bloom. 
 Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, 
 O'er my glad life its color threw 
 
 And sweet perfume. 
 
 Kow changed the scene and changed the 
 
 eyefe. 
 That here once looked on glowing skies, 
 
 Where summer snuled ; 
 These riven trees, this wind-sweyit plain 
 Now show the winter's dread domain, 
 
 Its fury wild. 
 
 The rocks rise black from storm-packed 
 
 snow. 
 All checked the river's pleasant flow, 
 
 Vanished the bloom ; 
 These dreary wastes of frozen plain 
 lieflect my bosom's life again. 
 
 Now lonesome gloom. 
 
 The buoyant hopes and busy life 
 Have ended all in hateful strife. 
 
 And thwarted aim. 
 The world's rude contact killed the rose, 
 No more its radiant color shows 
 
 False roads to fame. 
 
 Backward, amidst the twilight glow 
 k3ome lingering spots yet brightly show 
 
 On hard roads won. 
 Where still some grand peaks mark the way 
 Touched b}' the light of parting day 
 
 And memory's sun. 
 
 But here thick clouds the mountainshide, 
 The dim horizon bleak and wide 
 
 No pathway shows. 
 Ami rising gusts, and darkening skv, 
 Tell of "the night that cometli," nigh. 
 
 The brief day's close. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 JULY DAWNING. 
 
 "We left the city, street and square, 
 With lamplights glimmering through 
 and through. 
 And turned us toward the suburb, 
 where — 
 Full from the ea.st — the fre»h wind 
 blew. 
 
 One cloud stood overhead the sun, — 
 A glorious trail of ilome and spiie, — 
 
 The last star flickered, and was gone; 
 Till-' fast lark led the matin choir.
 
 336 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Wet was the grass beneath our tread, 
 Thiek-dewed the bramble % the way; 
 
 The lichen liad a lovelier red, 
 The elder-flower a fairer gray. 
 
 And there was silence on the land, 
 Save when, from out the city's ibid. 
 
 Stricken by Time's remorseless wand, 
 A bell across the morning tolled. 
 
 The beeches sighed through all their 
 boughs ; 
 
 The gusty pennons of the ])ine 
 Swayed in a melancholy drowse, 
 
 But with a motion sternly line. 
 
 One gable, full against the sun, . 
 
 Flooded the garden-space beneath 
 With s])ices, sweet as cinnamon. 
 
 From all its honeysuckled breath. 
 
 Then crew the cocks from echoing farms. 
 The chimney-tops were plumed with 
 smoke, 
 
 The windmill .shook its slanted arms, 
 The sun was up, the country woke ! 
 
 And voices sounded mid the trees 
 Of orchards red with burning leaves, 
 
 By thick hives, sentinelled Viy bees, — 
 From fields which promised tented 
 sheaves ; 
 
 Till the day waxed into excess, 
 
 And on the misty, rounding gray, — 
 
 One vast, fantastic wilderness. 
 The glowing roofs of London lay. 
 
 UNKNOWN. 
 
 THE FISHERMAN'S SUMII0N3. 
 
 The sea is calling, calling. 
 
 W^ife, is there a log to spare ? 
 
 Fling it down on the hearth and call 
 
 them in. 
 The boys and girls with their merry din, 
 1 am loth to leave j'ou all just yet, 
 In the light and the noise I might forget, 
 The voice in the, evening air. 
 
 The sea is calling, calling. 
 
 Along the hollow shore. 
 
 I know each nook in the rocky strand, 
 
 And the crimson weedsouthegohlen sand, 
 
 And the worn old cliff where the sea- 
 pinks cling. 
 
 And the winding cates where the echoes 
 ring. 
 
 I .shall wake them nevermore. 
 
 How it keeps calling, calling. 
 
 It is never a night to sail. 
 
 I saw the "sea-dog" over the height. 
 
 As 1 .strained through the haze my fail- 
 ing sight, 
 
 And the cottage creaks and rocks, well- 
 nigh. 
 
 As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by, 
 
 In the moan of the rising gale. 
 
 Yet it is calling, calling. 
 
 It is hard on a soul, I say, 
 
 To go fluttering out in the cold and the 
 
 dark. 
 Like the Ijird they tell us of, from the 
 
 ark; 
 AVhile the foam flies thick on the bitter 
 
 blast. 
 And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, 
 Where the black buoy marks the bay. 
 
 Do you hear it calling, calling? 
 And yet, I am none so old. 
 At the herring fishery, but last year, 
 No boat heat mine for tackle and gear, 
 And I steered the coble past the reef, 
 When the liroad sail shook like a with- 
 ered leaf, 
 And the rudder chafed my hold. 
 
 Will it never stop calling, calling? 
 Can't you sing a song by the hearth? 
 A heartsoine stave of a merry glass. 
 Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass ? 
 Don't you care for your grand-dad just 
 
 so much? 
 Come near then, give me a hand to touch. 
 Still warm with the warmth of earth. 
 
 You hear it calling, calling? 
 
 Ask her why she sits and cries. 
 
 She always did when the sea was up. 
 
 She would fret, and never take bit or sup 
 
 When I and the lads were out at niglit, 
 
 And she saw the breakers cresting white 
 
 Beneath the low black skies. 
 
 But, then, it is calling, calling, 
 
 No summons to soul was .sent. 
 
 Now — Well, fetch the parson, find the 
 
 book. 
 It is up on the shelf there if you look ;
 
 MAEY N. PRESCOTT. — ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 337 
 
 The sea has been friend, and fire, and 
 
 bread ; 
 Put me, where it will tell of me, lying 
 
 dead, 
 How It called, and I rose and went. 
 
 MAM ]^. PRESCOTT. 
 
 [U. S. A.] 
 
 WORK. 
 
 Sweet wind, fair wind, where have yoii 
 
 been? 
 "I 've been sweeping the cobwebs ont of 
 
 the sky ; 
 I've been grinding a grist in the mill 
 
 hard by ; 
 I 've been laughing at work while others 
 
 sigh ; 
 Let those laugh who win ! " 
 
 Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? 
 "I 'm urging the corn to fill out its cells ; 
 I 'm helping the lily to fashion its hells ; 
 I 'm swelling the torrent and brimming 
 the wells ; 
 Is that worth pursuing?" 
 
 Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? 
 "I 've been watching the nest where my 
 
 fledgelings lie ; 
 T 've sung them to sleep with a lullaby ; 
 By and by I shall teach them to fly, 
 Up and away, every one !" 
 
 Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you go- 
 ing? 
 "To fill my basket with precious pelf; 
 To toil for my neighbor as well as myself ; 
 To find out the sweetest flower that grows, 
 Be it a thistle or be it a rose, — 
 
 A secret worth the knowing !" 
 
 Each content with the work to be done, 
 Ever the same from sun to sun : 
 Shall you and I be taught to work 
 By the bee and the bird, that scorn to 
 shirk ? 
 
 Wind and rain fulfilling His word! 
 
 Tell me, was ever a legend heard 
 
 AVhere the wind, commanded to blow, 
 deferred ; 
 
 Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, de- 
 murred ? 
 
 22 
 
 • TWO MOODS. 
 
 I PLUCKED the harebells as I went 
 
 Singing along the river-side ; 
 
 The skies above were opulent 
 
 Of sunshine. "Ah! whate'er betide, 
 
 The world is sweet, is sweet," I cried, 
 
 That morning by the river-side. 
 
 The curlews called along the shore ; 
 The boats put out from sandy beach ; 
 Afar I heard tlie lircakers' roar, 
 Mellowed to silver-sounding speech ; 
 And still I sang it o'er and o'er, 
 "The world is sweet forevermore !" 
 
 Perhaps, to-day, some other one, 
 Loitering along the river-side. 
 Content beneath the gracious sun, 
 May sing, again, "Whate'er betide, 
 The world is sweet." 1 shall not chide, 
 Although my song is done. 
 
 ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 
 
 SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. 
 
 I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed 
 
 I toiled alone : 
 My toil was fashioning thought and 
 
 sound, and his was hewing stone ; 
 I worked in the palace of my brain, he 
 
 in the common street. 
 And it seemed his toil was great and hard, 
 
 while mine was great and sweet. 
 
 1 said,"0 fellow- worker, yea, for 1 am a 
 
 worker too. 
 The heart nigh fails me many a day, but 
 
 how is it with you? 
 For while I toil great tears of joy will 
 
 sometimes fill my eyes. 
 And when I form my perfect work it lives 
 
 and never dies. 
 
 ' ' I carve the marble of pure thought until 
 
 the thought takes form. 
 Until it gleams before my soul and makes 
 
 the world grow warm ; 
 Until there comes the glorious voice and 
 
 words that seem divine. 
 And the music rea.dies all men's hearts 
 
 and draws them into mine.
 
 338 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 "Aud yet for days it seems my Heart shall 
 
 blossom never more, 
 And the burden of my loneliness lies on 
 
 me very sore : 
 Therefore, hewer of the stones that 
 
 pave base human ways, 
 How canst thou bear the years till death, 
 
 made of such thankless days?" 
 
 Then he replied : "Ere sunrise, when the 
 
 pale li|)S of the day 
 Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at 
 
 warmth of the hrst ray, 
 A great thought rose within me, how, 
 
 while men asleep had lain, 
 The thousand labors of the world had 
 
 grown up once again. 
 
 "The sun grew on the- world, and on my 
 
 soul the thought grew too, — 
 A great appallins; sun, to light my soul 
 
 the long day through. 
 I felt the world's whole burden for a 
 
 moment, then began 
 With man's gigantic strength to do the 
 
 labor of one man. 
 
 "I went forth hastily, and lo ! 1 met a 
 
 hundred men, 
 The worker with the chisel and the 
 
 worker with the pen, — 
 The restless toilers after good, who sow 
 
 and never reap. 
 And one who niaketh music for their 
 
 souls that may not sleep. 
 
 "Each passed me with a dauntless look, 
 
 and my undaunted eyes 
 Were almost softened as they passed 
 
 with tears that strove to rise 
 At sight of all those labors, and becau.se 
 
 that ever}' one. 
 Ay, the greatest, would be gi'eater if my 
 
 little were undone. 
 
 "They passed me, having faith in me, 
 and in our several ways. 
 
 Together we began to-day as on the other 
 days : 
 
 I felt their mighty hands at work, and, 
 as the day wore through. 
 
 Perhaps they fidt that even I was help- 
 ing somewhat too : 
 
 "Perhaps they felt, as w^th those hands 
 
 they lifted miglitily 
 The burden once more laid upon the 
 
 world so heavily, 
 
 That while they nobly held it as each 
 
 man can do and bear. 
 It did not wholly fall my side as though 
 
 no man were there. 
 
 "And so we toil together many a day 
 
 from morn till night, 
 I in the lower depths of life, they on the 
 
 lovely height ; 
 For though the common stones are mine, 
 
 and they have lofty cares. 
 Their work begins where this leaves off, 
 
 and mine is part of theirs. 
 
 "And 't is not wholly mine or theirs I 
 think of through the day, 
 
 But the great eternal thing we make to- 
 gether, I and they ; 
 
 Far in the sunset I behold a city that 
 man owns. 
 
 Made fair with all their nobler toil, built 
 of my common stones. 
 
 "Then noonward, as the task grows light 
 with all the labor done. 
 
 The single thought of all the day be- 
 comes a joyous one : 
 
 For, rising in my heart at last where it 
 has lain so long. 
 
 It thrills ttp seeking for a voice, and 
 grows almost a song. 
 
 "But when the evening comes, indeed, 
 
 the words have taken W'ing, 
 The thought sings in me still, but I am 
 
 all too tired to sing ; 
 Therefore, O you my friend, who serve 
 
 the world with minstrelsy. 
 Among our fellow-workers' songs make 
 
 that one song for me." 
 
 MRS. KNOX. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 Dost thou think 1 captive lie 
 To a gracious, glancing eye? 
 Dost thou think I am not free? 
 Nay, 1 am ; thou freest me. 
 
 All the world could not undo 
 
 Chains which bound me fast to you ; 
 Only at your touch they fly, — 
 Freer than before am I.
 
 C. BROOKE. — ARCHDEACON HARE. 
 
 
 I care not for eyes of blue ; 
 
 1 loved truth and thought it you ; 
 If you charm but to deceive, 
 Alt your charms I well can leave. 
 
 Ah, my once well-loved one ; 
 Do no more as thou hast done ; 
 
 She that makes true hearts to ache, 
 Last of all her own will break. 
 
 C. BROOKE. 
 
 A CYCLE. 
 
 If he had come in the early dawn, 
 When the sunrise Hushed the earth, 
 
 I would have giveu him all my heart. 
 Whatever the heart was worth. 
 
 If he had come at the noontide hour, 
 He would not have come too late; 
 
 I would have given him patient faith, 
 For then I had learned to wait. 
 
 If he had come in the afterglow. 
 In the peace of the eventide, 
 
 I would have given liim hands and brain, 
 And worked for him till 1 died. 
 
 If he comes now the sun has set. 
 And the light has died away, 
 
 I will not give him a broken life 
 But will turn and say him, "Nay." 
 
 ARCHDEACON HARE. 
 
 ITALY. A PROPHECY. 
 
 ISIS. 
 
 Stkike the loved harp; let the prelude 
 be, 
 Italy! Italy! 
 That chord again, again that noteofglee, — 
 
 Italy! Italy! 
 Italy ! Italy ! the Very sound it charm- 
 
 eth : 
 Italy ! Italy ! the name my bosom 
 warmeth. 
 High thought of self-devotions, 
 Compassionate emotions, 
 
 Soul-stirring recollections, 
 
 AVith hofies, their bright reflections. 
 
 Rush to my troubled heart at thought of 
 thee. 
 
 My own illustrious, injured Italy. 
 
 Dear queen of snowy mountains. 
 And consecrated iountains, 
 W^ithin whose rocky, heaven-asp)iringpale 
 Beauty has fixed a dwelling 
 All others so excelling 
 To praise it right, thine own sweet tones 
 would fail ; 
 Hail to thee ! hail ! 
 How rich art thou in lakes to poet 
 
 dear, 
 And those broad pines amid the sunniest 
 glade 
 So reigning through the year, 
 W^ithin the magic circle of their shade 
 No sunbeam may appear ! 
 How fair thy double sea ! 
 In blue celestialh' 
 
 Glittering and circling ! but I may not 
 dwell 
 On gifts, which, decking thee too 
 well. 
 Allured the .spoiler. Let me fix my ken 
 
 Rather upon thy godlike men. 
 The good, the wise, the valiant, and the 
 
 free. 
 On history's pillars towering gloriously, 
 A trophy reared on high upon thy strand. 
 That every people, eveiy clime 
 May mark and understand. 
 What memorable courses may be run, 
 What golden never-failing treasures won, 
 From time. 
 In spite of chance. 
 And worser ignorance. 
 If men be ruled by Duty's firm decree. 
 And wisdom hold her paramount mas- 
 tery. 
 
 What art thou now ? Alas ! Alas ! 
 
 Woe, woe ! 
 That strength and virtue thusshouldpass 
 
 From men below ! 
 That so divine, so beautiful a Maid 
 Should in the withering dust be laid. 
 As one that — Hush !' who dares with 
 impious breath 
 To speak of death ? 
 The fool alone and unbeliever weepeth. 
 We know she only sleepeth ; 
 
 And from the dust. 
 At the end of her correction,
 
 340 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Truth hath decreed her joyous resurrec- 
 tion : 
 She shall arise, she must. 
 For can it be that wickedness hath power 
 To undermine or topple down the tower 
 Of virtue's cdiliee ? 
 And yet that vice 
 Should be allowed on sacred ground to 
 plant 
 A rock of adamant ? 
 It is of ice, 
 That rock soon destined to dissolve away 
 Before the righteous sun's returning ray. 
 
 But who shall bear the dazzling radiancy. 
 When first the royal Maid awaking 
 Darteth around her wild indignant eye, 
 When first her bright spear shaking, 
 Fixing lier feet on earth, her looks on sky. 
 She standeth like the Archangel prompt 
 
 to van(piisli, 
 Yet still imploring succor from on high ? 
 
 days of weary hope and passionate 
 
 anguish. 
 When will ye end ! 
 Until that end be come, until I hear 
 
 The Alps their mighty voices blend. 
 To swell and echo back the sound most 
 
 dear 
 To patriot hearts, the cry of Liberty, 
 
 1 must live on. But when the glorious 
 
 Queen 
 As erst is canopied with Freedom's sheen. 
 When I have prest, with salutation meet, 
 With reverent love to kiss her honored 
 
 feet, 
 I then may die, 
 Die how well satisfied ! 
 Conscious that I have watched the second 
 
 birth 
 Of her I 've loved the most upon the 
 
 earth. 
 Conscious beside 
 That no more beauteous sight can here 
 
 be given : 
 Sublimer visions are reserved for heaven. 
 
 UMvXOWN. 
 
 IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 There are who for thy last, long sleep 
 Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, — 
 
 Shall weep because thou canst not weep, 
 And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. 
 
 Sad thrift of love ! the loving breast 
 On which the aching head was thrown, 
 
 Gave up the weary head to rest. 
 But kept the aching for its own. 
 
 Farewell ! since never more for thee 
 The sun comes up our eastern skies, 
 
 Less bright hencefortli shall sunshine be 
 To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. 
 
 FREDERICK TEN^^YSON. 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD. 
 
 How sweet the harmonies of afternoon ! 
 The Blackbird sings along the sunny 
 
 breeze 
 His ancient song of leaves, and summer 
 
 boon ; 
 Rich breath of hayfields streams 
 
 through whispering trees; 
 And birds of morning trim their bustling 
 
 wings, 
 And listen fondly — while the Blackbird 
 
 How soft the lovelight of the west re- 
 poses 
 On this green valley's cheery solitude, 
 
 On the trim cottage with its screen of 
 roses. 
 On the gray belfry with its ivy hood, 
 
 And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel 
 that flings 
 
 Its bubbling freshness — while the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 The very dial on the village church 
 Seems as 't were dreaming in a dozy 
 rest ; 
 
 The scribbled benches underneath the 
 porch 
 Bask in the kindly welcome of the 
 west : 
 
 But the broad casements of the old Three 
 Kings 
 
 Blaze like a furnace — while the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 And there beneath the immemorial elm 
 Three rosy revellers round a table 
 sit,
 
 FREDERICK TENNYSON. 
 
 341 
 
 And through gray clouds give laws unto 
 the realm, 
 Curse good and great, but worship their 
 own wit. 
 
 And roar of fights, and fairs, and junket- 
 ings. 
 
 Corn, colts, and curs — the while the 
 Blackbird sings. 
 
 Before her home, in her accustomed 
 seat. 
 The tidy grandam spins beneath the 
 shade 
 
 Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet 
 The dreaming pug, and purring tabby 
 laid; 
 
 To her low chair a little maiden clings, 
 
 And spells in silence — while the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud 
 Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gar- 
 dens green, 
 
 While the far fields with sunlight over- 
 flowed 
 Like golden shores of Fairyland are 
 seen ; 
 
 Again the sunshine on the shadow 
 springs. 
 
 And fires the thicket — where the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 The woods, the lawn, the peaked manor- 
 house. 
 With its peach-covered walls, and 
 rookery loud. 
 
 The trim, quaint garden-alleys, screened 
 with boughs. 
 The lion-headed gates, so grim and 
 proud, 
 
 The mossy fountain with its murmur- 
 iiigs. 
 
 Lie in warm sunshine — while the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 The ring of silver voices, and the sheen 
 Of festal garments, — and my lady 
 streams 
 With her gay court across the garden 
 green ; 
 Some laugh, and dance, some whisper 
 their love-dreams ; 
 And one calls for a little ])age ; he strings 
 Her lute beside her — while the Black- 
 
 A little while — and lo ! the charm is 
 heard ; 
 A youth, whose life has been all sum- 
 mer, steals 
 
 Forth from the noisy guests around the 
 board, 
 Cree])s by her softly; at her footstool 
 kneels ; 
 
 And, when she pauses, murmurs tender 
 things 
 
 Into her fond ear — while the Blackbird 
 sings. 
 
 The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys 
 curl up higher, 
 And dizzy things of eve begin to float 
 
 Upon the light ; the breeze begins to 
 tire. 
 Half-way to sunset with a diowsy note 
 
 The ancient clock from out the valley 
 swings ; 
 
 The grandam nods — and still the Black- 
 bird sings. 
 
 Far shouts and laughter from the farm- 
 stead peal. 
 Where the great stack is piling in the 
 sun; 
 Through narrow gates o'erladen wagons 
 reel, 
 And barking curs into the tumult run ; 
 While the inconstant wind bears off, and 
 
 » brings 
 The merry tempest — and the Blackbird 
 
 On the high wold the last look of the sun 
 Burns, like a beacon, over dale and 
 
 stream ; 
 The shouts have ceased, the laughter and 
 
 the fun ; 
 The grandam sleeps, and peaceful be 
 
 her dream ; 
 Only a hammer on an anvil rings ; 
 The day is dying— still the Blackbird 
 
 sings. 
 
 Now the good vicar passes from his gate. 
 Serene, with long white hair; and in 
 his eye 
 
 Burns the clear spirit that hatli conquered 
 Fate, 
 And felt the wings of immortality ; 
 
 His heart is thronged with great imagin- 
 ings, 
 
 And tender mercies — while the Black- 
 bird sings.
 
 342 
 
 SONGS OF THREE CENTURIES. 
 
 Down by the brook he bends his steps, 
 
 and through 
 A lowly wicket ; and at last he 
 
 stands 
 Awful beside the bed of one who grew 
 From boyhood with him, — who with 
 
 lifted hands 
 And eyes seems listening to far welcom- 
 
 ings 
 And sweeter music— than the Blackbird 
 
 Two golden stars, like tokens from the 
 
 blest, 
 Strike on his dim orbs from the setting 
 
 sun; 
 His sinking hands seem pointing to the 
 
 west ; 
 He smiles as though he said, "Thy 
 
 will be done !" 
 His eyes, they see not those illuminings; 
 His ears, they hear not — what the 
 
 Blackbird sings.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Page 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 144 
 Above the pines the moon was slowly drift- 
 
 iiiS 301 
 
 A cabii and lovely paradise 172 
 
 A chieftain, to the Highlands bound 139 
 
 A cldud lay cradled near the setting sun . . 146 
 A face that should content me wondrous 
 
 well 4 
 
 A floating, a floating 250 
 
 A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 103 
 
 Again, how can slie but immortal be 11 
 
 A happy bit hiime this auld world would be 184 
 
 Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 105 
 
 Alas, 't is true, I have gone here and there 18 
 
 A light is out in Italy 304 
 
 All before us lies the way 202 
 
 All powers of the sea and air 252 
 
 All the rivers run into the sea 306 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights 108 
 
 All worliUy sliapes shall melt in gloom 138 
 
 Alone I walk the morning street 323 
 
 Along the ramparts which surround the 
 
 town 288 
 
 Although I eater not 10 j 
 
 A man there came, whence none couUl tell 217 
 
 Among so many, can He care? 277 
 
 And are ye sure the news is true ? 71 
 
 And I shall sleep ; an<l on thy side 100 
 
 And is the swallow gone ? 1S2 
 
 And is there care in heaven ? And is there 
 
 love 7 
 
 And O, the longing, burning eyes ! 333 
 
 And tliou hast walked about — how strange 
 
 a story ! 141 
 
 A parish priest was of the pilgrim train. . . 46 
 
 A sentinel angel sitting high in glory 305 
 
 A silver .javelin which the hills 262 
 
 As I stood by yon roofless tower S3 
 
 A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers 173 
 
 A song of a boat 282 
 
 A Sower went forth to sow 329 
 
 As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 244 
 
 A stillness crept about the house 310 
 
 At daybreak in the fresh light, joj'fnlly . . . . 295 
 
 A thousand years shall come an<l'go 258 
 
 At noon, within the dusty town 315 
 
 A traveller through a dusty road strewed 
 
 acorns on the lea 218 
 
 At the close of the day, when the hamlet 
 
 is still 72 
 
 At the king's gate the subtle noon 294 
 
 At the mid hour of night, when stars are 
 
 weeping, I fly 124 
 
 At the spring of an arch in the great north 
 
 tower 31S 
 
 Awake, my soul, and with the sun 46 
 
 Page 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair maid lOo 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 144 
 
 Beat on, proud billows; Boreas, blow 39 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 203 
 
 Begone dull care 20 
 
 Beneath an Indian palm a girl 181 
 
 Beneath the moonlight and the snow 214 
 
 Better trust all and be deceived 175 
 
 Blow, blow, tliou winter wind 16 
 
 Blue gulf all around us 261 
 
 Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen 121 
 
 Bonny Tibbie Inglis ! 181 
 
 Break, break, break 19a 
 
 Bright image of the early years 176 
 
 Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride . 56 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain 237 
 
 By the flow of the inland river 326 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm 247 
 
 Calm on the listening ear of night 23S 
 
 Can angel spirits need repose 1.36 
 
 Clear, placid I;eman ! thy contrasted lake. 126 
 
 Close beside the meeting waters 273 
 
 Close his eyes ; his work is done ! 290 
 
 Come into the garden, Maud 198 
 
 Come live with me, and be mv love 4 
 
 Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged ; 'tis 
 
 at a white heat now 170 
 
 Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of 
 
 peace 6 
 
 Comes something down with eventide 258 
 
 Come to me, dearest, I 'm lonelv without 
 
 thee ', 3.30 
 
 Come with a smile, when come thou must. 313 
 
 Condemned to hope's delusive mine 59 
 
 Consider the sea's listless chime 295 
 
 Cooper, whose name is with his country's 
 
 woven 166 
 
 Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Doug- 
 las 2')0 
 
 Creep into thy narrow bed 266 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your eyes with morn, 
 
 to twinkle 140 
 
 Dear friend of old, whom memory links.. . . 319 
 Dear Friend ! whose presence in the hou.se 246 
 
 Dear is my little native vale 81 
 
 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and 
 
 stars 46 
 
 Do not clieat thy heart, and tell her 278 
 
 Dost thou think I captive lie 338 
 
 Down behnv, the wilcl November whistling 247 
 Drawn out, like lingering bees, to share... 302 
 
 Earl Gawain wooed the Lady Barbara 2'i4 
 
 Earth with its dark and dreadful ills 255
 
 344 
 
 livDEX OF FIKST LINES. 
 
 F.air Daffodils, we weep to see 30 
 
 F;iir pledges of a fruitful tree 31 
 
 Farewell rewards and fairies ! 20 
 
 Farewell ! since never more for thee 340 
 
 Farewell to Locliaber, farewell to my Jean 49 
 
 Father, I know that all my life 246 
 
 Father of all ! in every age 48 
 
 Father, thy paternal care 146 
 
 I'ather ! thy wonders do not singly st»ind . 176 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun 16 
 
 Fly to the desert, fly with me 123 
 
 For a foot that will not come 316 
 
 Forever with the Lord ! 135 
 
 Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale. 174 
 
 From gold to gray 216 
 
 JYom harmony, from heavenly harmony .. 45 
 
 From his home in an Eastern bungalow — 321 
 
 From Oberon, in fairy-land 21 
 
 Fiiim Stirling Castle we had seen 101 
 
 From the recesses of a lowly spirit 146 
 
 Full fathom live thy father lies 16 
 
 Give ! as the morning that flows out of 
 
 heaven 259 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet 5 
 
 " Give us a song ! " the soldiers cried 203 
 
 Go, call for the mourners, and raise the 
 
 lament 89 
 
 God makes sech nights, all white an' still . 225 
 
 God moves in a mvsterious wav 71 
 
 God of the earth's'extended plains : 162 
 
 God sets some souls in shaile, alone 277 
 
 Go forth in life, O friend ! not seeking love 259 
 
 Go, soul, the body's guest 5 
 
 Gratidmother's mother ; her age, I guess.. 219 
 
 Grow old along with me ! 204 
 
 Had I a heart for falsehood framed 79 
 
 Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove ! 75 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe sinrit 127 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the lark at lieaven's gate sings 16 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning 
 
 star 109 
 
 Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss 
 
 shay 221 
 
 Heap on more wood ! — the wind is chill.. 107 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells 202 
 
 Heigh-ho ! daisies and i uttercups 1 282 
 
 He is gone on the mountain 106 
 
 He kept his honesty and truth 165 
 
 He meets, by heavenly cliance exjiress 253 
 
 Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow . 59 
 
 Her liands are cold ; her face is white 223 
 
 He said, " O brother, where 's the use of 
 
 climbing ? " 294 
 
 He s gane, he 's gane ! he 's frae us torn . . 84 
 
 He sleejis not here; in hope and prayer. .. 221 
 
 He 's now upon the spectre's back 186 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek 25 
 
 He that of such a height hath built his 
 
 mind 14 
 
 Hie ui")n Hielands 76 
 
 High hopes that burned lil;e stars suliliiiic 212 
 
 High walls and huge tlic body may conlinc 168 
 
 His echoing axe the settler swung 234 
 
 Hither thou com'st. The busy wind all 
 
 night 32 
 
 How are thy servants blest, O Lonl ! 47 
 
 How beautifid It was, that one bright day. 211 
 How dear to this heart are the scenes of 
 
 my eliildhood 147 
 
 Howe'er the wheels of Time go round 202 
 
 How fresh, (> Lord, how sweet and clean.. 31 
 
 How ha]>py is he born and taught 13 
 
 How many days with mute adieu 177 
 
 How near to good is what is fair ! 19 
 
 How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of 
 
 youth 38 
 
 How sweet it was to breathe that cooler 
 
 air 87 
 
 How sweet it were, if without feeble fright 144 
 How sweet the harmonics of arternoon ! .. 340 
 How vainly men themselves amaze 34 
 
 am content, I do not care 51 
 
 am old and blind ! 237 
 
 climb the hill : from end to end 196 
 
 , country-born an' bred, know where to 
 
 find 224 
 
 do confess thou 'rt smooth and fair 26 
 
 do not own an inch of land 274 
 
 dwell in grace's courts 10 
 
 f all the world and love were young 5 
 
 f aught of oaten stoji or pastoral song 04 
 
 feel a newer life in every gale 155 
 
 f he had come in the early dawn 339 
 
 fill this cup to one made up of loveliness 
 
 alone 165 
 
 f love were what the rose is 286 
 
 found a fellow-worker when I deemed I 
 
 toiled alone 337 
 
 f stores of dry and learned lore we gain . . 156 
 
 f thou wert by my side, my love 143 
 
 f with light heatl erect I sing 236 
 
 have been out to-day in field and wood.. 256 
 have fancied sometimes, the old Eethel- 
 
 bent beam 304 
 
 have had playmates, I have had compan- 
 ions ." 120 
 
 hear it often in the dark 307 
 
 knew a Princess : she was old 303 
 
 know not how to comfort thee 254 
 
 know not if or dark or bright 179 
 
 know not that the men of old 180 
 
 know not what shall befall me 307 
 
 like a church, I like a cowl 200 
 
 loved him nfit ; and yet, now he is gone. 137 
 
 loved to hear the war-horn cry 108 
 
 love to wander through the woodlands 
 
 hoary 2.33 
 
 'm sitting on the stile, Mary 163 
 
 'm wearin' awa', Jean 86 
 
 n Athens, when all learning centred there 326 
 
 n a valley, centuries ago 318 
 
 never loved ambitiously to climb 12 
 
 n lowly dale, fast by a river's side 51 
 
 n summer, when the days were long 183 
 
 n the still air the music lies unheard 247 
 
 n the summer twilight 313 
 
 n this sad hour, so still, so late 298 
 
 nto a city street 307 
 
 n winter, when the rain rained cauld 24 
 
 jilucked the harebells as I went 337 
 
 said to Son-ow's awful storm '148 
 
 saw a man, by some accounted wise 321 
 
 saw two clouds at morning 156 
 
 say to thee, do thou repeat 241 
 
 sought thee round about. O thou aiy God 26 
 
 s there a whim-ins])ired fool 83 
 
 s this a fast, to keep 31 
 
 t chnncetli once to every soul 306 
 
 t fell about the Martinmas 22 
 
 t fell aliiuit the Martinmas time 24 
 
 thought of thee, my iiartneraTid my guide 103 
 t is a jilace where poets crowned may feel 
 
 the heart's decaying 194 
 
 t is done 1 216 
 
 t is not growing like a tree 18
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 345 
 
 It lies around us like a cloud 248 
 
 It stands in a sunny meadow 290 
 
 It was a friar of orders gray 67 
 
 It was the winter wild 35 
 
 I 've heard tlieni lilting at our ewe-milking 88 
 
 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west . . 159 
 
 I wandered by the brookside 180 
 
 I wandered lonely as a cloud 99 
 
 I was thv neighbor once, thou rugged pile ! 101 
 
 I worship thee, sweet Will of God ! 239 
 
 I would be ready, Lord 321 
 
 I would ha\e gone ; God bade me stay 272 
 
 I would not live alway : I ask not to stay . 162 
 
 Jesas, lover of my soul 58 
 
 John Davidson and Tib his wife 78 
 
 Judge not ; the workings of his brain 278 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us 207 
 
 Just where tlie Treasury's marble front . . . 285 
 
 Laid in my quiet bed 3 
 
 Late to our town there came a maid 269 
 
 Launch tliy bark, mariner ! 14S 
 
 Lest men suspect your tale untrue 50 
 
 Let nie not to the marriage of true minds. . IS 
 Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy 160 
 
 Let us go, lassie, go 88 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art 75 
 
 Life may be given in many ways . 228 
 
 Like some vision olden .• 253 
 
 Like to tlie falling of a star 27 
 
 Listen, my children, and you shall hear . . . 207 
 Little thinks, in the field, von red-cloaked 
 
 clown '. 200 
 
 Lo, here is God, and there is God ! 242 
 
 Long years ago I wandered here 335 
 
 Lo ! o'er the earth the kindling spirits pour 90 
 Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands 
 
 the fortress, old and (juaint 299 
 
 Lord ! call thy pallid angel 143 
 
 Lord, it belongs not to my care 39 
 
 Love divine, all other love excelling 58 
 
 Love, when all these years are silent, van- 
 ished (juite and laid to rest 312 
 
 Maiden ! with the meek, brown eyes 209 
 
 IMake nie no vows of constancy, dear friend 251 
 
 Methinks it is good to be here 93 
 
 Mid pleasures and palaces though we may 
 
 roam 153 
 
 Jlidwinter comes to-morrow 320 
 
 Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !. .. 92 
 
 Mine be a cot beside the hill 81 
 
 Mine eyes liave seen the glory of the coming 
 
 of the Lord 236 
 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains. . 126 
 More than the soul of ancient song is given 263 
 
 My child is lying on my knees 270 
 
 My days among the dead are passed 117 
 
 My dear and only love, I ])ray 28 
 
 My hawk is tired of perch and ho'xl 105 
 
 My life is like the summer rose 152 
 
 My mind to me a kingdom is 15 
 
 My sins and follies, Lord ! by thee 33 
 
 Mysterious niglit ! when our first parent 
 
 knew 89 
 
 Nearer, my God, to thee 245 
 
 Never, surely, was holier man 226 
 
 Next to these ladies, but in naught allied . 80 
 
 Night seems troubled and scarce asleep . . . 314 
 
 No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral stoops 235 
 
 No longer spread the sail ! 262 
 
 No mistress of the hidden skill 153 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea 117 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note. 152 
 No ! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do 
 
 change IS 
 
 Not in the world of light alone 219 
 
 Not often to the parting soul 235 
 
 Not ours the vows of such as i)light 144 
 
 Not yet, the flowers are in my path 254 
 
 O Artist, range not over-wide 266 
 
 O, ask not, hope thou not, too much 154 
 
 O blithe new-comer ! I have heard 100 
 
 O Idushing flowers of Krundey ! 264 
 
 O fair and stately maid, whose eyes 199 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 82 
 
 Of all amusements for the mind 232 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 190 
 
 Oft has it been my lot to mark 64 
 
 Of them who, rapt in earth so cold 73 
 
 Of this fair volume which we World do 
 
 name 12 
 
 O happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 48 
 
 O happy, happy maid 257 
 
 O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad iu the 
 
 gale 138 
 
 O. I hae come from far away 329 
 
 O, it is hard to work for God 239 
 
 O Lady, leave thy silken thread 161 
 
 O, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle 
 
 wa' 77 
 
 O Land, of every land the best 257 
 
 O lassie ayont the hill ! 270 
 
 Old Tubal Cain was a man of might 218 
 
 O Love Divine, of all that is 308 
 
 O lull me, lull me, charming air 26 
 
 O Mary, at thy window be ! 82 
 
 O Mary, go and call the cattle home 249 
 
 O may I join the choir invisible 248 
 
 Once, in the flight of ages past 135 
 
 Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands 189 
 
 One day, nigh weary of the irksome way . . 8 
 
 One day to Helbeck I had strolled 118 
 
 One sweetly welcome thought 256 
 
 One word is too often profaned 128 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake 155 
 
 Open the temple-gates unto my love 8 
 
 O Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its kind- 
 ness 17S 
 
 O, sing unto my roundelay ! 79 
 
 O stream descending to the sea 243 
 
 O, sweet and fair ! O, rich and rare ! 274 
 
 O that those lips had language ! Life has 
 
 passed 69 
 
 O thou, great Friend to all the sons of men 239 
 
 O thou who dry'st the mourner's tear ! 124 
 
 O, timely hap]iy, timely wise 177 
 
 O luiseen Spirit ! now a calm divine 175 
 
 Our Mary liket weel to stray 169 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 316 
 
 Out upon the unknown deep 250 
 
 Over hill, over dale 16 
 
 Over the mountains 19 
 
 Over the mountain wave, see where they 
 
 come 108 
 
 Over the river they beckon to me 277 
 
 O, waly, waly u]) the bank 76 
 
 O, weel may the boatie row 77 
 
 O, what will a' the lads do 121 
 
 O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 149 
 
 O yet we ti'ust tliat s(miehow good 197 
 
 O, young Lo(!hinvar is come out of the 
 
 west 104 
 
 Pack clouds away, and welcorae day 26
 
 346 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 Pause not to dream of the future before us 175 
 
 Pipe, little minstrels of tlie waning year. . . 297 
 
 Prajer is tlie soul's sincere desire Iii6 
 
 Put the broidery-frame away 191 
 
 Queen, and huntress, chaste and fair IS 
 
 Quiet from God ! It cometh not to still .. 244 
 
 Remember tis ]>oor Mayers all ! 20 
 
 Ring, sing ! ring, sing ! i)leasant Sabbath 
 beUs! 284 
 
 Saith the white owl to the martin folk .... 314 
 
 iSee, from this counterfeit of him 231 
 
 Send down thy winged angel, God ! 179 
 
 Serene, I fold my hands and wait 327 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love? 25 
 
 She doth tell me where to borrow 34 
 
 " She is dead ! " they said to him. " Come 
 
 away " 317 
 
 She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie . . 145 
 She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh. .. 266 
 
 She stood alone amidst the April fields 291 
 
 She stood breast high amid the corn 101 
 
 She stood in the harvest-field at noon 271 
 
 She w.ilks in beauty, like the night 125 
 
 She was a jihantom of delight 100 
 
 She wearies with an ill unknown 252 
 
 Silent nymph, with curious eye ! 54 
 
 Sitting all day in a silver mist 327 
 
 Slave of tlie dark and dirty nnne ! 90 
 
 Slayer of winter, art thou here again ? 297 
 
 Sleep on, my love, in thy cold bed 28 
 
 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares 74 
 
 Slowly, by God's hand nnfurled 260 
 
 Snow'was glistening on the mountains, but 
 
 the air was that of June 230 
 
 So sweet, so sweet the roses in their blow- 
 ing 291 
 
 Spring, with that nameless pathos in the 
 
 air 311 
 
 St. Agnes' Eve, — ah, bitter chill it was ! .. 129 
 
 Steer hither, steer your winged pines 25 
 
 Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 102 
 
 Still sits tiie school-house bv the road 215 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest 19 
 
 Strike tlie loved liar)) ; let the prelude be.. 339 
 
 Success had made him more than king 313 
 
 Sure, to the mansions of the blest 137 
 
 Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright 31 
 
 Sweetest of all childlike dreams 215 
 
 Sweet is the scene when virtue dies ! 74 
 
 Sweet-scented flower ! who 'rt wont to 
 
 bloom 92 
 
 Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourse 241 
 
 Sweet was the sound, when oft, at even- 
 ing's close 65 
 
 Sweet wind, fair wind, where have you 
 been? 337 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers 209 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 30 
 
 Ten years ! — and to my waking eye 265 
 
 That house's form within was rude and 
 
 strong 9 
 
 That regal soul I reverence, in whose eyes. 241 
 That time of year thou mayst in me be- 
 hold 17 
 
 The Assvrian came down like the wolf on 
 
 the fold 125 
 
 The bard has sung, God never formed a 
 
 soul 154 
 
 The birds, when winter shades the sky 105 
 
 The birds must know. Who wisely sings . 295 
 The conference-meeting through at last ... 285 
 The cui-few tolls the knell of jiarting day . . 60 
 The curtains were half drawn, the floor 
 
 was swept 272 
 
 The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep 298 
 
 The day was dark, save when the beam . .. 142 
 
 The fairest action of our human life 13 
 
 The frugal snail, with forecast of repose. .. 120 
 
 The glories of our blood and state 28 
 
 The golden sea its miiTor sjireads 244 
 
 The gowan glitters on the sward 86 
 
 The grass hung wet on Rydal banks 260 
 
 The island lies nine leagues away 185 
 
 The .Jackdaw sat on the Canlinal's chair. . . 150 
 The Jester shook his head and bells, and 
 
 leaped upon a chair 293 
 
 The leaves have fallen from the trees 268 
 
 The lift is high and blue 250 
 
 The Lord descended from above 3 
 
 The Lord my jiasture shall prepare 47 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest 
 
 of the year 188 
 
 The midges dance aboon the burn 88 
 
 The music-lesson of Koung-tseu the wise... 331 
 
 The night is come ; like to the day 29 
 
 The night was dark, though sometimes a 
 
 faint staV ; 328 
 
 The night was made for cooling shade 287 
 
 The old mayor climbed the belfry tower . . . 280 
 The perfect sight of duty ; thought which 
 
 moulds 320 
 
 The jiilgrim and stranger, who, through the 
 
 day 273 
 
 The rain has ceased, and in my room 283 
 
 The rain is o'er. How dense and bright . . 147 
 
 There are gains for all our losses 2S7 
 
 There are in this loud stunning tide 178 
 
 There is a land of pure delight 57 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and 
 
 tended 210 
 
 There is not in this wide world a valley so 
 
 sweet 1"24 
 
 There the most dainty paradise on ground. 9 
 There was a time when meadow, grove, and 
 
 stream 97 
 
 There was once a gentle time 91 
 
 The rich man's son inlierits lands 224 
 
 The salt wind blows upon my cheek 298 
 
 The sea is calling, calling 336 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er 40 
 These, as they change. Almighty Father, 
 
 these 52 
 
 These withered hands are weak 318 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway 172 
 
 The sky is thick upon the sea 287 
 
 The solemn wood had spread 255 
 
 The sparrow sits and sings, and sings 296 
 
 The splendor falls on castle walls 199 
 
 The sun is warn), the sky is clear 127 
 
 The thoughts are strange that crowd into 
 
 my brain 155 
 
 The time so trancjuil is and clear 10 
 
 The tree of deei>est root is found 73 
 
 The weather-leech of the topsail shivers .. . 311 
 
 The western waves of ebbing day 105 
 
 Tlie wild November comes at last 287 
 
 The wind ahead, the billows high 240 
 
 The winds that once the .\rgi> bore 289 
 
 The wind was whispering to the vines 305 
 
 The word of the Lord by night 201 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and 
 
 soon 103 
 
 They arc all gone into the world of light . . 33
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 347 
 
 Tliey gave the whole long day to idle 
 
 laughter 303 
 
 They sat and combed their beautiful hair. . 292 
 They that have power to hurt and will do 
 
 none 17 
 
 Thine eyes still shone for me, though far. . 200 
 
 Think nie not unkind and rude 199 
 
 This is the ship of i)earl, which, poets fain 223 
 
 Til is morning, timely rapt with holy tire. .. 19 
 
 This only grant me, that my means may lie 40 
 
 Thou art, O God ! the life and light. ..".... 124 
 
 Tliou blossom bright with autumn dew . .. 189 
 
 Thou Grace Divine, encircling all 24.i 
 
 Thought is deeper than all speech 234 
 
 Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie . . 145 
 
 Thou lingering star, with lessening ray 83 
 
 Thou singest by the gleaming isles 283 
 
 Tliou, who didst stoop below 32.5 
 
 Tliree fishers went saihng out into the west 240 
 
 Three Poets, in three distant ages born ... 46 
 
 Threescore o' nobles rade up the king's ha' 78 
 
 Tliree years she grew in sun and shower . . 100 
 
 Thrice happy she that is so well assured. .. 7 
 
 Tliy banks were bonnie. Yarrow stream.. . 75 
 
 Tiger ! Tiger ! burning bright 85 
 
 Till the slow daylight ])ale 272 
 
 'T is a story told by Kalidasa « ^34 
 
 'T is the middle of night by the castle clock 110 
 
 To fair Fidele's grassy tomb 63 
 
 To him who in the love of Nature holds. . . 187 
 
 Toll for the brave ! 69 
 
 Too late I stayed, forgive the crime 80 
 
 Touch us gently, Time ! 179 
 
 'T was when the wan leaf frae the birk- 
 
 tree was fa'in 182 
 
 Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee. 185 
 
 Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day 190 
 
 Two wandering angels. Sleep and Death. .. 232 
 Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we 
 
 strain 276 
 
 Under the greenwood-tree 16 
 
 Unto the glory of thy Holy Name 39 
 
 Up on the breezy headland the fisherman's 
 
 grave they made 334 
 
 Upon the white sea-sand ." 184 
 
 Veneraous thorns that are so sharp and keen 4 
 
 Walking thus towards a pleasant grove.. .. 29 
 
 Was it the chime of a tiny bell 157 
 
 We are all here 169 
 
 We count the broken lyres that rest 220 
 
 We left the city, street and square 335 
 
 We knew it would rain, for all the morn... 283 
 
 What ails this heart o' mine? 75 
 
 What is it fades and flickers in the fire 275 
 
 What ! our petitions spumed ! The prayer 15S 
 
 Wliat was he doing, the great god Pan 193 
 
 When all is done and said 3 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay .. 12G 
 
 Whene'er a noble deed is wrought 211 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain lieight. 156 
 
 When God at first made man 32 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent ... 38 
 
 When I have said my quiet say 273 
 
 When in disgrace with fortune and men's 
 
 eyes 17 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved 107 
 
 When love with unconfined wings 30 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 120 
 
 When marshalled on the nightly ]ilain 93 
 
 When on my ear your loss was knelled .... 229 
 
 When the grass shall cover me 273 
 
 When the sheep are in the' fauld, and the 
 
 kye come hame 85 
 
 When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 17 
 Where does Circumstance end, and Provi- 
 dence, where begins it? 243 
 
 Where honor or where conscience does not 
 
 bind 41 
 
 Where the bee sucks, there lurk 1 16 
 
 Where the Great Lake's sunny smiles 212 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride 35 
 
 Whether on Ida's shady brow 86 
 
 While sauntering through the crowded 
 
 street 309 
 
 Whilst Thee I seek, protecting Power 136 
 
 Whither, nudst falling dew 187 
 
 Whoe'er she be 29 
 
 Who knoweth life but questions death 276 
 
 Why should I, with a mournful, morbid 
 
 spleen 309 
 
 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing.. .. 261 
 
 With blackest moss the flower-plots 195 
 
 With deep affection 171 
 
 With fingers weary and worn 160 
 
 With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou climb'st 
 
 the skies 6 
 
 Within his sober realm ol leafless trees.... 279 
 
 Within the sunlit forest 142 
 
 Wouldst thou liear what man can say 19 
 
 Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams 163 
 
 Ye banks and braes and streams around. . . 82 
 
 Ye distant spires, ye antique towers 62 
 
 Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell 58 
 
 Ye say they all have passed away 260 
 
 Yes, faith is a goodly anchor 227 
 
 You knew, — who knew not Astrophel ?. . .. 7 
 Y'ou lay a wreath on nuirdered Lincoln's 
 
 bier 324 
 
 You meaner beauties of the night 13 
 
 You say, but with no touch of scorn • 197
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 After Death 272 
 
 Again 274 
 
 Alpine Sheep, The 220 
 
 Althea, To .'iO 
 
 All 's well 241, 298 
 
 Ambition 168 
 
 Aniiens's Song 16 
 
 Ambrose 226 
 
 Anchor. The Forging of the 170 
 
 An Epistle to the Countess of Cumber- 
 land, From 14 
 
 Angelic Ministry 7 
 
 A7igel in the House, An 144 
 
 Angel's Visit, An 271 
 
 Ai>ology, The 190 
 
 Ariel's Song 16 
 
 Artist, The 266 
 
 " A Tribute to a Servant," From 235 
 
 At Sea 287 
 
 AnM Robin Gray 85 
 
 Antunni, A still Day in 2^:! 
 
 Avoca, The Yale of 124 
 
 A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea 144 
 
 Azrael ■• 313 
 
 Ball, After the 292 
 
 Ball, The Belle of the 163 
 
 Bnl(|uhither, The Braes o' 88 
 
 Battle-Field, The 1S9 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic 236 
 
 Bedford, On Lucy, Countess of. 10 
 
 Begone Dull Care ! 20 
 
 Bells, The 202 
 
 Bermudas, The 35 
 
 Berne, The Terrace at 265 
 
 Beitha 2(i8 
 
 Bertha in the Lane 191 
 
 Bethleliein, The Star of 93 
 
 Bin','cn on the Rhine 173 
 
 Hircli Stream 315 
 
 Bird. The 32 
 
 Blackbird, The 340 
 
 Blindness, On his 38 
 
 ]?lossonis. To 31 
 
 Blue and the Gray, The 326 
 
 Bonnie George Camjibell 76 
 
 Boston Hymn 201 
 
 " Bothie of Tober-Navuolich," From the. . . 243 
 
 Bower of Bliss, The 9 
 
 " Break, break, break ! " 196 
 
 Brides of Quair, The Ballad of the 310 
 
 Britlw of Sighs, On the 300 
 
 Brookside, The Iso 
 
 Bron^h Bells 118 
 
 Bucket, The 147 
 
 Page 
 
 Busle Song 199 
 
 Burial, After the 227 
 
 Burns 165 
 
 Bust of Dante, On a 231 
 
 Camp, The Song of the 263 
 
 Campanile de Pisa 230 
 
 Cana 246 
 
 Careless Content 51 
 
 " Castle of Indolence," From the 51 
 
 Celinda 29 
 
 Chameleon, The 64 
 
 Charity 273 
 
 Chase, The 252 
 
 Childe's Destinv, The 153 
 
 Choir, The Old-fashioned 304 
 
 Christabel 110 
 
 Christmas Hymn 238 
 
 Christmas-Time 107 
 
 Church Gate, At the 195 
 
 Climbing ■• 294 
 
 Columbine, To the Painted 176 
 
 Come to me. Dearest 330 
 
 Coming Home 250 
 
 Commemoration Ode 223 
 
 Companionship of the Muse 34 
 
 Concha 299 
 
 Confucius, The Music-Lesson of. 331 
 
 Congress, To 153 
 
 Content and Rich 10 
 
 Contentment 12 
 
 Corn-rj.'tw Hymn 143 
 
 Coronach 106 
 
 Coronation 204 
 
 Courtin', The 225 
 
 Cowper's Grave 194 
 
 Crickets, The 297 
 
 Cuckoo, To the 75, 100 
 
 Cujiid grown careful 91 
 
 Cycle, A 339 
 
 Daffodils, The 99 
 
 Daffodils, To .30 
 
 Dance, The 329 
 
 Dane, The Burial of the 261 
 
 Dawn 328 
 
 Deacon's Masterjiiece, The 221 
 
 Dead, The 73 
 
 Dead who have died in the Lord, The 89 
 
 Death and the Youth 254 
 
 Death of Dr. Levett, On the 59 
 
 Death the Leveller 23 
 
 Death, The Secret of 317 
 
 Death, Until 251 
 
 Dee, The Sands of 249
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 349 
 
 Defiance, The Soul's 148 
 
 ])enniti()ns 320 
 
 Description of such a one as he would 
 
 love, A 4 
 
 Dickens in Camp 301 
 
 Different Points of View 314 
 
 Dirge for Fidele 16 
 
 Dirge for a Soldier 290 
 
 Dirge in Cymbeline G3 
 
 Doorstep, The 285 
 
 Dorothy Q 219 
 
 Doubt 197 
 
 Down the Slope 276 
 
 Driving Home the Cows 316 
 
 Duddon, To the River 103 
 
 Duty, Ode to 102 
 
 Each and All 200 
 
 Edom o' Gordon 22 
 
 Election, The Eve of 216 
 
 Elegy 28 
 
 Elegy on Captain Matthew Henderson .... 84 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Churcliyard 60 
 
 Epitaph, A Bard's 83 
 
 Epitaph on Elizabeth L. H 19 
 
 Epithalamiuni 156 
 
 Epithalamiuni, From the 8 
 
 Errand, The Soul's 6 
 
 Eternal Light 260 
 
 Eton College, Ode on a distant Prospect of 62 
 
 Eva. To 199 
 
 Evelyn Hope 203 
 
 Evening Hynni 29 
 
 Evening, Ode to 64 
 
 Evening Song 177 
 
 Eventide 258 
 
 Faces, The old familiar 120 
 
 Fair and Unworthy 26 
 
 Faith 175 
 
 Family Meeting, The 169 
 
 Farewell to the Fairies 20 
 
 Fate 318 
 
 Fern, The Petrified 318 
 
 Field Preaching 256 
 
 Fireside, By the 275 
 
 Fishers, The Three 249 
 
 Flag, The American 156 
 
 Flowers, The l*eath of the 188 
 
 Flower, The 31 
 
 Fly to the Desert 123 
 
 FVir one that hears himself much praised . . 33 
 
 Forest Worship 142 
 
 Forever with the Lord 135 
 
 Friend Sorrow 278 
 
 Fringed Gentian, To the 189 
 
 Funeral, The Fisherman's 334 
 
 Garden Song 198 
 
 Garden, Thoughts in a 34 
 
 Gate, Before the 303 
 
 Geneva, The Lake of 126 
 
 Genevieve ' 108 
 
 Ghost at Noon, A 142 
 
 Glenara .^. 138 
 
 Glenlogie 78 
 
 Gnome, The Green 284 
 
 God knoweth 307 
 
 God, The Kingdom of 241 
 
 God, Tlie Love of. 245 
 
 God, The Will of 239 
 
 Gold Coin, Ode to an Indian 90 
 
 Good Mon"ow 26 
 
 Gowan glitters on the Sward, The 86 
 
 Grongar Hill 54 
 
 Had I a Heart for Falsehood framed 79 
 
 Happiness 4*5 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the Lark ..'. I6 
 
 Hawthorne 2II 
 
 Health, A , les 
 
 Heart, The Memory of the . 156 
 
 Heavenly Land, The 57 
 
 Heaven, The Present 176 
 
 Heaven, There was Silence in 1:;6 
 
 Herb Rosemary, To the 92 
 
 Hereafter .312 
 
 Heritage, The 224 
 
 Her last Poem 255 
 
 Hermit, The 72 
 
 Hester 120 
 
 He that loves a rosy Cheek 25 
 
 Highland Mary 82 
 
 House in the Meadow, The 290 
 
 Housekeeper, The 120 
 
 How near to Good is what is Fair 19 
 
 Hymn 47, 146, 175 
 
 Hymn, A 52 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Cha- 
 
 mouni 109 
 
 Hymn for the Mother 270 
 
 Hynni of Nature 162 
 
 Hymn of the Hebrew Maid 107 
 
 Hymn on the Nativity 35 
 
 Hynni to Christ 325 
 
 Hynm to the Flowers 140 
 
 Iconoclast, The 258 
 
 If thou wert by my Side , 143 
 
 Illness, Written after Recovery from a Dan- 
 gerous 90 
 
 I '11 never love thee moi-e 28 
 
 Inchcape Rock, The 117 
 
 Indian Names 260 
 
 In .June 291 
 
 In Memoriam 340 
 
 Inner Calm, The 247 
 
 In Priscm 39 
 
 In School-Days 215 
 
 Inspiration 236 
 
 In the Defences 2SS 
 
 In the Mist 327 
 
 In the 8ea 298 
 
 Intimations of Immortality 97 
 
 Inward Music 178 
 
 Irish Emigrant, The 163 
 
 Isaac Ashford 80 
 
 Island, The 185 
 
 Italian Song 81 
 
 Italy. A Prophecy 339 
 
 " It IS more blessed " 259 
 
 " I will abide in thine House " 277 
 
 I would not live alway 162 
 
 Jeanie Morrison 159 
 
 Jester's Sermon, The 293 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my Soul 58 
 
 John Davidson 78 
 
 Judge not 278 
 
 July Dawning 335 
 
 Keith of Ravelston 257 
 
 Kindred Hearts 154 
 
 Knowing 234 
 
 Krumley 254 
 
 Labor 175
 
 350 
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 Lady Anne Ilamilton, To the 89 
 
 1/iUy Barbara 264 
 
 Lady Mary Ann 77 
 
 Lament 137 
 
 Lament lor Astropliel (8ir Pliilii) Sidney).. 7 
 
 Lament for Flodden 88 
 
 Land o' the Lea!, The SCi 
 
 Landward 287 
 
 Laus Deo ! 210 
 
 Lav of the Imprisoned Huntsman 105 
 
 Leader, Tlie Lost 207 
 
 Lent, To lieep a true 31 
 
 Liberty 41 
 
 Life 7J 
 
 Lincoln, Abraham 324 
 
 Lincolnsliire, I'he High Tide on the Coast of 280 
 
 Lines to my Motlier's Picture 09 
 
 Lines written in Richmond Churcliyard, 
 
 Yorkshire 93 
 
 Listening for God 307 
 
 Lochinvar, Young 104 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 139 
 
 Losses 1S4 
 
 Loss of the Royal George 69 
 
 Love 2 J9 
 
 Love and Friendship 105 
 
 Love Divine, all Love excelling 58 
 
 Lovers, The Pui itan 302 
 
 Lover, The 253 
 
 Love, The Buri.il of 190 
 
 Love will find out the Way 19 
 
 Lucasta, To 30 
 
 Lucy 's Flittin' 182 
 
 Maidenhood 209 
 
 Majestv of God 3 
 
 Man, The Last 133 
 
 March 297 
 
 Mariana 195 
 
 Mariner's Ilyinu 148 
 
 Mariner's <\ ife, The 71 
 
 Jlarriage 154 
 
 Mary in Heaven, To 83 
 
 Mary Morison 82 
 
 Master's Touch, The 247 
 
 Match, A 286 
 
 May 155 
 
 May-Day Song 20 
 
 Mazzini 304 
 
 Meeting, The Quiet 319 
 
 Melanie, From 172 
 
 Memory 196 
 
 Memory, A 100 
 
 Men of (.)ld, The 180 
 
 Midwinter 320 
 
 Milton's Prayer in Blindness 237 
 
 Mind, The Innnnrtal 123 
 
 Mine Own 333 
 
 Ministry, A Bird's 321 
 
 Minstrel's Song in Ella, The 79 
 
 Mont Blanc 126 
 
 Morning 177 
 
 Morning Hymn 46 
 
 Morning Meditations 160 
 
 Morning Street, The 328 
 
 >[oses, The Burial of. 237 
 
 Mother, To a Bereaved: 137 
 
 Mountains, The 262 
 
 Mummv. Address to an Egyptian 141 
 
 Muses, To the .' 86 
 
 Music 26 
 
 Musical Instrument, A 103 
 
 My Hirtliday 214 
 
 My Life is lilve the Summer Rose 152 
 
 My Mind to me a Kingdom is 15 
 
 My old Kentucky Nurse 303 
 
 Mvsteries of Providence 71 
 
 Myth, A 250 
 
 My Times are in thy Hand 246 
 
 Nature, The Lessons of 12 
 
 Nature, The noble 18 
 
 Nearer Home 256 
 
 Nearer, my God, to thee 245 
 
 Never again 287 
 
 New England Spring 224 
 
 New Sinai, The 242 
 
 Niagara, The Fall of 155 
 
 Night and Death 89 
 
 Night, The mid Hour of 124 
 
 No Age content with his own Estate 3 
 
 Not ours the Vows 144 
 
 November 287 
 
 Nymph's Reply, The 5 
 
 Of a' the Airts the Wind can blaw 82 
 
 Oi' Myself 40 
 
 O Lassie ayont the Hill ! 270 
 
 Old Age and Death 40 
 
 O may I join the Choir Invisible ! 248 
 
 One Word is too often profaned 128 
 
 Oriental Idyl, An 262 
 
 O Saviour ! whose Mercy 173 
 
 O Thou who dry'st tlie Mourner's tear 124 
 
 Our Heroes 289 
 
 Our Mary 169 
 
 Outward Bound 250 
 
 Over the River 277 
 
 O, why should the Spirit of Mor;,al be proud 149 
 
 Painter who pleased Nobody and Everybody, 
 
 The 50 
 
 Palm and the Pine, The 181 
 
 Pan in Wall Street : 285 
 
 Paraphrase of Psalm XXIII 47 
 
 Parson, Character of a Good 46 
 
 Passing away 157 
 
 Paul Revere's Ride 207 
 
 Peace 257 
 
 Petition to Time, A 179 
 
 Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, On a. . . 101 
 
 Pilgrim Song 168 
 
 Pilgrim, Tlie 5 
 
 Pirate, The .' 185 
 
 Piscataqua River 283 
 
 Pleasure mixed with Pain 4 
 
 Poet of To-Day, The 263 
 
 Portrait of Red Jacket, On a 166 
 
 Prayer 39, 136 
 
 Prayer in Sickness, A 179 
 
 Prayer, The Universal 48 
 
 Pre-existence 309 
 
 Primrose, To an Earl v 92 
 
 Problem The '. 200 
 
 Prophecv, The Souls 202 
 
 Psalm of Life, A 209 
 
 Puck, The Fairy to 16 
 
 Qua Cursum Ventus 244 
 
 Queen of Bohemia, To his Mistress, the — 13 
 Quiet from God t 244 
 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra 204 
 
 Rain, After the 2S3 
 
 Rain, Before the 283 
 
 Ready 321 
 
 Reason 46 
 
 Recesses, Fioiu the. 146
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 351 
 
 Resignation . . v 39, 210 
 
 Rest 32 
 
 Revenge of Injuries 13 
 
 Rlieinis, Tiie Jackdaw of 150 
 
 Riches, Tlie House of 9 
 
 Right must win, Tlie 239 
 
 Rivers, All the 306 
 
 Robin Goodfellow 21 
 
 Robinson of Leyden 221 
 
 Rocky Mountains in Winter, after many 
 
 Years, On recrossing the 335 
 
 Royalty 241 
 
 Ruth 161 
 
 Sabbath, The 
 
 Saint Agnes, The Eve of 
 
 Santa Filoniena 
 
 Schoolmistress, The 
 
 Sea Dirge, A 
 
 Sea-Limits, The 
 
 Search after God. . 
 
 Seen and Unseen 
 
 Seneca Lake, To 
 
 Sennacherib, The Destruction of 
 
 Serenade, A : 
 
 Settler, The 
 
 Seven times Four 
 
 Seven times Seven 
 
 Shandon, The Bells of 
 
 Shay, The One-Hoss 
 
 Shepiierd-Boy, The 
 
 Shepherd to his Love, The i>assionate.. 
 
 She 's gane to dwall in Heaven 
 
 She walks in Beauty 
 
 Slie was a Phantom oi' Delight 
 
 Shirt, The Song of the. . ." 
 
 Sic Vita 
 
 Siren's Song, The 
 
 Sir John Moore, The Burial of 
 
 Sisters, Tlie 
 
 Skylark, To a 
 
 Sleep and Death 
 
 Sleep, The 
 
 Sleep, To 
 
 Sleepy Hollow 
 
 Small Beginnings 
 
 Soldier's Return, The 
 
 Song 25, 49, 105, 161, 
 
 Song, A 
 
 Song for Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687 
 
 S ng of a Fellow-Worker 
 
 Song of Hesperus 
 
 Song of Trust, A 
 
 Sonnet 
 
 Sonnets 6, 
 
 Soul, The 
 
 Soul, The Sabbath of the 
 
 Soul, The Upright 
 
 Sower, The 
 
 Spectre Horse, The 
 
 Spiri ts. Unseen 
 
 Spring in Carolina 
 
 Spring, The Late 
 
 Stanzas 
 
 Stanzas written in De.jection near Naples.. 
 
 Statue, The 
 
 Stream of Life, The 
 
 Strip of Blue, A 
 
 Submission 
 
 Summer Day, A 10, 
 
 Summer Dnys 
 
 Summer Shower, After a 
 
 Summons, The Fisherman's 
 
 Sunflower. The 
 
 174 
 129 
 211 
 
 59 
 
 16 
 295 
 
 26 
 240 
 155 
 125 
 105 
 234 
 2S2 
 282 
 171 
 221 
 253 
 4 
 145 
 125 
 100 
 163 
 
 27 
 
 25 
 152 
 254 
 127 
 232 
 190 
 103 
 235 
 218 
 
 87 
 313 
 338 
 
 46 
 337 
 
 lo 
 308 
 168 
 , 17 
 
 11 
 
 74 
 269 
 329 
 186 
 172 
 311 
 291 
 117 
 127 
 326 
 243 
 274 
 296 
 295 
 183 
 147 
 336 
 
 272 
 
 Sunlight and Starlight 277 
 
 Sunset, The CoUlen 244 
 
 Survivors, The 2('8 
 
 Swallow, The Departure of the 182 
 
 Sweet Home 153 
 
 Tacking Ship off Shore 311 
 
 Take thv auld Cloak about thee 24 
 
 Temple,' The Living 219 
 
 Thanatopsis 187 
 
 The Barring o' the Door 24 
 
 The Boatie rows 77 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus 223 
 
 The closing Scene 279 
 
 The common Lot 135 
 
 " The Deserted Village," From 65 
 
 The Evening Cloud 146 
 
 The Friar of Orders Gray 67 
 
 The Good Man 13 
 
 The Grave by the Lake 212 
 
 The larger Hope 197 
 
 The Midges dance aboon the Burn 88 
 
 The Rapture of Kilmenv 121 
 
 '• The Rivulet," From .'. 190 
 
 The sweet Neglect 19 
 
 They are all gone •• • 33 
 
 Thou art, O God 124 
 
 Thought 3 
 
 Thou hast sworn by thy God 145 
 
 Thine Eyes still shone 200 
 
 Tibbie I'nghs 181 
 
 Tiger, The 85 
 
 To-Day and To-Morrow 212' 
 
 Too Late 250 
 
 Touchstone, The 217 
 
 Trosachs, The 105 
 
 Trust 179 
 
 Tubal Cain 218 
 
 Twcntv-three, On arriving at the Age of. .. 38 
 Two Moods 337 
 
 Una and the Lion 8 
 
 Unawiires 305 
 
 Under Milton's Picture 46 
 
 Under the Greenwood-Tree 16 
 
 Unseen - 318 
 
 Up Above 247 
 
 Urania "266 
 
 Urvasi 334 
 
 Vanishers, The 215 
 
 Venice, Sunrise in 314 
 
 Vespers "'^73 
 
 Violets, Under the 223 
 
 Virtue 31 
 
 Virtuous, The Death of the 74 
 
 Vision, A 83 
 
 Voiceless, The 220 
 
 Voyagers, The 262 
 
 Waiting 316, 327 
 
 " Wallcer in Nicaragua," From 313 
 
 Waly, waly, but love be bonny 76 
 
 Warnings, The three 73 
 
 Waterfowl, To a 187 
 
 Waters, The Meeting 273 
 
 Way to sing, The 295 
 
 Way, the Truth, and the Life, The 239 
 
 We are Brethren a' 184 
 
 Weary 272 
 
 What ails this Heart o' mine? 75 
 
 What is the Use ? 321 
 
 When Maggie gangs away 121 
 
 When the Grass shail cover me 273
 
 352 
 
 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 
 
 Whilst thee I seek 136 
 
 White Underneath 307 
 
 Wliy thus longing ? 251 
 
 Wish, A 81 
 
 AVislies 29 
 
 AVisliing 232 
 
 Witness, The Sure 255 
 
 W( iniiin 252 
 
 Wdiiiau's Love, A 305 
 
 WdUKin, The true 7 
 
 Woods, From the 309 
 
 Wordsworth 260 
 
 Word, The Last 266 
 
 Work 337 
 
 World, The 103 
 
 World, The Other 248 
 
 AVorlds, The Two 276 
 
 Yarrow Stream 75 
 
 Yarrow, The Braes of 56 
 
 Yarrow unvisited 101 
 
 Ye golden Lamps of Heaven, farewell ! 58 
 
 THE END, 
 
 Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
 
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