i>^ 7 /Jl If tAVAi-lixj >^^^^0^0f^aF^:^^»''^ S'M^'"^ '^ ■ST THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.." — Page iii. A O/J y FAVORITE POEMS, SELECTED FROM ENGLISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS, NEW YORK: THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO. J o J Copyright by Thomas Y. Crowell & Co^ 1883 AMD 1884 £ PREFACE. CO CD i;i o I -ttojQi^oo- It has been the object of the compiler, in Issuing r::; this volume, to unite a collection that will afford a well- selected variety for the lovers of poetry, and form_ au appropriate present for all seasons and occasions. Most of the selections are the brightest gems from American and English authors, and will live as long as a love of the beautiful and the true spirit of poetry And an abiding place in the human heart. It is submitted to the pub- lic, with the hope that it will be found to be an accept- able gilt. 280303 CONTENTS o'iQioo- PAOH The Spoils of Time Shakspeare .... 17 Manfred's Soliloquy Byron 20 Joy and Sorrow Heddericick .... 21 Music of Nature Pierpont 22 Remembrance Southey 23 The Deserted Village Goldsmith 25 Evening Milton 27 The Daffodils Wordsworth .... 28 Domestic Love Ci-oly 29 Elegy written in a Country Church- yard Gray 30 The Burial of Sir John Moore . . . JFoife 35 Youth . . . • Scott 36 The New Year Willis 37 Forest Hymn Bryant 38 Man's Life Crabbe 39 Lycidas T. B. Aldrich ... 40 'Tis A Little Thing Talfourd 41 Night Southey 42 The Snow Storm Emerson 43 A Prayer in the Prospect of Death . Burns 44 Halloween Burns 45 When I am Old Caroline A. Briggs . 55 The Revellers Mrs. Hemans .... 57 Practical Charity Crabbe 59 The FaithfuIv Dog Mrs, Sigoumey ... 60 CONTENTS. Exhortation to Courage Shakspeare .... 61 Country and Patriotism Bailey 62 TiiK Old Home Tennyson 68 Kature Young 64 Found Dead Albert Laighton . . 65 Only a Year Mrs. H. B. Stowe . . 66 J^oNG Life Kennedy 68 PitESS On Park Benjamin . • 69 Proposal Bayard Taylor . . 70 Raphael's Account of the Creation . Milton 71 Darkness Byron 73 The True Aristocrat Steivart 76 The Ship Southey ..... 77 The Old Man by the Brook Wordsworth ... 78 The Bride Mrs. Sigoumey . . 79 Marmion Scott 81 The World's Wanderers Shelley 84 Speak Gently Anon 85 Waning Spirit Bailey 86 Morning among the Hills Percival 87 The Death Bed Hood 89 My Darling's Shoes Anon 90 The Cotter's Saturday Night .... Bums 91 Hamlet's Soliloquy Shakspeare .... 98 Happiness Keble 99 The Trumpet Mrs. Hemans . . . 100 Ode on Cecilia's Day Dryden ... o . 101 Skater's Song Anon 103 On Lending a Punch Bowl . . . . . . O. W. Holmes ... 104 Song T. B. Aldrich ... 107 A Canadian Boat Song Moore 108 The Lost Mexican City McLellan .... 109 Tiiic Old Clock on the Stairs .... Longfellow .... Ill H haling of the Daughter of Jaikus . Willis 113 The Seasons Grahame 118 The Seasons Thomson 119 Wedding Gifts Tupper 120 CONTENTS. Bking Flowers Mrs. Hemans „ . . 121 Solitude Bymn 122 For a' that and a' that Burns 12J Knowledge and Wisdom Coicper 124. November Bryant 125 The Primrose of the Rock .... Wordsioorth .... 126 Over the River Nancy A. W. Priest . 128 "Fall of the Indian" McLellan 130 When I am Dead Emma A. Broione . • 131 Our Colors at Fort Sumter Aldrich 132 Two Hundred Years Pierpont 133 One Heart 's enough for Me Auguste Mignon . . 134 Address to the Comet Anon. ...... 135 To A Poet who died of Want . . . . L. Filmore .... 137 Woman's Love Anon 138 The Bridge of Sighs Hood 139 The Poet Dreamt of Heaven .... Anon. ...... 143 On the Sea Bauard Taylor. . . 144 The Soul Addison 145 The Prayer of Nature ....... Byron 146 In Reverie If. McEioen Kimball . 148 The Tempest James T. Fiel'h . . 149 From "The Princess" Tennyson . . ^ . . 150 Joe Albert Laighton . . 151 The Dying Alchemist Willis ...:.. 153 The Pleasures of Hope Campbell 157 June Bryant 158 The Village Preacher Goldsmith .... 159 He Lives Long who Lives Well . . . Randolph 161 Fair Ines - Hood 162 The Graves of a Household Mrs. Hemans ... 164 L7FE Anon 165 The Opening of the Piano Atlantic Monthly . . 166 The Beautiful Burrington .... 168 The Baby Anon 163 To a Friend Daniel A. Di-own . . 17fl Effect of Obatobv on a Multitudb , Crolu .... ^ . 171 10 CONTENTS. The Raven Edgar A. Foe ... 172 Pleasures of Memoby More 178 Reflections Crabbe 179 The Serenade - . . Shelley 1S3 Health E. C. Pinckney . . . 18-t To THE Portrait of one " gone before," A. M. Butterjield . , 185 Angel of the Rain H. McEwen Kimball . l>-6 Worldly Treasures Bailey 187 The Death of the Flowers Bryant 18S The Aurora Borealis H. F. Gould .... 190 New ENfJLAND Anon 191 The Pity of the Park Fountain . . . Willis 192 March of the Rebel Angels Milton 193 The Sagamore B. P. SMllaher . . . 194 The Beauties of Nature Bu7-ns 195 The Famine Longfelloio .... 196 The Lady of the Earl Anon 202 MIGNON aspiring TO HEAVEN Goethe 204 The Hope of an Hereafter Camjybell 205 All is Vanity, saith the Preacher . . Byron 20G On a Tear Rofiers 207 The Life Clock Anon 208 Know Thyself -^^rs- Sigouniey . . . 210^ O, NOT by Graves "'• ^- Wallace ... 212 Something Cheap Charles Swain ... 213 Saveet Remembrances jl^ore 214 Charity ^«o« 215 Reliance on God Casket 216 The Goblet Bayard Taylor ... 218 The Flowers Henry Bacon ... 221 The Day is Done Lonrjfelloto .... 223 Thoughts /Jai/ey 224 The Silent Multitude ^trs. Hemans . . . 225 A vision <• ^1^. E 226 j^osT Anon 228 The Picket before Bull Run .... John William Day . 229 The Song of Seventy Tupjjer 23J CONTENTS. 11 Good and Better Anon 233 Building upon the Sand £liza Cook .... 234 Remembrance Percival 235 Dedication of a Schoolhouse .... Miss Louisa Simes . 23« The Angels iw the House Anon 237 The Pkovince of Woman Hannah More ... 238 Woman's Four Seasons Bailei/ 230 Maud Muller WhitUer 240 How TO Live Bryant 244 Advertisement of a Lost Day .... Mrs. Sigoumey ... 245 The Wreck Mrs. Hemans ... 246 The Retreat from BIoscow Anon 248 Man was made to mourn Burns 249 Unseen Spirits WiUis 252 The true Measure of Life P.J. Bailey .... 253 Flowers Thomas P. Moses . . 254 Mazeppa Byron 256 Sabbath Morning in the Country . . Bailey 258 Make your Mark David Barker ... 259 Life's Morning, Noon, and Evening . . L. M. D 260 Disasters Longfellow .... 261 Wealth is not Happiness Mrs. Norton .... 262 The Charnel Ship L. M. Davidson . . 263 A HOMF to rest in Moiford 265 The Evening Sail Crabhe 266 The Grave of Mrs. Judson Miss M. Remick . . 268 Happiness Pollok 269 The Cornelian Byron 270 God bless our Father Land 0. W. Holmes ... 271 Only one Life Arion 272 The May Queen Alfred Tennyson . . 273 Bonds of Affection Landon 278 My Creed Alice Gary .... 279 The Rose by the Wayside D. A. Drown .... 280 From an Italian Sonnet Rogers 281 Love and Reason Moore 282 The Bride's Farewell Mrs. Hemans ... 284 12 CONTENTS. The Days of Yore Dotiglas Thompson . 285 The Path of Independence Anon 286 A Picture B. P. Shillaber ... 287 An Acrostic F. A .289 From the Merchant of Venice .... Shakspeare .... 290 The Poet Scott 291 Illustration of a Picture O. W. Holmes ... 293 The iver Mrs. Hemans . ... 295 Through the Darkness WilUam Winter . . 297 Life and Death Ben Jonson .... 298 The Country Lassie Anon 299 The Breeze in the Church Miss Hinxf/ain ... 300 Ode on Art Sprague 302 I Remember, I Remember Hood 303 Sensibility Rogers 304 The Old and the New Year Anon 305 Loved you better than you knew . . Atlantic Monthly . . 306 Time and its Changes Bailey 308 The Toast Scott 309 Time Young 311 The Heart's Fine Gold W. O. Bourne ... 312 The Old Folks' Room Anon 313 Elegy — Written in Spring Bruce 315 The River Path Whittier 316 The Banquet Lamlon 318 Time, Hope, and Memory Hood 319 Little Rose Blackwood' s Mag. . . 320 Poesy O. ]V. Holmes ... 322 Advice to a Reckless Youth Ben Jonson .... 323 Good Counsail Geoffrey Chaucer . . 324 Freedom John Barbour . . . 325 John Anderson, my jo Burns 326 The Pleasures of Heaven Ben Jonson .... 327 To Blossoms Bobert Hvrrick ... 328 Vertue George Herbert . . . 329 Love Samuel Butler . . . 330 Mariner's Hymn Mrs, SmUhey ... 331 CONTENTS. 13 Peace George Herbert . . . 332 Rule Britannia Thomson 334 The Maid's Lament Landor 336 Home Montgomery .... 337 Addeess to the Ocean Procter 338 Jeanie Morrison Wm. Motherivell . . 339 The Exile's Song Robert GUfillan . . 342 Ten Years Ago Alaric Alex. Watts . 343 We Met Thomas H. Bayly . . 344 From " The Lays of Ancient Ko ME " . . Macaulay 345 Castles in the Air James Ballantine . . 347 TuE Men of Old R. M. Milnes ... 349 Clear the Way Charles Mackay . . 350 From "Babe Christabel" Gerald Massey . . . 352 The Grandmother Victor Hugo .... 354 The Skeleton in Armor Longfellow .... 357 The Present Crisis Jas. Russell Loivell . 363 Song of the Stars Bryant 369 BiNGEN ON THE RHINE Mrs. C. E. Norton . . 371 Love. (Songs of Seven.) Jean Ingelow ... 375 Evelyn Hope R. Browning , . . 376 Giving in Marriage. (Songs of Seven.) Jean Ingelotv ... 378 The Children's Hour Longfellow .... 380 Youth, that Pursuest R. M. Milnes ... 382 Among the Beautiful Pictures . . . Alice Gary .... 383 Each and All Emerson 384 The Present Adelaide A. Procter . 386 The Bells Edgar A. Poe ... 388 Rain in Summer Longfellow .... 392 Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . . . Leigh Hunt .... 394 The Inchcape Rock R. Southey .... 395 The Rainbow J. Keble 39*6 Only a Curl Mrs. Brouming ... 399 Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True . Dinah Maria Mulock, 402 Ring Out, Wild Bells Tennyson 403 Strive, Wait, and Pray Adelaide A. Procter . 404 Break, Break, Break Tennyson 408 14 CONTENTS. The Gifts of God George Herbert . . , 406 Incompleteness Adelaide A. Procter , 40T The Ketdrn of Youth Bryant 408 Labor and Rest Dinah Maria Mulock, 410 The Sands o' Dee C. Kingsley .... 411 The Wreck of the Hesperus Longfelloio .... 412 The Summer Shower T. B. Read .... 416 The Old Man's Comforts R. Southey .... 417 Autumn P. B. S?ieUe7j ... 418 To Daffodils R- Herrick .... 419 The Fountain Jas. Russell Loioell . 420 The Noble Nature B. Jonson 422 Life's "Good Morning" Anna L. Barbauld . 422 Haste Not ! Rest Not ! Goethe 423 Bringing our Sheaves with Us ... . Elizabeth Akers . . 424 The Chambered Nautilus Oliver W. Holmes . . 425 The Old World and the New .... George Berkeley . . 427 A Strip of Blue Lucy Larcom . . . 428 Song R. M. Milnes ... 431 John Burns of Gettysburg B/-et Harte .... 432 Questions of the Hour Sarah M. B. Piatt . 436 The Doorstep E. C. Stedman ... 438 LARViE Mrs. Whitney ... 440 Spinning Helen Fiske Hunt . . 441 Babie Bell T. B. Aldrich ... 442 Bust of Dante Thos. W. Parsons . , 44€ Shakespeare. \ ^ /I HERE cart thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long i ^ To speak of that which gives thee all thy might ? V^y^MIA. Send'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, ^ViD Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects ^^TM light ? Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem In gentle nuiiibers time so idly spent ; Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If Time have any wrinkle graven there ; If any, be a satire to decay. And make Time's spoils despised everywhere. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life ; So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife. What's in the brain that ink may character. Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit ? What 's new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear merit ? Nothing, sweet boy ; but yet, like prayers divine I must each day say o'er the very same ; Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine; Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh case Weighs not the dust and injury of age, 18 THE SPOILS OF TIME. Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, But makes antiquity for aye his page ; Finding the first conceit of love there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead. If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which laboring for invention, bear amiss The second burden of a former child ! O that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun. Show me your image in some antique book Since mind at first in character was done ! That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame ; Whether we are mended, or whe 'r better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O ! sure I am, the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise. Like as the waves, make towards the pebbled shore. So do our minutes haste to their end ; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned. Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight. And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth. And delves the parallels in beauty's brow ; Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth. And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. THE SPOILS OF TIME. 19 And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. "When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age ; When sometimes lofty towers I see down-razed, And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage ; When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, Increasing store with loss, and loss with store ; When I have seen such interchange of state, Or state itself confounded to decay ; Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate : — That time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose. Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea. But sad mortality o'ersways their power. How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower? 0, how shall summer's honey breath hold out Against the wreckful siege of battering days. When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so strong but time decays ? 0, fearful meditation ! where, alack ! Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back.^ Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid ? O, none — unless this miracle have might. That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 20 Manfred's soliloquy. Syron. HE stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man ; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world. I do remember me, that in my youth. When I was wandering, — upon such a night I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 'Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; The trees which grew along the broken arches Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber ; and More near from out the Caesars' palace came The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly. Of distant sentinels the fitful song Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Appeared to skirt th' horizon, yet they stood Within a bowshot — where the Caesars dwelt, And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battlemellt^ And twines its roots with the imperial liearths : Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ; — JOY AND SOBKOW. 21 But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! While Caesars' chambers and the Augustan halls Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries. Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! — The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns. — 'T was such a night 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight E'en at the moment when they should array Themselves in pensive order. -B IS25 s~ Hedderwiok. ^^^^HE gayest hours trip lightly by. And leave the faintest trace ; But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears Time never can efface. 22 MUSIC OF JMATUKE. lisia @f latere. J>N what rich harmony, what polished lays, Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky ! Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why. The fountain's gush, the long-responding shore, The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar, The rustling leaf, in autumn's fading woods, The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods. The summer bower, by cooling breezes fanned. The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spanned, The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen. The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men, The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree, Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant fre€. The scorching bolt, that, from thine armory hurled, Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world, — All these are music to Religion's ear : — Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear. BEMEMBRANCJ&, 28 EeMimlraa©©. — c--a<«>^^-3-^ 8outhcy, f^y^ AN hath a weary pilgrimage, ^ llffUJ "^ '^^ through the world he wends ; (^^0»(U On every stage from youth to age Still discontent attends ; With heaviness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. To school the little exile goes, Torn from his mother's arms, — What then shall soothe his earliest woes. When novelty hath lost its charms ? Condemned to suffer through the day Restraints which no rewards repay. And cares where love has no concern, Hope lengthens as she counts the hours Before his wished return. From hard control and tyrant rules, The unfeeling discipline of schools, In thought he loves to roam, And tears will struggle in his eye While he remembers with a sigh The comforts of his home. Youth comes ; the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind : 24 REMEMBRANCE. Where shall the tired tind harassed heart Its consolation find ? Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells. Life's summer prime of joy ? Ah, no ! for hopes too long delayed, And feelings blasted or betrayed. Its fabled bliss destroy ; And Youth remembers with a sigh, The careless days of Infancy. Maturer Manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on, But with the baseless hopes of Youth Its generous warmth is gone ; Cold, calculating cares succeed, The timid thought, the wary deed, The dull realities of truth ; Back on the past he turns his eye, Remembering with an envious sigh The happy dreams of Youth. So reaches he the latter stage Of this our mortal pilgrimage, With feeble step and slow ; New ills that latter stage await, And old Experience learns too late That all is vanity below. Life's vain delusions are gone by ; Its idle hopes are o'er ; Yet Age remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 26 Goldsmith. |WEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain, )Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often have I loitered o'er thy green. Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! How often have I paused on every charm, — The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm. The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade For talking age, and whispering lovers made .' How ofi;en have I blessed the coming day, When toil remitting lent its aid to play. And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ! While many a pastime circled in the shade ! The young, contending, as the old surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, And sleights of art and feats of strength went round Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ; Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 26 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. Amid thy bowers, the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green : No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; Along thy glades, a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power, Here, as I take my solitary rounds, Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, Remembrance wakes with all her busy train. Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs, — and God has given my share,— I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, Amid these humble bowers to lay me down ; To husband out life's taper at the close. And keep the flame from wasting by repose : I still had hopes, my long vexations past. Here to return, — and die at home at last. O blest retirement ! friend to life's decline. Retreat from care, that never must be mine. How blessed is he who crowns, in shades like these, A youth of labor with an age of ease : EVENING. 21 Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! So on he moves to meet his latter end. Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way ; And, all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. • -CSrs^ JVLllton's " (Paradise Lost." OW came still Evening on, and Twilight gray Had in her sober livery all things clad. Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird. They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale ; She all night long her amorous descant sung; Silence was pleased. Now glowed the firmament With living sapphires : Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest ; till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 28 THE DAFFODILS. Wordsworth. } WANDERED lonely as a cloud (7=^ That floats on high o'er vales and hills, i,'^ When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daff"odils, Beside the lake, beside the trees. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way. They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay ; Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; — A poet could not but be gay. In such a jocund company; I gazed, and gazed, but little though What wealth that 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 daff'odils. DOMESTIC LOVE. 20 %Ul Qroly. OMESTIC love ! not in proud palace halls ,^jOr^ Is often seen thy beauty to abide ; /^iJ^l Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls, U^^/^ That in the thickets of the woodbine hide ; With hum of bees around, and from the side Of woody hills some little bubbling spring, Shining along through banks with harebells dyed And many a bird, to warble on the wing, When Morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling. love of loves ! to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key ; Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even, When the babes cling around their father's knee ; And thine the voice that on the midnight sea Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit ! I 've built a shrine ; and thou hast come, And on its altar closed — forever closed thy plume! 30 gray's elegy. Gray. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary waj And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; — Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. Each in his narrow cell forever laid. The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; geay's elegy. 31 Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they driv^^ their team a-field ! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joy, 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-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust. Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can 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 \yve. 32 gray's elegy, But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill 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 unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, 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 : gray's eleuy. 33 Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet, e'en these bone? from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, — = Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, — Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; Some pious drops the closing eye requires : E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead. Dost in these lines their artless tale relate. If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led. Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, " Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn. Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away. To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. ^4 gray's elegy. " There, at the foot of yonder noddiug beech, That wreathes its old, faQtastic 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 forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed with hopeless love. " One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; Another came ; nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he. " The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the churchway path we saw him 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 lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown : Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth. And Melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere : Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to misery all he had — a tear : — He gained from Heaven — 't was all he wished — a friend THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 85 No farther seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they, alike, in trembling hope, repose,) The bosom of hir Father and his God. Wolfe OT a drum was heard, not a funeral note. As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our Hero we buried. We buried him darkly ; at dead of night ; The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead. And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 36 YOUTH. We thought — as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow — How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he '11 reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock tolled the hour for retiring, And we heard the distant and random gun, That the foe was sullenly firing. — Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory. We carved not a line, we raised not a stone. But left him — alone with his glory ! • — <:^=.s'^5^?=^^^=^)-' — Soott. HE Tear down Childhood's cheek that flows, 'is like the dewdrop on the Rose ; When next the Summer breeze comes by. And waves the bush, the Flower is dry. THJC NKW VKAR. 3' WUUs. -X-^>IC»^)-J-'- LEETLY hath passed the year ; the seasons came ^Duly as they were wont, — the gentle Spring, And the delicious Summer, and the cool Rich Autumn, with the nodding of the grain, And Winter, like an old and hoary man, Frosty and stiff, — and so are chronicled. We have read gladness in the new green leaf, And in the first-blown violets ; we have drunk Cool water from the rock, and in the shade Sunk to the noontide slumber ; we have plucked The mellow fruitage of tlie bending tree, And girded to our pleasant wanderings When the cool winds came freshly from the hills ; And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves Had faded from its glory, we have sat By the good fires of Winter, and rejoiced Over the fulness of the gathered sheaf. " God hath been very good." 'T is He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep The fountains in their secret places cool ; And it is He who leadeth up the sun, And ordereth up the starry influences. And tempereth the keenness of the frost ; And, therefore, in the plenty of the feast, And in the lifting of the cup, let Him llave praises for the well-completed jeaTt 280.'i03 3« JbOilEST HVMN. gryant. HE groves were God's first temples. For mat learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems, — in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplications. Let me, then, at least, Here in the shadow of this aged wood. Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns ; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in the breeze. And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow Whose birth was in the tops, grew old and died Among their branches, — till, at last, they stood. As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults. These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Ilcport not. No fantastic carvings show MANS LIFE. 39 The boast of our vain race to change the furm Of tliy fair work?. But thou art there ; thou fill'st The solitude ; thou art in the soft winds That lun along the summit of these trees In music ; thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place. Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground. The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. — N&^-^e£«%^ — S '^■vt-eoiya--*^ Crabbe. INUTELY trace man's life ; year after year. Through all his days let all his deeds appear. And then, though some may in that life be strange Yet there appears no vast nor sudden change : The links that bind those various deeds are seen,' And no mysterious void is left between. But let these binding links be all destroyed. All that through years he suffered or enjoyed, Let that vast gap be made, and then behold — • This was the youth, and he is thus when old; Then we at once the work of time survey, And in an instant see a life's decay. 40 LYCIDAS. T. ^.jildHoh. WALKED with him one melancholy night Down by the sea, upon the moon-lit strands. While in the silent heaven the Northern Light Beckoned with flaming hands ! Beckoned and vanished, like a woeful ghost That fain would lure us to some dismal wood, And tell us tales of ships that have been lost, Of violence and blood. And where yon daedal rocks o'erhang the froth. We sat together, Lycidas and I, Watching the great star-bear that in the North Gruarded the midnight sky. And while the moonlight wrought its miracles, Drenching the world with silent silver rain, He spoke of life and its tumultuous ills ; He told me of his pain. He said his life was like the troubled sea With autumn brooding over it ; and then Spoke of his hopes, of what he yearned to be. And what he might have been. "I hope," said Lycidas, " for peace at last; I only ask for peace ! my god is Ease : 'tis a littlb thing. 41 Day after day some rude iconoclast Breaks all my images. " There is a bettor life than I have known — A surer, purer, sweeter life than this : There is another, a celestial zone. Where I shall know of bliss." Close his sad eyes and cross his helplesG hands, And lay the flowers he loved upon his breast ; For time and death have stayed the golden sands That ran with such unrest. You weep : I smile : I know that he is dead ! So is his passion ; and 'tis better so ; Take him, earth, and round bis lovely head Let countless roses blow. *rh ii Ullh TMsig. 'iTalfourd O give a cup of water ; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lip* May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarian juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours. It is a little thing to speak a phrase Of common comfort, which by daily use // 42 NIGHT. Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear Of him who thought to die unrenowned, 'twill fall Like choicest music ; fill the glazing eye With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand To know the bonds of fellowship again ; And shed on the departing soul a sense, (More precious than the benison of friends About the honored death bed of the rich,_, To him who else were lonely, that another Df the great family is near and feels -*'-rs^5fe"-S>- Bouthey OW beautiful is night ! A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stnin Breaks the serene of heaven ; In full-orbed glory yonder moon divine RjUs through the dark-blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert-circle spreads Like the ocean girdled with the sky. How beautiful is niffht ' TlIK SNOW .STOKM. 43 Emerson NNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and driving o'er the fields. Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaver. And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's fee'. Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates si' In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come, see the north wind's masonry ! Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions, with projected roof. Round every windward stake, or tree, or door ; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work, So fanciful, so savage ; nought cares he For number or proportion ; mockingly, On coop or kennel, he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn. Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and, at the gate, A tapering turret overtops the work ; And when his hours are numbered, and the wo^M Is all his own, returning, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structure, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night worV, The frolic architecture of the snow. 44 A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. THOU uoknown, Almighty Cause Of all my hope and fear ! In whose dread presence, ere an hour. Perhaps I must appear ! If I have wandered in those paths Of life I ought to shun ; As something, loudly, in my breast Remonstrates I have done, — Thou knowest that Thou hast formed me With passions wild and strong ; And list'ning to their witching voice Has often led me wrong. Where human weakness has come short, Or frailty steps aside. Do thou, All-Good ! — for such thou art - In shades of darkness hide. Where with intention I have erred, No other plea I have, But, Thou art good ; and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. HALLOWEEN. 45 I^obert ^ums. • ' 8 ae 8 » - — Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, The simple pleasures of the lowly traiu; To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm than all the gloss of art. Goldsmith. 0\ PON that night when fairies light, [J On Cassalis Downans dance, >HF f^ Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, ''^^"^^ On sprightly coursers prance ; Or for Colean the rout is taen. Beneath the moon's pale beams ; There, up the cove, to stray an' rove Amang the rocks an' streams, To sport that night. II, Amang the bonie, winding banks, Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear. Where Bruce ance rul'd the martial ranks, And shook his Carrick spear. Some merry, friendly, countra folks, Together did convene, To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, An' baud their Halloween, Fu' blythe that night. 46 HALLOWEEN . III. The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, Mair braw than when they're fine ; Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe, Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin' : The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, Weel knotted on their garten, Some unco blate, and some wi' gabs. Gar lasses' hearts gang startin,, Whyles fast that night. IV. Then first and foremost, thro' the kail Their stocks maun a' be sought ance ; They steek their een, an' graip an' wale, For muckle anes an' straught anes. Poor hav'rel Will fell aft the drift, An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, An' pow't, for want o' better shift, A runt was like a sow-tail, Sae bow't that night. V. Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane. They roar an' cry a throu'ther ; The vera wee things, todlin, rin Wi' stocks out owre their shouther ; An' gif the custock's sweet or sour, Wi' joctelegs they taste them; Syne cozicly, aboon the door, Wi' cannie care they 've plac'd them, To lie that night. HALLOWEEN. 47 VI. The lasses staw frae 'mang them a', To pou their stalks o' corn : But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, Behint the muckle thorn : He grippet Nelly hard an' fast, Loud skirled a' the lasses ; But her tap-pickle maist was lost, When kiutlin in the fause-house, Wi' him that night. VII. The auld guidwife's weel-hoarded nits Are round an' round divided, An' monie lads' an' lasses' fates Are there that night decided : Some kindle, couthie, side by side, An' burn thegither trimly ; Some start awa wi' saucy pride, An' jump out owre the chimlie, Fu' high that night. VIII. Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; Wha 'twas she wadna tell ; But this is Jock, and this is me. She says in to hersel' : He blcez'd owre her, an' she owre hiiB, As they wad never mair part ! Till, fuff ! he started up the lum, An' Jean had e'en a sair heart, To see't that night. ■fa" 48 HALLOWEEN. IX. Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie ; An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, To be compar'd to Willie; Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' fling, An' her ain fit it brunt it ; While Willie lap, and swoor by jing, 'Twas just the way he wanted To be that night. X. Nell had the fause-house in her min'. She pits hersel' an' Robin ; In loving bleeze they sweetly join. Till white in ase they're sobbin : Nell's heart was dancin at the view. She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : Rob, stowlins, prie'd her bonie mou, Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, Unseen that night. XI. But Merran sat behint their backs, Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; She lea'es them gashin at their cracks. An' slips out by hersel' ; She thro' the yard the nearest taks, An' to the kiln she goes then, An' darklins grapit for the banks, And in the blue-clue throws then. Right fear't that night. HALLOWEEN. 49 XII. An ay she wint, an' ay she !»wat, I wat she made nae jaukin; Till something hold within the pat, Guid L — d, but she was quakin ! But whether 'twas the Deil himsel' Or whether 'twas a bauk-en', Or whether it was Andrew Bell, She did nae wait on talkin To spier that night. XIII. Wee Jennie to her grannie says, " Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? I'll eat the apple at the glass, I gat frae uncle Johnnie : " She fuf t her pipe wi' sic a lunt. In wrath she was sae vap'rin. She notic't na, an aizle brunt Her braw new worsit apron Out thro' that night. XIV. " Ye little skelpie liramer's face. How daur you try sic sportin, As seek the foul thief onie place, For him to spae your fortune ? Nae doubt but ye may get a sight : Great cause ye have to fear it ; For monie a ane has gotten a fright, An' liv'd an' died deleeret. On sic a night. 50 HALLOWEEN. XV. " Ae haerst afore the Sherra-moor, I mind 't as weel's yestreen, I was a gilpey then, I'm sure, I was nae past fyfteen ; The simmer had been cauld an' wat. An' stuff was unco green ; An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, An' just on Halloween It fell that night. XVI, " Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graem, A clever, sturdy fellow ; He's sin' gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, That lived in Achmacalla ; He gat hemp-seed, I mind it weel, An' he made unco light o't ; But monie a day was by himsel', He was sae sairly frightet That vera night." XVII. Then up gat fetchtin' Jamie Fleck, An' he swoor by his conscience, That he could saw hemp-seed a peck, . For it was a' but nonsense ; The auld guid man raught down the pocK, An' out a handfu' gied him ; Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk. Some time when na ane see'd him. An' try't that night. HALLOWEEN. 51 XVIII. He marches thro' amang the stacks, Tho' he was something sturtin ; The graip he for n harrow taks, An' haurls at his curpin ; An' ev'ry now an' then he says, " Hemp-seed, I saw thee, An' her that is to be my lass. Come after me, an' draw thee As fast this night." XIX. He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march, To keep his courage cheery ; Although his hair began to arch, He was sae fley'd an' eerie ; Till presently he hears a squeak, An' then a grane an' gruntle : He by his shouther gae a keek, An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle Out owre that night. XX. He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, In dreadfu' desperation ! An' young an' auld came rinnin out, To hear the sad narration ; He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, Or crouchie Merran Humphrie, Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a'. An' wha was it but Grumphie Asteer that night ! 52 HALLOWEEN. XXI. Meg fain wad to the barn hae gaen, To win three wechts o' naething ; But for to meet the Deil her lane, She pat but little faith in : She gies the herd a pickle nits, An' twa red-cheekit apples, To watch, while for the barn she sets, In hopes to see Tarn Kipples That vera night. XXII. She turns the key wi' cannie thraw, And owre the threshold ventures ; But first on Sawnie gies a ca'. Syne bauldly in she enters ; A ration rattled up the wa'. An' she cried, L — d, preserve her! An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', An' pra'd wi' zeal an' fervor, Fu' fast that night. xxiri. They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice ; Then hecht him some fine braw ane. It chanc'd the stack he faddom'd thrice Was timber-propt for thrawin ; He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, For some black, grousome carlin An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke, Till skin in blypes cam haurlin, Aff" 's nieves that nightt HALLOWEEN. 53 XXIV. A wanton widow Leezie was, As canty as a kittlin ; But och I that night, amang the shaws, She got a fearfu' settlin ! She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn, An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, Where three lairds' lands met at a burn. To dip her left sark-sleeve in. Was bent that night. XXV. Whyles o'er a linn the burnie plays, As thro' the glen it wirapl't ; Whyles round a rocky scar it strays ; Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't ; Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle ; Whyles cookit underneath the braes, Below the spreading hazel. Unseen that night. XXVI Amang the brackens, on the brae, Between her an' the moon, The Deil, or else ah outler quay, Gat up an' gae a croon ! Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool i Near lav'rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, an' in the pool. Out owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night. 54 HALLOWEEN. XXVII. In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three are ranged. An' ev'ry time great care is taen, To see them duly changed ; Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys. Sin' Mar's year did desire, Because he gat the toom dish thrice. He heav'd them on the fire, In wrath that night. XXVIII. Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary ; An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes, Their sports were cheap an' cheery. Till butter'd so'ns, wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin, Fu' blythe that night. WHEN 1 AM OLD. 55 ffl Ii8i I am Q)M, Caroline Jl. ^rig'g'.i ^ HEN I am old — (and 0, how soon ■^Will life's sweet morning yield to noon, i^^^^ And noon's broad, fervid, earnest light Be shaded in the solemn night ! Till like a story well-nigh told Will seem my life, when I am old,) — When I am old, this breezy earth Will lose for me its voice of mirth ; The streams will have an undertone Of sadness not by right their own ; And spring's sweet power in vain unfold In rosy charms — when I am old, When I am old, I shall not care To deck with flowers my faded hair; 'T will be no vain desire of mine In rich and costly dress to shine ; Bright jewels and the brightest gold Will charm me nought — when I am old. -'O' When I am old, my friends will be Old and infirm and bowed, like me ; Or else, — (their bodies 'neath the sod. Their spirits dwelling safe with God), — The old church-bell will long have tolled Above the rest — when I am old. When I am old, I 'd rather bend Thus sadly o'er each buried friend, d6 WHEN I AM OLD. Than see them lose the earnest truth That marks the friendship of our youth; 'Twill be so sad to have them cold. Or strange to me — when I am old ! When I am old — O, how it seems Like the wild lunacy of dreams, To jjicture in prophetic rhyme That dim, f;ir-distant, shadowy time. — So distant, that it seems o'er bold Even to say, " When I am old." When I am old — perhaps ere then I shall be missed from haunts of men ; Perhaps my dwelling will be found Beneath the green and quiet mound; My name by stranger hands enrolled Among the dead — ere I am old. Ere I am old ? — that time is now. For youth sits lightly on my brow ; My limbs are firm, and strong, and free; Life hath a thousand charms for me ; Charms that will long their influence hold Within my lieart — ere I am old. Ere I am old, O, let me give My life to learning hoio to live I Then shall I meet with willing heart An early summons to depait, Or find my lengthened days consoled By God's sweet peace — when I am old. THE REVELLERS. 57 Ul J\/[rs. Hemans ING, joyous chords! — ring out again! A swifter still, and a wilder strain! They are here — the fair face and the careles? heart, And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. But I meet a dimly mournful glance, In a sudden tm*n of the flying dance; I heard the tone of a heavy sigh In a pause of the thrilling melody! And it is not well that woe should breathe On the bright spring flowers of the festal wreath! Ye that to thought or to grief belong, Leave, leave the hall of song! Ring, joyous chords! — but who art thou, With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale, young brow, And the world of dreamy gloom that lies In the misty depths of thy soft, dark eyes ? Thou hast loved, fiuv girl, thou hast loved too well; Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell; Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth, And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ; Mourn on! — yet come thou not here the while; It is but a pain to see thee smile; There is not a tone in oiu- songs for thee — Home with thy sorrows flee. 58 THE BEVELLERS. Ring, joyous chords ! ring out again ! But what dost thou with the revel's train ? A silvery voice through the soft air floats, But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; There are bright young faces that pass thee by, But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye. Away ! there 's a void in thy yearning breast, Thou weary man ; wilt thou here find rest ? Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled. And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth. Back to thy silent hearth ! Ring, joyous chords ! ring forth again ; A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! But thou, though a reckless mien be thine, And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine. By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud. By thine eye's quick flasli through its troubled cloud, I know thee ! it is but the wakeful fear Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here ! I know thee ! thou fearest the solemn night, With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might ! There 's a tone in her voice which thou fain would shuD For it asks what the secret soul had done ! And thou, there 's a dark weight on thine — away -™' Back to thy home and pray ! Ring, joyous chords ! ring out again ! A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! And bring fresh wreaths ! we will banish all Save the free in heart from our festive hall. PRACTICAL CHARITY. 59 On ! through the maze of the fleeting dance, on ! But where are the young and the lovely ? gone ! Where are the brows with the Red Cross crowned, A.nd the floating forms with the bright zone bound ? And the waving locks and the flying reet, That still should be where these mirthful meet ? They are gone, they are fled, they are parted all: Alas ! the forsaken hall ! --^^^s^^Rf^^^'— Qrahhe. N ardent spirit dwells with Christian love, — The eagle's vigor in the pitying dove : 'Tis not enough that we with sorrow sigh, That we the wants of pleading man supply ; That we in sympathy with sufferers feel. Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal : — Not these suffice ; to sickness, pain, and woe, The Christian spirit loves with aid to go ; "Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead, But seeks the duty, — nay, prevents the need ; Her utmost aid to every ill applies, And plants relief for coming miseries. 60 THE FAITHFUL DOG. Jl4rs. Bigoumey. EE ! how he strives to rescue from the flood The drowning child, who, venturous in his play. Plunged from the slippery footing. With what joy The brave deliverer feels those slender arms Convulsive twining round his brawny neck, And saves his master's boy ! A zeal like this Hath oft, amid St. Bernard's blinding snows, Tracked the faint traveller, or unsealed the jaws Of the voracious avalanche, plucking thence The hapless victim. If thou hast a dog Of such a noble race, let him not lack Aught of the kind requital, that delights His honest nature. When he comes at eve, Laying his ample head upon thy knee. And looking at thee with a glistening eye, Repulse him not, but let him on the rug Sleep fast and Avarm, beside thy parlor fire. The lion-guard of all thou lov'st is he. Yet bows his spirit at thy least command, And crouches at thy feet. On his broad back He bears thy youngest darling, and endures Long, with a wagging tail, the teasing sport Of each mischievous imp. Enough for him, That they are thine. EXHORTATION TO COURAGE. 61 'Tis but an olden theme To sing the foithful dog. The storied page Full oft hath told his tried fidelity. In legend quaint. Yet if in this our woi'ld True friendship is a scarce and chary plant, It might bo well to stoop and sow its seed Even in the humble bosom of a brute. — Slight nutriment it needs, — the kindly tone. The sheltering roof, the fragments fi'om the board, The frank caress, or treasured word of pi'aise For deeds of loyalty. So may'st thou win A willing servant, and an earnest friend, Faithful to death. • -C^:^^ • t@ ^©MFtp, Shakespeare, UT wherefore do you droop? why look you sad? Be great in fact, as you have been in thought ; Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye ; Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threatener, and outface the brow Of bragging horror; so shall inferior eyes, That bonow their behaviors from the great. 62 COUNTRY AND PATRIOTISM. Grow great by your example ; and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution ; Show boldness and aspiring confidence. What ! shall they seek the lion in his den, And fright him there, and make him tremble there ? O, let it not be said ! Forage, and run To meet displ'^asures further from the doors. And grapple with him ere he comes so nigh ! -C^rs^ Festus. — ^^3«&a>-i— } LOVE my God, my country, kind and kin : Nor would I see a dog robbed of his bone. My country ! if a wretch shall e'er arise Out of thy countless sons, who would curtail Thy freedom, dim thy glory, — while he lives May all earth's peoples curse him, — for of all Hast thou secured the blessing ; and if one Exists, who would not arm for liberty, Be he, too, cursed while living, and when dead, Let him be buried downwards, with his face Looking to hell, and o'er his coward grave The hare skulk in her form. THE OLD HOME. 63 YU mi Tennyson — ^*4-36**- ^ (\ E leave the well-beloved place -jjjM L^ D Where first we gazed upon the sky ; piy^yJA The roofs that heard our earliest cry Will shelter one of stranger race. We go, but ere we go from home, As down the garden-walks I move. Two spirits of a diverse love Contend for loving masterdom. One whispers, " Here thy boyhood sung Long since its matin song, and heard The low love-language of the bird, In native hazels tassel-hung." The other answers, " Yea, but here Thy feet have strayed in after hours With thy best friend among the bowers, And this hath made them trebly dear." These two have striven half the day. And each prefers his separate claim, Poor rivals in a losing game, That will not j^ield each other way. 64 NATURE. I turn to go : my feet are set To leave the pleasant fields and farms; They mix in one another's arms To one pure image of regret. — MJ^^£6&%^4H — re. Young: OOK Nature throuo-li, 'tis revolution all ; All change; no death. Day follows night; and night The dying day ; stars rise and set, and rise ; Earth takes th' example. See, the Summer gay, With her green chaplet and ambrosial flowers. Droops into pallid Autumn : Winter gray Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm. Blows Autumn and his golden fruits away; Then melts into the Sj^ring ; soft Spring, with breath Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, Recalls the first. All, to re-flourish, fiides; As in a wheel, all sinks, to reascend — Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. KOUNP DEAD. 65 _filheH Laig-hton )OUND dead! dead and alone! [^ There was nobody near, nobody near ^jJOiO When the Outcast died on his pillow of stone — No mother, no brother, no sister dear, Not a friendly voice to soothe or cheer, Not a watching eye or a pitying tear — O, the city slept when he died alone. In the roofless street, on a pillow of stone. Many a weary day went by. While wretched and worn ho begged for bread, Tired of life, and longing to lie Peacefully down with the silent dead ; Hunger and cold, and scorn and pain. Had wasted his form and seared his brain, Till at last on a bed of frozen ground. With a pillow of stone, was the Outcast found. Found dead ! dead and alone, On a pillow of stone in the roofless street ; Nobody heard his last faint moan, Or knew when his sad heart ceased to beat; No mourner lingered with tears or sighs, But the stars looked down with pitying eyes, And the chill winds passed with a wailing sound O'er the lonely spot where his form was found. 66 ONLY A YEAK. Found dead ! yet not alone ; There was somebody near — somebody near To claim the wanderer as his own, And find a home for the homeless here ; One, when every human door Is closed to His children scorned and poor, Who opens the heavenly portal wide; Ah, God was near when the Outcast died. — ^0&^S&^^^€M — Jkfrs. H. g. Btcwe NE year ago — a ringing voice, A clear blue eye, And clustering curls of sunny hair, Too fair to die. Only a year — no voice, no smile, No glance of eye; No clustering curls of golden hair, Fair but to die ! One year ago — what loves, Avhat schemes Far into life! What joyous hopes, what high resolves. What generous strife! ONLY A YKAK. 67 ■The silent picture on the wall, The burial stone, — Of all that beauty, life, and joy, Remain alone ! One year— one year — one little year, And so much gone ! And yet the even flow of life Moves calmly on. The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, Above tliat head ; No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray » Says he is dead. No pause or hush of merry birds That sing above, Tell us how coldly sleeps below The form we love. Where hast thou been this year, beloved? What hast thou seen? What visions fair, what glorious life? Where hast thou been? The veil, the veil! so thin, so strong, 'Twixt us and thee ; The mystic veil ! when shall it fall. That we may see! Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone; But present still. 68 LONG LIFE. And waiting for the coming liour Of God's sweet will. Lord of the living and the dead. Our Saviour dear, We lay in silence at thy feet This sad, sad year. Kenrbedy OUNT not thy life by calendars ; for years Shall pass thee by unheeded, whilst an hour — Some little fleeting hour, too quickly past — May stamp itself so deeply on thy brain. Thy latest years shall live upon its joy. His life is longest, not whose boneless gums. Sunk eyes, wan cheeks, and snow-white hairs bespeak Life's limits; no! but he whose memory Is thickest set with those delicious scenes 'Tis sweet to ponder o'er when even falls. PRESS ON. 69 (Park ^enjami/k RESS on ! surmount the rocky steeps, Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch ; He fails alone who feebly creeps ! He wins who dares the hero's march. Be thou a hero ! let thy might Tramp on eternal snows its way. And, through the ebon walls of night, Hew down a passage unto day. . Press on ! if once and twice thy feet Slip back and stumble, harder try ; From him who never dreads to meet Danger and death, they're sure to fly. To coward ranks the bullet speeds. While on their breast who never quail. Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds, Bright courage, like a coat of mail. Press on ! if Fortune play thee false To-day, to-morrow she '11 be true ; Whom now she sinks, she now exalts. Taking old gifts and granting new. The wisdom of the present hour Makes up the follies past and gone ; To weakness, strength succeeds, and power From frailty sprin^gs! Press on, press on! 70 PROPOSAL. Therefore, press on, and reach the goal. And gain the pn'ze, and wear the crown ; Faint not, for to the steadfast soul Come wealth, and honor, and renown.. To thine own self be true, and keep Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil, Press on, and thou shalt surely reap A heavenly harvest fo' thy toil. !=C^ sale ^ayard 'Taylor. HE violet loves a sunny bank, The cowslip loves the lea, The scarlet creeper loves the elm, K^^ But I love — thee. The sunshine kisses mount and vale, The stars they kiss the sea, The west winds kiss the clover bloom. But I kiss — thee. The oriole weds his mottled mate, The lily's bride o' the bee ; Heaven's marriage ring is round the earth, - Shall I wed thee ? RAPHAEL'S ACCOUNT OF THE CREATION. 71 EAVEN opened wide IHoi" ever-during gates — harmonious sound — On golden hinges moving, to let forlh The King of Glory, in his powerful Word And Spirit, coming to create new worlds. On heavenly ground they stood ; and, from the shore Tliey viewed the vast, immeasurable abyss, Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild. Up fiom the bottom turned by furious winds. And suro-ino' waves, as mountains, to assault Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole. "Silence, ye troubled waves, and, thou deep, peace," Said then the omnilic Word; " your discord find!" Nor staid, but, on the wings of cherubim Uplifted, in paternal glory rode Far into Ciiaos, and the world unborn; For Chaos heard his voice; him all his train Followed in briglit procession, to behold Creation, and the wonders of his might. Then staid the fervid wheels, and in his handi He took the golden compasses, prepared In God's eternal store, to circumscribe This universe, and all created things; One foot he centred, and the other turned Round through the vast profundity obscure. 72 RAPIIAEl/S ACCOUNT OF THE CREATION. And said, "Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, This be thy just circumference, O world!" Thus God the heaven created, tlius the earth. Matter unformed and void ; darkness profound Covered the abyss ; but on the watery calm His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread, And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth Throughout the fluid mass. Then founded, then conglobed Like things to like, tiie rest to several place Disparted, and between spun out the air; And earth, self-balanced, on her centre hung. " Let there be light," said God; and forthwith light Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure, Sprung from the deep, and from her native east, To journey through the airy gloom began, Sphered in a radiant cloud; for yet the sun Was not; she in a cloudy tabernacle Sojourned the while. God saw the light was good, And light from darkness, by the hemisphere. Divided: liglit the daj', and darkness night. He named ; thus was the first day even and morn ; Nor passed uncelebrated, nor unsung By the celestial choir.s, when orient light Exhaling first from darkness they beheld ; Birthday of heaven and earth : with joy and shout The hollow universal orb they filled. And touched their golden har])s, and hymning praised God and his works; Creator him tliey sung, Both when first evening was, and wdien first moi-n. DARKNESS. 73 gyron HAD a dream, which was not all a dream, f4l r The bright sun was extinguislied, and the stars Did wander darkling in tlie eternal space, Rayless and pathless, and the icy earth Swung; blind and blackening in tlie moonless air. Morn came, and went, and came, and brought no daj And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light; And they did live by watch-fires, and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings, the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burned for beacons ; cities were consumed. And men were gathered round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : A fearful hope was all the world contained; Forests were set on fire, but hour by hour They fell and faded, and the crackling trunks Extinguished with a crash, and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an uneartldy aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them : some lay down And hid their eyes, and wept; and some did rest 74 DARKNESS. Their chins upon tlieir clinched hands, and sighed; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world, and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust. And gnashed their teeth, and howled ; the wild bird* slu'ieked, And, terrified, did flutter on the gi'ound. And flap their useless wings; tlie wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled And twined tliemselves among the multitude. Hissing, but stingless; they were slain for food; And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again; a meal was bought With blood, and each sat sullenly apart, Gocging himself in gloom; no love was left; All earth was but one thought, and that was death, Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails — men Died, and their bones were tombless as tlie flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devoui'ed; Even dogs assailed their masters, all save one ; And he Avas faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famished men at bay. Till hunger clung them, or the drooi)ing dead Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food. But it was piteous and perpetual moan. And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand Which answered not with a caress — he died. The crowd was famished by degrees; but two &ARKNESS. 75 Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies ; they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place, Where had been her ped a mass of holy things For an uniioly usage ; they raked up. And shivering, scraped with their cold, skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew brighter, and beheld Each other's aspects — saw, and shrieked, and died. Even of their mortal hideousness they died. Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, hcrbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — A lump of death, a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. And nothing stirred within their silent depths ; Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropped They slept on the abyss without a surge ; The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave ; The moon, their mistress, had expired before; The winds were withered in the stagnant air. And the clouds perished ; Darkness had no need Of aid from them — she was the universe. .. is rg^ ^K - 76 . THE TRUE ARISTOCRAT. Stewari HO are the nobles of the eavth, y. The true aristocrats, Who need not bow tlieir heads to lords, Nor dcff to kings their hats? WIio are tliey but the men of toil, The mighty and the free. Whose hearts and hiinds subdue th'* earth, And compass all the sea? Who are they but the men of toil, Who cleave the forest down. And plant, amid the wilderness. The hamlet and the town, — Who fight the battles, bear the scars. And give the world its crown Of name, and fame, and history. And pomp of old renown? These claim no gaud of heraldry. And scoi'n the knighting rod ; Their coats of arms are noble deeds. Their peerage is from God ! They take not from ancestral graves The glory of their name. But win, as once their fathers won. The laurel wreath of fame. THE SHIP. 77 Bouthey TATELY yon vessel sails adown the tide, To some far distant land adventurous bound; The sailors' busy cries from side to side, Pealing, among the echoing rocks, resound; A patient, thoughtless, much-enduring band, Joyful tliey enter on their ocean way ; With shouts exulting leave their native land. And know no care beyond the present day. But is there no poor mourner left behind. Who sorrows for a child or husband there? Who at the howling of the midnight wind Will wake and tremble in her boding prayer? So may her voice be hoard, and Heaven be kind; Go, gallant ship, and be thy fortune fair. * * * * O God, have mercy in this dreadful hour On the poor mariner; in comfort liere, Safe sheltered as I am, I almost fear The blast that rages with resistless power. What were it now to toss upon the waves. The maddened waves, and know no succor near. The howling of the storm alone to hear, And the wild sea that to the tempest raves; To gaze amid the horrors of the night. And only see the billows' gleaming light; Then, in the dread of death, to think of her Who, as she listens, sleeijless, to the gale. 78 THE OLD MAN BY THE RUOOK. Puts up a silent prayer, and waxes pale! O God, have mercy on the mariner. * * * * She comes majestic with her swelling sails, Tlie gallant ship ; along her watery way Homeward she drives before the favoring gales; Now flirting at their length the streamers play, And now they ripple with the ruffling breeze. Hark to the sailors' shouts ! the rocks rebound, Tliundering in eciioes to the joyful sound. Long have they voyaged o'er the distant seas; And what a heart-delight they feel at last, So many toils, so many dangers past, To view the port desired, he only knows Who on the stormy deep for many a day Hath tossed, a-weary of his watery vrny. And watched, all anxious, every wind that l:)lows. ©I.tl Mai hj til© Mvmk. Wordsworth. OWN to the vale this water steers ; liow merrily it goes! ^ — U /K 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, and flow as now it flows ; And here, on this delightful day, I cannot choose but think How oft, vigorous man, I lay beside tliis foun« t.«an's brink. THE BRIDE. 79 My eyes are filled with childish tears, my heart is idly stirred. For the same sound is in my ears that in those days I heard. ~-— J£rs. Siffoumey CAME, but she was gone. ^ In her fair home, There lay her lute, just as she touched it last, At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat Lay the still-open workbox, and that book Which last she read, its pencilled margin marked By an ill-quoted passage — traced, perchance. With hand unconscious while her lover spoke That dialect, which brings forgetfulness Of all beside. It was the cherished home Where, from her childhood, she had been the star Of hope and joy. I came — and she was gone. Yet I had seen her from the altar led. With silvery veil but slightly swept aside. The fresh young rosebud deepening in her cheek And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought Of one who gives a priceless gift away. 80 THE BRIDE. And there was silence 'mid the gathered throng : The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire Shrink as with smothered sorrow, when he gave His darling to an untried guardianship, And to a far-oflf clime. Haply his thought Traversed the giass-grown prairies, and the shore Of the cold lakes ; or those o'erhanging cliffs. And pathless mountain top, that rose to bar Her long-reared mansion from the anxious eye Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt How strong and beautiful is woman's love, That, taking in its hand its thornless joys. The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, Yea ! and its own life also — lays them all, Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast, Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope Which hath its root in God. Mock not with mirth A scene like this, ye laughter-lovhig ones ; The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel — What do they here ? Joy, serious and sublime, Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, Should swell the bosom when a maiden's hand, Filled with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on That harness, which the ministry of Death Alone unlooses, but whose fearful power May stamp the sentence of Eternity. MAU^nON. 81 Sir Walter Scott. OT far advanced was morning day, .ir) When Marmion did his troop array /fZ^yj!^ To Surrey's camp to ride ; He had safe conduct for his band, Beneath the royal seal and hand, And Douglas gave a guide : The ancient Earl, with stately grace. Would Clara on her palfrey place, And whisper'd in an under-tone, " Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown." The train from out the castle drew, But Marmion stopped to bid adieu : — " Though something I might plain," he said, " Of cold respect to stranger guest, Sent hither by your King's behest. While in Tantallon's towers I staid ; Part we in friendship from your land. And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke : — " My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still Be open, at my Sovereign's will. To each one whom he lists, howe'er Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 82 MARMIOX. My castles are my King's alone, From turret to foundation-stone — The hand of Douglas is his own; And never shall in friendly grasp The hand of such as Marmion clasp." — Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire. And shook his very frame for ire, And — " This to me ! " he said, — " An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, Such hand as Marmion's had not spared To cleave the Douglas' head ! And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, He, who does England's message here, Although the meanest in her state, May well, proud Angus, be thy mate : And, Douglas, more I tell thee here. Even in thy pitch of pride, Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, (Nay, never look upon your lord. And lay your hands upon your sword,) I tell thee thou'rt defied ! And if thou said'st I am not peer To any lord in Scotland here. Lowland or Highland, far or near, Lord Angus, thou hast lied ! " On the EaiTs cheek the flush of rage O'ercame the ashen hue of age : Fierce he broke forth, — " And darest thou, then, To beard the lion in his den. The Douglas in his hall ? MARMION. 88 And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? — No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! Up drawbridge, grooms — what, Warder, ho ! Let the portcullis fall." Lord Marmion turn'd, — well was his need, And dash'd the rowels in his steed. Like arrow through the archway sprung, The ponderous grate behind him rung : To pass there was such scanty room, The bars, descending, razed his plume. The steed along the drawbridge flies, Just as it trembled on the rise ; Nor lighter does the swallow skim Along the smooth lake's level brim : And when Lord Marmion reach'd his band He halts, and turn'd with clench'd hand, And shout of loud defiance pours. And shook his gauntlet at the towers. " Horse ! horse ! " the Douglas cried, " and chase !' But soon he rein'd his fury's pace : " A royal messenger he came. Though most unworthy of the name. — A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed I Did ever knight so foul a deed ? At first in heart it liked me ill. When the King praised his clerkly skiU. Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line. So swore I, and I swear it still. Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 84 THE world's avanderers. Saint Mary mend my fiery mood ! Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, I thought to slay him where he stood. 'Tis pity of him too," he cried: " Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, I warrant him a warrior tried." With this his mandate he recalls, And slowly seeks his castle halls. ru WmWb Waii^rers, Shelley ELL me, thou star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight, In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now ? Tell me, moon, thou pale and gray Pilgrim of heaven's homeless waj, In what depth of night or day Seekest thou repose now ? Weary wind, who wanderest Like tlie world's rejected guest, Hast thou still some secret nest On the tree or billow ? SPEAK GENTLY. 85 PEAK gently ; in this world of ours. Where clouds o'ersweep the sky, And sweetest flowers and fairest forms Are ever first to die ; Where friendship changes, and the ties That bind fond hearts are riven, Mild, soothing words are like the stars That light the midnight heaven. There are enough of tears on earth, Enough of toil and care ; And e'en the lightest heart hath much To suffer and to bear. Within each spirit's hidden depths Some sweet hope withered lies. From whose soft, faded bloom we turn In sadness to the skies. Y^ Speak gently, then, and win the smiles Back to the shadowed face. And bid the clouded brow resume Its fresh and youthful grace. Thy gentle words, perchance, may guide A wanderer to the sky. Or teach some earth-bound soul to soar Above the things that die. /■ / 8G WANING SPIRIT. ■^ Lead gently back the erring feet That love perchance to stray ; Thou canst not know how long they strove Ere leaving virtue's way ; Nor with what desolating power Despair's dark phantom came. And, with her sad touch, made the heart A desert, seared with flame. /„ Within that desert there is yet Some pure oasis-spot, Formed of sweet memories of scenes That ne'er can be forgot. For that bright soul, with care now worn, Bowed down though it may be, The selfsame Saviour died, who gave His priceless life for thee. • -C^rs^ Festus. — i-s'S&e^ — _ T is sad '^' ^ To see the light of beauty wane away. Know eyes are dimming, bosoms shrivelling, feet Losing their spring, and limbs their lily roundness i But it is worse to feel our heart-spring gone, To lose hope, care not for the coming thing, And feel all things go to decay with us, As 't were our life's eleventh month. MORNING AMONG TIIK HILLS. 87 (PercivaL NIGHT had passed away among the hills ; And now the first faint tokens of the dawn Showed in the east. The bright and dewy star Whose mission is to usher in the morn. Looked through the cool air, like a blessed thing In a far purer world : below, there lay. Wrapped round a woody mountain tranquilly, A misty cloud. Its edges caught the light That now came up from out the unseen depth Of the full fount of day ; and they were laced With colors ever brightening. I had waked From a long sleep of many changing dreams, And now in the fresh forest air I stood, Nerved to another day of wandering. Below, there lay a far-extended sea, Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it And tossed it round the high-ascending rocks, And swept it through the half-hidden fprest tops. Till, like an ocean waking into storm, It heaved and weltered. Gloriously the light Crested its billows ; and those craggy islands Shone on it like to palaces of spar. Built on a sea of pearl. The sky bent round The awful dome of a most mighty temple, 88 MORNING AMONG THE HILLS. Built by Omnipotent hands, for nothing less Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence ; I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts Of wonder and of joy which then came o'er me, Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful, So bright, so glorious ! Such a majesty In yon pure vault ! So many dazzling tints In yonder waste of waves, — so like the ocean With its unnumbered islands there encircled By foaming surges : — Soon away the mist-cloud rolled, Wave after wave. They climbed the highest rocks, Poured over them in surges, and then rushed Down glens and valleys like a winter's torrent. Dashed instant to the plain. It seemed a moment, And they were gone, as if the touch of fire At once dissolved them ! Then I found myself Midway in air ; ridge after ridge below Descended with their opulence of woods Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake Flashed in the sun ; and from it wound a line. Now silvery bright, even to the furthest verge Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks Was round me, — but below, how beautiful ! How rich the plain ! a wilderness of groves And ripening harvests ; while the sky of June, The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air That makes it then a luxury to live THE DEATH BED. 89 Only to breathe it, and the busy echo Of cascades and the voice of mountain brooks Stole with so gentle meaning to my heart, That where I stood seemed heaven ! Hood. fl E watched her breathing through the night, ^ Her breathing, soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro, So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about. As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out. Our very hopes belied our fears Our fears our hopes belied ; We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed ; — she had Another morn than ours. 90 MY darlings' shoes. mm &l Jinon. — '» «3S8 »' OD bless the little feet that nevev go astray. For the little shoes are empty in my closet laid away ! Sometimes I take one in my hand, forgetting till T see It is a little half-worn shoe, not large enough for me ; And all at once I feel a sense of bitter loss and pain. As sharp as when two years ago it cut my heart in twain. O, little feet, that wearied not, I wait for them no more, For I am drifting on the tide, but they have reached the shore ; And while the blinding tear-drops wet these little shoes so old, I try to think my darlings' feet are treading streets of gold, And so I lay them down again, but always turn to s.ay — God bless the little feet that now so surely cannot stray. And while I thus am standing, I almost seem to see Two little forms beside me, just as they used to be ; Two little faces lifted with their sweet and tender eyes! Ah me! I might have known that look was born of Paradise. I reach my arms out fondly, but they clasp the empty air! There is nothing of my darlings but the shoes they used to wear. THE COTTER S SATURDAY NIGHT. 91 0, the bitterness of parting cannot be done away Till I meet my darlings walking where their feet can never stray ; Wlien I no more am drifted upon the surging tide, But with them safely landed upon the river side ; Be patient, heart, while waiting to see their shining way, For the little feet in the golden street can never go astray. Inscribed to Robert Aiken. Esq. ^ums. "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." Gray. Y loved, my honored, much respected friend, j_^ No mercenary bard his homage pays ; With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise ; To you I sing in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; What Aiken in a cottage would have been ; Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I w«en. 92 THE cotter's SATURDAY NIGHT. November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; The short'ning winter day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose ; The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, — This night his weekly moil is at an end, — Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacher through, To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and glee. His wee bit ingle blinkin bonnily, His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's smile, The lisping infant prattling on his knee, Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. Belyve, the elder bairns come drappin in, At service out a;mang the farmers roun' ; Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin A cannie errand to a neebor town. Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, In youthful bloom, love sparkliu in her e'e, Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw-new gown, Or deposit her sair-won penny fee. To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; THE cotter's SATURDAY NIGHT. 93 The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed, fleet; Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears ; The parents partial eye their hopeful years ; Anticipation forward points the view; The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey ; An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. An' ne'er though out o' sight to jauk or play ; " An' 0, be sure to fear the Lord alway ! An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! Leest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore his counsel and assisting might ; They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Teils how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; With heart-struck, anxious care inquires his name, While Jenny hafilins is afraid to speak ; VVeel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, ploughs, and kye. 94 THE cottek's satukday night. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; The mother wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave ; Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave O happy love ! where love like this is found ! heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary, mortal round, And sage experience bids me this declare — " If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts; dissembling, smooth. Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ; Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child. Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild I But now the supper crowns their simple board, The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; The soupe their only Hawkie does afford, That yont the hallan snugly chows her cood : The dame brings forth in complimental mood, THK cotter's SATURDAY NIGHT. 95 To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell, An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride ; His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare : Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, He wales a portion with judicious care ; And, " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air They chant their artless notes in simple guise : They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim. Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name ; Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compared with these Italian trills are tame : The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise, Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. The priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal bard did groaning lie Beneath the strokes of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 96 THE cotter's SATURDAY NIGHT Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land , How he who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days, There ever bask in uncreated rays. No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise. In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art. When men display to congregations wide Devotion's every grace, except the heart! The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; But haply, in some cottage far apart. May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. THE cotter's SATURDAY NIGHT. 97 Then homeward all take off their several way; The youngling cottagers retire to rest; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, Antl proffer up to Heaven the warm request That He, who stills the I'aven's clamorous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provide; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs. That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; " An honest man's the noblest work of God ; " And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind. What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, Dissfuising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined. O Scotia, my dear, my native soil. For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent, Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blessed with health, and peace, and sweet content; And O, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ; Then, liowe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. O Thou who poured the patriotic t'de That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart ; 98 hamlet's soliloquy. Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The i)atriot's God, peculiarly thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert: But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. Bhakespc^aro. O be, or not to be, that is the question : — Whether 'tis nobler in the mind, to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them. To die — to sleep>.- No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, — 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die — to sleep; To sleep! perchance to dream; a}', there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil. Must give us pause. There's the respect. That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time. The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, HAPPINESS. 99 The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When lie himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkm? Who would fixrdels bear. To grunt and sweat under a weary life. But that the dread of something after death — The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns — puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of ! Thus conscience does make cowards of us all ; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; And enterprises of great pith and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. ■» U^|:H «- aipmiss. KeUe. HERE are in this rude stunning tide Of luunan care and crime. With whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime, Who carry music in their heart, Through dusty lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily toil with busier feet. Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. 100 THE TRUMPET. J^rs. Herruxna. HE trumpet's voice hath roused the land' Light up the beacon-pyre ; A hundred hills have seen the brand, ro) And waved the sign of fire ; A hundred banners to the breeze Their gorgeous folds have cast ; And hark ! was that the sound of seas ? A king to war went past. The chief is arming in his hall, The peasant by his hearth ; The mourner hears the thrilling call, And rises from the earth. The mother, on her first-born son. Looks with a boding eye ; They come not back, though all be won, Whose young hearts leap so high. The bard hath ceased his song, and bound The falchion to his side ; E'en for the marriage altar crowned, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and feai By earthly clarion spread ! How will it be when kingdoms hear The blast that wakes the dead ? ODE ON Cecilia's day. 101 Qjryden • ' tae ^ (ROM harmony, from heavenly hatmony, <^ This universal frame began : ^]%|h) 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 than 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 chorded 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 hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot music raise and quell ? 102 ODE ON Cecilia's day. The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, AVith shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms. The double, double, double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, " Hark ! the foes come ; Charge, charge ! 'tis too late to retreat." The soft, complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hapless lovers. Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depths of pain and height of passion. For the fair, disdainful dame. But ! 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 uprooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre ; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight appeared, Mistaking earth for heaven. skater's song. 103 ^@l§e JbrhOTh. -^a^nosi'T^, WAY and away, o'er the deep-soiinding tide, On crystals of silver we sweep and we glide; The steel is oar pinion, our roof the broad blue, And heaven's pure breezes our pathway pursue. So, joyfully, brothers, we glide and we sweep Away and away o'er life's frozen deep. Thou golden-bright palace, whose hand ai-clied thee o'er, And stretched out behind us the diamond-paved floor, And gave us the steel with its lightning-like glance, Through heavenly chambers to float and to dance ? So, joyfully, brothers, we float and we glide Through the heavenly chambers of life far and wide. Through the pale mist of evening the sun glimmers still. And lingers awhile on the brow of the hill! But now he's gone down, and with tranquil soft gl'*w. The moon shines like silver above and below. So, joyfully, brothers, we float and we glide, In sunshine and moonlight, o'er life's silver tide. Look up, now ! how sparkles that blue sea on higliT Arid below us, in frost, gleams a star-liglited sky; For He, who with suns studded heaven overhead, Beneath us a frost-flowered meadow hath spread. So, joyfully, brothers, we float and we glide. Through life's starry meadows, away far and wide. 104 ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL. He hath made us this palace, so airy and wide, And gave us steel feet, amid dangers to glide ; In the frosts of mid-winter he kindles our blood; We hover, we sweop, o'er the treacherous flood. So, fearlessly, brothers, steel-hearted we sweep O'er the stormy abysses of life's stormy deep. O. W. Holrn^ — '■is^ts-*— :^^^ HIS ancient silver bowl of mine, — it tells of good old times, Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas times ; They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave, and true, That dipped their ladle in the punch when ilic old bowl was new. A Spanish galleon brought the bar — so runs the ancient tale ; 'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail ; And now and then, between the strokes., for fear his strength should fail, He wiped Lis brow, and t^uafl"ed a cup of good old Flem- ish ale. ON LENDING A PUNCH BOWL. 105 'Twas purchased by an English squire to please his loving dame, Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the same ; And oft as on the ancient stock another twig was found, 'Twas filled with caudle spiced and hot, and handed smoking round. But, changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine. Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy ; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. And then, of course, you know what's next — it left the Dutchman's shore, With those that in the Mayflower came — a hundred souls and more — Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes — To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a merry winter's eve, the night was closing dim. When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim, The little captain stood and stii-red the posset with his sword. And all his sturdy men at arms were ranged about the board. He poured the fiery Hollands in — the man that never feared — He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard : 106 ON TRENDING A PUNCH BOWL. And one by one the musketeers, the men that fought and prayed, All drank as 't were their mothers' milk, and not a man afraid ! That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew; He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, " Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin." A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows ; Athousand rubs had flattened downeach little cherub's nose; When once again the bowl was fixed, but not in mirth or joy; Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy. " Drink, John," she said ; " 't will do you good — poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air ; And if — God bless me — you were hurt, 't would keep away the chill." So John did drink — and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill ! I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old Eng- lish cheer ; I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here; SONG. 107 ' Tis but the fool that loves excess — hast thou a drunken soul, Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl ! I love the memory of the past — its pressed yet fragrant flowers — The moss that clothes its broken walls — the ivy on its towers — Nay, this poor bawble it bequeathed — my eyes grow moist and dim, To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim. Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me ; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be ; And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin, That dooms me to those dreadful words — " My dear, where have you been ? " ^TSfe^^^^--^ — • — 'HE chestnuts shine through the cloven rind, And the woodland leaves are red, my dear ; The scarlet fuchsias burn in the wind — i^=^ Funeral plumes for the year. o) The year which has brought me so much woe, That if it were not for you, my dear, I should wish the fuchsia's fire might glow For me as well as the year. 108 A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. Thos. Jkfoore WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. — ^«^ H61" - Et remigem cantus hortatur. — Quintilian. ^AINTLY as tolls the evening chime, ^ioj, [^ Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. ^^j/y Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl ! But when the wind blows off the shore. Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast. The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! Utawas' tide ! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green Isle ! hear our prayers. Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past I THE LOST MEXICAN CITY. 109 JifaLellan "A large city once stood iiei'e ; its name is lost ; its history unknown For centuries it has lain as completely buried as if covered with the lav:i of Vesuvius. Every traveller from Yzabal to Guatemala has passed within three hours of it ; yet there it lay like the rock-built city of Edora, uu t'isited, unsought, and utterly unknown." Stevens's Researches in Central Amerioa. RUINED city ! In the heart Of the deep wilderness of woods It stands immured, where seldom foot Of passing traveller intrudes. The groves primeval, year by year. Above the spot renew their bloom, Year after year cast down their wealth Of faded foliage o'er its tomb. Altar and idol here arise, Inscribed with hieroglyphics strange, Column and pyramid sublime Defaced by centuries of change. Here, idols from their pedestals Displaced by roots of mightiest girth ; There, by a close-embracing branch Half-lifted in the air from earth. Or from their stations prostrate thrown, Their huge proportions strew the ground, With vines and brambles overthrown, With interlacing creepers bound. 110 THE LOST MEXICAN CITV. No sound of life ! save when at eve The Indian's machete cleaves the wood, Or steps the Indian damsel by, Singing to cheer the solitude. No sound, save when the sobbing breeze Sighs through the forest's dim arcades. Or shrill call of the red macaw. Or parrot's gabble in the glades, Or when the monkey's chattering troop Glides o'er the tree top in their race, Like wandering spirits of the dead, Haunting the ruins of the place. Egypt's colossal skeletons Of temples and of wondrous shrines. In the unwatered sands repose, Where hot the tropic summer shines; But forests lonely and immense Enshroud these ruins from the sight, And with their tangled barriers guard These hidden secrets from the light. 5V3 c^J THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. Ill lU QM Umk m IM italrs. Longfellow OMEWHAT back from the village street, Stands the old-fashioned country seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar trees their shadows throw ; And from its station in the hall An ancient time-piece says to all, " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! Half way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands. From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who under his cloak Crosses himself, and sighs, alas ! With sorrowful voice, to all who pass " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " By day its voice is low and light, But in the silent dead of night. Distinct as a passing footstep's fall It echoes along the vacant hall. Along the ceiling, along the floor. And seems to say at each chamber door, " Forever — never ! Never — forever." 112 THE OLD CLOCK OiST THE STAIRS. la that mansion dsed to be Free-hearted hospitality ; His great fires by the chimney roared, The stranger feasted at his board ; But like the skeleton at the feast. The warning time-piece never ceased, " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " There groups of merry children played. There youths and maidens dreaming strayed ; precious hours, golden prime, And afiluence of love and time ; E'en as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient time-piece told, " Forever — never ! Never — forever." From the chamber, clothed in white. The bride came forth on her wedding-night ; There in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow ; And in the hush that followed the prayer, We heard the old clock on the stair, — " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " All are scattered now and fled : Some are married, some are dead ; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, "Ah, when shall they all meet again. HEALIiSTG OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. Hi As in the days long since gone by ? " The ancient time-piece malfes x'eply, " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " Never here, forever there ! Where all parting, pain, and care, And death and time shall disappear, Forever there, but never here ! The horologe of eternity Sayeth this incessantly, " Forever — never ! Never — forever ! " Willis. RESHLY the cool breath of the coming eve ^ Stole through the lattice, and the dying girl ||!y Felt it upon her forehead. She had lain Since the hot noontide in a breathless trance. Her thin, pale fingers clasped within the hand Of the heart-broken Ruler, and her breast, Like the dead marble, white and motionless. The shadow of a leaf lay on her lips, And, as it stirred with the awakening wind, The dark lids lifted from her languid eyes, 114 HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAUiUS. And her slight fingers moved, and heavily She turned upon her pillow. He was there, The same loved, tireless watcher, and she looked Into his face until her sight grew dim With the fast-falling tears ; and, with a sigh Of tremulous weakness murmuring his name, She gently drew his hand upon her lips, And kissed it as she wept. The old man sunk Upon his knees, and in the drapery Of the rich curtains buried u}} his face; And when the twilight fell, the silken folds Stirred with his jjrayer; but the slight hand he held Had ceased its pressure, and he could not hear, In the dead, utter silence, that a breath Came through her nostrils — and her temples gave To his nice touch no pulse — and, at her mouth, He held the lightest curl that on her neck Lay with a mocking beauty, and his gaze Ached with its deathly stillness. It was night — • And, softly o'er the Sea of Galilee, Danced the breeze-ridden ripples to the shore. Tipped with the silver sj^arkles of the moon. The breaking waves played low upon the beach Their constant music, but the air beside Was still as starlight, and the Saviour's voice. In its rich cadences unearthly sweet. Seemed like some just-born harmonj' in the air, Waked by the power of wisdom. On a rock, ^ With the broad moonlight falling on his Iirow, He stood and taught the people. At his feet HEALING OF THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 115 Lay his small scrip, antl pilgrim's scallop-shell, And staff — for they had waited by the sea Till he came o'er from Gadarene, and prayed For his wont teachings as he came to land. His hair was parted meekly on his brow, And the long curls from off his shoulders fell, As he leaned forward earnestly, and still The same calm cadence, passionless and deep — And in his looks the same mild majesty — And in his mien the sadness mixed with power, — Filled them with love and wonder. Suddenly, As on his words entrancedly they hung. The crowd divided, and among them stood Jaikus THE Ruler. With his flowing robe Gathered in haste about his loins, he came. And fixed his eyes on Jesus. Closer drew The twelve disciples to their Master's side ; And silently the people shrunk away. And left the haughty ruler in the midst Alone. A moment longer on the face Of the meek Nazarene he kept his gaze. And, as the twelve looked on him, by the light Of the clear moon they saw a glistening tear Steal to his silver beard: and, drawino" nigh Unto the Saviour's feet, he took the hem Of his coarse mantle, and with tremblinof hands Pressed it upon his lids, and murmured low, " Master ! my datigJiter ! " The same silvery light, That shone upon the lone rock by the sea, Slept on the Ruler's lofty capitals, 116 HEALING OF THE DAUGHTEU OP JAIRUS. As at the door he stood, and welcomed in Jesus and his disciples. All was still. The echoing vestibule gave back the slide Of their loose sandals, and the arrowy beam Of moonlight, slanting to the marble floor, Lay like a spell of silence in the rooms, As Jairus led them on. "With hushing steps He ti'od the winding stair ; but ere he touched The latchet, from within a w-hisper came, " Trouble the Master not — for she is dead ! " And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And his step faltered, and his broken voice Choked in its utterance; but a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, " She is not dead — but sleepeth ! " They passed in. The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns Burned dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curled indolently on the chamber walls. The silken curtains slumbered in their folds — Not even a tassel stirring in the air — And as the Saviour stood beside tlie bed. And prayed inaudibly, the Ruler heard The quickening division of his breath As he grew earnest inwardly. There came A gradual brightness o'er his calm, sad face; And, drawing nearer to the bed, he moved The silken curtains silently apart. And looked upon the maiden. Like a form MEALING OP THE DAUGHTER OF JAIRUS. 117 Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she lay — The linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. j, A line of pearl ran through her parted lips. And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like life ; And round beneath the faintly-tinted skin Ran the light branches of the azure veins ; And on her cheek the jet lash overlay, Matching the arches pencilled on her brow. Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears, Tn curls of glossy blackness, and about Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung, Like airy shadows floating as they slept. Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour raised Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out The snowy fingers in his palm, and said, " Jfaide7i, arise/" — and suddenly a flush Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips And through her cheek the rallied color ran ; And the still outline of her graceful form Stirred in the linen vesture ; and she clasped The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on his beaming countenance — arose I 118 THE SEASONS. Grahame. NATURE ! all thy seasons please the eye Of liim wlio sees a present Deity in all. It is His presence that diffuses charms Unspeakable o'er mountain, wood and stream. To think that He, wlio hears the heavenly choirs, Hearkens complacent to the woodland song; To think that He, who rolls yon solar sphere, Uplifts the warbling songster to the sky; To mark his presence in the mighty bow That spans the clouds as in the tints minute Of tiniest flower; to hear his awful voice In thunder speak, and whisper in the gale; To know and feel his care for all that lives; 'Tis this tliat makes the barren waste appear A fruitful field, each grove a paradise. Yes, place me 'mid far-stretching woodless wilds, Where no sweet song is heard ; the heath-bell there Would please my weary sight, and tell of Thee! There would my gratefully uplifted eye Survey the heavenly vault, by day, by night, When glows the firmament from pole to 2)ole ; There would my overflowing heart exclaim, "The heavens declare the glory of the Lord, The firmament shows forth his handiwork." THE SEASONS. 119 1 ^ets@is, 'd^homson. HESE, as they change, Ahiiighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring Thy beauty walks ; thy tenderness and love Wide flush 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 glorj^ in the summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder sjjeaks, And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter, awful thou! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled. Majestic darkness, on the whirlwind's wing. Riding sublime, thou bidd'st the world adore. And humblest nature with thy northern blast. 1 20 WEDDING GIFTS. i I'apper, » »aei «" OUNGr bride, — a wreath for thee. Of sweet and gentle flowers ; For wedded love was pure and free In Eden's happy bowers. Young bride, — a song for thee, A song of joyous measure, For thy cup of hope shall be Filled with honeyed pleasure. Young bride, — a tear for thee, A tear in all thy gladness ; For thy young heart shall not see Joy unmixed with sadness. Young bride, — a smile for thee, To shine away thy sorrow. For Heaven is kind to-day, and we Will hope as well to-morrow. Young bride, — a prayer for thee. That all thy hopes possessing, Thy soul may praise her God, and he May crown thee with his blessing. BRING FLOWERS. 12! Jdrs. SerroCtTit, — '-s'Sas.? — RING flowers, young flowers, for the festal board To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured ; Bring flowers ! they are springing in wood and vale, Their breath floats out on the southern gale ; And the torch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose, To deck the hall where the bright wine flows. Bring flowers to strew in the conqueror's path ; He hath shaken thrones with his stormy wrath ; He comes with the spoils of nations back, The vines lie crushed in his chariot's track, The turf looks red where he won the day — Bring flowers to die in the conqueror's way. Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell ; They have tales of the joyous woods to tell, Of the free blue streams and the glowing sky, And the bright world shut from his languid eye ; They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours. And the dream of his youth ; bring him flowers, wild flowers. Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear ; They were born to blush in her shining hair. She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth, She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth. 122 SOLITUDE. Her place is now by another's side — Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride. Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed, A crown for the brow of the early dead ! For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst, For this in the woods was the violet nursed ; Though they smile in vain for what once was ours, They are love's last gift ; bring ye flowers, pale flowers. Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer ; They are nature's oifering, their place is there ; They speak of hope to the fainting heart, With a voice of promise they come and part ; They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. They break forth in glory ; bring flowers, bright flowers Syron. HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes By the deep sea, and music in its roar. I love not man the less, but nature more. From these our interviews in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before. To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. FOR a' that and a' THAT. 123 Wm a' tMl aii a' tliat. ^ums. ~ Q^£^-'S^- S there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that ; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor, for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that. Our toil's obscure, and a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that. What though on hamely fare we dine. Wear hoddin gray, and a' that ? Gi'e fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man 's a man for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a that ; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that. Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord. Who struts, and stares, and a' that ; Though hundreds worship at his feet. He's but a coof for a' that ; For a' that, and a' that. His ribbon, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind. He looks and lauglis at a' that. 124 KNOWLEDGE AND WISDOM. A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that ; But an honest man's aboon his might Guid faith he mauna fa' that. For a' that, and a' that. Their dignities, and a' that. The pith o' sense and pride o' worth Are higher ranks than a' that. Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that. That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It 's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. KmQ)Wh(lm aad Wlsd@M. Qoivper. NOWLEDGE and wisdom, far from being one,. Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge — a rude, unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which Wisdom builds, Till smoothed, and scjuared. and fitted to its place — NOVEMBEK. l25 Does but eacumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much ; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. -<^=.5^ gryant. — -*-«-^-j*- — ET one smile more, departing, distant sun, One mellow smile through the soft, vaporing air, Ere o'er the frozen earth the loud winds run, '^ToQ Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare ; One smile on the brown hills and naked trees ; And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast. And the blue gentian flower, that in the breeze Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea. And man delight to linger in the ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. 126 THE PRIMROSE OP THE ROCK. Wordsworth. ROCK there is whose homely front The passing traveller slights ; Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, Like stars, at various heights, /Vnd one coy primrose to that rock The vernal breeze invites. What hideous warfare hath been waged, What kingdoms overthrown, Since first I spied that primrose tuft, And marked it for my own ! A lasting link in nature's chain. From highest heaven let down. The flowers, still faithful to the stems, Their fellowship renew ; The stems are faithful to the root. That worketh out of view ; And to the rock the root adheres, In every fibre true. Close clings to earth the living rock, Though threatening still to fall ; The earth is constant to her sphere, And God upholds them all ; THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK. 127 So blooms this lonely plant, nor dreads Her annual funeral. • • • • Here closed the meditative strain ; But air breathed soft that day, The hoary mountain heights were cheered. The sunny vale looked gay ; And to the primrose of the rock I gave this after-lay. I sang. Let myriads of bright flowers, Like thee, in field and grove Retrieve unenvied, mightier far Than tremblings that reprove Our vernal tendencies to hope In God's redeeming love — That love which changed, for wan disease. For sorrow, that hath bent O'er hopeless dust, for withered age, Their moral element. And turned the thistles of a curse To types beneficent. Sin-blighted though we are, we too, The reasoning sons of men. From one oblivious winter called, Shall rise, and breathe again ; And in eternal summer lose Our threescore years and ten. To humbleness of heart descends This prescience from on high, 128 OVER THE RIVER. The faith that elevates the just Before and when they die, And makes each soul a separate heaven, A court for Deity. JTanoyjfl. W. (priest. VER the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side ; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are drowned by the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue ; He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view ; We saw not the angels that met him there, The gates of the city vte 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 the gentle gale — Darling Minnie, I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands And fearlessly entered the phantom bark.* OVER THE RIVER, 129 We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our suushine grew strangely dark. We know she is safe on the farther side. Where all the ransomed and angels be ; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's angel is waiting for me. For none return from those spirit shores Who cross with the boatman cold and pale ; We hear the dip of the golden oars. And catch a gleam of the snowy sail ; And lo ! they have passed from our yearning hearts, They cross the stream and are gone for aye ; We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our visions the gates of day. We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore They watch and beckon and wait for me. And I 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 for the sound of the boatman's oar ; And when perchance the well-known hail Again shall echo along the strand, I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, To the better shore of the spirit land. I shall know the loved who have gone before. And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, When over the river, the peaceful river, The angel of death shal] carry me. 130 FALL OF TIIK INDIAN. Hi @f tlug JifaLellan, ^^ ET sometimes, in the gay :iml noisy street (r) \U t>^^ ^'^® great city, which usurps the place , Of the small Indian villaofe, one shall see Some miserable relic of that race Whose sorely-tarnished fortunes we have- sung; Yet how debased and fallen! In his eye The flame of noble daring has gone out, And his brave face has lost its martial look ; His eye rests on the eartii, as if tiie grave Were his sole hope, his last and only home. A poor, thin garb is wrapped about liis frame. Whose sorry plight but mocks liis ancient state; And in the bleak and pitiless storm he walks With melancholy brow, and shivers as he goes. His pride is dead; his courage is no more; His name is but a by-word. All the tribes Who called this mighty continent tiieir own Are homeless, friendless wanderers on earth. WHEN I AM DEAD. 131 k%m I Mm Beaie Emma Jllice ^rowne. ^^''^^-' HEN my last sunset is under a cloud Let not your sorrow be bitter nor loud, But strew some pale violets over my shroud When I am dead. For while the worn watchers are out of the room And children are searchino; the o^ardens for Ijloom You will come in and kiss me, to lessen the gloom. When 1 nra dead. Smooth the dark tresses from my white cheek, Press down my eyelids so mournfully meek, And tread very softly, but fear not to speak Because I am dead. Kneel by me, Allan, and murmur a prayer. Clasping my two hands, so slender and fair, And through the bleak silence thy voice T shall hear -- If I be dead. Weep not for me, though so early away From all the wild joyance of life's sunny May: Think of me often, but, sweet, never say, Alas! she is dead. Though a pale face at twilight, O Allan, no more Shall part the June splendors away from the door. To watch for your shadoAV across the wild moor, When I am dead. 132 OUR COLORS AT FOKT SUMTER. When the red summers in loveliness break, Come to the grave that the strangers shall make, And smile that so sweetly my slumber I take — Peaceful and dead. The picture I gave you last harvest time, keep ; Look at it, Allan, but never to weep. For her sake, who so calmly has fallen asleep In the house of tlie dead. Now kiss me, my Allan, and leave me alone, Ni flier the waves of the sorrowful moan. And I see the white splendors that fall from the throne Where none ever are dead. — NG^'^3£^<©4^- l^, m Jlldrioh ERE'S to the Hero of Moultrie, The valiant and the true ; True to our flag, by land and sea — Long may it wave for you. May never traitor's touch pollute Those colors of the sky ; We want them pure, to wrap about Our heroes when they die! TWO HUNDRED YEARS. 133