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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 J 
 
 English Verse 
 
 LYRICS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 XIXTH CENTURY 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 W. J. LINTON AND R. H. STODDARD 
 
 LONDON 
 KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, & CO., i PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 1884
 
 ^^
 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The history of English Verse in the nineteenth cen- 
 tury implies more than appears in the Verse itself, for 
 granting that it is understood by contemporary stu- 
 dents — a supposition which is contradicted by literary 
 history in general — its origins are still to be sought 
 and discovered. Bibliography enables us to trace its 
 progress from year to year, and, if it be carefully stud- 
 ied, enables us to trace its intellectual direction 
 likewise. Biography is also of service, conducting us 
 through its special province like a guide who is famil- 
 iar with the ground that he traverses ; and history is of 
 the greatest service, provided it be largely written and 
 intelligently read, for so written and read, it authenti- 
 cates and justifies all that it embraces — the violence of 
 passion as well as the repose of power, Thersites and 
 Ajax as well as Achilles and Nestor. If we place our- 
 selves in thought on the threshold of the nineteenth 
 century, and look back with critical eyes upon the 
 poetical literature of the eighteenth century — or upon 
 the small portion of it which continued to be read at 
 its close — the prospect is not an enlivening one. To 
 say that it was in any large sense a poetical period 
 
 0-4 ^tzrzA
 
 IV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 would not be true. It was not a creative period like 
 the age of Elizabeth, for though its most famous 
 hands cultivated the art of writing tragedies, and pro- 
 duced their Catos, Jane Shores, Distrest Mothers, 
 Mariamnes, Sophonisbas, Irenes, and what not besides, 
 they added nothing to the English Drama. The crea- 
 tive energy of the eighteenth century exhausted itself 
 in The Rape of the Lock and The Dunciad. Pope 
 carried the satire of manners and of character as far 
 as it could go : he was a wit, but not a poet. Thomson 
 tried to open the eyes of his contemporaries to Na- 
 ture, and succeeded in a measure, though not nearly so 
 well as Collins in his unrhymed Ode to Evening, or 
 Gray in the opening stanzas of his immortal Elegy. 
 The Elegy is more read to-day than any poem of its 
 time, partly because it is the most perfect specimen of 
 its poetic art, and partly because the train of thought 
 which runs through it can never be dismissed from the 
 human mind. It will live as long as men live and die. 
 It was surpassed, perhaps, by certain poetic qualities 
 in the Odes of Collins, which fell dead from the press 
 about four years before it was published, but it was 
 not surpassed or equalled by anything else. Looking 
 back upon it now we can see what Gray's contempora- 
 ries could not see — that it was a great landmark in the 
 monotonous waste of their verse. The dead level of 
 prose to which Pope had reduced all metrical writing 
 surrounded it like a desert. While he lived the springs 
 of his genius watered the roots of stately palms, but 
 when he died only stunted reeds remained to show 
 where the watercourses had been. Ethics had dwin- 
 dled into didacticism, and the heroic measure intojing-
 
 INTRODUCTION. V 
 
 ling couplets which school-boys wrote for pastime. If 
 we had lived in the first half of the eighteenth century, 
 and had shared the poetic taste of our contemporaries, 
 what would we have had to read ? We would have 
 had to read The Splendid Shilling and the Cyder of 
 Philips, the Pastorals of Pope and his Essay on Crit- ' 
 icism. Gay's Rural Sports and Shepherd's Week, 
 Glover's Leonidas, and Shenstone's Pastoral Ballad. 
 A little later we would have had to read Young's 
 Night Thoughts, Armstrong's Art of Preserving 
 Health, Akenside's Pleasures of Imagination, Dyer's 
 Fleece, and Grainger's Sugar Cane. If the saccharine 
 production of good Dr. Grainger had not been to our 
 liking, and it is possible that we might have found its 
 sweetness a little cloying, we could have taken the pre- 
 scription of another physician — an uncouth, pock- 
 marked Irishman, who had studied at Edinburgh and 
 Leyden, and, after travelling about the Continent on 
 foot, occasionally playing upon the flute for his victuals 
 when his funds ran low, had settled down in London 
 as a bookseller's hack. 
 
 We could have read Dr. Goldsmith's Traveller, or a 
 Prospect of Society, and if we had done so we could 
 not but have felt the spell of his frank and manly 
 genius. We might have been prompted to make his 
 acquaintance, if we had chanced to be in London at 
 the time, and perhaps the acquaintance of his bullying 
 friend and patron, the great Dr. Johnson, who, if he 
 had taken a fancy to us, after a good dinner at the 
 Mitre Tavern, might have asked us to visit him at his 
 lodgings in Bolt Court, where we would have seen his 
 strange menagerie of pensioners — Robert Levett, prac-
 
 Vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 titioner of physic, poor, stuttering Miss Jane Williams, 
 the blind poetess, Miss Carmichael, Mrs. Dumoulin, 
 the widow of a writing-master, the negro, Francis 
 Barber, and that pert young coxcomb (cowed there), 
 Mr. James Boswell, advocate, of Auchinleck, Scot- 
 land. Goldsmith would no doubt have told us of 
 Johnson's kindness to him, particularly in selling the 
 manuscript of his Vicar of Wakefield, and releasing 
 him from the clutches of his landlady, who insisted 
 upon his marrying her or settling his score, and have 
 asked us to subscribe to Johnson's Shakespeare, which 
 we would have done gladly, having already upon our 
 shelves the editions of Rowe, Pope, Theobald, Han- 
 mer, and Warburton, to say nothing of the Folios, 
 which we had inherited with the old manor-house in 
 Surrey. Six years later we would have had another 
 poem from the pen of the ingenious Dr. Goldsmith, 
 The Deserted Village, and the public journals would 
 have informed us of the death of Dr. Akenside. They 
 might also have informed us of the death of one 
 Thomas Chatterton, a Bristol boy of eighteen, who 
 was supposed to have poisoned himself ; but the para- 
 graph, if W'e had seen it, would have had no signifi- 
 cance to us, for little was talked about then in the 
 coffee-houses except the letters of Junius in the Public 
 Advertiser. The dearth of good contemporary poetry 
 in the seventh decade of the eighteenth century drove 
 us back to the earlier poets, of whom we could not 
 well help knowing something by that time, since the 
 Reverend Dr. Thomas Percy, a Northumberland vicar, 
 whom we remember to have met one day in the cham- 
 bers of Dr. Goldsmith (the very day, by the way, in
 
 INTRODUCTION. VU 
 
 which the little daughter of a fellow-lodger borrowed 
 the coals in her eccentric scuttle), had published in 
 the year after The Traveller three solid volumes of 
 Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, the materials for 
 which he obtained from an old manuscript collection, 
 and wliich, of course, he polished and modernized lest 
 they should offend the polite taste of his contempo- 
 raries. We differed with Johnson in our estimate of 
 this work, for he ridiculed it as a useless resurrection 
 of obsolete rubbish, while we thought it a rude but in- 
 teresting monument of poetic antiquity. There were 
 many things which Johnson could not comprehend — 
 which the coarseness of his mind would not allow him 
 to apprehend — and one of these things was poetry. If 
 the tenor of his writings had not indicated this fact, 
 if it was not apparent in his edition of Shakespeare, 
 it would have been forced upon us — it would have 
 been driven into us — by his Lives of the Poets. They 
 could not have been written in any period that had not 
 forfeited every claim to poetic criticism as well as 
 poetic creation. No poet would have consented to be- 
 gin a collection of English Poets with Cowley, or 
 would have admitted into a collection of English Poets 
 such dreary versifiers as Roscommon, and Sheffield, 
 and Congreve, and Sprat, and Walsh, and no critic 
 could have stultified himself as Johnson did when he 
 penned his animadversions upon the sonnets of Milton. 
 Criticism and poetry were fallen on evil days and evil 
 tongues in the last quarter of the eighteenth century. 
 Poetry indeed — at any rate poetry of a high order —   
 was no longer written. Nor was there any reason why- 
 it ever should be again. There was nothing that r.p-
 
 Vlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 pealed to it — nothing heroic thut demanded it — no 
 movement in the life of the time that did not find the 
 fullest expression in prose — no seed of light in the 
 darkness, no prophecy and promise of Morning, how- 
 ever remote, that might smite the silent lips of Mem- 
 non into Song. 
 
 But the darkest hour is just before day. It is so in 
 nature, we are told, and it is sometimes so in art and 
 letters. It was certainly so in poetry, for while John- 
 son was writing the last of his Lives of the Poets a new 
 poet was writing the first of his grave and thoughtful 
 strains. The son of a chaplain of George the Second, 
 a Westminster scholar, and a solicitor of the Middle 
 Temple, he had been crossed in love, had attempted 
 his own life, and had been placed in the mad-house of 
 a brother poet. Released from durance before he was 
 quite sane (if he ever was quite sane), he retired to 
 lodgings in the country, and became the inmate of a 
 clergyman's family, first at Huntingdon, and afterward 
 at Olney, Avhere he had the misfortune to fall into the 
 spiritual hands of a curate who had once been master 
 of a slave-vessel, and who pressed him into religion 
 and the writing of lugubrious hymns. Another attack 
 of lunacy led to another attempt upon his life. He 
 recovered, however, and, watched over by the clergy- 
 man's widow, was induced to divert his mind Avith 
 gardening and the gambols of tame hares. To these 
 rational amusements he was at last persuaded to add 
 the composition of verse, and having up to this time 
 learned nothing that was of value to himself, he natur- 
 ally proceeded to instruct mankind. Such was William 
 Cowper, when, at the age of forty-eight, he began to
 
 INTRODUCTION. IX 
 
 sing of Truth and the Progress of Error, of Hope and 
 Charity, of Conversation and Retirement. His themes 
 and his method of handling them were not poetical, 
 but they were not averse from the good sense with 
 which he illustrated them, and which made readers for 
 him among the serious classes of his countrymen. His 
 didacticism was accepted for all it was worth. The 
 writing of these poems confirmed Cowper in the 
 literary habit, and revealed to him the natural direc- 
 tion of his talents. He cast them in the heroic couplet, 
 which still maintained its ascendency in English 
 Verse, though its most polished master had been dead 
 nearly forty years, but with a force and freedom that 
 would have startled the delicate sensibilities of Pope. 
 He wrote all like a man, as Ben Jonson said of his 
 poetic son Cartwright, but not like the man he was to 
 prove himself in his next work. The Task, which was 
 published in the year after the death of Dr. Johnson, 
 placed him at once at the head of living English poets. 
 A greater than he was singing, but his first volume 
 was not published xmtil a year later than The Task, 
 when it stole into English Verse at Kilmarnock. The 
 long and dreary reign of Pope and his followers, the 
 reign of prose in the singing robes of poetry, was 
 over when Cowper and Burns began to celebrate what 
 they felt and what they saw — one pursuing a suggestion 
 of Lady Austin, which led him from a sofa into the 
 sober world of English thought and the charming 
 world of English rural scenery, the other pursuing the 
 inspiration of his own genius, which, while he followed 
 the plough along the mountain side, led him into the 
 canny world of Scottish wisdom and the stormy world
 
 X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 of Scottish passion and indulgence. Long hidden from 
 the priests who liad thronged her sanctuary and offered 
 her their empty lip service, the Muse revealed herself 
 to Cowper and Burns, and the face which smiled upon 
 them as she lifted her veil was the face of the Sovereign 
 Mother. Lesser poetic voices in the last two decades 
 of the eighteenth century were Erasmus Darwin, who 
 mistook a Botanic Garden for Tempe and the vales of 
 Arcady : Charlotte Smith and William Lisle Bowles, 
 who prolonged their personal disappointments in in- 
 different sonnets : William Hayley, who placated the 
 Triumphs of Temper : Samuel Rogers, who, walking in 
 the steps of Akenside, sang The Pleasures of Memory ; 
 Thomas Campbell, who, walking in the steps of Ro- 
 gers, sang The Pleasures of Hope ; and Robert Bloom- 
 field, who, trying to walk in the steps of Cowper and 
 Thomson, sang The Farmer's Boy. 
 
 Looking back alonsf the literature of the eis^hteenth 
 century we see that English Verse was largely culti- 
 vated therein, but we do not see that the harvest was 
 ever abundant. Looking upon it as we look upon the 
 nineteenth century, or so much of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury as lies behind us, and comparing the one with the 
 other — the sterility of the reigns of Queen Anne and the 
 first two Georges with the fertility of the reigns of the 
 fourth George and Victoria — we are disposed to pity 
 our ancestors and to congratulate ourselves. From 
 whatever point of view w^e compare ourselves with 
 them we are struck with our own superiority. Waiv- 
 ing our knowledge of the natural sciences, the most 
 advanced branches of which were the merest empiri- 
 cism in their day, and oiu- proficiency in philology, the
 
 INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 nature and extent of which were scarcely suspected 
 then ; and waiving, also, the perfection of our civiliza- 
 tion, of which raihvavs and steamships, the electric 
 telegraph and the telephone, are the material manifesta- 
 tions ; waiving, in short, everything except literature, 
 which depends less than any other intellectual pursuit 
 upon the social condition of the people among whom 
 it is cultivated — what relation, we ask, does the litera- 
 ture of the eighteenth century bear to the literature of 
 the nineteenth century ? Let us take one department 
 thereof in which both centuries have produced ac- 
 knowledged masters ; a department which is least liable 
 to change in that it concerns itself with what is least 
 changeable in man — his passions — what did the eigh- 
 teenth century offer its readers in the shape of prose 
 fiction ? Tracing back the succession of English novel- 
 ists we pass the names of Sophia and Harriet Lee, 
 Matthew Gregory Lewis, Charlotte Smith, Ann Rad- 
 cliff, Frances Burney, and Henry Mackenzie. When 
 we come to the name of Goldsmith we stop, and yawn- 
 ing over our early recollections of The Man of Feeling, 
 Evelina, and The Mysteries of Udolpho, we take up 
 The Vicar of Wakefield for the twentieth time, and find 
 it as delightful as at the first reading. If we have 
 a strong sense of humor, and are willing to follow it 
 whithersoever it may lead, we can still be amused by 
 Humphrey Clinker and Roderick Random, although 
 they become rather tedious before we finish them. We 
 enjoy portions of Tristram Shandy, but it is with a sort 
 of protest, for we feel that we are being fooled with, 
 and we resent the foolery. We try to read Richardson, 
 but the more we try the less we read ; for granting that
 
 XU INTRODUCTION. 
 
 all the fine things which have been said of him are true, 
 they count for nothing with us, he is such a tiresome 
 old prig. We forgive him, however, as we forgive 
 Southey for writing his Vision of Judgment, for with- 
 out that we should not have had Byron's Vision of 
 Judgment, as without Pamela we should not have had 
 Joseph Andrews. Fielding is the only eighteenth cen- 
 tury novelist whom it is possible to read with pleasure 
 and profit now — with the pleasure that we always receive 
 from masterly delineations of character, and the profit 
 that we always receive from contemporary delineations 
 of manners. We feel that we can trust him as we trust 
 Shakespeare, for though we may never have met them 
 or their kind before, the moment his personages appear 
 they authenticate themselves. Byron summed up the 
 world's verdict upon Fielding when he called him the 
 Prose Homer of human nature. Thirty years before 
 Fielding wrote Tom Jones, a much-writing English- 
 man, a Dissenter, who had been a hosier in Cornhill, a 
 traitor with Monmouth, a trader in Spain and Portugal, 
 a financial projector, and a political pamphleteer, and 
 who had stood in the Pillory, as Pope took care to in- 
 form his polite readers — this restless, adventurous 
 spirit, weary at last of persecutions and arrests, sat 
 down in retirement, at the age of fifty-eight, w^tli a 
 wife and six children, and penned The Life and Sur- 
 prising Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, 
 Mariner. Like nothing that had ever been written 
 before, it was read with avidity by the common English 
 people, who had not the least suspicion that they were 
 reading fiction. It was so simple and natural indeed, 
 so circumstantial in its enumeration of details, and so
 
 INTRODUCTION. xlii 
 
 thorough in its narration of incidents that it could not 
 have been invented. There vv^as the same air of veri- 
 similitude in The Life and Piracies of Captain Single- 
 ton, Moll Flanders, and the Life and Adventures of 
 Colonel Jack, which followed at intervals of a year 
 each, and in The Memoirs of a Cavalier, Roxana, and 
 The Life of Captain Carleton. The literary art of De 
 Foe was so perfect that it deceived Dr. Johnson, who 
 believed the last of these fictions to be a genuine con- 
 tribution to history. Such, in brief, was English fic- 
 tion in the eighteenth century, and, think as kindly of 
 it as we may, we must confess that it was not worthy 
 of the genius of the English people. There was some- 
 thing in the condition of that people during the greater 
 portion of that century, which was not favorable to the 
 exercise and development of their nobler qualities, 
 which obstructed the operations of the mind, checked 
 the excursions of the imagination, and suspended if it 
 did not destroy the creative energy. They proved their 
 patriotism by winning victories for Churchill in the 
 Low Countries, and for Walpole in the House of Com- 
 mons, They set up an idol they called Loyalty — an 
 insular Janus of Church and State, which high and low 
 alike worshipped. The Church upheld the State, and 
 the State upheld the Church, and between the two the 
 subject went to the wall. Authority demanded sub- 
 mission, and if it were refused enforced it. But it was 
 not often refused, for the Englishman of the eighteenth 
 century knew his place. He was Master, or he was 
 man. If he was statesman, he kept himself in power 
 by obeying the commands of His Majesty : if he was 
 churchman, he kissed benefices out of the hands of His
 
 xiv INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Majesty's Mistresses : if he was soldier — but perhaps 
 there is no truth in the stories that they tell about 
 Marlborough. It was not a high-minded century, but 
 it was a successful one, for its master-spirits, wiser in 
 their generation than the children of light, contrived 
 to prosper in their double worship of God and Mam- 
 mon. 
 
 That the literature of the nineteenth century should 
 have grown out of the literature of the eighteenth 
 century seems at the first sight impossible, so different 
 are their forms and the spirit by which they are 
 animated. But when we study them attentively we 
 discover their relation to each other, and to the litera- 
 ture of the preceding centuries, for whether we see it 
 or not, the whole Literature of England is distinguished 
 by the same intellectual characteristics, — the qualities 
 and energies which constitute the English Mind, and 
 which run through it like the family likeness in a gal- 
 lery of ancestral portraits. The chief defect which 
 nineteenth century criticism finds in eighteenth cen- 
 tury Verse is that it is prose in a metrical form. 
 The quality which we feel in Chaucer, and Spenser, 
 and Shakespeare, and Milton, among the older 
 poets, and in Burns, and Byron, and Shelley, and 
 Keats, among the poets of our own time, is not in it. 
 Precisely what this quality is criticism has not deter- 
 mined, its manifestations are so multiform, and so 
 colored by the personality of its possessors. It was a 
 certain simplicity and freshness in Chaucer, who had a 
 cliildlike delight in telling stories ; a sense of spiritual 
 purity and loveliness in Spenser, who was at once the 
 most melodious and most picturesque of poets ; an
 
 INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 intuitive comprehension of mankind in Shakespeare, 
 from whom nature had no secrets ; a reverence for 
 austerity of conduct and sublimity of aspiration in 
 Milton ; a hunger and thirst of passion in Burns and 
 Byron ; a blind devotion to impossible ideals in Shel- 
 ley, and in Keats the perpetual worship of the Beauti- 
 ful. The faculty of selecting poetical actions, — actions, 
 that is, which are poetical because they are heroic, or 
 pathetic, and the rarer faculty of creating them when 
 they are lacking in human annals, — neither was vouch- 
 safed to the eighteenth century poets. They were not 
 large enough, nor simple enough, to care for man as he 
 came from the hand of nature, — the creature of impulse, 
 or circumstance, a law unto himself : what interested 
 them, so far as they could be interested, were men in 
 their sophisticated condition, the entangling congeries 
 of artificiality which they called the Town. Now and 
 then they were on the eve of writing poetry, and in 
 almost any other period than the prosaic one in which 
 it was their misfortune to live, they would have written 
 poetry, for among their number there were several 
 men of genius. The penniless young Scotchman who 
 went up to London in his twenty-fifth year, and had 
 faith enough in himself, and in what he had observed 
 of nature in his native land, to write a poem about it, 
 in his own way, was a man of genius. And he was 
 recognized as such by his contemporaries, against 
 whose favorite poets and their methods of poetizing 
 his simple, honest work was a protest, in that it dealt 
 with nature, and not with society, with the pomps 
 and shows of the Seasons, and not with powdered 
 beaux and patched and painted belles. Nor was he
 
 xvi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 alone, for another Scotchman who was fifteen years 
 his elder, who had worked in a lead mine in his child- 
 hood, and in his manhood at a barber's chair in Edin- 
 burgh, — instructed by the Muse, had gathered from 
 the neglected gardens of Henryson, Dunbar, Lyndsay, 
 and other of his covmtry's early poets, a handful of 
 wilding flowers, which were still in sturdy bloom, and 
 which he fitly named The Evergreen. Following the 
 departure which he had thus taken from the high- 
 way of popular poetry, he explored the lanes and by- 
 ways of old balladry and song, and plucking in his 
 haste the flowers and weeds that were alike abundant 
 there, he modishly called his armfuls of both a Tea 
 Table Miscellany. A year later he won the laurel 
 which so many English poets had long and assiduously 
 sought, — which Spenser hoped to obtain by his Shep- 
 herd's Calendar, and Browne by his Britannia's Pastor- 
 als, — which Pope snatched at, but missed, when he 
 wrote his Pastorals, and which Gay also missed, al- 
 though he did not snatch at it, — good, easy man ! — the 
 laurel of pastoral poetry, which he was the first British 
 poet to be crowned with, and worthily crowned, not only 
 by the Muse who inspired him to sing, but by the plain, 
 simple country folk whom he sang, and who certainly 
 knew whether he sang them truly or not. If ever poet 
 reached the people, it was Allan Ramsay in The Gentle 
 Shepherd. Whether Ramsay and Thomson were aware 
 of the radical difference between their poetry and the 
 poetry of the period, and were also aware of its signi- 
 ficance as an intellectual movement, may fairly be 
 questioned. That they had a circle of readers, and 
 perhaps a large one, proves that they succeeded in
 
 INTRODUCTION. XVll 
 
 awakening poetical curiosity, but nothing more. If 
 their verse violated the existing canons of taste, it was 
 from no deep-seated design on their part to overthrow 
 those canons, but simply because their natural bent in 
 writing happened to lie outside of them. If it had 
 happened to lie within them, they would have followed 
 it, — at any rate the lettered Thomson would have fol- 
 lowed it, — as closely as Pope followed the artificial 
 manner that he inherited from Dryden. Still they 
 were not without influence upon English Verse, for 
 tracing its main stream as it meanders along lazily 
 through the eighteenth century we detect from time to 
 time the pulsation of fresh currents therein. We are 
 conscious of them in Somerville's Chace (1735), Shen- 
 stone's Schoolmistress (1742), Thomson's Castle of Indo- 
 lence (1748), and Gray's Elegy (1751)- Whether the 
 contemporary readers of these poems compared them 
 with other poems of the time, and accepted them, or 
 rejected them, as they happened to like or dislike 
 them, we have no positive means of knowing, for with 
 the exception of the Elegy, which at once established 
 itself in popular favor, they excited no critical com- 
 ment. We find them in a poetic literature to which 
 they are dissimilar, and we conclude that a change 
 has come over this literature which accounts for their 
 dissimilarity, and that they represent this change, 
 whether they originated it or not. One need but 
 glance at the history of English Verse to see that it 
 was not the same in the seventeenth century as in the 
 eighteenth, and that it was not quite the same in the 
 second quarter of the latter as in the first. The deca- 
 dence of the spirit of false classicism began with Thorn-
 
 XVIH INTRODUCTION. 
 
 son's Winter, and closed with Cowper's Task. What 
 the English poets learned in the intervening half cen- 
 tury was to discard the practice of Pope and Boileau, 
 who compounded poetry as apothecaries compounded 
 medicines, after authoritative recipes, and trust to 
 nature. They learned to shut their books, and look 
 into themselves. 
 
 There was one book, however, of which they did not 
 think much, but which was read with pleasure and 
 profit by their children, and that was Percy's Reliques. 
 Scott always remembered the spot where he read the 
 volumes for the first time. It was beneath a huge 
 plantanus-tree, in the ruins of what had been intended 
 for an old-fashioned arbor in the garden of his Aunt 
 Janet at Kelso. "The summer day sped onward so 
 fast that, notwithstanding the sharp appetite of thir- 
 teen, I forgot the hour of dinner, was sought for with 
 anxiety, and was still found entranced in my intellectual 
 banquet. To read and to remember was in this in- 
 stance the same thing, and henceforth I overwhelmed 
 my school-fellows, and all who would hearken to me, 
 with tragical recitations from the ballads of Bishop 
 Percy. The first time, too, I could scrape a few shil- 
 lings together, which were not common occurrences 
 with me, I bought unto myself a copy of these beloved 
 volumes ; nor do I believe I ever read a book half so 
 frequently, or with half the enthusiasm." Another 
 English poet, whose family was settled in the reign of 
 Edward the Third at Peniston, near Doncaster, the 
 scene of the combat described in The Dragon of Want- 
 ley, and one of whose ancestors was stated in the Notes 
 to have been a cousin of the Dragon (Sir Francis
 
 INTRODUCTION. XIX 
 
 Wortley), Wordsworth maintained that the Reliques 
 were next in importance in English Verse to Thom- 
 son's Seasons, and pointed out in one of his Prefaces 
 that while Dr. Johnson and the little senate to which 
 he gave laws succeeded in making them an object of 
 contempt, Burger and other able writers of Germany 
 were translating, or imitating them, and composing, 
 with the aid of the inspiration thence derived, ballads 
 which were the delight of the German nation. They 
 were read with avidity by Burger in his young man- 
 hood, as well as by the Gottingen circle of poets with 
 whom he was affiliated, and their influence was mani- 
 fest in his ballads, notably in EUenore, which was 
 published only nine years later than the Reliques, and 
 at once became popular. If the old ballads in Percy 
 inspired Burger to write this ballad, a translation of 
 this ballad, which was read in manuscript by Mrs. 
 Barbauld at a party in Edinburgh, and of which Scott 
 learned through the imperfect recollection of a friend 
 who had heard it, inspired him to obtain the original, 
 and to spend a night in translating it himself, and by 
 awakening his early love of poetry, and with it the 
 ambition to excel therein, made him a poet. He 
 crossed the invisible threshold between the world of 
 Prose and the world of Verse in his twenty-sixth year 
 (1796), bearing in his hands a thin quarto containing 
 his translation of two of Biirger's ballads, Ellenore, 
 which he Englished into Lenore, and The Wild Hunts- 
 man. That there was poetic vitality in the prosaic 
 eighteenth century was proved by the Reliques, which 
 were followed in England by twenty-eight similar col- 
 lections before the century closed, and by the profound
 
 XX INTRODUCTION. 
 
 impression they made in Germany, where they helped 
 to create a school of balladists. What they were to 
 Scott in his boyhood he has told us. What they were 
 to him in his early manhood, when they were recalled 
 to his memory by the ballads of Burger, his transla- 
 tions from Burger show us. What they were to him 
 at a later period we see by turning to his poetical 
 writings, and noting the order in which they were 
 written. After the Bilrger ballads he wrote, wuthin 
 the next three years, the ballads of Glenfinlas, The Eve 
 of St. John, The Grey Brothers, and translated The 
 Fire King. Then came the Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
 Border, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, Marmion, 
 The Lady of the Lake, Rokeby, The Lord of the 
 Isles, and, latest of all, Harold the Dauntless. The 
 literary inspiration of these writings was the old bal- 
 lads collected by Bishop Percy and his successors, and 
 the old metrical romances of which some of these bal- 
 lads were undoubtedly reminiscences, while others may 
 have been the original germs. We have in Scott the 
 last of the race of English and Scottish balladists, the 
 last of the kings of song and story, — lords paramount 
 of the enchanted world of Romance. He is the Lau- 
 reate of Chivalry. 
 
 Another English poet, of whom we have already 
 spoken, and whom we usually associate with the im- 
 mortals of the nineteenth century, appeared, like 
 vScott, in the last decade of the eighteenth centvuy, 
 but, unlike Scott, in the livery which the lackeys of 
 Pope had worn threadbare. Wordsworth's first poet- 
 ical ventures, which wxre published three years before 
 Scott's translations from Blirger, were An Evening
 
 INTRODUCTION. Xxi 
 
 Walk — an attempt to paint a series of landscape views 
 in his own country, and Descriptive Sketches, an at- 
 tempt to paint the scenery of the Alps, among which 
 he had lately made a pedestrian tour with a college 
 friend. The most that can be said of these produc- 
 tions is that they are fairly well written, and that there 
 are touches of natural description in them which could 
 only have been the result of actual observation. A 
 copy of the Descriptive Sketches fell into the hands of 
 a young man in Cambridge, who was charmed with 
 them, and who declared years afterward that seldom, if 
 ever, was the emergence of an original poetic genius 
 above the literary horizon more evidently announced 
 than in these same Sketches. This young man was a 
 poet himself, and about this time was writing Songs to 
 the Pixies, verses on Roses, and Kisses, an Address to 
 a Young Ass, and other little pieces. Being in love, 
 or debt, or both, he suddenly left college, and went up 
 to London, where he was soon reduced to want. To 
 alleviate this prosaic misfortune, he enlisted as a pri- 
 vate in the 15th Light Dragoons, which were then 
 stationed at Reading, and during his four months* con- 
 tinuance in the awkward squad it is hard to say which 
 was the most to be pitied, — he, or his horse. A chance 
 recognition in the street made his whereabouts known 
 to his family, who procured his release. Two or three 
 months later he went to Oxford, where he made the 
 acquaintance of another poet, whom he met again 
 at Bristol, and by whom he Avas introduced to a 
 third poet, who had recently taken to himself a wife, 
 which wife had two pretty unmarried sisters, of one of 
 whom he became at once enamored, his friend being
 
 XXli INTRODUCTION. 
 
 enamored of the other. This trio of poets was Robert 
 Southey, Robert Lovell, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 
 Southey made love to his Edith, and Coleridge to his 
 Sarah, and in the intervals of that delightful employ- 
 ment both made love to the Muse, joining their forces, 
 such as they were then, in the composition of a con- 
 temporary drama. The Fall of Robespierre, which got 
 into print in 1794. In the same year Southey published 
 a volume of Poems, in conjunction with his friend 
 Lovell, and in the following year the first of his epics, 
 Joan of Arc, which he believed to be the most impor- 
 tant addition to English Verse since Glover's Leonidas, 
 which was given to the world about sixty years before. 
 Stimulated by an offer of thirty guineas from Cottle, 
 another poet, Coleridge collected his Address to a 
 Young Ass, his verses on Roses, and Kisses, and other 
 juvenilia, and published them as Poems in 1796. A 
 second edition, which was reached in the next year, 
 contained additions by two of his tuneful friends, 
 Charles Lamb and Charles Lloyd. Four years had 
 elapsed since Wordsworth published his Descriptive 
 Sketches, and he had not been idle during that time, 
 though he had printed nothing. He had written 
 several poems, among them Guilt and Sorrow, and a 
 tragedy called The Borderers. In the summer of 1797 
 he was visited at Racedown by Coleridge, who repeated 
 to him and his sister Dorothy, after tea, two acts and 
 a half of a tragedy he had in hand, and to whom the 
 next morning he read the whole five acts of his own 
 tragedy. A visit with his sister to Coleridge, at Nether- 
 .Stowcy, in tlie autumn, led to a little tour in the 
 ueigliborhuod, and as their united funds were very
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXlll 
 
 small, the two poets agreed to defray the expense of 
 the tour by writing a poem. They set off along the 
 Ouantock Hills, and in the course of their walk the 
 poem was planned, Coleridge supplying the story 
 which was to be narrated, and Wordsworth suggest- 
 ing the crime upon which it should hinge, and which 
 was to be punished in the spiritual suffering of the 
 hero. They began it the same evening, but did not 
 proceed far before they discovered that their respec- 
 tive manners could not be successfully combined, and 
 Wordsworth withdrew from the undertaking. They 
 continued their tour, the poem growing in the mean- 
 time until it became too important for their first ob- 
 ject, which was limited to their expectation of five 
 pounds, so they began to think of writing a volume, 
 which was to consist of poems chiefly on supernatural 
 subjects, taken from common life, and looked at, as 
 much as might be, through an imaginative medium. 
 The poem thus conceived was The Ancient Mariner, 
 and the volume thus projected was the Lyrical 
 Ballads. Looking back upon the eighteenth century 
 now we can distinguish therein four great years, four 
 years that are memorable in the history of English 
 Verse, years in which old elements were discarded and 
 new elements introduced, in which the old order 
 yielded, giving place to new — the years in which 
 Thomson published his Winter (1726), Gray the Elegy 
 (1751), Cowper The Task (1785), and Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge the Lyrical Ballads (1798). The year that 
 witnessed the publication, in the same volume, of The 
 Ancient Mariner, and Lines written a few miles above 
 Tintern Abbey, was the annus mirabilis.
 
 XXIV INTRODUCTION. 
 
 The prospects of English Verse were prosperous 
 when the nineteenth century opened. Dispirited and 
 benumbed during the greater part of the eighteenth 
 century, it had shaken off the fetters which had been 
 imposed upon it, and rousing as its energies were 
 awakened had revolted and declared its freedom. It 
 was attended by four torch-bearers, Southcy, who was 
 in his twenty-sixth year, Coleridge, who Avas in his 
 twenty-eighth year, Scott, who was in his twenty-ninth 
 year, and Wordsworth, who was in his thirtieth 3'ear. 
 To these should be added three link-boys, who were 
 younger, Campbell being twenty-seven, Landor twen- 
 ty-five, and Moore twenty-one. Behind these, uncon- 
 scious of their future renown, the imagination sees 
 three bright, eager-eyed lads, George Gordon Byron, 
 who was twelve, Percy Bysshe Shelley, the son of a 
 country baronet, who was eight, and John Keats, the 
 son of the head servant of a livery-stable keeper, who 
 was five. Tracing the current of English Verse hither- 
 ward from the beginning of the century, we find the 
 four torch-bearers following the paths upon which 
 they had already entered, — Southey, the path of the 
 epic in Thalaba (1801), Madoc (1805), Curse of Kehema 
 (iSio), Roderick, the Last of the Goths (1814) ; Scott, 
 the path of balladry, which soon broadened into the 
 sliining high-way of the metrical romance, in The 
 Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (1802-3), The Lay of 
 the Last Minstrel (1805), Marmion (1808), The Lady 
 of the Lake (1810), Vision of Don Roderick (181 1), 
 Rokeby (1812), The Bridal of Triermain (1813), The 
 Lord of the Isles (1815), Harold the Dauntless (1817) ; 
 Wordsworth, the path of philosophic meditation and
 
 INTRODUCTION. XXV 
 
 nature-worship in The Excursion (1814), The White Doc 
 of Rylstone (1815), Peter Bell (1819), The Waggoner 
 (1819) ; and Coleridge, the path of dramatic fantasy, in 
 Christabel (1806), Remorse (1813), Sibylline Leaves 
 (18 1 6), and Zapolya (1816). Of the four, the one who 
 made poetry the business of his life was the least pop- 
 ular. Subversive of the conventional standard of taste, 
 there were puerilities in his poetry which provoked 
 derision, and an originality which was offensive, Sucli 
 readers as he had, and they were not many, he made, 
 and made slowly. What Coleridge might have become 
 if, like Wordsworth, he could have devoted himself 
 wholly to poetry, we can only conjecture ; that he had 
 a richer nature and a more creative imagination can 
 scarcely be doubted. As it was, however, he frittered 
 away his time in dreaming and travelling, in preaching 
 and lecturing, in writing for newspapers and project- 
 ing periodicals, but chiefly in opium-eating. He had 
 married his Sarah, who had borne him children, as liis 
 friend Southey had married his Edith, who had borne 
 him children, and it was Southey's roof that sheltered 
 the young Coleridges and their mother. With fewer 
 poetic gifts than Coleridge, Southey contrived to thrive 
 better, for while he composed his epics, which had no 
 sale to speak of, he devised letters of travel, edited poets, 
 translated romances of chivalry, wrote a Life of Nelson, 
 a History of Brazil, a Book of the Church, and num- 
 berless articles in the Quarterly Review. Reputation, 
 which had been refused to Coleridge and Wordsworth, 
 though a share of it had fallen to the lot of Southey, 
 and the reward which follows reputation, often in the 
 guise of its evil genius, — these things had been lavished
 
 XXVI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 upon Scott as upon few English poets before. The 
 greatest poet of the time in general estimation, he was 
 the most in demand among the Trade, for he had the 
 rare art of coining money for them as well as for him- 
 self. Scott's reign as the monarch of English Verse 
 in the nineteenth century was brilliant but brief, for 
 in its seventh year his power was shaken by a young 
 lord of twenty-four, whose claim to the sovereignty 
 was a poem called Childe Harold. He abdicated grace- 
 fully, carrying the sceptre with which he had ruled over 
 the world of metrical romance into the greater world 
 of historical prose romance, which he discovered, and 
 in which his genius still reigns supreme. Nowhere 
 in the history of letters do we find a career like that 
 of Byron, nowhere so powerful a personality as his. 
 He was what Marlowe might have been but for that 
 fatal tavern brawl — the possessor of all poetic gifts, 
 except that instinctive knowledge of mankind which 
 Avas Shakespeare's, and that reverence for moral great- 
 ness which was Milton's, — a swift and glorious Spirit, 
 an elemental Force in English Verse. Belonging to 
 the same race of high intelligences, but of a different 
 order, was Shelley, who was of too ethereal a mould 
 for the material England of the Georges. He had the 
 heart of a woman, or a child, — the heart which suffer- 
 ing first moves to pity, then to anger, and then stings 
 to the unreason whicli clamors against the Maker of a 
 world in which such suffering exists. He confounded 
 religion with priestcraft, and kingcraft with the human 
 imperfection of tlic laws it administered, and would 
 have abolished both, and put man back once more in a 
 state of nature, which, poet-like, he peopled with all
 
 INTRODUCTION. xxvii 
 
 the civic virtues. A chartered libertine in his beliefs, 
 the soul of goodness shone through his life and his 
 work, than which there is none more imaginative in 
 English Verse. More purely poetical than either was 
 Keats, who, without learning, revived the spirit of the 
 Greek pastoral in Endymion, and the spirit of the 
 Greek tragedy in Hyperion, and summoned back as 
 with the wand of an enchanter the light and loveliness 
 of the Middle Ages in The Eve of St. Agnes. His 
 masters were Chaucer, Spenser, and the Shakespeare 
 of the Sonnets, and their pupil was worthy of them. 
 One's first thought, when he remembers that he died 
 in his twenty-seventh year, is, that he died young ; but 
 when one remembers what his life was, with what 
 scorn his poetry was received, and how he was tortured 
 by a hopeless passion, one cannot but change his mind, 
 and say, with old Bosola in the Duchess of Malfy, 
 
 *' I think not so ; his infelicity 
 Seemed to have years too many." 
 
 Of the later nineteenth century poets, successors of 
 Keats, Shelley, and Byron, born in their lifetime, but 
 not singing until the grave had closed over them, — 
 the perfect poet who has restored to us the gracious 
 Arthur from his long slumber in the island valley 
 of Avilion ; the subtle dramatist who has poured his 
 own heart's blood into Sebald and Ottima, Colombe 
 and Valence, and a score of other live men and women; 
 the tender and pensive singer, who has created an 
 Earthly Paradise for the immortal stories that he loves 
 so well, and that we love, too ; the fiery, impassioned
 
 XXViii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 improvisator, dramatist at once and lyrist, who has 
 phicked out the heart of Mary Stuart's secret, and 
 snatched the light and sound of the sea ; of these, and 
 others, all that a contemporary should say, — and he 
 cannot say less, — was said by Keats in the first line of 
 the second sonnet that he addressed to Haydon : 
 
 " Great spirits now on earth are sojourning." 
 
 R. H. Stoddard. 
 
 The Century, 
 
 New York, September 20, 1883.
 
 ^% The Editors and Publishers of English Verse cordially 
 acknowledge the kindness which has allowed them to print in it 
 many poems, which could be so included only by authority of 
 the owners of the American copyrights. The permission has 
 been willingly granted in every case ; and it is through this 
 kind co-operation that it has been possible to make thoroughly 
 comprehensive a Collection which must otherwise have been 
 undidy limited in the field of American poetry. Besides their 
 indebtedness to the living Afnerican authors whose names 
 appear in these volutnes, they desire to express their thanks to 
 Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for their consettt to the 
 use of many poems from, the long list of poets of whose works 
 they are the publishers ; to MESSRS. D. Appleton & Co. for 
 the use of poems by Bryant ; to Messrs. Roberts Brothers 
 rt«^ James R. Osgood & Co. ; to Messrs. J. B. Lippincott 
 & Co. ; and to Messrs A. C. Armstrong «&: Son.
 
 CONTENTS, 
 
 William Wordsworth : pagb 
 
 Invocation to the Power of Sound ■. i 
 
 Ode to Duty 7 
 
 Nature's Darling 9 
 
 The Triad lo 
 
 Natural Piety 17 
 
 Sonnets {It is a beauteous evening) 17 
 
 ( This world is too mtich with us) 17 
 
 (^O'er the wide earth) 18 
 
 ( There is a bondage) 18 
 
 (Methought I saw) 19 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge : 
 
 Genevieve 19 
 
 Names 2a 
 
 To a Young Ass 23 
 
 Love and Hope and Patience in Education 24 
 
 Youth and Age 25 
 
 Robert Southey: 
 
 The Holly Tree 26 
 
 The Scholar , 28 
 
 Robert Tannahill: 
 
 Love's Fear 28 
 
 Mine ain dear Somebody 29 
 
 Sir Walter Scott : 
 
 The Clan-Gathering 30 
 
 Jock o' Hazeldean 31
 
 XXxii CONTENTS. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott: page 
 
 Light Love 32 
 
 Death-Chant 33 
 
 Proud Maisie 33 
 
 James Montgomery : 
 
 The Blackbird 34 
 
 Winter Lightning 35 
 
 James Hogg : 
 
 To the Lark 35 
 
 Maggie away 3^ 
 
 Charles Lamb : 
 
 Hester 37 
 
 The Old Familiar Faces 38 
 
 The Gipsy's Malison 39 
 
 Walter Savage Landor : 
 
 To Hesperus 4° 
 
 Rubies 4^ 
 
 The Nereid 41 
 
 The Maid's Lament 42 
 
 Margaret 43 
 
 To Youth 43 
 
 Erinna to Love 44 
 
 Thomas Campbell: 
 
 The Battle of the Baltic 44 
 
 The Mariners of England 46 
 
 Hallowed Ground 48 
 
 Thomas Moore : 
 
 Then fare Thee well! Si 
 
 Peace be around Thee ! 52 
 
 Bring the bright Garlands 1 52 
 
 Battle Song 53 
 
 After Defeat S4 
 
 Horace Smith : 
 
 Hymn of the Flowers 55
 
 CONTENTS. XXXiii 
 
 Ebenezer Elliott: page 
 
 Flowers for the Heart 57 
 
 The Bramble-Flower 58 
 
 Elegy on William Cobbett 59 
 
 Hannah Ratcliffe 60 
 
 James Henry Lkigh Hunt: 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem 61 
 
 Song of Peace 63 
 
 A Nun 63 
 
 Grasshopper and Cricket 63 
 
 To his Wife 64 
 
 To his Piano-forte 64 
 
 Allan Cunningham : 
 
 The Sun in France 65 
 
 George Darley: 
 
 Waking Song 66 
 
 Sylvia's Song 66 
 
 Dirge 67 
 
 Thomas Love Peacock : 
 
 Castles in the Air 68 
 
 Days of Old 68 
 
 Margaret Love Peacock 69 
 
 Bryan Waller Procter : 
 
 The Stormy Petrel 69 
 
 To our Neighbour's Health 70 
 
 Bacchanalian 72 
 
 Song {Let us sing and sigh /) 73 
 
 I love Him 73 
 
 Ignorance is Bliss 74 
 
 She was not Fair 74 
 
 The Poet to his Wife 75 
 
 Richard Henry Dana : 
 
 The Little Beachbird 7Q 
 
 George Gordon Byron : 
 
 The Isles of Greece 77 
 
 ToTbyrza 80
 
 xxxiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Gborge Gordon Byron : page 
 
 Song of Saul 82 
 
 The Patriot 82 
 
 She Walks in Beauty 83 
 
 Byron's Last Verse 84 
 
 Pekcy Bysshe Shelley : 
 
 To a Skylark 85 
 
 Lines to an Indian Air 88 
 
 To Night 89 
 
 A Bridal Song 90 
 
 Song (False Friend /) 91 
 
 Political Greatness 91 
 
 A Wail 92 
 
 John Keats : 
 
 Hymn to Pan 92 
 
 Roundelay 94 
 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn 98 
 
 To Autumn 100 
 
 Grasshopper and Cricket loi 
 
 Charles Wolfe : 
 
 The Burial of Sir John Moore loa 
 
 Felicia Dorothea Hkmans : 
 
 Her Grave 103 
 
 William Cullen Bryant : 
 
 To a Water-Fowl 104 
 
 To the Fringed Gentian 105 
 
 Hymn of the City 106 
 
 To the North Star 107 
 
 The Third of November .108 
 
 Thomas Carlylb : 
 
 Adieu ! 109 
 
 John Hamilton Reynolds: 
 
 Hour after Hour ^ no 
 
 Song ( Go -where the water) ill 
 
 Sherwood Forest iii
 
 CONTENTS. XXXV 
 
 Hartley Coleridge : tage 
 
 Song (She is not /air) 112 
 
 Whither ? 112 
 
 William Motherwell: 
 
 Jeanie Morrison , 113 
 
 Thomas Hood : 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs 116 
 
 Ode to Autumn 119 
 
 To a Cold Beauty 121 
 
 Love's Constancy 122 
 
 Ruth 122 
 
 The Time of Roses 123 
 
 Charles Wells : 
 
 Song {Kiss no more the Vintages) 124 
 
 Sir Henry Taylor: 
 
 Song ( The morning broke) 125 
 
 William Barnes : 
 
 Not far to go 125 
 
 My Fore-Elders 126 
 
 John Henry Newman : 
 
 The Elements 127 
 
 A Voice from Afar 128 
 
 Harriet Martinkau : 
 
 Beneath the Arch 129 
 
 Thomas Lovell Beddoes : 
 
 Song of the Stygian Naiads 130 
 
 How many Times ? 131 
 
 Sea Song 131 
 
 Richard Hengist Horne : 
 
 Genius 132 
 
 The Laurel-Seed 133 
 
 Solitude and the Lily I34
 
 XXXVi CONTENTS. 
 
 Richard Hengist Hornb : tack 
 
 The Plough 13S 
 
 Dirge 13S 
 
 Newton 136 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson : 
 
 The Problem 136 
 
 To the Humble-Bee 138 
 
 To Eva 140 
 
 The Apology 141 
 
 Gerald Griffin : 
 
 In thy Memory 141 
 
 Maiden Eyes 142 
 
 James Clarence Mangan : 
 
 Soul and Country 143 
 
 Samuel Laman Blanchard : 
 
 Nell Gwrynne's Looking-Glass 144 
 
 Robert Stephen Hawker: 
 
 Isha Cherioth 146 
 
 The Wail of the Cornish Mother 147 
 
 Sarah Flower Adams : 
 
 The Olive Boughs 148 
 
 Sir William Rowan Hamilton: 
 
 A Prayer 148 
 
 Thomas Wade : 
 
 The Net-Braiders 149 
 
 Nymphs 150 
 
 John Sterling : 
 
 Daedalus 151 
 
 William Gilmore Simms : 
 
 The Lost Pleiad 153
 
 CONTENTS. XXXVU 
 
 Nathaniel Parker Willis: pagb 
 
 Two Women 155 
 
 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow : 
 
 The Arrow and the Song 156 
 
 The Light of Stars 156 
 
 The Cumberland 157 
 
 Excelsior 159 
 
 The Rainy Day 160 
 
 Children 161 
 
 John Greenleaf Whittier : 
 
 In School-Days i6a 
 
 Telling the Bees 163 
 
 Ichabod 165 
 
 The River-Path 166 
 
 Richard Chenevix Trench : 
 
 The Lent Jewels i63 
 
 Edgar Allan Poe : 
 
 The Bells 169 
 
 To Helen 172 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes : 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus 173 
 
 Alfred Tennyson : 
 
 Tithonus 174 
 
 Mariana 176 
 
 The Poet's Song 179 
 
 The Days that are no more 179 
 
 Richard Monckton Milnes: 
 
 The Brook-Side iSo 
 
 The Treasure Ship 181 
 
 William Makepeace Thackeray : 
 
 At the Church Gate 182 
 
 The Age of Wisdom • . ^3
 
 xxxviii CONTENTS. 
 
 Sir Francis Hastings Doylb : page 
 
 The Private of the Buffs 184 
 
 Alfred Domett : 
 
 What matter ? 185 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning : 
 
 A Musical Instrument 186 
 
 A False Step 187 
 
 The Sea-Mew 1S8 
 
 Sonnets ( Unlike are we) 189 
 
 ( Go from me /) 19° 
 
 {Say over again f) 190 
 
 {Firsi time he kissd mc) 191 
 
 Robert Browning : 
 
 The Lost Leader 191 
 
 The Moth's Kiss 192 
 
 Evelyn Hope I93 
 
 Night and Morning i94 
 
 Robert Nicoll: 
 
 Bonnie Bessie Lee I9S 
 
 Menie 196 
 
 The Grave of Burns "^9^ 
 
 Thomas Osborne Davis: 
 
 The Welcome ^97 
 
 William Bell Scott : 
 
 The Norns watering Yggdrasill 198 
 
 Parting and Meeting again 200 
 
 Pygmalion 200 
 
 Rose-Leaves 201 
 
 William James Linton: 
 
 Bridal Song 201 
 
 The Happy Land 202 
 
 Iphigeneia at Aulis 203
 
 CONTENTS. XXXIX 
 
 Aubrey Thomas de Vere : pagb 
 
 Song {Seek not ike tree) 203 
 
 Sorrow 204 
 
 Song {Love laid down) 205 
 
 {Softly, O midnight Hours .') 205 
 
 Nothing more 206 
 
 Thomas Burbidge : 
 
 Love's Insistence 206 
 
 Charles George Rosenberg : 
 
 The Winged Horse 207 
 
 Henry Septimus Sutton : 
 
 The Battle of God 210 
 
 Charles Weldon: 
 
 The Poem of the Universe 211 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough : 
 
 Peschiera 211 
 
 Not unavailing 213 
 
 Julia Ward Howe : 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republic 213 
 
 Walt Whitman : 
 
 Pioneers 214 
 
 The Soldier's Letter 219 
 
 Thomas William Parsons: 
 
 Dirge 221 
 
 Saint Peray 221 
 
 Charles Kingsley : 
 
 To •'te North-East Wind 224 
 
 The Sands of Dee 226 
 
 A Hope 227 
 
 Mary Ann Evans Lewes : 
 
 The Dark 227
 
 Xl CONTENTS. 
 
 James Russell Lowell : page 
 
 Hebe 228 
 
 The Courtin' 229 
 
 The Fountain 232 
 
 She Came and Went 233 
 
 Maria White Lowell: 
 
 An Opium Fantasy 233 
 
 William Ross Wallace : 
 
 El Amin— The Faithful 235 
 
 Ebbnezer Jones: 
 
 Rain 237 
 
 When the World is burning 237 
 
 Denis Florence McCarthy : 
 
 Summer Longings • 238 
 
 Frederick Locker : 
 
 The Unrealized Ideal 240 
 
 Alice Cary: 
 
 Open Secrets 240 
 
 Phcebe Cary: 
 
 The Maiden's Song 241 
 
 Alas! 243 
 
 Matthew Arnold : 
 
 Philomela 243 
 
 Growing Old 244 
 
 William (Johnson) Cory : 
 
 Mimncrmus in Church 245 
 
 A French Sailor's Scottish Sweetheart 246 
 
 Sydney Thompson Dobell: 
 
 A Sleep Song 246 
 
 How's my Boy ? -j8
 
 CONTENTS. xli 
 
 Henry Howard Brownell : page 
 
 The Burial of the Dane 249 
 
 Qu'ilmourut! 251 
 
 George William Curtis: 
 
 Song {Rushes lean over) 251 
 
 Major and Minor 252 
 
 Thomas d'Arcy McGee: 
 
 The Penitent Raven 253 
 
 Bayard Taylor : 
 
 The Wisdom of Ali 253 
 
 Bedouin Song 255 
 
 The Arab to the Palm 256 
 
 Richard Henry Stoddard : 
 
 Brahma's Answer 257 
 
 Ajar of Wine 259 
 
 Under the Rose 259 
 
 Elizabeth Drew Barstow Stoddard : 
 
 Mercedes 260 
 
 Adelaide Anne Procter : 
 
 A Woman's Questioning 261 
 
 Lucy Larcom : 
 
 Sleep-Song 262 
 
 Mortimer Collins : 
 
 Snow and Sun 263 
 
 William Allingham : 
 
 The Touchstone 264 
 
 Arthur Joseph Munby: 
 
 Violet 265 
 
 Mary Anerley 267
 
 xHi CONTENTS. 
 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti : pagb 
 
 The Card-Dealer 268 
 
 First Love remembered 270 
 
 Lilith 270 
 
 True Woman 271 
 
 Lost Days 271 
 
 Christina Georgina Rossetti : 
 
 Song ( W/ien I am dead) 272 
 
 The Bourne 272 
 
 Jean Ingelow : 
 
 Expecting 273 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman : 
 
 The Doorstep 274 
 
 Toujours Amour 275 
 
 Mine 276 
 
 Georgk Arnold : 
 
 Gloria 277 
 
 John Nichol : 
 
 Impatience 27S 
 
 Lewis Morris : 
 
 Love's Suicide 279 
 
 Helen Fiskk Jackson : 
 
 Coronation 280 
 
 William Morris : 
 
 Song \,Fair is the night) 2S1 
 
 Before our Lady came 282 
 
 John Jamks Piatt : 
 
 The Old Man and the Spring-Leaves 284 
 
 Celia Leighton Thaxter : 
 
 Medrake and Osprey 285
 
 CONTENTS. xliii 
 
 Byron Forceythb Willson : page 
 
 The Estray 286 
 
 Autumn-Song 287 
 
 William Winter : 
 
 Love's Queen 287 
 
 After all 288 
 
 The Last Scene 289 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich : 
 
 Palabras Carinosas 290 
 
 Tiger-Lilies 290 
 
 Richard Garnett : 
 
 Violets 291 
 
 Fading Leaf and Fallen Leaf 292 
 
 Thomas Ashb : 
 
 Dallying 292 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne : 
 
 Before the Mirror 293 
 
 Chorus — from Atalanta in Calydon 295 
 
 The Sundew 297 
 
 Rondel 298 
 
 JAMKS Thomson : 
 
 The Three that shall be One 299 
 
 Waiting 301 
 
 John Hay: 
 
 A Woman's Love 302 
 
 Henry Austin Dobson : 
 
 Before Sedan 303 
 
 Robert Williams Buchanan : 
 
 The Modern Warrior 304 
 
 Robert Bridges: 
 
 The Sea-Poppy 307
 
 xliv CONTENTS. 
 
 Edmund William Gosse : pagb 
 
 The Suppliant 308 
 
 Theophile Marzials: 
 
 Rondel 308 
 
 Pakenham Thomas Bkatty : 
 
 In my Dreams 309 
 
 Andrew Lang : 
 
 In Ithaca 309 
 
 William Davies : 
 
 Doing and Being 310 
 
 Notes 311 
 
 Index to First Lines 329
 
 LYRICS 
 
 OF THE 
 
 XIX™ CENTURY
 
 Song should breathe of scents and flowers ; 
 
 Song should like a river flow ; 
 Song should bring back scenes and hours 
 
 That we loved — ah ! long ago. 
 
 Song from baser thoughts should win us ; 
 
 Song should charm us out of woe ; 
 Song should stir the heart within us. 
 
 Like a patriot's friendly blow. 
 
 Pains and pleasures, all man doeth, 
 
 War and peace, and right and wrong. 
 All things that the soul subdueth 
 
 Should be vanquish'd too by Song. 
 
 Song should spur the mind to duty, 
 
 Nerve the weak, and stir the strong ; 
 Every deed of truth and beauty 
 
 Should be crown'd by starry Song. 
 
 Barrv Cornwall.
 
 Lyrics of the XlXth Century, 
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 1770— 1850. 
 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 TO THE POWER OF SOUND. 
 
 Thy functions are ethereal, 
 
 As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, 
 
 Organ of Vision ! And a Spirit aerial 
 
 Informs the cell of Hearing, dark and blind : 
 
 Intricate labyrinth, more dread for thought 
 
 To enter than oracular cave : 
 
 Strict passage, through which sighs are brought, 
 
 And whispers for the heart, their slave ; 
 
 And shrieks that revel in abuse 
 
 Of shivering flesh ; and warbled air. 
 
 Whose piercing sweetness can unloose 
 
 The chains of frenzy or entice a smile 
 
 Into the ambush of despair ; 
 
 Hozannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle ; 
 
 And requiems answer'd by the pulse that beats 
 
 Devoutly in life's last retreats. 
 
 The headlong streams and fountains 
 Serve thee ! Invisible Spirit ! with untired powers : 
 Cheering the wakeful tent on Syrian mountains, 
 They lull perchance ten thousand thousand flowers. 
 That roar, the prowling lion's " Here I am ! " 
 II.— I
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 How fearful to the desert wide ! 
 
 That bleat, how tender ! of the dam 
 
 Calling a straggler to her side. 
 
 Shout, cuckoo ! let the vernal soul 
 
 Go with thee to the frozen zone ; 
 
 Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird ! toll. 
 
 At the still hour to Mercy dear : 
 
 Mercy from her twilight throne 
 
 Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, 
 
 To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea, 
 
 Or widow's cottage-lullaby. 
 
 Ye Voices ! and ye Shadows 
 
 And Images of Voice, to hound and horn 
 
 From rocky steep and rock-bcstudded meadows 
 
 Flung back and in the sky's blue caves reborn ! 
 
 On with your pastime, till the church-tower bells 
 
 A greeting give of measured glee ; 
 
 And milder Echoes from their cells 
 
 Repeat the bridal symphony. 
 
 Then, or far earlier, let us rove 
 
 Where mists are breaking up or gone, 
 
 And from aloft look down into a cove 
 
 Besprinkled with a careless quire : 
 
 Happy milkmaids, one by one 
 
 Scattering a ditty each to her desire, — 
 
 A liquid concert matchless by nice art, 
 
 A stream as if from one full heart. 
 
 Bless'd be the song that brightens 
 
 The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirtli ! 
 
 Unscorn'd the peasant's whistling breath that lightens 
 
 His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth ! 
 
 For the tired slave Song lifts the languid oar, 
 
 And bids it aptly fall, with chime 
 
 That beautifies the fairest shore 
 
 And mitigates the harshest clime. 
 
 Yon pilgrims see ! — in lagging file
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 They move ; but soon the appointed way 
 
 A choral " Avh, Marie ! " shall beguile, 
 
 And to their hope the distant shrine 
 
 Glisten with a livelier ray. 
 
 Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine, 
 
 Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast 
 
 Can draw, and sing his griefs to rest. 
 
 When civic renovation 
 
 Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste 
 
 Best eloquence avails not. Inspiration 
 
 Mounts with a tune that travels like a blast. 
 
 Piping through cave and battlemented tower : 
 
 Then starts the sluggard, pleased to meet 
 
 That voice of Freedom in its power 
 
 Of promises, shrill, wild and sweet. 
 
 Who from a martial pageant spreads 
 
 Incitements of a battle-day, 
 
 Thrilling the unweapon'd crowd with plumeless heads ? 
 
 Even She whose Lydian airs inspire 
 
 Peaceful striving, gentle play 
 
 Of timid hope and innocent desire 
 
 Shot from the dancing Graces as they move 
 
 Fann'd by the plausive wings of Love. 
 
 How oft along thy mazes, 
 
 Regent of Sound ! have dangerous passions trod. 
 
 O thou ! through whom the temple rings with praises, 
 
 And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God, 
 
 Betray not by the cozenage of sense 
 
 Thy votaries, wooingly resign'd 
 
 To a voluptuous influence 
 
 That taints the purer, better mind ; 
 
 But lead sick Fancy to a harp 
 
 That hath in noble tasks been tried ! 
 
 And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, 
 
 Soothe it into patience ! — stay 
 
 The uplifted arm of Suicide ;
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And let some mood of thine in firm array 
 Knit every thought the impending issue needs, 
 Ere martyr burns or patriot bleeds ! 
 
 As Conscience to the centre 
 
 Of Being smites with irresistible pain, 
 
 So shall a solemn cadence, if it enter 
 
 The mouldy vaults of the dull idiot's brain, 
 
 Transmute him to a wretch from quiet hurl'd, 
 
 Convulsed as by a jarring din ; 
 
 And then aghast, as at the world 
 
 Of reason partially let in 
 
 By concords winding with a sway 
 
 Terrible for sense and soul : 
 
 Or awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. 
 
 Point not these mysteries to an art. 
 
 Lodged above the starry pole ? 
 
 Pure modulations flowing from the heart 
 
 Of Divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, 
 
 With Order, dwell in endless youth. 
 
 Oblivion may not cover 
 
 All treasures hoarded by the miser Time. 
 
 Orphean Insight ! Truth's undaunted lover, 
 
 To the first leagues of tutor'd passion climb, 
 
 When Alusic deign'd within this grosser sphere 
 
 Her subtle essence to enfold, 
 
 And voice and shell drew forth a tear 
 
 Softer than Nature's self could mould. 
 
 Yet strenuous was the infant age : 
 
 Art, daring because souls could feel, 
 
 Stirr'd nowhere but an urgent equipage 
 
 Of rapt imagination sped her march 
 
 Through the realms of woe and weal : 
 
 Hell to the lyre bow'd low ; the upper arch 
 
 Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse 
 
 Her wan disasters could disperse.
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 The Gift to King Amphion, 
 
 That wall'd a city with its melody, 
 
 Was for belief no dream. Thy skill, Arion ! 
 
 Could humanize the creatures of the sea. 
 
 Where men were monsters : a last grace he craves, 
 
 Leave for one chant ; the dulcet sound 
 
 Steals from the deck o'er willing waves. 
 
 And listening dolphins gather round ; 
 
 Self-cast, as with a desperate course 
 
 'Mid that strange audience, he bestrides 
 
 A proud One docile as a managed horse, 
 
 And singing, while the accordant hand 
 
 Sweeps his harp, the Master rides ; 
 
 So shall he touch at length a friendly strand. 
 
 And he with his preserver shine star-bright 
 
 In memory, through silent night. 
 
 The pipe of Pan to shepherds 
 
 Couch'd in the shadow of Maenalian pines 
 
 Was passing sweet ; the eyeballs of the leopards 
 
 That in high triumph drew the Lord of Vines, 
 
 How did they sparkle to the cymbals' clang ! 
 
 While Fauns and Satyrs beat the ground 
 
 In cadence, and Silenus swang 
 
 This way and that, with wild-flowers crown'd. 
 
 To life, to life give back thine ear ! 
 
 Ye, who are longing to be rid 
 
 Of fable though to truth subservient ! hear 
 
 The little sprinkling of cold earth that fell 
 
 Echoed from the coffin-lid ; 
 
 The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; 
 
 The vain distress-gun, from a leeward shore 
 
 Repeated, heard, — and heard no more. 
 
 For terror, joy, or pity, 
 
 Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : 
 
 From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats 
 
 Far as the woodlands, with the trill to blend 
 
 Of that shy songstress whose love-tale 
 
 Might tempt an angel to descend 
 
 While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. 
 
 Ye wandering Utterances ! has earth no scheme, 
 
 No scale of moral music, to unite 
 
 Powers that survive but in the faintest dream 
 
 Of memory ? O that ye might stoop to bear 
 
 Chains, such precious chains of sight 
 
 As labour'd minstrelsies through ages wear ! 
 
 O for a balance fit the truth to tell 
 
 Of the Unsubstantial, ponder'd well ! 
 
 By one pervading spirit 
 
 Of tones and numbers all things are controul'd : 
 
 As sages taught, where faith was found to merit 
 
 Initiation in that mystery old. 
 
 The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still 
 
 As they themselves appear to be, 
 
 Innumerable voices fill 
 
 With everlasting harmony; 
 
 The towering headlands, crown'd with mist, 
 
 Their feet among the billows, know 
 
 That Ocean is a mighty harmonist ; 
 
 Thy pinions, universal Air ! 
 
 Ever waving to and fro. 
 
 Are delegates of harmony, and bear 
 
 Strains that support the Seasons in their round : 
 
 Stern Winter loves a dirgc-likc sound. 
 
 Break forth into thanksgiving. 
 
 Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ! 
 
 Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, 
 
 Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! 
 
 Nor hush'd be service from the lowing mead; 
 
 Nor mute the forest hum of noon !
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Thou too be heard, lone eagle ! freed 
 
 From snowy peak and cloud, attune 
 
 Thy hungry barkings to the hymn 
 
 Of joy that from her utmost walls 
 
 The Six-days' Work by flaming Seraphim 
 
 Transmits to Heaven. As Deep to Deep 
 
 Shouting through one valley calls. 
 
 All worlds, all natures mood and measure keep 
 
 For praise and ceaseless gratulation, pour'd 
 
 Into the ear of God, their Lord. 
 
 A Voice to light gave being. 
 
 To Time, and Man, his earth-born chronicler; 
 
 A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing. 
 
 And sweep away life's visionary stir : 
 
 The trumpet (we intoxicate with pride 
 
 Arm at its blast for deadly wars). 
 
 To archangelic lips applied, 
 
 The grave shall open, quench the stars. 
 
 O Silence ! are Man's noisy years 
 
 No more than moments of thy life ? 
 
 Is Harmony, bless'd queen of smiles and tears. 
 
 With her smooth tones and discords just 
 
 Temper'd into rapturous strife. 
 
 Thy destined bond-slave ? No ! though earth be dust 
 
 And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay 
 
 Is in The Word, that shall not pass away. 
 
 ODE TO DUTY. 
 
 Stern daughter of the Voice of God : 
 O Duty ! if that name thou love 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 To check the erring, and reprove ! 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe ;
 
 8 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 From vain temptations dost set free, 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail Humanity ! 
 
 There are who ask not if thine eye 
 Be on them : who in love and truth, 
 Where no misgiving is, rely 
 Upon the genial sense of youth. 
 Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot, 
 Who do thy work and know it not : 
 Long may the kindly impulse last ! 
 But thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast ! 
 
 Serene will be our days and bright, 
 And happy will our nature be. 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 And joy its own security : 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold. 
 Live in the spirit of this creed. 
 Yet find that other strength, according to their need. 
 
 I, loving freedom, and untried, 
 No sport of every random gust, 
 Yet being to myself a guide. 
 Too blindly have reposed my trust ; 
 And oft, when in my heart was heard 
 Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd 
 The task, in smoother walks to stray : 
 But thee 1 now would serve more strictly, if I may. 
 
 Through no disturbance of my soul 
 Or strong compunction in me wrought 
 I supplicate for thy controul, 
 But in the quietness of thought : 
 Me this uncharter'd freedom tries, 
 I feel the weight of chance desires. 
 My hopes no more must change their name ; 
 I long for a repose that ever is the same.
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 9 
 
 Stern Law-giver ! Yet thou dost wear 
 The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
 Nor Isnow we anything so fair 
 As is the smile upon thy face : 
 Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
 And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
 Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
 And the most ancient heavens through Thee are fresh 
 and strong. 
 
 To humble functions, awful Power ! 
 I call thee : I myself commend 
 Unto thy guidance from this hour. 
 O, let my weakness have an end ! 
 Give unto me, made lowly wise. 
 The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
 The confidence of reason give ; 
 And in the light of Truth thy Bondman let me live ! 
 
 NATURE'S DARLING. 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower : 
 Then Nature said — A lovelier flower 
 
 On earth was never sown : 
 This Child I to myself will take ; 
 She shall be mine, and I will make 
 
 A Lady of my own. 
 
 Myself will to my darling be 
 
 Both law and impulse ; and with me 
 
 The Girl, in rock and plain, 
 In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
 Shall feel an overseeing power. 
 
 To kindle or restrain. 
 
 She shall be sportive as the fawn 
 That wild with glee across the lawn 
 Or up the mountain springs ;
 
 lO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
 And hers the silence and the calm 
 Of mute insensate things. 
 
 The floating clouds their slate shall lend 
 To her ; for her the willow bend ; 
 
 Nor shall she fail to see 
 Even in the motions of the storm 
 Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
 
 By silent sympathy. 
 
 The stars of midnight shall be dear 
 To her ; and she shall lean her ear 
 
 In many a secret place 
 Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
 And beauty born of murmuring sound 
 
 Shall pass into her face. 
 
 And vital feelings of delight 
 
 Shall rear her form to stately height, 
 
 Her virgin bosom swell : 
 Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
 While she and I together live 
 
 Here in this happy dell. — 
 
 Thus Nature spake : the work was done. 
 How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 
 
 She died : and left to me 
 This health, this calm, and quiet scene. 
 The memory of what has been, 
 
 And never more will be. 
 
 THE TRIAD. 
 
 Show me the noblest Youth of present time 
 Whose trembling fancy would to love give birth ; 
 Some God, or Hero from the Olympian clime 
 Return'd to seek a Consort upon earth ! 
 Or, in no doubtful prospect, let me see
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. II 
 
 The brightest Star of ages yet to be ! 
 And I will mate and match him blissfully. 
 
 I will not fetch a Naiad from a flood 
 
 Pure as herself (Song lacks not mightier power), 
 
 Nor leaf-crown'd Dryad from a pathless wood, 
 
 Nor Sea-Nymph glistening from her coral bower : 
 
 Mere Mortals, bodied forth in vision, still 
 
 Shall with Mount Ida's triple lustre fill 
 
 The chaster coverts of a British hill. 
 
 Appear ! obey my lyre's command ! 
 
 Come, like the Graces, hand in hand! 
 
 For ye, though not by birth allied. 
 
 Are Sisters in the bond of love ; 
 
 Nor shall the tongue of envious pride 
 
 Presume those intervveavings to reprove 
 
 In you, which that fair progeny of Jove 
 
 Learn'd from the tuneful spheres that glide 
 
 In endless union earth and sea above. 
 
 — I sing in vain : — the pines have hush'd their waving ; 
 
 A peerless Youth expectant at my side. 
 
 Breathless as they, with unabated craving 
 
 Looks to the earth and to the vacant air 
 
 And, with a wandering eye that seems to chide, 
 
 Asks of the clouds what occupants they hide. 
 
 But why solicit more than sight could bear 
 
 By casting on a moment all we dare ? 
 
 Invoke we those bright Beings, one by one ! 
 
 And what was boldly promised truly shall be done. 
 
 Fear not a constraining measure ! 
 — Yielding to this gentle spell, 
 Lucida ! from domes of pleasure, 
 Or from cottage-sprinkled dell, 
 Come to regions solitary 
 Where the eagle builds her aery 
 Above the hermit's long-forsaken cell !
 
 12 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 She comes ! Behold 
 That Figure, Uke a ship with snow-white sail ! 
 Nearer she draws ; a breeze uplifts her veil ; 
 Upon her coming wait 
 As pure a sunshine and as soft a gale 
 As e'er on herbage covering earthly mould 
 Tempted the bird of Juno to unfold 
 His richest splendour, when his veering gait 
 And every motion of his starry train 
 Seem governed by a strain 
 Of music, audible to him alone. 
 
 O Lady ! worthy of earth's proudest throne. 
 
 Nor less, by excellence of nature, fit 
 
 Beside an unambitious hearth to sit, 
 
 Domestic queen, where grandeur is unknown : 
 
 What living man could fear 
 
 The worst of Fortune's malice wert Thou near, 
 
 Humbling that lily-stem, thy sceptre meek, 
 
 That its fair flowers may from his cheek 
 
 Brush the too happy tear ? 
 
 Queen and handmaid lowly ! 
 
 Whose skill can speed the day with lively cares. 
 
 And banish melancholy 
 
 By all that mind invents or hand prepares : 
 
 O Thou ! against whose lip, without its smile. 
 
 And in its silence even, no heart is proof ; 
 
 Whose goodness, sinking deep, would reconcile 
 
 The softest nursling of a gorgeous palace 
 
 To the bare life beneath the hawthorn roof 
 
 Of Sherwood's Archer, or in caves of Wallace : 
 
 Who that hath seen thy beauty could content 
 
 His soul with but a glimpse of heavenly day? 
 
 Who that hath loved thee but would lay 
 
 His strong hand on the Wind if it were bent 
 
 To take thee in thy majesty away ? 
 
 —Pass onward ! Even the glancing deer
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1 3 
 
 Till we depart intrude not here : 
 
 That mossy slope, o'er which the woodbine throws 
 
 A canopy, is smoothed for thy repose. 
 
 Glad moment is it when the throng 
 
 Of warblers in full concert strong 
 
 Strive, and not vainly strive to rout 
 
 The lagging shower, and force coy Phoebus out, — 
 
 Met by the rainbow's form divine, 
 
 Issuing from her cloudy shrine : 
 
 So may the thrillings of the lyre 
 
 Prevail to further our desire, 
 
 While to these shades a sister Nymph I call. 
 
 Come, if the notes thine ear rnay pierce. 
 
 Come, Youngest of the Lovely Three ! 
 
 Submissive to the might of Verse 
 
 And the dear voice of Harmony, 
 
 By none more deeply felt than thee. 
 
 — I sang ; and lo ! from pastimes virginal 
 
 She hastens to the tents 
 
 Of Nature and the lonely elements. 
 
 Air sparkles round her with a dazzling sheen ; 
 
 But mark her glowing cheek, her vesture green! 
 
 And, as if wishful to disarm 
 
 Or to repay the potent Charm, 
 
 She bears the stringed lute of old Romance, 
 
 That cheer'd the trellis'd arbour's privacy. 
 
 And soothed war-wearied knights in rafter'd hall. 
 
 How vivid, yet how delicate her glee ! 
 
 So tripp'd the Muse, inventress of the dance : 
 
 So, truant in waste woods, the blithe Euphrosyne. 
 
 But the ringlets of that head, 
 Why are they ungarlanded ? 
 Why bedeck her temples less 
 Than the simplest shepherdess ?
 
 14 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Is it not a brow inviting 
 
 Choicest flowers that ever breathed, 
 
 Which the myrtle would delight in, 
 
 With Idalian rose enwreathed ? 
 
 But her humility is well content 
 
 With one wild floweret (call it not forlorn !) — 
 
 Flower-of-the-winds, beneath her bosom worn. 
 
 But more for love than ornament. 
 
 Open, ye thickets ! let her fly, 
 
 Swift as a Thracian Nymph o'er field and height : 
 
 For she, to all but those who love her shy, 
 
 Would gladly vanish from a stranger's sight ; 
 
 Though where she is beloved and loves 
 
 Light as the wheeling butterfly she moves : 
 
 Her happy spirit as a bird is free 
 
 That rifles blossoms on a tree, 
 
 Turning them inside out with arch audacity. 
 
 Alas ! how little can a moment show 
 
 Of an eye where feeling plays 
 
 In ten thousand dewy rays ; 
 
 A face o'er which a thousand shadows go ! 
 
 She stops, — is fasten'd to that rivulet's side ; 
 
 And there (while with sedater mien 
 
 O'er timid waters that have scarcely left 
 
 Their birth-place in the rocky cleft 
 
 She bends) at leisure may be seen 
 
 Features, to old ideal grace allied, 
 
 Amid their smiles and dimples dignified : 
 
 Fit countenance for the soul of primal truth. 
 
 The bland composure of eternal youth ! 
 
 What more changeful than the sea ? 
 
 But over his great tides 
 
 Fidelity presides : 
 
 And this light-hearted INIaidcn constant is as he. 
 
 High is her aim as heaven above.
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1 5 
 
 And wide as ether her good-will ; 
 
 And, like the lowly reed, her love 
 
 Can drink its nurture from the scantiest rill ; 
 
 Insight as keen as frosty star 
 
 Is to her charity no bar. 
 
 Nor interrupts her frohc graces 
 
 When she is, far from these wild places, 
 
 Encircled by famihar faces. 
 
 O the charm that manners draw, 
 
 Nature ! from thy genuine law : 
 
 If from what her hand would do. 
 
 Her voice would utter, aught ensue 
 
 Untoward or unfit. 
 
 She in benign affections pure, 
 
 In self-forgetfulness secure, 
 
 Sheds round the transient harm or vague mischance 
 
 A hght unknown to tutor' d elegance : 
 
 Hers is not a cheek shame-stricken ; 
 
 But her blushes are joy-flushes, 
 
 And the fault, if fault it be, 
 
 Only ministers to quicken 
 
 Laughter-loving gaiety, 
 
 And kindle sportive wit, — 
 
 Leaving this Daughter of the Mountains free 
 
 As if she knew that Oberon, King of Faery, 
 
 Had cross'd her purpose with some vague vagary, 
 
 And heard his viewless bands 
 
 Over their mirthful triumph clapping hands. 
 
 —Last of the Three, though eldest born! 
 
 Reveal thyself, like pensive Morn 
 
 Touch'd by the skylark's earliest note, 
 
 Ere humbler gladness be afloat. 
 
 But whether in the semblance dress'd 
 
 Of Dawn, or Eve (fair Vision of the West), 
 
 Come with each anxious hope subdued
 
 l6 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 By woman's gentle fortitude, 
 
 Each grief through meekness settling into rest ! 
 
 Or I would hail thee when some high-wrought page 
 
 Of a closed volume lingering in thy hand 
 
 Has raised thy spirit to a peaceful stand 
 
 Among the glories of a happier age. 
 
 Her brow hath open'd on mc : see it there 
 
 Brightening the umbrage of her hair ! 
 
 So gleams the crescent moon, that loves 
 
 To be descried through shady groves. 
 
 Tenderest bloom is on her cheek : 
 
 Wish not for a richer streak, 
 
 Nor dread the depth of meditative eye ! 
 
 But let thy love, upon that azure field 
 
 Of thoughtfulness and beauty, yield 
 
 Its homage, offer'd up in purity ! 
 
 What wouldst thou more ? In sunny glade, 
 
 Or under leaves of thickest shade, 
 
 Was such a stillness e'er diffused 
 
 Since earth grew calm while angels mused ? 
 
 Softly she treads, as if her foot were loath 
 
 To crush the mountain dew-drops, soon to melt 
 
 On the flower's breast, — as if she felt 
 
 That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue, 
 
 With all their fragrance, all their glistening. 
 
 Call to the heart for inward listening ; 
 
 And though for bridal wreaths and tokens true 
 
 Welcomed wisely, though a growth 
 
 Which the careless shepherd sleeps on, 
 
 As fitly spring from turf the mourner weeps on. 
 
 And without wrong are cropp'd the marble tomb to strew. 
 
 The Charm is over! the mute Phantoms gone. 
 Nor will return ! But droop not, favour'd Youth ! 
 The apparition that before thee shone 
 Obey'd a summons covetous of truth.
 
 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. \J 
 
 From these wild rocks thy footsteps I will guide 
 
 To bowers in which thy fortune may be tried, 
 
 And one of the Bright Three become thy happy Bride. 
 
 NATURAL PIETY. 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 
 
 A rainbow in the sky : 
 So was it when my life began, 
 So is it now I am a man, 
 So be it when I shall grow old, 
 
 Or let me die ! 
 The Child is father of the Man : 
 And I could wish my days to be 
 Bound each to each by natural piety. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ! 
 
 The holy time is quiet as a Nun 
 
 Breathless with adoration ; the broad sun 
 
 Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 
 
 The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea : 
 
 Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 
 
 And doth with his eternal motion make 
 
 A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 
 
 Dear Child ! dear Girl ! that walkest with me here, 
 
 If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought, 
 
 Thy nature is not therefore less divine : 
 
 Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 
 
 And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 
 
 God beinrr with thee when we know it not. 
 
 This world is too much with us : late and soon. 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ; 
 Little we see of Nature that is ours ; 
 We have given our hearts away, — a sordid boon ! 
 
 II.-2
 
 1 8 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon, — 
 The winds, that will be howling at all hours. 
 And are upgather'd now like sleeping flowers, — 
 For this, for every thing, we are out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn : 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, 
 
 Dwells in the affections and the soul of man 
 
 A Godhead, like the universal Pan, 
 
 But more exalted, with a brighter train : 
 
 And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, 
 
 Shower'd equally on city and on field, 
 
 And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield 
 
 In these usurping times of fear and pain ? 
 
 Such doom awaits us. Nay ! forbid it, Heaven ! 
 
 We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws 
 
 To which the triumph of all good is given, — 
 
 High sacrifice and labour without pause 
 
 Even to the death : else wherefore should the eye 
 
 Of man converse with immortality ? 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 
 Than his who breathes, by roof and flower and wall 
 Pent in, a tyrant's solitary Thrall. 
 'Tis his who walks about in the open air 
 One of a Nation who henceforth must wear 
 Their fetters in their souls : for who could be, 
 Who, even the best, in such condition free 
 From self-reproach, reproach that he must share 
 With human nature ? Never be it ours
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 19 
 
 To see the sun how brightly it will shine, 
 And know that noble feelings, manly powers, 
 Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine; 
 And earth, with all her pleasant fruits and flowers, 
 Fade and participate in man's decline ! 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne 
 Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud, 
 Nor view of who might sit thereon allow'd ; 
 But all the steps and ground about were strown 
 With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone 
 Ever put on, — a miserable crowd, 
 Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud— 
 ** Thou art our king, O Death ! to thee we groan." 
 Those steps I clomb, the mists before me gave 
 Smooth way ; and I beheld the face of One 
 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave. 
 With her face up to heaven, that seem'd to have 
 Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone : 
 A lovely Beauty in a summer grave ! 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 1772— 1834. 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour 
 When midway on the mount 1 lay 
 Beside the ruin'd tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene, 
 Had blended with the lights of eve,
 
 20 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 
 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve. 
 
 She lean'd against the armed man, 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 She stood and Hsten'd to my lay 
 Amid the hngering hght. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
 My hope, my joy, my Genevieve : 
 She loves me best whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story. 
 An old rude song that suited well 
 The ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 She listen'd, with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace. 
 For well she knew I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the knight that bore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And how for ten long years he woo'd 
 The Lady of the Land : 
 
 I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listen'd, with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 
 That crazed this bold and lovely knight.
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 21 
 
 And how he roam'd the mountain woods, 
 Nor rested, day or night ; 
 
 And how he cross'd the woodman's paths, 
 Through briars and swampy mosses beat ; 
 How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs, 
 And low stubs gored his feet ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den, 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, 
 
 There came, and look'd him in the face, 
 An Angel beautiful and bright, 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight ; 
 
 And how, unknowing what he did, 
 He leap'd amid a murderous band 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ; 
 
 And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain, 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; 
 
 And how she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And that his madness went away 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; 
 
 His dying words ; — But when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturb'd her soul with pity. 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 
 Had thriird my guileless Genevieve :
 
 22 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued. 
 Subdued and cherish'd long. 
 
 She wept, with pity and delight ; 
 She blush'd, with love and virgin shame ; 
 And, like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, — she stepp'd aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stepp'd ; 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
 She fled to me, and wept. 
 
 She half-enclosed me in her arms ; 
 She press'd me with a meek embrace ; 
 And, bending back her head, look'd up 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear. 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art 
 That I might rather feel than see 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her love with virgin pride : 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 NAMES. 
 
 I ask'd my Fair, one happy day. 
 What I should call her in my lay, — 
 By what sweet name from Rome or Greece : 
 Lalag^, Neasra, Chloris,
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 23 
 
 Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
 Arethusa, or Lucrece. 
 
 Ah ! repHed my gentle Fair : 
 Beloved ! what are names but air ? 
 Choose thou whatever suits the line ! 
 
 Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
 
 Call me Lalage, or Doris, — 
 
 Only, only call me Thine ! 
 
 TO A YOUNG ASS. 
 
 Its mother being tethered near it. 
 
 Poor little Foal of an oppressed race ! 
 
 I love the languid patience of thy face ; 
 
 And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, 
 
 And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head. 
 
 But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd, 
 
 That never thou dost sport along the glade ; 
 
 And, most unlike the nature of things young, 
 
 That earthward still thy moveless head is hung ? 
 
 Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, 
 
 Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate : 
 
 The starving meal, and all the thousand aches 
 
 That patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ? 
 
 Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain 
 
 To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain ? 
 
 And truly, very piteous is her lot, 
 
 Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot 
 
 Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen. 
 
 While sweet around her waves the tempting green. 
 
 Poor Ass ! thy master should have learn'd to show 
 
 Pity, best taught by fellowship of woe : 
 
 For much I fear me that he lives like thee, 
 
 Half famish'd in a land of luxury. 
 
 How askingly its footsteps hither bend ! 
 
 It seems to say — And have I then one friend ?
 
 24 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Innocent Foal ! thou poor despised Forlorn ! 
 
 I hail thee Brother, spite of the fool's scorn ; 
 
 And fain would take thee with me, in the dell 
 
 Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell, 
 
 Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride, 
 
 And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side. 
 
 How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, 
 
 And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay ! 
 
 Yea ! and more musically sweet to me 
 
 Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be 
 
 Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest 
 
 The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast. 
 
 LOVE AND HOPE AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION. 
 
 O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule 
 
 And sun thee in the light of happy faces. 
 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, — these must be thy Graces ; 
 
 And in thine own heart let them first keep school ! 
 
 For, as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
 
 Heaven's starry globe and there sustains it, so 
 
 Do these upbear the little world below 
 
 Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
 
 IMethinks I see them group'd in seemly show, 
 
 The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope, 
 
 And robes that, touching as adown they flow 
 
 Distinctly, blend like snow emboss'd in snow. 
 
 O part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie, 
 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 But love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
 And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes, 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
 Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies : 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. 
 Yet haply there will come a weary day 
 
 When, overtask'd at length,
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 25 
 
 Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
 Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, 
 Stands the mute sister. Patience, nothing loath, 
 And, both supporting, does the work of both. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
 "Where Hope clung feeding like a bee : 
 Both were mine ; Life went a-maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 
 When I was young. 
 When I was young ? Ah, woeful when ! 
 Ah, for the change 'twixt now and then ! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands 
 How lightly then it flash'd along ! 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide, 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
 When Youth and I lived in it together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely. Love is flower-like ; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree : 
 O the joys that came down shower-like 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old ! 
 Ere I was old ? Ah, woeful ere ! 
 Which tells me Youth's no longer here. 
 O youth ! for years so many and sweet 
 'Tis known that thou and I were one, 
 ril think it but a fond conceit 
 (It can not be) that thou art gone. 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd,
 
 26 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 And thou wert aye a masquer bold : 
 What strange disguise hast now put on 
 To make beUeve that thou art gone ? 
 I see these locks in silvery slips, 
 This drooping gait, this alter'd size ; 
 But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips. 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
 Life is but thought : so think I will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of Morning, 
 But the tears of mournful Eve ; 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 
 When we are old : 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking leave : 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
 That may not rudely be dismiss'd, 
 Y'et hath outstay'd his welcome-while 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. 
 
 1774— 1843. 
 
 THE HOLL V TREE. 
 
 O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 
 
 The Holly Tree ? 
 The eye that contemplates it well perceives 
 
 Its glossy leaves 
 Order'd by an intelligence so wise 
 As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 
 
 Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen 
 Wrinkled and keen :
 
 ROBERT SOUTHEY. V 
 
 No grazing cattle through their prickly round 
 
 Can reach to wound ; 
 But as they grow where nothing is to fear 
 Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear. 
 
 I love to view these things with curious eyes, 
 
 And moralize ; 
 And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 
 
 Can emblems see 
 Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, 
 One which may profit in the after-time. 
 
 Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear 
 
 Harsh and austere. 
 To those who on my leisure would intrude 
 
 Reserved and rude, — 
 Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
 Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 
 
 And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 
 
 Some harshness show. 
 All vain asperities I day by day 
 
 Would wear away. 
 Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
 Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 
 
 And as, when all the summer trees are seen 
 
 So bright and green. 
 The Holly leaves their fadeless hues display 
 
 Less bright than they, 
 But when the bare and wintry woods we see 
 What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree,— 
 
 So, serious should my youth appear among 
 
 The thoughtless throng, 
 So would I seem, amid the young and gay 
 
 More grave than they, 
 That in my age as cheerful I might be 
 As the green winter of the Holly Tree.
 
 28 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 
 THE SCHOLAR. 
 
 My days among the Dead are pass'd 
 
 Around me I behold, 
 Where'er these casual eyes are cast, 
 
 The mighty Minds of Old : 
 My never-failing friends are they, 
 With whom I converse day by day. 
 
 With them I take delight in weal. 
 
 And seek relief in woe ; 
 And while I understand and feel 
 
 How much to them I owe 
 My cheeks have often been bedew'd 
 With tears of thoughtful gratitude. 
 
 My thoughts are with the Dead : with them 
 
 I live in long-past years ; 
 Their virtues love, their faults condemn, 
 
 Partake their hopes and fears ; 
 And from their lessons seek and find 
 Instruction with an humble mind. 
 
 My hopes are with the Dead ; anon 
 
 My place with them will be ; 
 And I with them shall travel on 
 
 Through all futurity : 
 Yet leaving here a name, I trust. 
 That will not perish in the dust. 
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 
 1774 — 1810. 
 
 LOVE'S FEAR. 
 
 O sair I rue the witless wish 
 
 That gart me gang wi' you at e'en ! 
 
 And sair I rue the birkcn bush 
 
 That screen'd us with its leaves sae green I
 
 ROBERT TANNAHILL. 29 
 
 And though you vow'd you would be mine, 
 
 The tear of grief aye dims my ee, 
 For O I'm fear'd that I may tine 
 
 The love that ye hae promised me 
 
 While others seek their evening sports, 
 
 I wander dowie, a' my lane : 
 For when I join their glad resorts 
 
 Their daffin' gie's me mickle pain. 
 Alas ! it was na sae short syne, 
 
 When a' my nights were spent wi' glee : 
 But O I'm fear'd that I may tine 
 
 The love that ye hae promised me. 
 
 Dear Lassie ! keep thy heart aboon, 
 
 For I hae wair'd my winter's fee : 
 I've coft a bonnie silken gown 
 
 To be a bridal gift for thee. 
 And sooner shall the hills fa' down. 
 
 And mountain high shall stand the sea, 
 Ere I'd accept a gowden crown 
 
 To change that love I bear for thee. 
 
 MINE AIN DEAR SOMEBOD V. 
 
 When gloaming treads the heels of day. 
 And birds sit cowering on the spray, 
 Alang the flowery hedge I stray 
 
 To meet mine ain dear Somebody. 
 
 The scented briar, the fragrant bean. 
 The clover bloom, the dewy green, 
 A' charm me as I rove at e'en 
 
 To meet mine ain dear Somebody. 
 
 Let warriors prize the hero's name ! 
 Let mad Ambition tower for fame I 
 I'm happier in my lowly hame, 
 
 Obscurely bless'd wi' Somebody.
 
 30 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 1771— 1832. 
 
 THE CLAN-GATHERING. 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu ! 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil ! 
 Wake thy wild voice anew ! 
 
 Summon Clan-Conuil ! 
 Come away ! come away ! 
 
 Hark to the summons ! 
 Come in your war array, 
 
 Gentles and Commons ! 
 
 Come from deep glen, and 
 
 From mountain so rocky I 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlochy. 
 Come, every hill-plaid and 
 
 True heart that wears one ! 
 Come, every steel blade and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one ! 
 
 Leave untended the herd, 
 
 The flock without shelter ! 
 Leave the corpse unintcrr'd, 
 
 The bride at the altar ! 
 Leave the deer ! leave the steer ! 
 
 Leave nets and barges ! 
 Come with your fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes ! 
 
 Come, as the winds come when 
 
 Forests are rended ! 
 Come, as the waves come when 
 
 Navies are stranded ! 
 Faster come ! faster come !
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 3 1 
 
 Faster and faster 
 
 Chief, vassal, page, and groom, 
 Tenant, and master ! 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come : 
 
 See how they gather ! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids ! draw your blades ! 
 
 Forward each man set ! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu ! 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 
 
 JOCK O' HAZELDEAN. 
 
 " Why weep ye by the tide ? Lady ! 
 
 Whv weep ye by the tide ? 
 I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 
 
 And ye shall be his bride : 
 And ye shall be his bride, Lady I 
 
 Sae comely to be seen." 
 But aye she loot the tears downfa' 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 " Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 
 
 And dry that cheek so pale ! 
 Young Frank is chief of Errington, 
 
 And lord of Langley-dale ; 
 His step is first in peaceful ha', 
 
 His sword in battle keen." 
 But aye she loot the tears downfa' 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 " A chain of gold ye shall not lack, 
 Nor braid to bind your hair. 
 Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 
 Nor palfrey fresh and fair ;
 
 32 
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 And you the foremost of them a' 
 
 Shall ride, our forest queen." 
 But aye she loot the tears dovvnfa' 
 
 For Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 
 
 The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 
 
 But ne'er a bride was there. 
 They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 
 
 The lady was not seen : 
 She's o'er the Border, and awa' 
 
 Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean. 
 
 LIGHT LOVE. 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair Maid ! 
 
 A weary lot is thine : 
 To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 
 
 And press the rue for wine. 
 A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 
 
 A feather of the blue, 
 A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 
 
 No more of me you knew, 
 My Love ! 
 No more of me you knew. 
 
 This morn is merry June, I trow 
 
 The rose is budding fain ; 
 But she shall bloom in winter snow 
 
 Ere we two meet again. 
 He turned his charger as he spake, 
 
 Upon the river shore ; 
 He gave his bridle rein a shake, — 
 
 Said Adieu forevermore, 
 
 My Love I 
 And Adieu forevermore !
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 33 
 
 DEATH-CHANT. 
 
 Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 
 Wrestling thus with earth and clay ? 
 From the body pass away ! 
 
 Hark ! the mass is singing. 
 
 From thee doff thy mortal weed ! 
 Mary Mother be thy speed ! 
 Saints to help thee at thy need ! 
 Hark ! the knell is ringing. 
 
 Fear not snow-drift driving fast, 
 Sleet, or hail, or levin blast ! 
 Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, 
 And the sleep be on thee cast 
 
 That shall ne'er know waking. 
 
 '£>• 
 
 Haste thee, haste thee to be gone ! 
 Earth flits fast, and time draws on : 
 Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan ! 
 Day is near the breaking. 
 
 PROUD MAISIE. 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood, 
 
 Walking so early ; 
 Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 
 
 Singing so rarely. 
 
 ** Tell me, thou bonny bird ! 
 
 When shall I marry me ? " 
 " When six braw gentlemen 
 
 Kirkward shall carry thee." 
 
 " Who makes the bridal bed ? 
 
 Birdie ! say truly." 
 " The grey-headed sexton 
 
 That delves the grave duly, 
 n— 3
 
 34 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 
 " The glowworm o'er grave and stone 
 Shall light thee steady ; 
 The owl from the steeple sing 
 Welcome, proud Lady ! " 
 
 JAMES MONTGOMERY. 
 1771—1854. 
 
 THE BLACKBIRD. 
 Morning : 
 
 Golden Bill ! Golden Bill ! 
 
 Lo, the peep of day : 
 All the air is cool and still : 
 From the elm-tree on the hill 
 
 Chant away ! 
 While the moon drops down the West, 
 Like thy mate upon her nest, 
 And the stars before the sun 
 Melt like snowflakes, one by one. 
 Let thy loud and welcome lay 
 Pour along 
 Few notes, but strong ! 
 
 Evening : 
 
 Jet-bright Wing ! Jet-bright Wing ! 
 
 Flit across the sunset glade : 
 Lying there in wait to sing, 
 Listen with thy head awry. 
 Keeping time with twinkling eye, 
 While from all the woodland shade 
 Birds of every plume and note 
 
 Strain the throat. 
 Till both hill and valley ring, 
 And the warbled minstrelsy. 
 Ebbing, flowing, like the sea, 
 Claims brief interludes from thee !
 
 JAMES HOGG. 35 
 
 Then with simple swell and fall, 
 Breaking beautiful through all, 
 Let thy Pan-like pipe repeat 
 Few notes, but sweet ! 
 
 WINTER LIGHTNING. 
 
 The flash at midnight, — 'twas a light 
 That gave the blind a moment's sight, 
 
 Then sunk in tenfold gloom ; 
 Loud, deep, and long, the thunder broke, 
 The deaf ear instantly awoke, 
 
 Then closed as in the tomb : 
 An angel might have pass'd my bed. 
 Sounded the trump of God, and fled. 
 
 So Life appears : a sudden birth, 
 
 A glance revealing heaven and earth ; 
 
 It is, and it is not ! 
 So Fame the poet's hope deceives, 
 Who sings for after-time, and leaves 
 
 A name — to be forgot. 
 Life is a lightning-flash of breath ; 
 Fame but a thunder-clap at death. 
 
 JAMES HOGG. 
 1772— 1835. 
 
 TO THE LARK. 
 
 Bird of the wilderness ! 
 
 Blithesome and cumberless, — 
 Sweet be thy matin, o'er moorland and lea ! 
 
 Emblem of happiness ! 
 
 Bless'd is thy dwelling-place : 
 O to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 Wild is thy lay, and loud, 
 Far in the downy cloud :
 
 36 JAMES HOGG. 
 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
 
 Wliere on thy dewy wing, 
 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. 
 
 O'er fell, and fountain sheen, 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green, 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the Day, 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim. 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim, 
 Musical Cherub ! soar singing away ! 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes, 
 
 Low in the heather blooms 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be : 
 
 Emblem of happiness ! 
 
 Bless'd is thy dwelling-place : 
 O to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 MAGGIE A WAY. 
 
 O, what will a' the lads do 
 
 When Maggie gangs away ? 
 O what will a' the lads do 
 
 When Maggie gangs away ? 
 There's no a heart in a' the glen 
 
 That doesna dread the day : 
 O, what will a' the lads do 
 
 When Maggie gangs away ? 
 
 Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't,- 
 
 A waefu' wight is he ; 
 Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't. 
 
 And laid him down to dee ; 
 And Sandy's gane unto the kirk, 
 
 And learnin' fast to pray : 
 And O, what will the lads do 
 
 When Maggie gangs away ?
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 37 
 
 The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw 
 
 Has drunk her health in wine ; 
 The priest has said (in confidence) 
 
 The lassie was divine : 
 And that is mair in maiden's praise 
 
 Than any priest should say : 
 But O ! what will the lads do 
 
 When Maggie gangs away ? 
 
 The wailing in our green glen 
 
 That day will quaver high ; 
 'Twill draw the red-breast frae the wood, 
 
 The laverock frae the sky ; 
 The fairies frae their beds o' dew 
 
 Will rise and join the lay : 
 And hey ! what a day will be 
 
 When Maggie gangs away ! 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 1775— 1834. 
 
 HESTER. 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place ye may not well supply. 
 Though ye among a thousand try, 
 With vain endeavour. 
 
 A month or more hath she been dead, 
 Yet can I not by force be led 
 To think upon the wormy bed 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 Of pride and joy no common rate 
 That flush'd her spirit :
 
 38 CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call, — if 'twas not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
 Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
 But she was train'd in Nature's school, — 
 Nature had bless'd her. 
 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind : 
 A hawk's keen sight ye can not blind, — 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
 My sprightly Neighbor ! gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore : 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore 
 Some summer mornine ? 
 
 '& 
 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
 A bliss that would not go away, 
 A sweet forewarning. 
 
 THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
 In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! 
 
 I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
 Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies : 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces! 
 
 I loved a Love once, fairest among women ; 
 Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her ; 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces !
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 39 
 
 I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : 
 Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
 Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 
 
 Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood : 
 Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
 Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 
 
 Friend of my bosom ! thou more than a brother ! 
 Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling ? 
 So might we talk of the old familiar faces : 
 
 How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
 And some are taken from me, — all are departed. 
 All, all are gone, the old familiar faces ! 
 
 THE GYPSY'S MALISON. 
 
 <i 
 
 (( 
 
 <( 
 
 Suck, baby ! suck ! mother's love grows by giving : 
 Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting ! 
 Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living 
 Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting. 
 
 Kiss, baby ! kiss ! mother's lips shine by kisses : 
 Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings ! 
 Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses 
 Tend thee the kiss that poisons 'mid caressings. 
 
 Hang, baby ! hang ! mother's love loves such forces : 
 Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging ! 
 Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses 
 Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging." 
 
 So sang a wither'd beldam energetical; 
 
 And bann'd the ungiving door with lips prophetical.
 
 40 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 1775—1864. 
 
 TO HESPERUS. 
 
 Hesperus ! hail ! thy winking light 
 
 Best befriends the lover, 
 Whom the sadder Moon for spite 
 
 Gladly would discover. 
 
 Thou art fairer far than she, 
 
 Fairer far, and chaster : 
 She may guess who smiled on me, 
 
 I know who embraced her. 
 
 Pan of Arcady, — 'twas Pan, 
 
 In the tamarisk-bushes : 
 Bid her tell thee, if she can, 
 
 Where were then her blushes ! 
 
 And, were I inclined to tattle, 
 
 I could name a second 
 Whom, asleep with sleeping cattle, 
 
 To her cave she beckon'd. 
 
 Hesperus ! hail ! thy friendly ray 
 
 Watches o'er the lover, 
 Lest the nodding beams betray. 
 
 Lest the Moon discover. 
 
 Phryne heard my kisses given 
 
 Acte's rival bosom : 
 'Twas the buds (I swore by heaven) 
 
 Bursting into blossom. 
 
 What she heard, and half espied 
 By the gleam, she doubted ; 
 
 And with arms uplifted cried — 
 *' How they must have sprouted ! "
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 4l 
 
 Hesperus ! hail again ! thy light 
 
 Best befriends the lover, 
 Whom the sadder Moon for spite 
 
 Gladly would discover. 
 
 R UBIES. 
 
 Often have I heard it said 
 That her lips are ruby-red : 
 Little heed I what they say, — 
 I have seen as red as they. 
 Ere she smiled on other men, 
 Real rubies were they then. 
 
 When she kiss'd me once in play, 
 Rubies were less bright than they ; 
 And less bright were those which shone 
 In the palace of the Sun. 
 Will they be as bright agen ? 
 Not if kiss'd by other men. 
 
 THE NEREID. 
 
 Beloved the last ! beloved the most ! 
 
 With willing arms and brow benign 
 Receive a bosom tempest-toss'd. 
 
 And bid it ever beat to thine ! 
 
 The Nereid Maids, in days of yore, 
 Saw the lost pilot loose the helm. 
 
 Saw the wreck blacken all the shore, 
 And every wave some head o'erwhelm. 
 
 Afar, the youngest of the train 
 Beheld (but fear'd and aided not) 
 
 A minstrel from the billowy main 
 Borne breathless near her coral grot.
 
 42 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 Then terror fled, and pity rose : 
 
 " Ah me ! " she cried, " I come too late ! 
 
 Rather than not have soothed his woes 
 I would, but may not, share his fate." 
 
 She raised his hand : " What hand like this 
 Could reach the heart, athwart the lyre ! 
 
 What lips like these return my kiss. 
 Or breathe, incessant, soft desire ! " 
 
 From eve to morn, from morn to eve, 
 She gazed his features o'er and o'er : 
 
 And those who love and who believe 
 May hear her sigh along the shore. 
 
 TI/£ MAID 'S LAMENT. 
 
 I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone, 
 
 I feel I am alone, 
 I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could he speak, 
 
 Alas ! 1 would not check. 
 For reasons not to love him once 1 sought, 
 
 And wearied all my thought 
 To vex myself and him ; I now would give 
 
 My love, could he but live 
 Who lately lived for me and, when he found 
 
 'Twas vain, in holy ground 
 He hid his face amid the shades of death. 
 
 I waste for him my breath 
 Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns 
 
 And this lorn bosom burns 
 With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, 
 
 And waking me to weep 
 Tears that had melted his soft heart : for years 
 
 Wept he as bitter tears. 
 " Merciful God ! " — such was his latest prayer : 
 
 " These may she never share ! "
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 43 
 
 Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold 
 
 Than daisies in tlie mould, 
 Where children spell athwart the churchyard-gate 
 
 His name and life's brief date. 
 Pray for him, gentle souls ! whoe'er you be ; 
 
 And O, pray too for me ! 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 Mother ! I cannot mind my wheel ; 
 My fingers ache, my lips are dry. 
 
 O, if you felt that pain I feel 
 
 But O, who ever felt as I ? 
 No longer could I doubt him true : 
 All other men may use deceit, — 
 He always said my eyes were blue. 
 And often swore my lips were sweet. 
 
 TO YOUTH. 
 
 "Where art thou gone ? light-ankled Youth ! 
 
 With wing at either shoulder, 
 And smile that never left thy mouth 
 
 Until the hours grew colder. 
 
 Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near 
 
 That thou and I must part : 
 I doubted it, — I felt no fear, 
 
 No weight upon the heart. 
 
 If aught befell it, Love was by 
 
 And roU'd it off again : 
 So, if there ever was a sigh, 
 
 'Twas not a sigh of pain. 
 
 I may not call thee back ; but thou 
 
 Returnest when the hand 
 Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow 
 
 His poppy-crested wand.
 
 44 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Then smiling eyes bend over mine ; 
 
 Then lips, once press'd, invite : 
 But Sleep hath given a silent sign. 
 
 And both, alas ! take flight. 
 
 ERINNA rO LOVE. 
 
 Who breathes to thee the holiest prayer, 
 O Love ! is ever least thy care. 
 Alas ! I may not ask thee why 'tis so : 
 Because a fiery scroll I see 
 Hung at the throne of Destiny, — 
 " Reason with Love and register with Woe ! " 
 
 Few question thee, for thou art strong. 
 And, laughing loud at Right and Wrong, 
 
 Seizest and dashest down the rich, the poor ; 
 Thy sceptre's iron studs alike 
 The meaner and the prouder strike. 
 
 And wise and simple fear thee and adore. 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 1777— 1844. 
 
 THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 
 Sing the glorious day's renown ! 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 All the might of Denmark's Crown, 
 And her arms along the deep proudly shone 
 By each gun the lighted brand 
 In a bold determined hand, 
 And the Prince of all the land 
 Led them on. 
 
 Like leviathans afloat 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 45 
 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 On the lofty British line : 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime. 
 As they drifted on their path 
 There was silence deep as death, 
 And the boldest held his breath 
 For a time. 
 
 But the might of England flush'd 
 To anticipate the scene ; 
 And her van the fleeter rush'd 
 O'er the deadly space between : 
 " Hearts of oak ! " our captains cried : when each gun 
 From its adamantine lips 
 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 
 Of the sun. 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack 
 
 Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom ; — 
 
 Then ceased ; — and all is wail, 
 
 As they strike the shatter'd sail, 
 
 Or in conflagration pale 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the Victor then, 
 As he haird them o'er the wave : 
 " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 And we conquer but to save, — 
 So peace instead of death let us bring ! 
 But yield, proud foe ! thy fleet, 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 And make submission meet 
 
 To our king ! "
 
 46 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 
 That he gave her wounds repose : 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 As Death withdrew his shades from the day ; 
 While the sun look'd smiling bright 
 O'er a wide and woeful sight 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 Died away. 
 
 Now joy, Old England ! raise 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 By the festal cities' blaze 
 Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ! 
 And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, 
 Let us think of them that sleep, 
 Full many a fathom deep, 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 Elsinore 1 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride. 
 
 Once so faithful and so true, 
 
 On the deck of Fame that died 
 
 With the gallant good Riou : 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls. 
 
 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 
 Singing Glory to the souls 
 
 Of the Brave ! 
 
 THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Ye Mariners of England ! 
 
 That guard our native seas, — 
 
 Whose flag has braved a thousand years 
 
 The battle and the breeze, — 
 
 Your glorious standard launch again.
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 47 
 
 To match another foe ; 
 And sweep tluough the deep 
 While the stormy winds do blow, — 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 And the stormy winds do blow ! 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 
 Shall start from every wave : 
 
 For the deck it was their field of fame, 
 
 And ocean was their grave. 
 
 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 
 
 Your manly hearts shall glow. 
 
 As ye sweep through the deep 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow, — 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 
 No towers along the steep : 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain wave. 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 
 With thunders from her native oak 
 
 She auells the floods below. 
 
 As they roar on the shore 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow, — 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long 
 
 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 
 Then, then, ye Ocean- Warriors ! 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name. 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow, — 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
 
 And the storm has ceased to blow.
 
 48 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 HALLOWED GROUND. 
 
 What's hallow'd ground ? Has earth a clod 
 Its Maker mean'd not should be trod 
 By Man, the image of his God, 
 
 Erect and free, 
 Unscourged by Superstition's rod 
 
 To bow the knee ? 
 
 That's hallow'd ground where, mourn'd and miss'd, 
 
 The lips repose our love has kiss'd : 
 
 But where's their memory's mansion ? Is't 
 
 Yon churchyard's bowers ? 
 No ! in ourselves their souls exist, 
 
 A part of ours. 
 
 A kiss can consecrate the ground 
 Where mated hearts are mutual bound : 
 The spot where love's first links were wound, 
 
 That ne'er are riven, 
 Is hallow'd down to earth's profound 
 
 And up to heaven. 
 
 For time makes all but true love old : 
 The burning thoughts that then were told 
 Run molten still in memory's mould. 
 
 And will not cool, 
 Until the heart itself be cold 
 
 In Lethe's pool. 
 
 What hallows ground where heroes sleep ? 
 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap : 
 In dews that heavens far distant weep 
 
 Their turf may bloom. 
 Or genii twine beneath the deep 
 
 Their coral tomb. 
 
 But strew his ashes to the wind 
 
 Whose sword or voice has served mankind !
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 49 
 
 And is he dead, whose glorious mind 
 
 Lifts thine on high ? 
 To live in hearts we leave behind 
 
 Is not to die. 
 
 Is't death to fall for Freedom's right ? 
 He's dead alone that lacks her light ; 
 And Murder sullies in Heaven's sight 
 
 The sword he draws : 
 What can alone ennoble fight ? 
 
 A noble cause. 
 
 Give that, and welcome War to brace 
 
 Her drums and rend heaven's reeking space ! 
 
 The colours planted face to face, 
 
 The charging cheer, 
 Though Death's Pale Horse lead on the chase. 
 
 Shall still be dear. 
 
 And place our trophies where men kneel 
 
 To Heaven ! but Heaven rebukes my zeal : 
 
 The cause of Truth and human weal, 
 
 O God above ! 
 Transfer it from the sword's appeal 
 
 To Peace and Love ! 
 
 Peace ! Love ! the cherubim that join 
 Their spread wings o'er Devotion's shrine : 
 Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine. 
 
 Where they are not ; 
 The heart alone can make divine 
 
 Religion's spot. 
 
 To incantations dost thou trust, 
 And pompous rites in domes august ? 
 See mouldering stones and metal's rust 
 Belie the vaunt 
 II.-4
 
 50 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 That men can bless one pile of dust 
 With chime or chant ! 
 
 The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, Man ! 
 
 Thy temples creeds themselves grow wan : 
 
 But there's a dome of nobler span, 
 
 A temple given 
 Thy faith, that bigots dare not ban, — 
 
 Its space is heaven : 
 
 Its roof star-pictured Nature's ceiling, 
 Where, trancing the rapt spirit's feeling 
 And God himself to Man revealing, 
 
 The harmonious spheres 
 Make music, though unheard their pealing 
 
 By mortal ears. 
 
 Fair Stars ! are not your beings pure ? 
 Can sin, can death your worlds obscure ? 
 Else why so swell the thoughts at your 
 
 Aspect above ? 
 Ye must be Heavens that make us sure 
 
 Of heavenly love. 
 
 And in your harmony sublime 
 I read the doom of distant time : 
 That Man's regenerate soul from crime 
 
 Shall yet be drawn, 
 And Reason on his mortal clime. 
 
 Immortal dawn. 
 
 What's hallow'd ground ? 'Tis what gives birth 
 To sacred thoughts in souls of worth : 
 Peace ! Independence ! Truth ! go forth 
 
 Earth's compass round ! 
 And your high priesthood shall make earth 
 
 All hallow'd ground.
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 51 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 1779— 1852. 
 
 THEM FARE THEE WELL ! 
 
 Then fare thee well, my own dear Love ! 
 
 This world has now for us 
 No greater grief, no pain above 
 
 The pain of parting thus, 
 Dear Love ! 
 
 The pain of parting thus. 
 
 Had we but known, since first we met, 
 Some few short hours of bliss, 
 
 We might in numbering them forget 
 The deep deep pain of this, 
 
 Dear Love ! 
 The deep deep pain of this. 
 
 But no, alas ! we've never seen 
 One glimpse of pleasure's ray 
 
 But still there came a cloud between 
 And chased it all away. 
 
 Dear Love ! 
 And chased it all away. 
 
 Yet even could those sad moments last, 
 
 Far dearer to my heart 
 Were hours of grief together pass'd 
 
 Than years of mirth apart. 
 Dear Love ! 
 
 Than years of mirth apart. 
 
 Farewell ! our hope was born in fears 
 And nursed 'mid vain regrets : 
 
 Like winter suns, it rose in tears, 
 Like them in tears it sets, 
 
 Dear Love ! 
 Like them in tears it sets.
 
 52 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 PEACE BE AROUND THEE! 
 
 Peace be around thee wherever thou rovest ! 
 
 May Hfe be for thee one summer's day, 
 And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lovest, 
 
 Come smiling around thy sunny way ! 
 If sorrow e'er this calm should break, 
 
 May even thy tears pass off so lightly. 
 Like Spring showers they'll only make 
 
 The smiles that follow shine more brightly J 
 
 May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all, 
 
 And daily dooms some joy to death. 
 On thee let years so gently fall 
 
 They shall not crush one flower beneath ! 
 As half in shade and half in sun 
 
 This world along its path advances. 
 May that side the sun's upon 
 
 Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances ! 
 
 BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS! 
 
 Bring the bright garlands hither. 
 
 Ere yet a leaf is dying ! 
 If so soon they must wither, 
 
 Ours be their last sweet sighing ! 
 Hark ! that low dismal chime : 
 'Tis the dreary voice of Time. 
 O, bring beauty, bring roses, 
 
 Bring all that yet is ours ! 
 Let life's day as it closes 
 
 Shine to the last through flowers ! 
 
 Haste ere the bowl's declining ! 
 
 Drink of it now, or never ! 
 Now, while Beauty is shining, 
 
 Love ! or she's lost for ever.
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 53 
 
 Hark ! again that dull chime : 
 'Tis the dreary voice of Time. 
 O, if life be a torrent 
 
 Down to oblivion going, 
 Like this cup be its current, 
 
 Bright to the last drop flowing ! 
 
 BATTLE SONG. 
 
 O the sight entrancing 
 
 When morning's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er files array'd, 
 
 With helm and blade. 
 And plumes in the gay wind dancing ! 
 When hearts are all high beating. 
 And the trumpet's voice repeating 
 
 That song whose breath 
 
 May lead to death 
 But never to retreating. 
 Then should some cloud pass over 
 The brow of sire or lover, 
 
 Think 'tis the shade 
 
 By Victory made. 
 Whose wings right o'er us hover ! 
 O the sight entrancing. 
 When morning's beam is glancing 
 
 O'er files array'd, 
 
 With helm and blade, 
 And plumes in the gay wind dancing. 
 
 Yet 'tis not helm or feather : 
 
 For ask yon despot whether 
 His plumed bands 
 Could bring such hands 
 
 And hearts as ours together ! 
 
 Leave pomps to those who need 'em !
 
 54 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Give man but heart and freedom, 
 And proud he braves 
 The gaudiest slaves 
 
 That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 
 
 The sword may pierce the beaver, 
 
 Stone walls in time may sever ; 
 'Tis mind alone, 
 Worth steel and stone, 
 
 That keeps men free for ever. 
 
 O that sight entrancing, 
 
 When morning's beam is glancing 
 O'er files array'd, 
 With helm and blade, 
 
 And in Freedom's cause advancing ! 
 
 AFTER DEFEAT. 
 
 Night closed around the conqueror's way, 
 
 And lightnings show'd the distant hill 
 Where those who lost that dreadful day 
 
 Stood, few and faint, but fearless still : 
 The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal. 
 
 For ever dimm'd, for ever cross'd, — 
 O ! who shall say what heroes feel 
 
 When all but life and honour's lost ? 
 
 The last sad hours of Freedom's dream 
 
 And Valour's task moved slowly by. 
 While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam 
 
 Should rise and give them light to die. 
 There's yet a world where souls are free. 
 
 Where Tyrants taint not Nature's bliss : 
 If death that world's bright opening be, 
 
 O ! who would live a slave in this ?
 
 HORACE SMITH. 55 
 
 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 1779— 1849. 
 
 HYMN OF THE FLOWERS. 
 
 Day Stars ! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of Earth's creation, 
 And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
 As a libation : 
 
 Ye Matin Worshipers ! who, bending lowly 
 Before the uprisen Sun, God's lidless eye, 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high : 
 
 Ye bright Mosaics ! that with storied beauty 
 The floor of Nature's temple tesselate : 
 What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing air 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer : 
 
 Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
 But to that fane most catholic and solemn 
 Which God hath plann'd, — 
 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply, 
 Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
 Through the green aisles or stretch'd upon the sod, 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 The ways of God,
 
 56 HORACE SMITH. 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O Flowers ! are living preachers, 
 Each cup a pulpit and each leaf a book, 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendour 
 " Weep without woe and blush without a crime : " 
 O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 Your lore sublime ! 
 
 " Thou wast not, Solomon ! in all thy glory 
 Array'd," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours : 
 How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory 
 Are human flowers ! " 
 
 In the sweet-scented pictures. Heavenly Artist ! 
 With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, 
 What a delightful lesson thou impartest 
 Of love to all ! 
 
 Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made for pleasure ; 
 Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night. 
 From every source your sanction bids me treasure 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral Sages ! what instructors hoary 
 For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
 Each fading calyx a memento mori, 
 Yet fount of hope ! 
 
 Posthumous Glories ! angel-like collection. 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interr'd in earth : 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
 And second birth. 
 
 Were I in church-less solitudes remaining, 
 Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
 My soul would find in flowers, of God's ordaining, 
 Priests, sermons, shrines.
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 57 
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 1781 — 1849. 
 
 FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. 
 
 Flowers ! winter flowers ! The child is dead, 
 
 The mother can not speak. 
 O, softly couch his little head ! 
 
 Or Mary's heart will break. 
 Amid those curls of flaxen hair 
 
 This pale pink ribbon twine ; 
 And on the little bosom there 
 
 Place this wan lock of mine ! 
 How like a form in cold white stone 
 
 The coffin'd infant lies ! 
 Look, Mother ! on thy little one : 
 
 And tears will fill thine eyes. 
 She can not weep ; more faint she grows, 
 
 More deadly pale and still : — 
 Flowers ! O. a flower ! a winter rose. 
 
 That tiny hand to fill. 
 Go, search the fields ! the lichen wet 
 
 Bends o'er the unfailing well ; 
 Beneath the furrow lingers yet 
 
 The scarlet pimpernel. 
 Peeps not a snowdrop in the bower 
 
 Where never froze the spring ? 
 A daisy? Ah, bring childhood's flower! 
 
 The half-blown daisy bring ! 
 Yes ! lay the daisy's little head 
 
 Beside the little cheek ; 
 O haste ! The last of five is dead : 
 
 The childless can not speak.
 
 58 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 THE BRAMBLE-FLOWER. 
 
 Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows, 
 
 Wild bramble of the brake ! 
 So put thou forth thy small white rose ! 
 
 I love it for his sake. 
 Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow 
 
 O'er all the fragrant bowers. 
 Thou need'st not be ashamed to show 
 
 Thy satin-threaded flowers : 
 For dull the eye, the heart is dull, 
 
 That can not feel how fair. 
 Amid all beauty beautiful. 
 
 Thy tender blossoms are ; 
 How delicate thy gauzy frill. 
 
 How rich thy branchy stem. 
 How soft thy voice when woods are still 
 
 And thou sing'st hjTiins to them. 
 While silent showers are falling slow 
 
 And, 'mid the general hush, 
 A sweet air Ufts the little bough. 
 
 Lone whispering through the bush ! 
 The primrose to the grave is gone ; 
 
 The hawthorn flower is dead ; 
 The violet by the moss'd grey stone 
 
 Hath laid her weary head : 
 But thou, wild bramble \ back dost bring. 
 
 In all their beauteous power. 
 The fresh green days of life's fair Spring 
 
 And boyhood's blossomy hour. 
 Scom'd bramble of the brake ! once more 
 
 Thou bidd'st me be a boy, 
 To gad with thee, the woodlands o'er. 
 
 In freedom and in joy.
 
 EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 59 
 
 ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT. 
 
 O bear him where the rain can fall, 
 
 And where the winds can blow ; 
 And let the sun weep o'er his pall 
 
 As to the grave ye go ! 
 
 And in some little lone churchyard. 
 
 Beside the growing corn, 
 Lay gentle Nature's stem prose bard, 
 
 Her mightiest peasant-born ! 
 
 Yes ! let the wild-flower wed his grave. 
 
 That bees may murmur near. 
 When o'er his last home bend the brave. 
 
 And say — " A man lies here ! " 
 
 For Britons honour Cobbett's name, 
 
 Though rashly oft he spoke ; 
 And none can scorn, and few will blame. 
 
 The low-laid heart of oak. 
 
 See, o'er his prostrate branches, see ! 
 
 E'en factious hate consents 
 To reverence, in the fallen tree. 
 
 His British lineaments. 
 
 Though gnarl'd the storm-tost boughs that braved 
 
 The thunder's gather'd scowl, 
 Not always through his darkness raved 
 
 The storm-winds of the soul. 
 
 O, no ! in hours of golden calm 
 
 Morn met his forehead bold ; 
 And breezy evening sang her psalm 
 
 Beneath his dew-dropp'd gold. 
 
 The ^\Ten its crest of fibred fire 
 With his rich bronze compared ;
 
 6o EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
 
 While many a youngling's songful sire 
 His acorn'd twiglets shared. 
 
 The lark, above, sweet tribute paid, 
 Where clouds with light were riven ; 
 
 And true love sought his blue-bell'd shade, 
 " To bless the hour of heaven." 
 
 E'en when his stormy voice was loud, 
 
 And guilt quaked at the sound, 
 Beneath the frown that shook the proud 
 
 The poor a shelter found. 
 
 Dead Oak ! thou livest. Thy smitten hands, 
 
 The thunder of thy brow, 
 Speak, with strange tongues, in many lands, 
 
 And tyrants hear thee, now ! 
 
 Beneath the shadow of thy name, 
 
 Inspired by thy renown, 
 Shall future patriots rise to fame, 
 
 And many a sun go down. 
 
 HANNAH RATCLIFFE. 
 
 If e'er she knew an evil thought, 
 
 She spoke no evil word : 
 Peace to the gentle ! She hath sought 
 
 The bosom of her Lord. 
 
 She lived to love, and loved to bless 
 
 Whatever He hath made ; 
 But early on her gentleness 
 
 His chastening hand he laid. 
 
 Like a maim'd linnet nursed with care, 
 
 She graced a home of bliss ; 
 And dwelt in thankful quiet there. 
 
 To show what goodness is.
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 6l 
 
 Her presence was a noiseless power, 
 
 That soothed us day by day, — 
 A modest, meek, secluded flower, 
 
 That smiled, and pass'd away. 
 
 So meek she was that, when she died, 
 
 We iniss'd the lonely one 
 As when we feel, on Loxlcy's side. 
 
 The silent sunshine gone. 
 
 t>^ 
 
 But memory brings to sunless bowers 
 The light they knew before : 
 
 And Hannah's quiet smile is ours, 
 Though Hannah is no more. 
 
 Her pale face visits yet my heart, 
 
 And oft my guest will be : 
 O White Rose ! thou shalt not depart. 
 
 But wither here with me. 
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 
 1784—1859. 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM. 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
 And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
 Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, 
 An Angel writing in a book of gold. 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold ; 
 And to the Presence in the room he said — 
 
 *' What writest thou ? " The Vision raised its head ; 
 And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
 Answer'd — " The names of those who love the Lord. 
 
 ** And is mine one ? " said Abou. " Nay ! not so ! " 
 Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low. 
 But cheerly still, and said — " I pray thee then, 
 Write me as One that loves his fellow men ! "
 
 62 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 The Angel wrote, and vanish'd. The next night 
 
 It came again, with a great wakening hght, 
 
 And show'd their names whom love of God had bless'd : 
 
 And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. 
 
 SONG OF PEACE. 
 
 O Thou that art our Queen again, 
 And may in the sun be seen again, 
 
 Come, Ceres ! come ! 
 
 For the war's gone home, 
 And the fields are quiet and green again. 
 
 The air, dear Goddess ! sighs for thee ; 
 The light-heart brooks arise for thee ; 
 
 And the poppies red 
 
 On their wistful bed 
 Turn up their dark blue eyes for thee. 
 
 Laugh out, in the loose green jerkin 
 That's fit for a Goddess to work in ! 
 
 With shoulders brown, 
 
 And the wheaten crown 
 About thy temples perking. 
 
 And with thee come vStout-Heart in ; 
 And Toil, that sleeps his cart in ; 
 
 And Exercise, 
 
 The ruddy and wise, 
 His bathed forelocks parting! 
 
 And Dancing too, that's lither 
 Than willow or birch, drop hither ! 
 
 To thread the place 
 
 With a finishing grace 
 And carry our smooth eyes with her.
 
 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. Ot, 
 
 A NUN. 
 
 If you become a Nun, Dear! 
 
 A Friar I will be : 
 In any cell you run, Dear ! 
 
 Pray look behind for me ! 
 The roses all turn pale too ; 
 The doves all take the veil too ; 
 
 The blind will see the show : 
 What! you become a Nun? my Dear! 
 
 I'll not believe it. No ! 
 
 If you become a Nun, Dear ! 
 
 The bishop Love will be ; 
 The Cupids, every one. Dear! 
 
 Will chant—" We trust in thee ! " 
 The incense will go sighing ; 
 The candles fall a-dying ; 
 
 The water turn to wine : 
 What ! You go take the vows ? my Dear ! 
 
 You may, — but they'll be mine. 
 
 GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 
 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, 
 
 Catching your heart up at the feel of June, — 
 
 Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, 
 
 When even the bees lag at the summoning brass ! 
 
 And you, warm little housekeeper ! who class 
 
 With those who think the candles come too soon. 
 
 Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune 
 
 Nick the glad silent moments as they pass : 
 
 O sweet and tiny cousins ! that belong, 
 
 One to the fields, the other to the hearth : 
 
 Both have your sunshine ; both, though small, are strong 
 
 At your clear hearts ; and both were sent on earth 
 
 To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song, 
 
 In-doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth.
 
 64 JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 TO HIS WIFE, 
 
 While she ivas tnodeling- the Poefs bust. 
 
 Ah, Marian mine ! the face you look on now 
 Is not exactly like my wedding-day's : 
 Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze, 
 Less white and smooth its temple-flatten'd brow. 
 Sorrow has been there with his silent plough 
 And strait stern hand. No matter ! if it raise 
 Aught that affection fancies it may praise, 
 Or make me worthier of Apollo's bough. 
 Loss after all, such loss especially. 
 Is transfer, change, but not extinction. No ! 
 Part in our children's apple-cheeks I see ; 
 And for the rest, — while you look at me so, 
 Take care you do not smile it back to me, 
 And miss the copied furrows as you go! 
 
 TO HIS PIANO-FORTE. 
 
 Friend ! whom glad or grave we seek. 
 
 Heaven-holding shrine ! 
 
 1 ope thee, touch thee, hear thee speak, 
 
 And peace is mine. 
 No fairy casket full of bliss 
 
 Outvalues thee : 
 Love only, waken'd with a kiss. 
 
 More sweet may be. 
 
 To thee, when our full hearts o'erflow 
 
 In griefs or joys. 
 Unspeakable emotions owe 
 
 A fitting voice : 
 Mirth flies to thee, and Love's unrest. 
 
 And Memory dear ; 
 And Sorrow, with his tightcn'd breast, 
 
 Comes for a tear.
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 6$ 
 
 O, since few joys of human mould 
 
 Thus wait us still, 
 Thrice bless'd be thine, thou gentle fold 
 
 Of peace at will ! 
 No change, no sullenness, no cheat, 
 
 In thee we find : 
 Thy saddest voice is ever sweet, 
 
 Thine answer kind. 
 
 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 1784 — 1842. 
 
 THE SUN IN FRANCE. 
 
 The sun rises bright in France, 
 
 And fair sets he : 
 But he has tint the blithe blink he had 
 
 In my ain countree. 
 
 O, it's nae my ain ruin 
 
 That saddens aye my ee, 
 But the dear Marie I left behin' 
 
 Wi' sweet bairnies three. 
 
 My lanely hearth burn'd bonnie, 
 And smiled my ain Marie : 
 
 I've left a' my heart bchin' 
 In my ain countree. 
 
 The bud comes back to summer. 
 And the blossom to the bee ; 
 
 But I'll win back O, never ! 
 
 To my ain countree. 
 
 O I am leal to high Heaven, 
 
 Where soon I hope to be : 
 And there I'll meet ye a' 
 
 Frae my ain countree. 
 11— 5
 
 66 GEORGE DARLEY 
 
 GEORGE DARLEY. 
 
 1785—1849. 
 
 WAKING SONG. 
 
 Awake thee, my Lady-Love ! 
 
 Wake thee, and rise ! 
 The sun through the bower peeps 
 
 Into thine eyes. 
 
 Behold how the early lark 
 
 Springs from the corn ! 
 Hark, hark how the flower-bird 
 
 Winds her wee horn ! 
 
 The swallow's glad shriek is heard 
 
 All through the air ; 
 The stock-dove is murmuring 
 
 Loud as she dare. 
 
 Apollo's wing'd bugleman 
 
 Can not contain, 
 But peals his loud trumpet-call 
 
 Once and again. 
 
 ^i3^ 
 
 Then wake thee, my Lady-Love ! 
 
 Bird of my bower ! 
 The sweetest and sleepiest 
 
 Bird at this hour. 
 
 SYLVIA'S SONG. 
 
 The streams that wind amid the hills 
 
 And lost in pleasure slowly roam. 
 While their deep joy the valley fills, — 
 
 Even these will leave their mountain home ; 
 So may it, Love ! with others be. 
 But I will never wend from thee.
 
 GEORGE DARLEY. 6/ 
 
 The leaf forsakes the parent spray, 
 
 The blossom quits the stem as fast ; 
 The rose-enamour'd bird will stray 
 And leave his eglantine at last : 
 
 So may it, Love ! with others be, 
 But I will never wend from thee. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 Wail ! wail ye o'er the Dead ! 
 
 Wail, wail ye o'er her ! 
 Youth's ta'en and Beauty's fled : 
 
 O then deplore her ! 
 
 Strew ! strew, ye Maidens ! strew 
 Sweet flowers and fairest : 
 
 Pale rose, and pansy blue, 
 Lily the rarest ! 
 
 Wail ! 
 
 Lay, lay her gently down 
 
 On her moss pillow. 
 While we our foreheads crown 
 
 With the sad willow ! 
 
 Wail !^ . 
 
 Raise, raise the song of woe. 
 Youths ! to her honour ; 
 
 Fresh leaves and blossoms throw, 
 Virgins ! upon her. 
 
 Wail ! 
 
 Round, round the cypress bier 
 Where she lies sleeping, 
 
 On every turf a tear, 
 Let us go, weeping ! 
 
 Wail !
 
 68 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. 
 
 THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. 
 
 1785— 1866. 
 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 My thoughts by night are often fiU'd 
 
 With visions false as fair : 
 For in the Past alone I build 
 
 My castles in the air. 
 
 I dwell not now on what may be ; 
 
 Night shadows o'er the scene : 
 But still my fancy wanders free 
 
 Through that which might have been. 
 
 DAYS OF OLD. 
 
 In the days of old 
 Lovers felt true passion, 
 Deeming years of sorrow 
 By a smile repaid : 
 Now the charms of gold, 
 Spells of pride and fashion, 
 Bid them say Good -morrow 
 To the best-loved Maid. 
 
 Through the forests wild, 
 O'er the mountains lonely. 
 They were never weary 
 Honour to pursue : 
 If the Damsel smiled 
 Once in seven years only. 
 All their wanderings dreary 
 Ample guerdon knew. 
 
 Now one day's caprice 
 Weighs down years of smiling, 
 Youthful hearts are rovers,
 
 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 69 
 
 Love is bought and sold. 
 Fortune's gifts naay cease, 
 Love is less beguiling : 
 Wiser were the lovers 
 In the days of old. 
 
 MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK. 
 
 Three years old. 
 
 Long night succeeds thy little day : 
 
 O, blighted blossom ! can it be 
 That this grey stone and grassy clay 
 
 Have closed our anxious care of thee ? 
 
 The half-form'd speech of artless thought, 
 That spoke a mind beyond thy years, 
 
 The song, the dance by Nature taught. 
 The sunny smiles, the transient tears, 
 
 The symmetry of face and form, 
 
 The eye with light and life replete, 
 
 The little heart so fondly warm, 
 
 The voice so musically sweet, — 
 
 These, lost to hope, in memory yet 
 
 Around the hearts that loved thee cling, 
 
 Shadowing with long and vain regret 
 The too fair promise of thy Spring. 
 
 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 
 
 (" BARRY CORNWALL.") 
 1787— 1874. 
 
 THE STORMY PETREL. 
 
 A thousand miles from land are we. 
 Tossing about on the roaring sea, — 
 From billow to bounding billow cast,
 
 70 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 
 
 Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast : 
 
 The sails are scatter'd abroad like weeds ; 
 
 The strong masts shake like quivering reeds ; 
 
 The mighty cables and iron chains, 
 
 The hull, which all earthly strength disdains, — 
 
 They strain and they crack : and hearts like stone 
 
 Their natural hard proud strength disown. 
 
 Up and down ! up and down! 
 
 From the base of the wave to the billow's crown : 
 
 And amidst the flashing and feathery foam 
 
 The Stormy Petrel finds a home : 
 
 A home, if such a place may be 
 
 For her who lives on the wide, wide sea, 
 
 On the craggy ice, in the frozen air, 
 
 And only seeketh her rocky lair 
 
 To warm her young and to teach them spring 
 
 At once o'er the waves on their stormy wing. 
 
 O'er the deep ! o'er the deep ! 
 
 Where the whale and the shark and the sword-fish sleep, — 
 
 Outflying the blast and the driving rain. 
 
 The Petrel telleth her tale — in vain : 
 
 For the mariner curseth the warning bird 
 
 Who bringeth him news of the storms unheard. 
 
 Ah, thus does the prophet of good or ill 
 
 Meet hate from the creatures he serveth still ! 
 
 Yet he ne'er falters. So, Petrel ! spring 
 
 Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy wing ! 
 
 TO OUR NEIGHBOUR'S HEALTH. 
 
 Send the red wine round to-night ! 
 
 Yqx the blast is bitter cold : 
 Let us sing a song that's light ! 
 
 Merry rhymes are good as gold.
 
 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. J\ 
 
 Here's unto Our Neighbour's health ! 
 
 he plays the better part, — 
 Doing good, but not by stealth : 
 
 Is he not a noble heart ? 
 
 Should you bid me tell his name, 
 
 Show wherein his virtues dwell : 
 'Faith (I speak it to my shame), 
 
 1 should scarce know what to tell. 
 
 " Is he—? " Sir ! he is a thing 
 Cast in common human clay, — 
 'Tween a beggar and a king, — 
 Fit to order or obey. 
 
 *' He is then a soldier brave ? " 
 No ! he doth not kill his kin. 
 Pampering the luxurious Grave 
 With the blood and bones of Sin. 
 
 " Or a judge ? " He doth not sit, 
 
 Making hucksters' bargains plain ; 
 Piercing cobwebs with his wit, 
 Cutting tangled knots in twain. 
 
 *' He's an Abbot then at least ? " 
 No ! he is not proud and blithe, 
 Leaving prayer to humble priest. 
 Whilst he champs the golden tithe. 
 
 He is brave, but he is meek, — 
 
 Not as judge or soldier seems, 
 Not like Abbot proud and sleek : 
 
 Yet his dreams are starry dreams, — 
 
 Such as lit the World of old 
 
 Through the darkness of her way ;
 
 72 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 
 
 Such as might, if clearly told, 
 Guide blind Future into day. 
 
 Never hath he sought to rise 
 
 On a friend's or neighbour's fall ; 
 
 Never slurr'd a foe with lies ; 
 
 Never shrunk from Hunger's call : 
 
 But from morning until eve, 
 
 And through Autumn into Spring, 
 
 He hath kept his course (believe !), 
 Courting neither slave nor king. 
 
 He, whatever be his name 
 
 (For I know it not aright). 
 He deserves a wider fame. 
 
 Come ! here's to his health to-night. 
 
 BA CCHANALIAN. 
 
 Sing! — Who sings 
 
 To her who weareth a hundred rings ? 
 Ah, who is this lady fine ? 
 The Vine, boys ! the Vine ! 
 The mother of mighty Wine. 
 A roamer is she 
 O'er wall and tree. 
 And sometimes very good company. 
 
 Drink ! — Who drinks 
 To her who blushcth and never thinks ? 
 Ah, who is this maid of thine ? 
 The Grape, boys! the Grape! 
 O never let her escape 
 Until she be turn'd to Wine ! 
 For better is she 
 Than Vine can be, 
 And very very good company.
 
 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 73 
 
 Dream ! — Who dreams 
 
 Of the God who governs a thousand streams ? 
 Ah, who is this Spirit fine ? 
 'Tis Wine, boys ! 'tis Wine ! 
 God Bacchus, a friend of mine, 
 O, better is he 
 Than Grape or Tree, 
 And the best of all good company. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Let us sing and sigh ! 
 
 Let us sigh and sing ! 
 Sunny haunts have no such pleasures 
 
 As the shadows bring. 
 
 Who would seek the crowd, 
 Who would seek the noon. 
 
 That could woo the pale maid Silence 
 Underneath the moon ? 
 
 Smiles are things for youth, 
 Things for a merry rhyme : 
 
 But the voice of Pity suiteth 
 Any mood or time. 
 
 I LOVE HIM. 
 
 I love him, I dream of him, 
 
 I sing of him by day, 
 And all the night I hear him talk, — 
 
 And yet, he's far away. 
 
 There's beauty in the morning ; 
 
 There's sweetness in the May ; 
 There's music in the running stream 
 
 And yet, he's far away.
 
 74 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 
 
 I love him, I trust in him ; 
 
 He trusteth me alway : 
 And so the time flies hopefully, 
 
 Although he's far away. 
 
 IGNORANCE IS BLISS. 
 
 Rains fall, suns shine, winds flee, 
 Brooks run ; yet few know how : 
 
 Do not thou too deeply search 
 Why thou lovest me now ! 
 
 Perhaps, by some command 
 
 Sent earthward from above, 
 Thy heart was doom'd to lean on mine. 
 
 Mine to enjoy thy love. 
 
 Why ask when joy doth smile, 
 From what bright heaven it fell ? 
 
 Men mar the beauty of their dreams, 
 Tracing their source too well. 
 
 SHE WAS NOT FAIR. 
 
 She was not fair, nor full of grace, 
 
 Nor crown'd with thought or aught beside, 
 No wealth had she of mind or face, 
 
 To win our love or raise our pride ; 
 No lover's thought her cheek did touch. 
 
 No poet's dream was round her thrown : 
 And yet we miss her, — ah ! too much, 
 
 Now she hath flown. 
 
 We miss her when the morning calls. 
 As one that mingled in our mirth ; 
 
 We miss her when the evening falls, — 
 A trifle wanted on the earth :
 
 BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 75 
 
 Some fancy small or subtle thought 
 Is check'd ere to its blossom grown, 
 
 Some chain is broken that we wrought, — 
 Now she hath ilown. 
 
 No solid good nor hope defined 
 
 Is marr'd now she hath sunk in night; 
 And yet the strong immortal Mind 
 
 Is stopp'd in its triumphant flight. 
 Stern friend ! what power is in a tear. 
 
 What strength in one poor thought alone, 
 When all we know is — She was here 
 
 And She hath flown ! 
 
 THE POET TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 How many summers, Love ! 
 
 Have I been thine ? 
 How many days, thou Dove ! 
 
 Hast thou been mine ? 
 Time, like the winged wind 
 
 When it bends the flowers, 
 Hath left no mark behind 
 
 To count the hours. 
 
 Some weight of thought, though loath, 
 
 On thee he leaves ; 
 Some lines of care round both 
 
 Perhaps he weaves ; 
 Some fears, a soft regret 
 
 For joys scarce known ; 
 Sweet looks we half forget : 
 
 All else is flown. 
 
 Ah ! with what thankless heart 
 
 I mourn and sing ! 
 Look, where our children start 
 
 Like sudden Spring !
 
 'J 6 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 With tongues all sweet and low, 
 
 Like a pleasant rhyme, 
 They tell how much I owe 
 
 To Thee and Thine. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY DANA. 
 
 1787— 1879. 
 
 THE LITTLE BEACHBIRD. 
 
 Thou little bird ! thou dweller by the sea ! 
 Why tak&st thou its melancholy voice, 
 
 And with that boding cry 
 
 O'er the waves dost thou fly ? 
 O rather, bird ! with me 
 Through the fair land rejoice ! 
 
 Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale, 
 As driven by the beating storm at sea ; 
 
 Thy cry is weak and scared, 
 
 As if thy mates had shared 
 The doom of us ; thy wail — 
 What does it bring to me ? 
 
 •& 
 
 Thou call'st along the sand and haunt'st the surge, 
 Restless and sad, as if, in strange accord 
 
 With the motion and the roar 
 
 Of waves that drive to shore, 
 One spirit did ye urge, — 
 The Mystery — the Word. 
 
 Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall, 
 Old Ocean ! art. A requiem o'er the dead 
 
 From out thy gloomy cells 
 
 A tale of mourning tells : 
 Tells of man's woe and fall, 
 His sinless glory fled.
 
 GEORGE GORDON BYRON, Tl 
 
 Then turn thee, Httle bird ! and take thy flight 
 Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring 
 
 Thy spirit never more ! 
 
 Come, quit with me the shore 
 For gladness and the light 
 Where birds of summer sing ! 
 
 GEORGE GORDON BYRON (LORD BYRON). 
 
 1788— 1824. 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE. 
 
 The Isles of Greece ! the Isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, — 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace. 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet : 
 But all except their sun is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse. 
 The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 
 To sounds which echo further West 
 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Bless'd." 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon, 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 
 And musing there an hour alone 
 
 I dream'd that Greece might still be free : 
 
 For standing on the Persians' grave 
 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A King sate on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis, 
 
 And ships by thousands lay below. 
 And men in nations, — all were his ; 
 
 He counted them at break of day ; 
 
 But when the sun set where were they ?
 
 78 GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 
 
 And where are they ? And where art thou ? 
 
 My Country ! On thy voiceless shore 
 The heroic lay is tuneless now, 
 
 The heroic bosom beats no more. 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands like mine ? 
 
 « 
 
 'Tis something in the dearth of fame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter'd race. 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face : 
 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more bless'd? 
 
 Must we but blush ? Our fathers bled. 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the Three Hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new ThermopyliE ! 
 
 What ! silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah, no ! the voices of the Dead 
 Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 
 
 And answer — " Let one living head. 
 But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain ! in vain ! — Strike other chords! 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes. 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet : 
 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
 Of two such lessons, why forget
 
 GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 79 
 
 The nobler and the manlier one ? 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave : 
 Think ye he mean'd them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like these. 
 It made Anacreon's song divine ; 
 
 He served but served Polycrates : 
 
 A tyrant, — but our masters then 
 Were still at least our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersonese 
 
 Was Freedom's best and bravest friend : 
 
 That tyrant was Miltiades : 
 
 O that the present hour would lend 
 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there perhaps some seed is sown 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks ! 
 
 They have a king who buys and sells : 
 In native swords and native ranks 
 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
 Would break your shield however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade : 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But, gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
 
 80 GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 
 
 Place mc on Sunium's marbled steep, 
 Where nothing save the waves and I 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ! 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die ! 
 
 A Land of Slaves shall ne'er be mine : 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 TO THYRZA. 
 
 And thou art dead ! as young and fair 
 
 As aught of mortal birth : 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare. 
 
 Too soon return'd to Earth. 
 Though Earth received them in her bed. 
 And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness of mirth, 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou liest low, 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot : 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow. 
 
 So I behold them not. 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved, and long must love, 
 
 Like common earth can rot. 
 To me there needs no stone to tell 
 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 'o 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last. 
 
 As fervently as thou 
 Who didst not change through all the past. 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where Death has set his seal 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow; 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
 Or wrong or change or fault in me.
 
 GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 8 1 
 
 The better days of life were ours, 
 
 The worst can be but mine ; 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lours, 
 
 Shall never more be thine : 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away 
 I might have watch'd through long decay. 
 
 The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 
 
 The leaves must drop away : 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
 
 Than see it plucked to-day, — 
 Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair. 
 
 I know not if I could have borne 
 
 To see thy beauties fade : 
 The night that follow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade. 
 Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last, 
 
 Extinguish'd, not decay'd : 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from higli. 
 
 As once I wept — if I could weep. 
 
 My tears might well be shed 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face. 
 To fold thee in a faint embrace, 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head, 
 
 II.— 6
 
 82 GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 
 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain 
 
 (Though thou hast left me free) 
 The loveliest things that still remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee : 
 The all of thine that can not die 
 Through dark and dread eternity 
 
 Returns again to me ; 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught, except its living years. 
 
 SONG OF SA UL. 
 
   
 
 BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. 
 
 Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path ! 
 Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow ! 
 Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet ! 
 
 Farewell to others ! but never we part. 
 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, — 
 Or kingly the death which awaits us to-day. 
 
 THE PATRIOT. 
 
 Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 
 
 Thy country's strains record 
 The triumphs of her chosen son, 
 
 The slaughters of his sword : 
 The deeds he did, the fields he won, 
 
 The freedom he restored.
 
 GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 83 
 
 Though thou art fallen, while we are free 
 
 Thou shalt not taste of death : 
 The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
 
 Disdain'd to sink beneath; 
 Within our veins its currents be, 
 
 Thy spirit in our breath. 
 
 Thy name, our charging hosts along, 
 
 Shall be the battle-word ; 
 Thy fall the theme of choral song 
 
 From virgin voices pour'd : 
 To weep would do thy glory wrong, — 
 
 Thou shalt not be deplored ! 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEA UTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meets in her aspect and her eyes : 
 Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
 Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less, 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
 Which waves in every raven tress 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
 How pUre, how dear their dwelling-place. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow. 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent. 
 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, — 
 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent.
 
 84 GEORGE GORDON BYRON. 
 
 BYRON'S LAST VERSE. 
 
 " On this day I complete my thirty-sixth year." 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, 
 Since others it hath ceased to move : 
 Yet, though I can not be beloved, 
 Still let me love ! 
 
 ]My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone : 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief, 
 Are mine alone. 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone as some volcanic isle : 
 No torch is kindled at its blaze, — 
 A funeral pile. 
 
 The hope, the fear, the jealous care. 
 
 The exalted portion of the pain 
 And power of love, I can not share. 
 But wear the chain. 
 
 But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here, 
 
 Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, — 
 Where glory decks the hero's bier 
 Or binds his brow. 
 
 The sword, the banner, and the field, — 
 
 Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
 The Spartan borne upon his shield 
 Was not more free. 
 
 Awake not Greece ! she is awake : 
 
 Awake, my Spirit ! Think through whom 
 Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
 And then strike home ! 
 
 Tread those reviving passions down, 
 Unworthy manhood! Unto thee
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 85 
 
 Indifferent should the smile or frown 
 Of Beauty be. 
 
 If thou regret'st thy youth, why live ? 
 
 The land of honourable death 
 Is here. Up, to the field, and give 
 Away thy breath ! 
 
 Seek out (less often sought than found) 
 
 A soldier's grave, for thee the best ! 
 Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
 And take thy rest ! 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 1792 — 1822. 
 
 TO A SKYLARK. 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit ! 
 
 Bird thou never wert, 
 That from heaven, or near it, 
 
 Pourest thy full heart 
 In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 
 
 Higher still and higher 
 
 From the earth thou springest ; 
 
 Like a cloud of fire. 
 
 The blue deep thou wingest ; 
 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 
 
 In the golden lightning 
 
 Of the sunken sun. 
 O'er which clouds are brightening, 
 
 Thou dost float and run. 
 Like an unbodied Joy whose race is just begun. 
 
 The pale purple even 
 Melts around thy flight :
 
 86 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Like a star of heaven 
 In the broad dayhght, 
 Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight : 
 
 Keen as are the arrows 
 Of that silver sphere 
 Whose intense lamp narrows 
 In the white dawn clear 
 Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 
 
 All the earth and air 
 
 With thy voice is loud, 
 As, when night is bare. 
 
 From one lonely cloud 
 The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. 
 
 What thou art wc know not : 
 
 What is most like thee ? 
 From rainbow clouds there flow not 
 
 Drops so bright to see 
 As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 
 
 Like a poet hidden 
 
 In the light of thought. 
 Singing hymns unbidden, 
 Till the world is wrought 
 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. 
 
 Like a high-born maiden 
 
 In a palace tower. 
 Soothing her love-laden 
 
 Soul in secret hour 
 With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower. 
 
 Like a glow-worm golden 
 
 In a dell of dew, 
 Scattering unbeholden 
 Its atrial hue 
 Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view.
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 8/ 
 
 Like a rose embower'd 
 
 In its own green leaves, 
 By warm winds deflower'd, 
 
 Till the scent it gives 
 Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 
 
 Sound of vernal showers 
 
 On the twinkling grass, 
 Rain-awaken'd flowers, 
 
 All that ever was 
 Joyous and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 
 
 Teach us, sprite or bird ! 
 
 What sweet thoughts are thine : 
 I have never heard 
 
 Praise of love or wine 
 That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 
 
 Chorus hymeneal, 
 
 Or triumphal chant, 
 Match'd with thine would be all 
 
 But an empty vaunt, 
 A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 
 
 What objects are the fountains 
 
 Of thy happy strain ? 
 What fields, or waves, or mountains? 
 
 What shapes of sky or plain ? 
 What love of thine own kind ? what ignorance of pain ? 
 
 With thy clear keen joyance 
 
 Languor can not be ; 
 Shadow of annoyance 
 
 Never came near thee ; 
 Thou lov^st, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 
 
 Waking or asleep, 
 
 Thou of death must deem 
 Things more true and deep
 
 88 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Than we mortals dream, 
 Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ? 
 
 We look before and after, 
 
 And pine for what is not ; 
 Our sincerest laughter 
 
 With some pain is fraught ; 
 Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 
 
 Yet, if we could scorn 
 
 Hate and pride and fear, 
 If we were things born 
 
 Not to shed a tear, 
 I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 
 
 Better than all measures 
 
 Of delightful sound, 
 Better than all treasures 
 
 That in books are found, 
 Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 
 
 Teach me half the gladness 
 ' That thy brain must know. 
 
 Such harmonious madness 
 From my lips would flow, 
 The world should listen then as I am listening now. 
 
 LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. 
 I arise from dreams of Thee, 
 In the first sweet sleep of night, 
 When the winds are breathing low, 
 And the stars are shining bright : 
 I arise from dreams of Thee, 
 And a spirit in my feet 
 Has led me (who knows how ?) 
 To thy chamber window. Sweet ! 
 
 The wandering airs, they faint 
 On the dark and silent stream,
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 89 
 
 The champak odours pine 
 Like sweet thoughts in a dream ; 
 The nightingale's complaint, 
 It dies upon her heart, — 
 As I must die on thine, 
 Beloved as thou art ! 
 
 O, lift me from the grass ! 
 I die ! I faint ! I fail ! 
 Let thy love in kisses rain 
 On my lips and eyelids pale ! 
 My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
 My heart beats loud and fast : 
 O, press it close to thine again, 
 Where it will break at last. 
 
 TO NIGHT. 
 
 Swiftly walk over the Western wave, 
 
 Spirit of Night ! 
 Out of the misty Eastern cave, 
 Where all the long and lone daylight 
 Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear. 
 Which make thee terrible and dear : 
 
 Swift be thy flight ! 
 
 Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, 
 
 Star-inwrought ! 
 Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day ! 
 Kiss him until he be wearied out ! 
 Then wander o'er city and sea and land. 
 Touching all with thine opiate wand ! 
 
 Come, long-sought ! 
 
 When I arose and saw the dawn, 
 
 I sigh'd for thee : 
 When light rode high, and the dew was gone. 
 And noon lay heavy on flower and tree ; 
 And the weary Day turn'd to his rest.
 
 90 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
 Lingering like an unloved guest, 
 I sigh'd for thee. 
 
 Thy brother Death came, and cried — 
 
 *' Wouldst thou me ? " 
 Thy sweet child, Sleep the filmy-eyed, 
 Murmur'd like a noontide bee — 
 *' Shall I nestle by thy side ? 
 
 Wouldst thou me ? " And I replied — 
 
 No ! not thee. 
 
 Death will come when thou art dead, 
 
 Soon, too soon ! 
 Sleep will come when thou art fled : 
 Of neither would I ask the boon 
 I ask of thee, beloved Night ! 
 Swift be thine approaching flight ! 
 
 Come soon, soon ! 
 
 A BRIDAL SONG. 
 The golden gates of sleep unbar 
 
 Where Strength and Beauty, met together, 
 Kindle their image like a star 
 
 In a sea of glassy weather ! 
 Night ! with all thy stars look down ; 
 
 Darkness ! weep thy holiest dew : 
 Never smiled the inconstant IMoon 
 
 On a pair so true. 
 Let eyes not see their own delight ! 
 Haste, swift Hour ! and thy flight 
 
 Oft renew ! 
 
 Fairies ! sprites ! and angels ! keep her ; 
 
 Holy stars ! permit no wrong ; 
 And return to wake the sleeper, 
 
 Dawn ! ere it be long. 
 O joy ! O fear ! what will be done 
 In the absence of the sun ? 
 
 Come along !
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 9I 
 
 SONG. 
 
 False Friend ! wilt thou smile or weep 
 When my life is laid asleep ? 
 Little cares for a smile or a tear 
 The clay-cold corpse upon the bier. 
 
 Farewell ! heigh ho ! 
 
 What is this whispers low ? 
 There is a snake in thy smile, my Dear ! 
 And bitter poison within thy tear. 
 
 Sweet Sleep ! were Death like to thee, 
 Or if thou couldst mortal be, 
 I would close these eyes of pain : 
 When to wake ? Never again. 
 
 O World ! farewell ! 
 
 Listen to the passing bell ! 
 It says thou and I must part. 
 With a light and a heavy heart. 
 
 POLITICAL GREATNESS. 
 
 Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame. 
 
 Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts, 
 
 Shepherd those herds whom Tyranny makes tame 
 
 Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts ; 
 
 History is but the shadow of their shame ; 
 
 Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts. 
 
 As to Oblivion their millions fleet 
 
 Staining that heaven with obscene imagery 
 
 Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit 
 
 By force or custom ? Man, who man would be. 
 
 Must rule the empire of himself ; in it 
 
 Must be supreme, establishing his throne 
 
 On vanquish'd will, quelling the anarchy 
 
 Of hopes and fears, — being Himself alone.
 
 92 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 A WAIL. 
 
 Rough Wind ! that meanest loud 
 
 Gi'ief too sad for song, — 
 Wild Wind, when sullen cloud 
 
 Knells all the night long ! 
 Sad Storm, whose tears are vain ! 
 Bare Woods, whose branches strain ! 
 Deep Caves ! and dreary Main ! 
 
 Wail for the world's wrong ! 
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 1795— iSsi- 
 
 HYMN TO PAN. 
 
 O Thou ! whose mighty palace-roof doth hang 
 From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
 Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death. 
 Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness, — 
 Who lovest to see the Hamadryads dress 
 Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken, — 
 And through whole solemn hours dost sit and hearken 
 The dreary melody of bedded reeds, 
 In desolate places where dank moisture breeds 
 The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth, 
 Bethinking thee how melancholy loath 
 Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx,— do thou now, 
 By thy Love's milky brow, 
 By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
 Hear us, great Pan ! 
 
 O Thou ! for whose soul-soothing quiet turtles 
 Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 
 What time thou wandcrest at eventide 
 Through sunny meadows that outskirt the side 
 Of thine enmossed realms, — O Thou ! to whom
 
 JOHN KEATS. 93 
 
 Broad -leafed fig-trees even now foredoom 
 Their ripen'd fruitage, yellow-girted bees 
 Their golden honeycombs, our village leas 
 Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn, 
 The chuckling linnet its five young unborn 
 (To sing for thee), low-creeping strawberries 
 Their summer coolness, pent up butterflies 
 Their freckled wings, — yea ! the fresh-budding year 
 All its completions, — be quickly near! 
 By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
 O forester divine ! 
 
 Thou ! to whom every faun and satyr flies 
 For willing service, whether to surprise 
 The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit. 
 Or upward ragged precipices flit 
 To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw, 
 Or by mysterious enticement draw 
 Bewilder'd shepherds to their path again. 
 Or to tread breathless round the frothy main 
 And gather up all fancifuUest shells 
 For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells 
 And (being hidden) laugh at their out-peeping, — 
 Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping 
 The while they pelt each other on the crown 
 With silvery oak-apples and fir-cones brown,- — 
 By all the echoes that about thee ring, 
 Hear us, O Satyr King! 
 
 O hearkener to the loud-clapping shears ! 
 While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
 A ram goes bleating, — winder of the horn ! 
 When snouted wild boars, routing tender corn, 
 Anger our huntsmen, — breather round our farms ! 
 To keep off mildews and all weather harms, — 
 Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds 
 That come a-swooning over hollow grounds 
 And wither drearily on barren moors !
 
 94 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 Dread opener of the mysterious doors 
 Leading to universal knowledge ! see 
 Great Son of Dryope ! 
 
 The many that are come to pay their vows, 
 With leaves about their brows. 
 
 Be still the unimaginable lodge 
 
 For solitary thinkings, such as dodge 
 
 Conception to the very bourne of heaven, 
 
 Then leave the naked brain ! be still the leaven 
 
 That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth, 
 
 Gives it a touch ethereal, a new birth ! 
 
 Be still a symbol of immensity, 
 
 A firmament reflected in a sea. 
 
 An element filling the space between ! 
 
 An unknown But, no more ! We humbly screen 
 
 With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 
 And, giving out a shout most heaven-rending. 
 Conjure thee to receive our humble paean 
 Upon thy Mount Lycean ! 
 
 ROUNDELAY. 
 
 O, Sorrow ! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The natural hue of health from vermeil lips ? — 
 
 To give maiden blushes 
 
 To the white rose bushes ? 
 Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 
 
 O, Sorrow ! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 The lustrous passion from a falcon eye ? — 
 
 To give the glow-worm light ? 
 
 Or on a moonless night 
 To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 
 
 O, Sorrow ! 
 Why dost borrow
 
 JOHN KEATS. 95 
 
 The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue ? — 
 
 To give at evening pale 
 
 Unto the nightingale, 
 That thou mayst listen the cold dews among ? 
 
 O, Sorrow ! 
 
 Why dost borrow 
 Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? — 
 
 A lover would not tread 
 
 A cowslip on the head, 
 Though he should dance from eve till peep of day, — 
 
 Nor any drooping flower 
 
 Held sacred for thy bower, 
 Wherever he may sport himself and play. 
 
 To Sorrow 
 
 I bade Good-morrow! 
 And thought to leave her far away behind : 
 
 But, cheerly ! cheerly ! 
 
 She loves me dearly, — 
 She is so constant to me and so kind : 
 
 I would deceive her. 
 
 And so leave her. 
 But, ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 
 
 Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
 I sat a-weeping : in the whole world wide 
 There was no one to ask me why I wept ; 
 
 And so I kept 
 Brimming the water-lily cups with tears 
 
 Cold as my fears. 
 
 Beneath my palm-trees, by the river side, 
 I sat a-weeping : what enamoured bride, 
 Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds. 
 
 But hides and shrouds 
 Beneath dark palm-trees by a river side ?
 
 96 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 And, as I sat, over the light blue hills 
 There came a noise of revellers ; the rills 
 Into the wide stream came of purple hue : — 
 
 'Twas Bacchus and his crew ! 
 The earnest trumpet spake, and silver thrills 
 From kissing cynibals made a merry din : 
 
 'Twas Bacchus and his kin ! 
 Like to a moving vintage down they came, 
 Crown'd with green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 
 All madly dancing through the pleasant valley, 
 
 To scare thee. Melancholy ! 
 O then, O then, thou wast a simple name, 
 And I forgot thee, as the berried holly 
 By shepherds is forgotten when in June 
 Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon : — 
 
 I rush'd into the folly. 
 
 Within his car aloft young Bacchus stood. 
 Trifling his ivy dart, in dancing mood, 
 
 With sidelong laughing ; 
 And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
 His plump white arms, and shoulders enough white 
 
 For Venus' pearly bite ; 
 And near him rode Silenus on his ass. 
 Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 
 
 Tipsily quaffing. 
 
 Whence came ye ? merry Damsels ! whence came ye, 
 So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
 Why have ye left your bowers desolate. 
 
 Your lutes, and gentler fate ? — 
 " We follow Bacchus, Bacchus on the wing, 
 
 A-conquering. 
 Bacchus ! young Bacchus ! good or ill betide, 
 We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide : 
 Come hither. Lady fair ! and joined be 
 
 To our wild minstrelsy ! "
 
 JOHN KEATS. 97 
 
 Whence came ye ? jolly Satyrs ! whence came ye, 
 So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
 Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left 
 
 Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 
 " For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree ; 
 For wine we left our heath and yellow brooms 
 
 And cold mushrooms ; 
 For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth, — 
 Great God of breathless cups and chirping mirth ! 
 Come hither, Lady fair ! and joined be 
 
 To our mad minstrelsy ! " 
 
 Over wide streams and mountains great we went, 
 And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent, 
 Onward the tiger and the leopard pants, 
 
 With Asian elephants ; 
 Onward these myriads, with song and dance : 
 With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, 
 Web-footed alligators, crocodiles 
 Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files, 
 Plump infant laughers mimicking the coil 
 Of seamen and stout galley-rowers' toil : 
 With toying oars and silken sails they glide, 
 
 Nor care for wind and tide. 
 Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes. 
 From rear to van they scour about the plains, 
 A three days' journey in a moment done ; 
 And always, at the rising of the sun. 
 About the wilds they hunt with spear and horn, 
 
 On spleenful unicorn. 
 
 I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 
 
 Before the vine-wreath crown; 
 I saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 
 
 To the silver cymbals ring ; 
 I saw the whelming vintage hotly pierce 
 
 Old Tartary the fierce ; 
 11.-7
 
 98 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, 
 And from their treasures scatter pearled hail ; 
 Great Brahma from his mystic heaven groans, 
 
 And all his priesthood moans, i 
 
 Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. 
 Into these regions came I, following him, 
 Sick-hearted, weary : so I took a whim 
 To stray away into these forests drear, 
 
 Alone, without a peer : 
 And I have told thee all thou mayest hear. 
 
 Young Stranger ! 
 
 I've been a ranger 
 In search of pleasure throughout every clime : 
 
 Alas ! 'tis not for me ; 
 
 Bewitch'd I sure must be 
 To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 
 
 Come then. Sorrow ! 
 
 Sweetest Sorrow ! 
 Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 
 
 I thought to leave thee, 
 
 And deceive thee, 
 But now of all the world I love thee best. 
 
 There is not one, 
 
 No ! no ! not one 
 But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid : 
 
 Thou art her mother, 
 
 And her brother, 
 Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade. 
 
 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness ! 
 Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time ! 
 Sylvan historian ! who canst thus express
 
 JOHN KEATS. 99 
 
 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
 What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 
 Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 
 What men, or Gods, are these ! what maidens loath ! 
   What mad pursuit ! what struggle to escape ! 
 
 What pipes and timbrels ! what wild ecstacy ! 
 
 Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 
 Are sweeter : therefore, ye soft pipes ! play on, — 
 Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 
 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone ! 
 Fair youth beneath the trees ! thou canst not leave 
 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare. 
 Bold lover ! never, never canst thou kiss, 
 Though winning near the goal ; yet do not grieve ! 
 She can not fade, though thou hast not thy bliss : 
 For ever wilt thou love and she be fair. 
 
 Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that can not shed 
 Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
 And happy melodist ! unwearied. 
 For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
 More happy love ! more happy happy love ! 
 For ever warm, and still to be enjoy'd, 
 For ever panting and for ever young, — 
 All breathing human passion far above, 
 That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloy'd, 
 A burning forehead and a parching tongue. 
 
 Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 
 To what green altar, O mysterious priest ! 
 Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 
 And all her silken flanks with garlands dress'd ? 
 What little town, by river or sea-shore, 
 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
 Is emptied of its folk this pious morn ?
 
 100 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 And, little town ! thy streets for evermore 
 Will silent be ; and not a soul, to tell 
 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 
 
 O Attic shape ! fair attitude ! with brede 
 
 Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
 
 With forest branches and the trodden weed. 
 
 Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought, 
 
 As doth Eternity. Cold Pastoral ! 
 
 When old age shall this generation waste, 
 
 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
 
 Than ours, a friend to Man, to whom thou say'st — 
 
 Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty : that is all 
 
 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 
 
 TO AUTUMN. 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 
 
 Close bosom-friend of the maturing Sun ! 
 
 Conspiring with him how to load and bless 
 
 With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run ; 
 
 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees. 
 
 And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ; 
 
 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells 
 
 With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. 
 
 And still more, later flowers for the bees. 
 
 Until they think warm days will never cease, 
 
 For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 
 
 Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store ? 
 Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
 Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 
 Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
 Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. 
 Drowsed with the funic of poppies, while thy hook 
 Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ;
 
 JOHN KEATS. ' lOI 
 
 And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
 Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 
 Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 
 Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 
 
 Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay ! where are they ? 
 
 Think not of them ! thou hast thy music too, 
 
 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 
 
 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue : 
 
 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 
 
 Among the river sallows, borne aloft 
 
 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
 
 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 
 
 Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 
 
 The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft. 
 
 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 
 
 GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 
 
 The poetry of earth is never dead ! 
 
 Wlien all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
 
 And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 
 
 From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead : 
 
 That is the Grasshopper's, he takes the lead 
 
 In summer luxury ; he has never done 
 
 With his delights, for when tired out with fun 
 
 He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 
 
 The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 
 
 On a lone winter evening, when the frost 
 
 Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills 
 
 The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever ; 
 
 And seems to One in drowsiness half lost 
 
 The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills,
 
 102 CHARLES WOLFE. 
 
 CHARLES WOLFE. 
 1791— 1823. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE, 
 
 On the ramparts of Coru?ina. 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
 As his corse to the ramparts we hurried ; 
 
 Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
 O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 
 
 We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
 
 The sods with our bayonets turning, 
 By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 
 
 And the lantern dimly burning. 
 
 No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 
 
 Nor in sheet or 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 that was dead, 
 
 And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 
 
 We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed 
 
 And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 
 
 And we far away on the billow. 
 
 Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
 
 And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; 
 But little he'll reck if they let him sleep on 
 
 In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 
 
 But half of our heavy task was done, 
 
 W^hen the clock struck the hour for retiring, 
 
 And we heard the distant and random gun 
 Of the enemy suddenly firing.
 
 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. IO3 
 
 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
 
 From the field of his fame fresh and gory : 
 
 We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
 But we left him alone in his glory. 
 
 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 
 1793—1835. 
 
 HER GRAVE. 
 Where shall we make her grave ? 
 O, where the wild flowers wave 
 
 In the free air : 
 When shower and singing bird 
 'Midst the young leaves are heard, 
 There — lay her there ! 
 
 Harsh was the world to her : 
 Now may sleep minister 
 
 Balm for each ill ! 
 Low on sweet Nature's breast 
 Let the meek heart find rest. 
 
 Deep, deep and still ! 
 
 Murmur, glad waters ! by ; 
 Faint gales ! with happy sigh 
 
 Come wandering o'er 
 That green and mossy bed, 
 Where on a gentle head 
 
 Storms beat no more. 
 
 What though for her in vain 
 Falls now the bright Spring rain, 
 
 Plays the soft wind. 
 Yet still from where she lies 
 Should blessed breathings rise, 
 
 Gracious and kind. 
 
 Therefore let song and dew 
 Thence in the heart renew
 
 104 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 Life's vernal glow ; 
 And o'er that holy earth 
 Scents of the violets' birth 
 
 Still come and go ! 
 
 O then, where wild flowers wave 
 Make ye her mossy grave 
 
 In the free air, 
 Where shower and singing bird 
 'Midst the young leaves are heard ! 
 
 There, lay her there ! 
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 1794— 1878. 
 
 TO A WATER-FOWL. 
 
 Whither, midst falling dew, 
 
 While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
 Far through their rosy depths dost thou pursue 
 Thy solitary way ? 
 
 Vainly the fowler's eye 
 
 Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
 
 As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 
 
 Thy figure floats along. 
 
 Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
 
 Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
 
 Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 
 
 On the chafed ocean-side ? 
 
 There is a Power whose care 
 
 Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
 
 The desert and illimitable air 
 
 Lone wandering, but not lost. 
 
 All day thy wings have fann'd 
 
 At that far height the cold thin atmosphere.
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, IO5 
 
 Yet stoop not weary to the welcome land, 
 
 Though the dark night is near. 
 
 And soon that toil shall end : 
 Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
 And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 
 Soon, o'er thy shelter'd nest. 
 
 Thou art gone, the abyss of heaven 
 Hath swallow'd up thy form ; yet on my heart 
 Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
 And shall not soon depart. 
 
 He, who from zone to zone 
 
 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
 
 In the long way that I must tread alone 
 
 Will lead my steps aright. 
 
 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 
 
 Thou blossom ! bright with autumn dew, 
 And colour'd with the heaven's own blue, 
 That openest when the quiet light 
 Succeeds the keen and frosty night : 
 
 Thou com&st not when violets lean 
 
 O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
 
 Or columbines, in purple dress'd, 
 
 Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest ; 
 
 Thou waitest late, and comest alone, 
 When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
 And frosts and shortening days portend 
 The agfed year is near his end. 
 
 Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
 Look through its fringes to the sky : 
 Blue, blue as if that sky let fall 
 A flower from its cerulean wall.
 
 I06 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 I would that thus, when I shall see 
 The hour of death draw near to me, 
 Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
 May look to heaven as I depart. 
 
 HYMN OF THE CITY. 
 
 Not in the solitude 
 Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see 
 
 Only in savage wood 
 And sunny vale the present Deity, 
 
 Or only hear His voice 
 Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. 
 
 Even here do I behold 
 Thy steps. Almighty ! — here, amidst the crowd, 
 
 Through the great City roll'd 
 With everlasting murmur deep and loud, 
 
 Choking the ways that wind 
 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. 
 
 Thy golden sunshine comes 
 From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies. 
 
 And lights their inner homes ; 
 For them Thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, 
 
 And givest them the stores 
 Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 
 
 Thy Spirit is around, 
 Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 
 
 And this eternal sound, 
 (Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng) 
 
 Like the resounding sea 
 Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee. 
 
 And when the hours of rest 
 Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine 
 Hushinp its billowv breast.
 
 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 107 
 
 The quiet of that moment too is Thine : 
 It breathes of Him who keeps 
 The vast and helpless City while it sleeps. 
 
 TO THE NORTH STAR. 
 
 The sad and solemn Night 
 
 Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires : 
 
 The glorious host of light 
 Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 
 All through her silent watches, gliding slow. 
 Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. 
 
 Day too hath many a star 
 
 To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : 
 
 Through the blue fields afar, 
 Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 
 Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
 Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 
 
 And thou dost see them rise, 
 
 Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. 
 
 Alone, in thy cold skies, 
 Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet ; 
 Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train, 
 Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 
 
 There, at morn's rosy birth. 
 
 Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air ; 
 
 And eve, that round the earth 
 Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; 
 There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
 The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. 
 
 Alike beneath thine eye 
 
 The deeds of darkness and of light are done : 
 
 High tow'rds the star-lit sky 
 Towns blaze ; the smoke of battle blots the sun ;
 
 I08 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 
 
 The night-storm on <a thousand hills is loud ; 
 
 And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. 
 
 On thine unaltering blaze 
 
 The half-vvreck'd mariner, his compass lost, 
 
 Fixes his steady gaze. 
 And steers undoubting to the friendly coast ; 
 And they who stray in perilous wastes by night 
 Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. 
 
 And therefore bards of old, 
 
 Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood, 
 
 Did in thy beams behold 
 A beauteous type of that Unchanging Good, 
 That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 
 The voyager of Time should shape his heedful way. 
 
 THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER. 
 
 1861. 
 
 Softly breathes the West wind beside the ruddy forest, 
 Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies ; 
 Sweetly streams the sunshine this third day of November, 
 Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies. 
 
 Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows, 
 Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the new : 
 Spared the autumn rose and the garden's group of pansies, 
 Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue. 
 
 On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungather'd ; 
 Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee. 
 Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them 
 Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree. 
 
 Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, 
 Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green : 
 Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing 
 With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. IO9 
 
 Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me ! 
 Pass'd is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here : 
 Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me, 
 Leaf and fruit and blossom, to mark the closing year ! 
 
 Drearv is the time when the flowers of earth are wither'd : 
 Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast, 
 When upon the hillside, all harden'd into iron, 
 Howling like a wolf flies the famish'd Northern blast. 
 
 Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer 
 With delight on Nature or hope on human kind : 
 O, may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me, 
 Leave the heart unfrozen and spare the cheerful mind. 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 179s— 1881. 
 
 ADIEU! 
 Let Time and Chance combine, combine ! 
 Let Time and Chance combine ! 
 The fairest love from heaven above, 
 That love of yours, was mine, 
 
 My Dear ! 
 That love of yours was mine. 
 
 The Past is fled and gone, and gone : 
 
 The Past is fled and gone : 
 
 If nought but pain to me remain, 
 
 ril fare in memory on, 
 
 My dear ! 
 
 ril fare in memory on. 
 
 The saddest tears must fall, must fall : 
 
 The saddest tears must fall : 
 
 In weal or woe, in this world below, 
 
 I love you ever and all, 
 
 My Dear ! 
 
 I love you ever and all.
 
 no JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 
 
 A long road full of pain, of pain : 
 
 A long road full of pain : 
 
 One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part, — 
 
 We ne'er can meet again. 
 
 My Dear ! 
 
 We ne'er can meet again. 
 
 Hard fate will not allow, allow ; 
 
 Hard fate will not allow : 
 
 We blessed were as the angels are : — 
 
 Adieu for ever now, 
 
 My Dear ! 
 
 Adieu for ever now ! 
 
 JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. 
 
 1794— 1852. 
 
 HOUR AFTER HOUR. 
 
 Hour after hour departs, 
 
 Recklessly flying ; 
 The golden time of our hearts 
 
 Is fast a-dying : 
 O, how soon it will have faded ! 
 Joy droops, with forehead shaded ; 
 
 And Memory starts. 
 
 When I am gone, O wear 
 Sweet smiles ! thy dwelling 
 
 Choose where flowers feed the air, 
 And the sea is swelling ! 
 
 And near where some rivulet lingers 
 
 In the grass, like an infant's fingers 
 In its mother's hair. 
 
 Thy spirit should steep its wing 
 
 In the dews of Nature ; 
 And the living airs of Spring
 
 JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS. Ill 
 
 Should give each feature 
 Of thy face a rich lustrous smiling, — 
 Thy thoughts from that gloom beguiling 
 
 Which cold hours bring. 
 
 Farewell to our delights ! 
 
 Love ! we are parted. 
 Come with thy silvery nights, 
 
 Autumn, gold-hearted ! 
 Let our two hearts be wreathing 
 Their hopes- when the eve is breathing 
 
 Through leaf-starr'd lights ! 
 
 SONG. 
 Go where the water glideth gently ever, 
 
 Glideth by meadows that the greenest be ; 
 Go, listen to our own beloved river : 
 And think of me ! 
 
 Wander in forests where the small flower layeth 
 
 Its fairy gem beside the giant tree ; 
 Listen the dim brook pining while it playeth : 
 And think of me ! 
 
 Watch when the sky is silver pale at even, 
 
 And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree ; 
 Go out beneath the solitary heaven : 
 And think of me ! 
 
 And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming, 
 And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea. 
 Go, silent as a star beneath her beaming. 
 And think of me ! 
 
 SHERWOOD FOREST. 
 The trees in Sherwood Forest are old and good, 
 The grass beneath them now is dimly green : 
 Are they deserted all ? Is no young mien,
 
 112 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 With loose-slung bugle, met within the wood ? 
 
 No arrow found, foil'd of its antler'd food, 
 
 Stuck in the oak's rude side ? Is there nought seen 
 
 To mark the revelries which there have been, 
 
 In the sweet days of merry Robin Hood ? 
 
 Go there, with summer and with evening, go 
 
 In the soft shadows, like some wandering man ! 
 
 And thou shalt far amid the forest know 
 
 The archer men in green, with belt and bow, 
 
 Feasting on pheasant, river-fowl and swan. 
 
 With Robin at their head, and Marian. 
 
 HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 
 
 1796 — 1849. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 
 
 As many maidens be ; 
 Her loveliness I never knew 
 
 Until she smiled on me : 
 O then I saw her eye was bright, 
 A well of love, a spring of light. 
 
 But now her looks are coy and cold, 
 
 To mine they ne'er reply ; 
 And yet I cease not to behold 
 
 The love -light in her eye : 
 Her very frowns are fairer far 
 Than smiles of other maidens are. 
 
 WHITHER ? 
 
 Whither is gone the wisdom and the power 
 That ancient sages scatter'd with the notes 
 Of thought-suggesting lyres ? The music floats 
 In the void air; even at this breathing hour, 
 In every cell and every blooming bower
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. II 
 
 The sweetness of old lays is hovering still : 
 But the strong soul, the self-sustaining will, 
 The rugged root that bare the winsome ilower, 
 Is wealc and wither'd. Were we like the Fays 
 That sweetly nestle in the fox- glove bells, 
 Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipp'd shells 
 Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent pays, 
 Then might our pretty modern Philomels 
 Sustain our spirits with their roundelays. 
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 1798—1835. 
 
 JEAN IE MORRISON. 
 
 I've wander'd East, I've wander'd West, 
 
 Through mony a weary way, 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The luve of life's young day : 
 The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule ; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cool. 
 
 O dear dear Jeanie Morrison ! 
 
 The thoughts o' bygane years 
 Still fling their shadows o'er my path, 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears : 
 They blind my een wi' salt salt tears, 
 
 And sair and sick I pine. 
 As memory idly summons up 
 
 The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel ; 
 
 'Twas then we twa did part : 
 Sweet time ! sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 
 
 Twa bairns and but ae heart. 
 
 II.— 8
 
 114 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 
 
 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear ; 
 And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 
 
 Remember'd evermair. 
 
 I wonder, Jeanie ! aften yet, 
 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, 
 
 What our wee heads could think : 
 When baith bent down o'er ae braid page, 
 
 Wi' ae bulk on our knee. 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 O, mind ye how we hung our heads. 
 
 How cheeks brent red wi' shame, 
 Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said 
 
 We cleek'd thegither hame ? 
 And mind ye o' the Saturdays 
 
 (The scule then skailt at noon) 
 When we ran afif to speel the braes, 
 
 The broomy braes o' June ? 
 
 My head rins round and round about, 
 
 My heart flows like a sea. 
 As ane by ane the thoughts rush back 
 
 O scule-time and o' thee : 
 O mornin' life ! O mornin' luve ! 
 
 O lightsome days and lang, 
 When hinnicd hopes around our hearts 
 
 Like simmer blossoms sprang ! 
 
 O mind ye, Luve ! how aft we left 
 
 The deavin' dinsome toun, 
 To wander by the green burnside. 
 
 And hear its waters croon ? 
 The simmer leaves hung o'er our heads, 
 
 The flowers burst round our feet.
 
 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 11$ 
 
 And in the gloamin' o' the wood 
 The throssil whusslit sweet. 
 
 The throssil whussHt in the wood, 
 
 The burn sang to the trees, 
 And we, with Nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe, abune the burn, 
 
 For hours thegither sat. 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Ay ! ay ! dear Jeanie Morrison ! 
 
 Tears trickled down your cheek, 
 Like dewbeads on a rose, yet nane 
 
 Had ony power to speak. 
 That was a time, a blessed time, 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young. 
 When freely gush'd all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled, unsung. 
 
 I marvel, Jeanie Morrison ! 
 
 Gin I hae been to thee 
 As closely twined wi' earliest thoughts 
 
 As ye hae been to me. 
 O tell me gin their music fills 
 
 Thine ear as it does mine ! 
 O say gin e'er your heart grows grit 
 
 Wi' dreamings o' lang syne ! 
 
 I've wander'd East, I've wander'd West, 
 
 I've borne a weary lot : 
 But in my wanderings, far or near, 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart 
 
 Still travels on its way. 
 And channels deeper, as it rins, 
 
 The luve o' life's young day.
 
 Il6 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 O dear dear Jeanie Morrison! 
 
 Since we were sinder'd young 
 I've never seen your face nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue : 
 But I could hug all wretchedness, 
 
 And happy could I dee, 
 Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 
 
 O' bygane days and me. 
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 1799— 1845. 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 One more Unfortunate 
 Weary of breath, 
 Rashly importunate. 
 Gone to her death ! 
 
 ') 
 
 Take her up tenderly ! 
 Lift her with care ! 
 Fashion'd so slenderly, 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments 
 Clinging like cerements, 
 "Whilst the wave constantly 
 Drips from her clothing ! 
 Take her up instantly ! 
 Loving, not loathing. 
 
 Touch her not scornfully ! 
 Think of her mournfully, 
 Gently, and humanly ! 
 Not of the stains of her! 
 All that remains of her 
 Now is pure womanly.
 
 THOMAS HOOD. II7 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny 
 Into her mutiny 
 Rash and undutiful ! 
 Past all dishonour, 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the Beautiful. 
 
 Still, for all slips of hers, 
 One of Eve's family, — 
 Wipe those poor lips of hers 
 Oozing so clammily ! 
 
 Loop up her tresses, 
 Escaped from the comb ! 
 Her fair auburn tresses : 
 Whilst wonderment guesses — 
 Where was her home ? 
 
 Who was her father ? 
 
 Who was her mother ? 
 
 Had she a sister ? 
 
 Had she a brother ? 
 
 Or was there a dearer One 
 
 Still, and a nearer One 
 
 Yet than all other ? 
 
 Alas for the rarity 
 Of Christian charity 
 Under the sun ! 
 O, it was pitiful ! 
 Near a whole city full 
 Home she had none. 
 
 Sisterly, brotherly, 
 Fatherly, motherly. 
 Feelings had changed ; 
 Love by harsh evidence 
 Thrown from its eminence :
 
 Il8 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Even God's providence 
 Seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver 
 
 So far in the river, 
 
 With many a hght 
 
 From window and casement, 
 
 From garret to basement. 
 
 She stood, with amazement, 
 
 Houseless by night. 
 
 The bleak wind of March 
 Made her tremble and shiver ; 
 But not the dark arch 
 Or the black flowing river : 
 Mad from life's history, 
 Glad to death's mystery 
 Swift to be hurl'd, — 
 Any where, any where 
 Out of the world ! 
 
 In she plunged boldly, 
 No matter how coldly 
 The rough river ran. — 
 Over the brink of it, 
 Picture it, think of it. 
 Dissolute Man ! 
 Lave in it, drink of it, 
 Then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly. 
 Lift her with care ! 
 Fashion'd so slenderly. 
 Young, and so fair ! 
 
 Ere her limbs frigidly 
 Stiffen too rigidly, 
 Decently, kindly. 
 Smooth and compose them !
 
 THOMAS HOOD. II9 
 
 And her eyes, close them 
 Staring so blindly ! 
 
 Dreadfully staring 
 Through muddy impurity, 
 As when with the daring 
 Last look of despairing 
 Fix'd on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, — 
 Spurr'd by contumely, 
 Cold inhumanity. 
 Burning insanity, 
 Into her rest. 
 
 — Cross her hands humbly ! 
 As if praying dumbly. 
 Over her breast, — 
 
 Owning her weakness, 
 Her evil behaviour : 
 And leaving, with meekness, 
 Her sins to her Saviour. 
 
 ODE TO AUTUMN. 
 
 I saw old Autumn in the misty morn 
 Stand shadowless, like Silence listening 
 To silence (for no lonely bii-d would sing 
 Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, 
 Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn), 
 Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright 
 "With tangled gossamer that fell by night, 
 Pearling his coronet of golden corn. 
 
 Where are the songs of Summer ? With the Sun, 
 
 Oping the dusky eyelids of the South, 
 
 Till shade and silence waken up as one. 
 
 And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
 
 I20 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Where are the merry birds ? Away, away 
 On panting wings through the inclement skies. 
 
 Lest owls should prey 
 
 Undazzled at noon-day, 
 And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. 
 
 Where are the blooms of Summer ? In the West, 
 Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. 
 When the mild Eve by sudden Night is press'd, 
 Like tearful Proserpine snatch'd from her flowers, 
 
 To a most gloomy breast. 
 Where is the pride of Summer, the green prime. 
 The many many leaves all twinkling ? Three 
 On the moss'd elm, three on the naked lime 
 Trembling, and one upon the old oak tree. 
 Where is the Dryads' immortality ? 
 Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, 
 Or wearing the long gloomy winter through 
 In the smooth holly's green eternity. 
 
 The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard ; 
 
 The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain ; 
 
 And honey-bees have stored 
 The sweets of summer in their luscious cells ; 
 The swallows all have wing'd across the main ; 
 But here the autumn Melancholy dwells, 
 
 And sighs her tearful spells 
 Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. 
 
 Alone, alone, 
 
 Upon a mossy stone 
 She sits and reckons up the Dead and Gone, 
 With the last leaves for a love-rosary : 
 Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily. 
 Like a dim picture of the drowned Past 
 In the hush'd mind's mysterious far-away, 
 Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last 
 Into that distance, grey upon the grey.
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 121 
 
 O, go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded 
 
 Under the languid downfall of her hair ! 
 
 She wears a coronal of flowers faded 
 
 Upon her forehead, and a face of care ; — 
 
 There is enough of wither'd everywhere 
 
 To make her bower, and enough of gloom ; 
 
 There is enough of sadness to invite, 
 
 If only for the rose that died, whose doom 
 
 Is Beauty's, — she that with the living bloom 
 
 Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light ; — 
 
 There is enough of sorrowing, and quite 
 
 Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, 
 
 Enough of chilly droppings from her bowl ; 
 
 Enough of fear and shadowy despair 
 
 To frame her cloudy prison for the soul. 
 
 TO A COLD BEAUTY. 
 
 Lady ! wouldst thou heiress be 
 
 To Winter's cold and cruel part ? 
 "When he sets the rivers free. 
 
 Thou dost still lock up thy heart : 
 Thou that shouldst outlast the snow 
 But in the whiteness of thy brow. 
 
 Scorn and cold neglect are made 
 For winter gloom and winter wind ; 
 
 But thou wilt wrong the summer air 
 Breathing it to words unkind, — 
 
 Breath which only should belong 
 
 To love, to sunlight, and to song. 
 
 When the little buds unclose. 
 
 Red, and white, and pied, and blue, 
 
 And that virgin flower, the rose. 
 Opes her heart to hold the dew. 
 
 Wilt thou lock thy bosom up 
 
 With no jewel in its cup ?
 
 122 THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 Let not cold December sit 
 
 Thus in Love's peculiar throne ! 
 Brooklets are not prison'd now, 
 
 But crystal frosts are all agone ; 
 And that which hangs upon the spray, 
 It is no snow, but flower of May. 
 
 LOVE'S CONSTANCY. 
 
 Still glides the gentle streamlet on. 
 
 With shifting current new and strange ; 
 
 The water that was here is gone : 
 
 But those green shadows do not change. 
 
 Serene, or ruffled by the storm. 
 On present waves, as on the past, 
 
 The mirror'd grove retains its form, 
 
 The self-same trees their semblance cast. 
 
 The hue each fleeting globule wears. 
 That drop bequeaths it to the next : 
 
 One picture still the surface bears 
 To illustrate the murmur'd text. 
 
 So, Love ! however time may flow, 
 Fresh hours pursuing those that flee, 
 
 One constant image still shall show 
 My tide of life is true to thee. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 She stood breast high amid the corn, 
 Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, 
 Like the sweetheart of the Sun, 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush 
 Deeply ripcn'd : such a blush
 
 THOMAS HOOD. 123 
 
 In the midst of brown was born, 
 Like red poppies grown with corn. 
 
 Round her eyes her tresses fell, — 
 Which were blackest none could tell : 
 But long lashes veil'd a light 
 That had else been all too bright. 
 
 And her hat with shady brim 
 Made her tressy forehead dim : 
 Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
 Praising God with sweetest looks. 
 
 Sure, I said, heaven did not mean 
 Where I reap thou shouldst but glean : 
 Lay thy sheaf adown, and come ! 
 Share my harvest and my home ! 
 
 THE TIME OF ROSES. 
 
 It was not in the winter 
 
 Our loving lot was cast : 
 It was the Time of Roses, — 
 
 We pluck'd them as we pass'd. 
 
 That churlish season never frown'd 
 
 On early lovers yet : 
 O no ! the world was newly crown'd 
 
 With flowers when first we met. 
 
 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go ; 
 
 But still you held me fast : 
 It was the Time of Roses, — 
 
 We pluck'd them as we pass'd. 
 
 What else could peer thy glowing cheek. 
 
 That tears began to stud ? 
 And when I ask'd the like of Love, 
 
 You snatch'd a damask bud,
 
 124 CHARLES WELLS. 
 
 And oped it to the dainty core, 
 
 Still glowing to the last. 
 It was the Time of Roses : 
 
 We pluck'd them as we pass'd. 
 
 CHARLES WELLS. 
 1800 — 1879. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Kiss no more the Vintages, 
 
 Thou hot-lipp'd Sun ! 
 Flow no more the merry wine 
 
 From the dark tun ! 
 
 Above my bed hang dull nightshade, 
 And o'er my brows the willow ! 
 
 With maiden flowers from dewy bowers 
 Cover my last pillow ! 
 
 Away ! away to the green sward ! 
 
 My young heart breaks : 
 Break the earth, and lay me deep ! 
 
 Love my breath takes. 
 
 Angels ! pity, and hear this ditty 
 Breathed from a poor girl's lips : 
 
 O'er her lover ever hover. 
 Scattering earthly bliss ! 
 
 Come, thou iron-crowned Death ! 
 
 Into my stretched arms, 
 Bridegroom to my maiden breast; 
 
 End my sad alarms ! 
 
 Lead on, lead on, thou Love of Bone ! 
 
 Over the heath wild ; 
 And 'neath the grass secure fast 
 
 Thy melancholy child !
 
 WILLIAM BARNES. 12$ 
 
 SIR HENRY TAYLOR. 
 
 i8cx) — 
 
 SONG. 
 The morning broke, and Spring was there, 
 
 And lusty Summer near her birth ; 
 The birds awoke and waked the air, 
 
 The flowers awoke and waked the earth. 
 
 " Up ! " quoth he : " what joy for me. 
 On dewy plain, in budding brake ! 
 A sweet bird sings on every tree, 
 
 And flowers are sweeter, for my sake." 
 
 Lightly o'er the plain he stepp'd. 
 
 Lightly brush'd he through the wood, 
 
 And snared a little bird that slept 
 
 And had not waken'd when she should. 
 
 Lightly through the wood he brush'd 
 Lightly stepp'd he o'er the plain : 
 
 And yet — a little flower was crush'd 
 That never raised its head again. 
 
 WILLIAM BARNES. 
 1 80 1 — 
 
 NOT FAR TO GO. 
 
 As upland fields were sun-burn'd brown. 
 And heat-dried brooks were running small, 
 And sheep were gather'd, panting all, 
 
 Below the hawthorn on the down, — 
 
 The while my mare, with dipping head, 
 PuU'd on my cart, above the bridge, — 
 I saw come on, beside the ridge, 
 
 A maiden white in skin and thread, 
 
 And walking, with an elbow load, 
 
 The way I drove along my road.
 
 126 WILLIAM BARNES. 
 
 As there with comely steps up-hill 
 
 She rose, by elm trees all in ranks, 
 
 From shade to shade, by flowery banks 
 Where flew the bird with whistling bill, — 
 I kindly said — " Now won't you ride. 
 
 This burning weather, up the knap ? 
 
 I have a seat that fits the trap, 
 And now is swung from side to side." 
 " O no ! " she cried, — " I thank you, no ! 
 I've little further now to go." 
 
 Then, up the timber'd slope, I found 
 The prettiest house a good day's ride 
 Would bring you by, with porch and side 
 
 By rose and jessamine well bound ; 
 
 And near at hand a spring and pool, 
 
 With lawn well-sunn'd and bower cool : 
 And, while the wicket fell behind 
 Her steps, I thought — If I would find 
 
 A wife I need not blush to show 
 
 I've little further now to go. 
 
 MV FORE-ELDERS. 
 
 When from the child, that still is led 
 By hand, a father's hand is gone, — 
 Or when a few-year'd mother dead 
 
 Has left her children growing on, — 
 When men have left their children staid. 
 And they again have boy and maid, — 
 O, can they know, as years may roll, 
 Their children's children, soul by soul ? 
 If this with souls in heaven can be, 
 Do my fore-elders know of me ? 
 
 My elders' ciders, man and wife, 
 Were borne full early to the tomb,
 
 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. 12/ 
 
 With children still in childhood life 
 To play with butterfly or bloom. 
 And did they see the seasons mould 
 Their faces on, from young to old, 
 As years might bring them, turn by turn, 
 A time to laugh or time to mourn ? 
 If this with souls in heaven can be, 
 Do my fore-elders know of me ? 
 
 How fain I now would walk the floor 
 
 Within their mossy porch's bow^ 
 Or linger by their church's door, 
 
 Or road that bore them to and fro, 
 Or nook where once they built their mow, 
 Or gateway open to their plough 
 (Though now indeed no gate is swung 
 That their live hands had ever hung), — 
 If I could know that they would see 
 Their child's late child, and know of mc. 
 
 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. 
 1801— 
 
 THE ELEMENTS. 
 
 {A tragic chorus.') 
 
 Man is permitted much 
 To scan and learn 
 In Nature's frame : 
 Till he well-nigh can tame 
 Brute mischiefs, and can touch 
 Invisible things, and turn 
 All warring ills to purposes of good. 
 Thus, as a God below, 
 He can controul 
 And harmonize what seems amiss to flow 
 As sever'd from the whole 
 And dimly understood.
 
 128 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. 
 
 But o'er the elements 
 
 One Hand alone, 
 
 One Hand has sway. 
 What influence day by day 
 In straiter belt prevents 
 The impious Ocean, thrown 
 Alternate o'er the ever-sounding shore ? 
 Or who has eye to trace 
 
 How the Plague came ? 
 Forerun the doublings of the Tempest's race ? 
 Or the Air's vi^eight and flame 
 On a set scale explore ! 
 
 Thus God has will'd : 
 That man, when fully skill'd. 
 Still gropes in twilight dim ; 
 Encompass'd all his hours 
 By fearfullest powders 
 
 Inflexible to him : 
 That so he may discern 
 
 His feebleness, 
 And even for earth's success 
 To Him in wisdom turn 
 Who holds for us the keys of either home — 
 Earth and the world-to-come. 
 
 A VOICE FROM AFAR. 
 
 Weep not for me ! 
 Be blithe as wont, nor tinge with gloom 
 The stream of love that circles home, 
 
 Light hearts and free ! 
 Joy in the gifts Heaven's bounty lends ; 
 Nor miss my face, dear friends ! 
 
 I still am near : 
 Watching the smiles I prized on earth, 
 Your converse mild, your blameless mirth ;
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. I29 
 
 Now too I hear 
 Of whisper'd sounds the tale complete, 
 Low prayers, and musings sweet. 
 
 A sea before 
 The Throne is spread : its pure still glass 
 Pictures all earth- scenes as they pass ; 
 
 We on its shore 
 Share, in the bosom of our rest, 
 God's knowledge, and are bless'd. 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 1802 — 1876. 
 
 BENEATH THE ARCH. 
 
 Beneath this starry arch 
 
 Nought resteth or is still ; 
 But all things hold their march 
 As if by one great Will : 
 Moves one, move all : hark to the foot-fall ! 
 
 On, on, forever ! 
 
 Yon sheaves were once but seed ; 
 
 Will ripens into deed ; 
 
 As cave-drops swell the streams, 
 
 Day-thoughts feed nightly dreams ; 
 
 And sorrow tracketh wrong. 
 
 As echo follows song : 
 
 On, on, forever ! 
 
 By night, like stars on high, 
 
 The Hours reveal their train ; 
 They whisper, and go by : 
 I never watch in vain. 
 Moves one, move all : hark to the foot-fall! 
 
 On, on, forever ! 
 II. -9
 
 I30 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. 
 
 They pass the cradle-head, 
 And there a promise shed ; 
 They pass the moist new grave, 
 And bid rank verdure wave ; 
 They bear through every dime 
 The harvests of all time 
 
 On, on, forever ! 
 
 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. 
 1803 — 1849. 
 
 SONG OF THE STYGIAN NAIADS. 
 
 Prosperine may pull her flowers, 
 v-^' Wet'vvith dew or wet with tears. 
 
 Red with anger, pale with fears : 
 Is it any fault of ours 
 If Pluto be an amorous king, 
 
 And comes home nightly laden, 
 Underneath his broad bat-wing, 
 With a gentle mortal maiden ? 
 Is it so ? Wind ! is it so ? 
 All that you and I do know 
 Is that we saw fly and fix 
 'Mongst the reeds and flowers of Styx, 
 
 Yesterday, 
 Where the Furies made their hay 
 For a bed of tiger-cubs, 
 A great fly of Beelzebub's, — 
 The bee of hearts, which mortals name 
 Cupid, Love, and Fie-for-shame. 
 
 Proserpine may weep in rage. 
 But, ere I and you have done 
 Kissing, bathing in the sun. 
 What I have in yonder cage. 
 Bird or serpent, wild or tame. 
 She shall guess and ask in vain :
 
 THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES. 131 
 
 But if Pluto does it again^ 
 It shall sing out loud his shame. ^ 
 What hast caught then ? what hast caught ? 
 Nothing but a poet's thought 
 
 Which so light did fall and fix 
 'Mongst the reeds and flowers of Styx 
 
 Yesterday, 
 Where the Furies made their hay 
 For a bed of tiger-cubs, 
 A great fly of Beelzebub's, — 
 The bee of hearts, which mortals name 
 Cupid, Love, and Fie-for-shame. 
 
 HOIV MANY TIMES? 
 
 How many times do I love thee ? Dear ! 
 Tell me how many thoughts there be 
 
 In the atmosphere 
 
 Of a new-fallen year. 
 Whose white and sable hours appear 
 The latest flake of Eternity : — 
 So many times do I love thee, Dear ! 
 
 How many times do I love, again? 
 Tell me how many beads there are 
 
 In a silver chain 
 
 Of evening rain 
 Unraveled from the trembling main 
 And threading the eye of a yellow star : — 
 So many times do I love again, 
 
 SEA SONG. 
 
 To sea ! to sea! The calm is o'er : 
 
 The wanton water leaps in sport. 
 And rattles down the pebbly shore ; 
 
 The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort. 
 And unseen mermaids' pearly song 
 Comes bubbling up the weeds among.
 
 132 RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 
 
 Fling broad the sail ! dip deep the oar ! 
 To sea ! to sea ! the calm is o'er. 
 
 To sea ! to sea ! our wide-wing'd bark 
 Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, 
 
 And with its shadow, fleet and dark, 
 Break the caved Tritons' azure day : 
 
 Like mighty eagles soaring light 
 
 O'er antelopes on Alpine height. 
 
 The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, 
 
 The sail swells full : to sea ! to sea ! 
 
 RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 
 
 1S03— 
 
 GENIUS. 
 Far out at sea, — the sun was high, 
 "While veer'd the wind and flapp'd the sail, 
 We saw a snow-white butterfly 
 Dancing before the fitful gale, 
 
 Far out at sea. 
 
 The little wanderer, who had lost 
 His way, of danger nothing knew ; 
 Settled awhile upon the mast, — 
 Then flutter'd o'er the waters blue, 
 
 Far out at sea. 
 
 Above, there gleam'd the boundless sky; 
 Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen ; 
 Between them danced the butterfly. 
 The spirit-life of this vast scene, — 
 
 Far out at sea, 
 
 The tiny soul then soar'd away. 
 Seeking the clouds on fragile wings, 
 Lured by the brighter, purer ray 
 Which hope's ecstatic morning brings, — 
 
 Far out at sea.
 
 RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 133 
 
 Away he sped with shimmering glee, 
 Scarce seen, now lost, yet onward borne ! 
 Night comes, with wind and rain, and he 
 No more will dance before the Morn, 
 
 Far out at sea. 
 
 He dies, unlike his mates, I ween, 
 Perhaps not sooner or worse cross'd ; 
 And he hath felt, thought, known, and seen 
 A larger life and hope — though lost 
 
 Far out at sea. 
 
 THE LAUREL-SEED. 
 
 Marmora Jindit. 
 I. 
 
 A despot gazed on sun-set clouds. 
 
 Then sank to sleep amidst the gleam ; — 
 
 Forthwith, a myriad starving slaves 
 Must realize his lofty dream. 
 
 Year upon year, all night and day, 
 
 They toil'd, they died — and were replaced ; 
 
 At length a marble fabric rose, 
 
 With cloud-like domes and turrets graced. 
 
 No anguish of those herds of slaves 
 E'er shook one dome or wall asunder, 
 
 Nor wars of other mighty Kings, 
 Nor lustrous javelins of the thunder. 
 
 II. 
 
 One sunny morn a lonely bird 
 
 Pass'd o'er, and dropt a laurel-seed ; 
 
 The plant sprang up amidst the walls 
 
 Whose chinks were full of moss and weed. 
 
 The laurel tree grew large and strong, 
 Its roots went searching deeply down ;
 
 134 RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. 
 
 It split the marble walls of Wrong, 
 And blossom'd o'er the Despot's crown. 
 
 And in its boughs a nightingale 
 
 Sings to those world -forgotten graves ; 
 
 And o'er its head a skylark's voice 
 Consoles the spirits of the slaves. 
 
 SOLITUDE AND THE LILY. 
 THE LILY. 
 
 I bend above the moving stream, 
 And see myself in my own dream, — 
 
 Heaven passing, while I do not pass. 
 Something divine pertains to me, 
 Or I to it : reality 
 
 Escapes me on this liquid glass. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 The changeful clouds that float or poise on high 
 Emblem earth's night and day of history : 
 Renew'd for ever, evermore to die. 
 Thy life-dream is thy fleeting loveliness ; 
 But mine is concentrated consciousness, 
 A life apart from pleasure or distress. 
 The grandeur of the Whole 
 Absorbs my soul, 
 While my caves sigh o'er human littleness. 
 
 THE LILY. 
 
 Ah, Solitude ! 
 Of marble Silence fit abode, — 
 I do prefer my fading face, 
 My loss of loveliness and grace. 
 
 With cloud-dreams ever in my view; 
 Also the hope that other eyes 
 May share my rapture in the skies 
 And, if illusion, feel it true.
 
 RICHARD HENGIST HORNE. I35 
 
 THE PLOUGH. 
 
 Above yon sombre swell of land 
 
 Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue, 
 
 With one pale streak like yellow sand, 
 And over that a vein of blue. 
 
 The air is cold above the woods ; 
 
 All silent is the earth and sky, 
 Except with his own lonely moods 
 
 The blackbird holds a colloquy. 
 
 Over the broad hill creeps a beam, 
 
 Like hope that gilds a good man's brow ; 
 
 And now ascends the nostril-steam 
 Of stalwart horses come to plough. 
 
 Ye rigid Ploughmen ! bear in mind 
 
 Your labor is for future hours. 
 Advance ! spare not ! nor look behind ! 
 
 Plough deep and straight with all your powers ! 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 On me, on me 
 
 Time and Change can heap no more ! 
 The painful past with blighting grief 
 Hath left my heart a wither'd leaf : 
 Time and Change can do no more. 
 
 Earth's barbed woes 
 
 Poised on the breath of Fate's dull roar ! 
 Ye move me not, nor breed one fear ; 
 I wait your coming, and can bear : 
 Time and Change can do no more.
 
 136 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 NEWTON. 
 
 The Earth was but a platform for thy power, 
 Whereon to watch and work, by day and night ; 
 The Moon to thee was but heaven's evening flower; 
 The Sun a loftier argument of light ; 
 Each Planet was thy fellow traveler bright, 
 In vision, — and, in thought, still nearer home : 
 Throughout the Universe thy soul took flight. 
 And touch'd at suns whose rays may never come. 
 Though star-tranced Tycho and the thought sublime 
 Of Kepler fatliom'd Heaven's infinity, 
 To thee 'twas left to prove the laws that chime 
 Through spheres and atoms, — being, and to be : 
 Profound alike in thy humility, — 
 " A child that gather'd shells, kneeling beside the sea." 
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 1803— 1882. 
 
 THE PROBLEM. 
 
 I like a church, I like a cowl, 
 
 I love a prophet of the soul ; 
 
 And on my heart monastic aisles 
 
 Fall like sweet strains or pensive smiles 
 
 Yet not for all his faith can see 
 
 W^ould I that cowled churchman be. 
 
 Why should the vest on him allure 
 Which 1 could not on me endure? 
 
 Not from a vain or shallow thought 
 
 His awful Jove young Phidias brought ; 
 
 Never from lips of cunning fell 
 
 The thrilling Delphic oracle ; 
 
 Out from the heart of Nature roll'd 
 
 The burdens of the Bible old ;
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. I37 
 
 The litanies of nations came, 
 Like the volcano's tongue of flame, 
 Up from the burning core below, — 
 The canticles of love and woe ; 
 The hand that rounded Peter's dome 
 And groin'd the aisles of Christian Rome 
 Wrought in a sad sincerity : 
 Himself from God he could not free ; 
 He builded better than he knew : 
 The conscious stone to beauty grew. 
 
 Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest 
 
 Of leaves and feathers from her breast ? 
 
 Or how the fish outbuilt her shell. 
 
 Painting with morn each annual cell ? 
 
 Or how the sacred pine-tree adds 
 
 To her old leaves new myriads ? 
 
 Such and so grew these holy piles, 
 
 "Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. 
 
 Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, 
 
 As the best gem upon her zone ; 
 
 And Morning opes with haste her lids, 
 
 To gaze upon the Pyramids ; 
 
 O'er England's Abbeys bends the sky, 
 
 As on its friends, with kindred eye : 
 
 For out of Thought's interior sphere 
 
 These wonders rose to upper air; 
 
 And Nature gladly gave them place, 
 
 Adopted them into her race, 
 
 And granted them an equal date 
 
 With Andes and with Ararat. 
 
 These temples grew, as grows the grass : 
 
 Art might obey, but not surpass. 
 
 The passive Master lent his hand 
 
 To the vast Soul that o'er him plann'd ; 
 
 And the same Power that rear'd the shrine
 
 138 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
 Ever the fiery Pentecost 
 Girds with one flame the countless host, 
 Trances the heart through chanting choirs, 
 And through the priest the mind inspires. 
 
 The Word unto the prophet spoken 
 Was writ on tablets yet unbroken ; 
 The Word by seers or sybils told, 
 In groves of oak or fanes of gold. 
 Still floats upon the morning wind. 
 Still whispers to the willing mind. 
 One accent of the Holy Ghost 
 The heedless world hath never lost. 
 I know what say the Fathers wise : 
 The Book itself before me lies, 
 Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, 
 And he who blent both in his line, 
 The younger Golden-Lips (or Mines) — 
 Taylor, the Shakespeare of Divines. 
 His words are music in my ear ; 
 I see his cowled portrait dear : 
 And yet, for all his faith could see, 
 I would not the good bishop be. 
 
 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Burly, dozing Humble-Bee ! 
 Where thou art is clime for me. 
 Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
 Far off heats through seas to seek ! 
 I will follow thee alone. 
 Thou animated Torrid Zone ! 
 Zigzag steerer ! desert cheerer ! 
 Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singing over shrubs and vines !
 
 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 139 
 
 Insect lover of the sun ! 
 
 Joy of thy dominion ! 
 
 Sailor of the atmosphere ! 
 
 Swimmer through the waves of air ! 
 
 Voyager of light and noon ! 
 
 Epicurean of June ! 
 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 
 Within earshot of thy hum ! 
 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 
 When the South wind, in May days, 
 With a net of shining haze 
 Silvers the horizon wall. 
 And, with softness touching all, 
 Tints the human countenance 
 With a colour of romance, — 
 And, infusing subtle heats, 
 Turns the sod to violets, — 
 Tliou in sunny solitudes. 
 Rover of the underwoods ! 
 The green silence dost displace 
 With thy mellow breezy bass. 
 
 Hot Midsummer's petted crone ! 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone, 
 Tells of countless sunny hours, 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
 In Indian wildernesses found ; 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
 Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure. 
 
 Aught unsavory or unclean 
 
 Hath my Insect never seen ; 
 
 But violets and bilberry bells, 
 
 Maple sap, and daffodels, 
 
 Grass with green flag half-mast high,
 
 I40 RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 
 
 Succory to match the sky, 
 Columbine with horn of honey, 
 Scented fern, and agrimony, 
 Clover, catch-fly, adder's tongue, 
 And briar roses dwelt among. 
 All beside was unknown waste : 
 All was picture as he pass'd. 
 
 Wiser far than human seer, 
 Yellow-breech'd philosopher ! 
 Seeing only what is fair, 
 Sipping only what is sweet. 
 Thou dost mock at Fate and Care, 
 Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
 When the fierce North- Western blast 
 Cools sea and land so far and fast. 
 Thou already slumberest deep. 
 Woe and want thou canst outsleep ; 
 Want and woe, which torture us, 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
 
 TO EVA. 
 
 O fair and stately Maid ! whose eyes 
 Were kindled in the upper skies 
 At the same torch that lighted mine, — 
 For so I must interpret still 
 Thy sweet dominion o'er my will, 
 A sympathy divine : 
 
 Ah ! let me blameless gaze upon 
 
 Features that seem in heart my own ; 
 
 Nor fear those watchful sentinels 
 
 Which charm the more their glance forbids,- 
 
 Chaste-glowing underneath their lids 
 
 With fire that draws while it repels.
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. HI 
 
 THE APOLOGY. 
 
 Think me not unkind and rude 
 
 That I walk alone in grove and glen! 
 
 I go to the God of the Wood, 
 To fetch his word to men. 
 
 Tax not my sloth that I 
 
 Fold my arms beside the brook ! 
 Each cloud that floateth in the sky 
 
 Writes a letter in my book. 
 
 Chide me not, laborious band ! 
 
 For the idle flowers I brought : 
 Every aster in my hand 
 
 Goes home loaded with a thought. 
 
 There was never mystery 
 
 But 'tis figured in the flowers ; 
 
 Was never secret history 
 
 But birds tell it in the bowers. 
 
 One harvest from thy field 
 
 Homeward brought the oxen strong : 
 A second crop thine acres yield, 
 
 Which I gather in a song. 
 
 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 1803 — 1840. 
 
 IN TIIY MEMORY. 
 
 A place in thy memory, Dearest! 
 
 Is all that I claim : 
 To pause and look back when thou hearest 
 
 The sound of my name. 
 Another may woo thee, nearer ;
 
 142 GERALD GRIFFIN. 
 
 Another may win and wear : 
 I care not though he be dearer, 
 If I am remember'd there. 
 
 Remember me, not as a lover 
 
 Whose hope was cross'd, 
 Whose bosom can never recover 
 
 The hght it hath lost ! 
 As the young bride remembers the mother 
 
 She loves, though she never may see, 
 As a sister remembers a brother, 
 
 O Dearest ! remember me ! 
 
 Could I be thy true lover, Dearest ! 
 
 Couldst thou smile on me, 
 I would be the fondest and nearest 
 
 That ever loved thee : 
 But a cloud on my pathway is glooming 
 
 That never must burst upon thine ; 
 And heaven, that made thee all blooming, 
 
 Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 
 
 Remember me then ! O remember 
 
 My calm light love ! 
 Though bleak as the blasts of November 
 
 My life may prove. 
 That life will, though lonely, be sweet 
 
 If its brightest enjoyment should be 
 A smile and kind word when wc meet 
 
 And a place in thy memory. 
 
 MAIDEN EYES. 
 
 You never bade me hope, 'tis true ; 
 
 I ask'd you not to swear : 
 But 1 look'd in those eyes of blue. 
 
 And read a promise there.
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 143 
 
 The vow should bind, with maiden sighs 
 
 That maiden lips have spoken : 
 But that which looks from maiden eyes 
 
 Should last of all be broken. 
 
 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 
 1803 — 1849. 
 
 SOUL AND COUNTRY. 
 
 Arise, my slumbering soul ! arise ! 
 And learn what yet remains for thee 
 
 To dree or do : 
 The signs are flaming in the skies ; 
 A struggling world would yet be free, 
 
 And live anew. 
 The earthquake hath not yet been born 
 That soon shall rock the lands around, 
 
 Beneath their base ; 
 Immortal Freedom's thunder horn 
 As yet yields but a doleful sound 
 
 To Europe's race. 
 
 Look round, my soul ! and see, and say 
 If those about thee understand 
 
 Their iTiission here : 
 The will to smite, the power to slay. 
 Abound in every heart and hand 
 
 Afar, anear ; 
 But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword 
 Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year ? 
 
 O, dream it not ! 
 It sounds a false, blaspheming word. 
 Begot and born of moral fear. 
 
 And ill-begot. 
 
 To leave the world a name is nought : 
 To leave a name for glorious deeds
 
 144 SAMUEL LAMAN BLANXHARD. 
 
 And works of love, 
 A name to waken lightning thought 
 And fire the soul of him who reads, 
 
 This tells above. 
 Napoleon sinks to-day before 
 The ungilded shrine, the single soul 
 
 Of Washington : 
 Truth's name alone shall man adore 
 Long as the waves of Time shall roll 
 
 Henceforward on ! 
 
 My countrymen ! my words are weali : 
 My health is gone, my soul is dark. 
 
 My heart is chill ; 
 Yet would I fain and fondly seek 
 To see you borne in freedom's bark 
 
 O'er ocean still. 
 Beseech your God ! and bide your hour ! 
 He can not, will not long be dumb : 
 
 Even now his tread 
 Is heard o'er earth with coming power; 
 And coming (trust me !) it will come, — 
 
 Else were He dead. 
 
 SAMUEL LAMAN BLANCHARD. 
 
 1803—1845. 
 
 NELL G WYNNE'S LOOKING-GLASS. 
 
 Glass antique ! 'twi.Kt thee and Nell 
 
 Draw we here a parallel ! 
 
 She like thee was forced to bear 
 
 All reflections, foul or fair. 
 
 Thou art deep and bright within, — 
 Depths as bright belong'd to Gwynne ; 
 Thou art very frail as well, 
 Frail as flesh is, — so was Nell.
 
 SAMUEL LAMAN BLANCHARD. 145 
 
 Thou, her glass, art silver-lined, — 
 She too had a silver mind ; 
 Thine is fresh to this far day, — 
 Hers till death ne'er wore away : 
 
 Thou dost to thy surface win 
 
 Wandering glances, — so did Gwynne ; 
 
 Eyes on thee long love to dwell, — 
 
 So men's eyes would do on Nell. 
 
 Life-like forms in thee are sought, — 
 
 Such the forms the Actress wrought ; 
 
 Truth unfailing rests in you, — 
 
 Nell, whate'er she was, was true : 
 Clear as virtue, dull as sin, 
 Thou art oft, — as oft was Gwynne ; 
 Breathe on thee, and drops will swell, — 
 Bright tears dimm'd the eyes of Nell. 
 
 Thine's a frame to charm the sight, — 
 Framed was she to give delight ; 
 Waxen forms here, truly, show 
 Charles above and Nell below 
 
 (But between them, chin with chin, 
 
 Stuart stands as low as Gwynne), 
 
 Pair'd yet parted, — mean'd to tell 
 
 Charles was opposite to Nell. 
 
 Round the glass, wherein her face 
 Smiled so oft, her Arms we trace : 
 Thou, her mirror, hast the pair — 
 Lion here and leopard there. 
 
 She had part in these : akin 
 
 To the lion-heart was Gwynne ; 
 
 And the leopard's beauty fell, 
 
 With its spots, to bounding Nell. 
 
 Oft inspected, ne'er seen through, 
 Thou art firm, if brittle too : 
 II.— 10
 
 146 ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER. 
 
 So her will, on good intent, 
 Might be broken, never bent. 
 
 What the glass was when therein 
 
 Beam'd the face of glad Nell Gwynne 
 
 Was that face by beauty's spell 
 
 To the honest soul of Nell. 
 
 ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER. 
 1804— 1875. 
 
 IS HA CHERIOTH. 
 
 They say his sin was dark and deep, 
 
 Men shudder at his name ; 
 They spurn at me because I weep, 
 
 They call my sorrow shame. 
 
 I know not ! I remember well 
 
 Our city's' native street, 
 The path, the olive trees, the dell 
 
 Where Cherioth's daughters meet : 
 
 And there, where clustering vineyards rest 
 
 And palms look forth above. 
 He kindled in my maiden breast 
 
 The glory of his love. 
 
 He left me, — but with holier thought. 
 
 Bound for a mightier scene : 
 In proud Capernaum's path he sought 
 
 The noble Nazarene. 
 
 They tell of treachery, bought and sold 
 (Perchance their words be truth) ; 
 
 I only see the scenes of old ; 
 I hear his voice in youth. 
 
 And I will sit, as Rizpah sate, 
 Where life and hope are fled :
 
 ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER. 147 
 
 I sought him not in happier state, — 
 I will not leave my Dead. 
 
 No ! I must weep, though all around 
 
 Be hatred and despair : 
 One sigh shall soothe this fatal ground, — 
 
 A Cherioth maiden's prayer. 
 
 THE WAIL OF THE CORNISH MOTHER. 
 
 They say 'tis a sin to sorrow. 
 
 That what God doth is best : 
 But 'tis only a month to-morrow 
 
 I buried it from my breast. 
 
 I know it should be a pleasure 
 
 Your child to God to send : 
 But mine was a precious treasure 
 
 To me and to my poor friend. 
 
 I thought it would call me Mother, 
 
 The very first words it said : 
 O, I never can love another 
 
 Like the blessed babe that's dead. 
 
 Well ! God is its own dear Father ; 
 
 It was carried to church, and bless'd ; 
 And our Saviour's arms will gather 
 
 Such children to their rest. 
 
 I will make my best endeavour 
 
 That my sins may be forgiven ; 
 I will serve God more than ever : 
 
 To meet my child in heaven. 
 
 I will check this foolish sorrow, 
 
 For what God doth is best — 
 But O, 'tis a month to-morrow 
 
 I buried it from my breast !
 
 148 SIR WILLIAM ROWAN HAMILTON. 
 
 SARAH FLOWER ADAMS. 
 1805 — 1849. 
 
 THE OLIVE BOUGHS. 
 
 They bear the hero from the fight, dying ; 
 
 But the foe is flying : 
 They lay him down beneath the shade 
 By the olive branches made : 
 
 The olive boughs are sighing. 
 
 He hears the wind among the leaves, dying ; 
 
 But the foe is flying : 
 He hears the voice that used to be 
 When he sat beneath the tree : 
 
 The olive boughs are sighing. 
 
 Comes the mist around his brow, dying ; 
 
 But the foe is flying : 
 Comes that form of peace so fair, — 
 Stretch his hands unto the air : 
 
 The olive boughs are sighing. 
 
 Fadeth life as fadeth day, dying ; 
 
 But the foe is flying : 
 There's an urn beneath the shade 
 By the olive branches made : 
 
 The olive boughs are sighing. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM ROWAN HAMILTON. 
 1805—1865. 
 
 A PRAYER. 
 
 O brooding Spirit of Wisdom and of Love ! 
 Whose mighty wings even now o'ershadow me,- 
 Absorb me in thine own immensity, 
 And raise me far my finite self above ! 
 Purge vanity away, and the weak care
 
 THOMAS WADE. 149 
 
 That name or fame of me may widely spread ; 
 
 And the deep wish keep burning in their stead 
 
 Thy blissful influence afar to bear, 
 
 Or see it borne ! Let no desire of ease, 
 
 No lack of courage, faith, or love, delay 
 
 Mine own steps on that high thought-paven way 
 
 In which my soul her clear commission sees : 
 
 Yet with an equal joy let me behold 
 
 Thy chariot o'er that way by others roll'd ! 
 
 THOMAS WADE. 
 
 1805—1876. 
 
 THE NET-BRAIDERS. 
 
 Within a low-thatch'd hut, built in a lane 
 
 Whose narrow pathway tends toward the ocean, 
 
 A solitude which, save of some rude swain 
 
 Or fisherman, doth scarce know human motion, — 
 
 Or of some silent poet to the main 
 Straying, to offer infinite devotion 
 
 To God in the free universe, — there dwelt 
 
 Two women old, to whom small store was dealt 
 
 Of the world's mis-named good, mother and child. 
 Both aged and mateless. These two life sustain'd 
 
 By braiding fishing-nets; and so beguil'd 
 
 Time and their cares, and little e'er complain'd 
 
 Of Fate or Providence : resign'd and mild, 
 
 Whilst day by day, for years, their hour-glass rain'd 
 
 Its trickling sand, to track the wing of Time, 
 
 They toil'd in peace : and much there was sublime 
 
 In their obscure contentment : of mankind 
 
 They little knew, or reck'd ; but for their being 
 
 They bless'd their Maker, with a simple mind ; 
 And in the constant gaze of his all-seeing
 
 I50 THOMAS WADE. 
 
 Eye, to his poorest creatures never blind, 
 
 Deeming they dwelt, they bore their sorrows fleeing, 
 Glad still to live, but not afraid to die, 
 In calm expectance of Eternity. 
 
 And since I first did greet those braiders poor, 
 
 If ever I behold fair women's cheeks 
 Sin-pale in stately mansions, where the door 
 
 Is shut to all but Pride, my cleft heart seeks 
 For refuge in my thoughts, — which then explore 
 
 That pathway lone near which the wild sea breaks : 
 And to Imagination's humble eyes 
 That hut, with all its want, is Paradise. 
 
 NYMPHS. 
 
 Beautiful Things of Old ! why are ye gone for ever 
 Out of the earth ? O, why ? 
 Dryad and Oread, and ye, Nereids blue ! 
 Whose presence woods and hills and sea-rocks knew. 
 Ye have pass'd from Faith's dim eye. 
 And save by poet's lip your names are honour'd never. 
 
 The sun on the calm sea sheddeth a golden glory. 
 The rippling waves break whitely. 
 The sands are level and the shingle bright, 
 The green cliffs v/ear the pomp of heaven's light, 
 And sea-weeds idle lightly 
 Over the rocks ; but ye appear not, Dreams of Story ! 
 
 Nymphs of the Sea ! Faith's heart hath fled from ye — liath 
 fled; 
 
 Ye are her boasted scorn ; 
 Save to the poet's soul, the sculptor's thought. 
 The painter's fancy, ye are now as nought : 
 Mute is old Triton's horn, 
 And with it half the voice of the Old World is dead.
 
 JOHN STERLING. 151 
 
 Our creeds are not less vain ; our sleeping life still dreams ; 
 The present, like the past, 
 Passes in joy and sorrow, love and shame ; 
 Truth dwells as deep ; wisdom is yet a name ; 
 Life still to death flies fast ; 
 And the same shrouded light from the dark future gleams. 
 
 Spirits of vale and hill, of river and of ocean, — 
 Ye thousand deities ! 
 Over the earth be president again ; 
 And dance upon the mountain and the main 
 In view of mortal eyes : 
 Love us, and be beloved, with the Old Time's devotion ! 
 
 JOHN STERLING. 
 1806— 1844. 
 
 D^DALUS. 
 
 Wail for Daedalus, all that is fairest ! 
 
 All that is tuneful in air or wave ! 
 Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest. 
 
 Haunt with your lamps and spells his grave ! 
 
 Statues ! bend your heads in sorrow : 
 
 Ye that glance amid ruins old, 
 That know not a past nor expect a morrow, 
 
 On many a moonlight Grecian wold. 
 
 By sculptured cave and speaking river, 
 Thee, Daedalus ! oft the Nymphs recall ; 
 
 The leaves with a sound of winter quiver, 
 Murmur thy name, and withering fall. 
 
 Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest 
 Of all that crowd on the tear-dimm'd eye, 
 
 Though, Daedalus ! thou no more commandest 
 New stars to that ever widening sky.
 
 152 JOHN STERLING. 
 
 Ever thy phantoms arise before us, 
 Our loftier brothers, but one in blood; 
 
 By bed and table they lord it o'er us, 
 With looks of beauty and words of good. 
 
 Calmly they show us mankind victorious 
 O'er all that is aimless, blind, and base ; 
 
 Their presence has made our nature glorious, 
 Unveiling our night's illumined face. 
 
 Thy toil has won them a god-like quiet; 
 
 Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely sphere; 
 Their eyes to peace rebuke our riot 
 
 And shape us a home of refuge here. 
 
 For Daedalus breathed in them his spirit; 
 
 In them their sire his beauty sees : 
 We too, a younger brood, inherit 
 
 The gifts and blessings bestow'd on these. 
 
 But ah ! their wise and graceful seeming 
 Recalls the more that the Sage is gone : 
 
 Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming 
 And find our voiceless chamber lone. 
 
 Dasdalus ! thou froin the twilight fleest 
 
 Which thou with visions hast made so bright ; 
 
 And when no more those shapes thou seest, 
 Wanting thine eye they lose their light. 
 
 Even in the noblest of Man's creations, 
 Those fresh worlds round this old of ours. 
 
 When the Seer is gone, the orphan'd nations 
 Sec but the tombs of perish'd powers. 
 
 Wail for Daedalus, Earth and Ocean ! 
 
 Stars and Sun ! lament for him ; 
 Ages ! quake in strange commotion ; 
 
 All ve realms of Life ! be dim !
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 1 53 
 
 Wail for Daedalus ! awful Voices 
 
 From earth's deep centre mankind appal. 
 
 Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices : 
 For he knows that then the Mightiest fall. 
 
 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 
 1806 — 1870. 
 
 THE LOST PLEIAD. 
 
 Not in the sky, 
 
 Where it was seen. 
 
 Nor on the white tops of the glistening wave, 
 
 Nor in the mansions of the hidden deep 
 
 (Though green 
 
 And beautiful its caves of mystery) 
 
 Shall the bright watcher have 
 
 A place, and as of old high station keep. 
 
 Gone ! gone ! 
 
 O. never more to cheer 
 
 The mariner who holds his course alone 
 
 On the Atlantic, through the weary night 
 
 When the stars turn to watchers and do sleep, 
 
 Shall it appear, 
 
 With the sweet fixedness of certain light 
 
 Down-shining on the shut eyes of the deep. 
 
 Vain ! vain ! 
 
 Hopeful most idly then shall he look forth. 
 
 That mariner from his bark. 
 
 Howe'er the North 
 
 Doth raise his certain lamp when tempests lower, 
 
 He sees no more that perish'd light again ; 
 
 And gloomier grows the hour 
 
 Which may not, through the thick and crowding dark, 
 
 Restore that lost and loved One to licr tower.
 
 154 WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. 
 
 He looks, — the shepherd on Chaldea's hills 
 
 Tending his flocks, — 
 
 And wonders the rich beacon doth not blaze, 
 
 Gladdening his gaze, 
 
 And from his dreary watch along the rocks 
 
 Guiding him safely home through perilous ways. 
 
 How stands he in amaze, 
 
 Still wondering as the drowsy silence fills 
 
 The sorrowful scene and every hour distils 
 
 Its leaden dews ! how chafes he at the night, 
 
 Still slow to bring the expected and SAv.eet light 
 
 So natural to his sight ! 
 
 And lone, 
 
 Where its first splendours shone. 
 
 Shall be that pleasant company of stars : 
 
 How should they know that death 
 
 Such perfect beauty mars ? 
 
 And, like the earth, its common bloom and breath, 
 
 Fallen from on high, 
 
 Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die, — 
 
 All their concerted springs of harmony 
 
 Snapp'd rudely, and the generous music gone. 
 
 A strain, a inellow strain 
 
 Of wailing sweetness, fiU'd the earth and sky : 
 The stars lamenting in unborrow'd pain 
 That one of the Selected Ones must die, 
 Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest ! 
 Alas ! 'tis evermore the destiny : 
 The hope heart-cherish'd is the soonest lost ; 
 The flower first budded soonest feels the frost : 
 Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest? 
 And, like the pale star shooting down the sky, 
 Look they not ever brightest when they fly 
 The desolate home they bless'd ?
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 1 55 
 
 NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. 
 
 1S07— 1867. 
 
 TWO WOMEN. 
 The shadows lay along Broadway, 
 
 'Twas near the twilight-tide, 
 And slowly there a Lady fair 
 
 Was walking in her pride : 
 Alone walk'd she ; but viewlessly 
 
 Walk'd spirits at her side. 
 
 Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, 
 And lionour charm'd the air; 
 
 And all astir look'd kind on her, 
 And call'd her good as fair : 
 
 For all God ever gave to her 
 She kept with chary care. 
 
 She kept with care her beauties rare 
 
 From lovers warm and true. 
 For her heart was cold to all but gold, 
 
 And the rich came not to woo : 
 But honour'd well are charms to sell, 
 
 If priests the selling do. 
 
 Now walking there was One more fair, 
 
 A slight Girl, lily pale ; 
 And she had unseen company 
 
 To make the spirit quail : 
 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn 
 
 And nothing could avail. 
 
 No mercy now can clear her brow 
 For this world's peace to pray : 
 
 For as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, 
 Her woman's heart gave way : 
 
 But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven 
 By man is cursed alway.
 
 156 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 1807— 1882. 
 
 THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air ; 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where : 
 For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
 Could not follow it in its flight. 
 
 I breathed a song into the air ; 
 It fell to earth, I knew not where : 
 For who has sight so keen and strong, 
 That it can follow the flight of song ? 
 
 Long, long afterward, in an oak 
 I found the arrow, still unbroke ; 
 And the song, from beginning to end, 
 I found again in the heart of a friend. 
 
 THE LIGHT OF STARS. 
 
 The night is come, but not too soon ; 
 
 And sinking silently, 
 All silently, the little moon 
 
 Drops down behind the sky. 
 
 There is no light in earth or heaven 
 But the cold light of stars ; 
 
 And the first watch of night is given 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 Is it the tender star of love. 
 The star of love and dreams ? 
 
 O no ! from that blue tent above 
 A hero's armour gleams. 
 
 And earnest thoughts within me rise 
 When I behold afar,
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 157 
 
 Suspended in the evening skies, 
 The shield of that red star. 
 
 star of strength ! I see thee stand 
 And smile upon my pain ; 
 
 Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
 And I am strong again. 
 
 Within my breast there is no light 
 But the cold light of stars : 
 
 1 give the first watch of the night 
 
 To the red planet Mars. 
 
 The star of the unconquer'd will : 
 
 He rises in my breast, 
 Serene, and resolute, and still, 
 
 And calm, and self-possess'd. 
 
 And thou too, whosoe'er thou art. 
 
 That readest this brief psalm ! 
 As one by one thy hopes depart. 
 
 Be resolute and calm ! 
 
 O, fear not in a world like this ! 
 
 And thou shalt know ere long, 
 Know how sublime a thing it is 
 
 To suffer and be strong. 
 
 THE CUMBERLAND. 
 
 At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay. 
 
 On board of the Cumberland, sloop of war ; 
 
 And at times from the fortress across the bay 
 
 The alarum of drums swept past, 
 Or a bugle blast 
 From the camp on the shore. 
 
 Then far away to the South uprose 
 A little feather of snow-white smoke ;
 
 158 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And we knew that the iron ship of our foes 
 Was steadily steering its course 
 
 To try the force 
 
 Of our ribs of oak. 
 
 Down upon us heavily runs, 
 Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; 
 Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, 
 And leaps the terrible death 
 
 With fiery breath 
 
 From each open port. 
 
 We are not idle, but send her straight 
 Defiance back in a full broadside : 
 As hail rebounds from a roof of slate. 
 Rebounds our heavier hail 
 
 From each iron scale 
 
 Of the monster's hide. 
 
 " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, 
 In his arrogant old plantation strain ; 
 
 " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies, — 
 
 " It is better to sink than to yield." 
 
 And the whole air peal'd 
 With the cheers of our men. 
 
 Then, like a kraken huge and black, 
 She crush'd our ribs in her iron grasp : 
 Down went the Cumberland, all a wrack, 
 With a sudden shudder of death 
 
 And the cannon's breath 
 
 For her dying gasp. 
 
 Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay. 
 
 Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. 
 
 Lord ! how beautiful was thy day : 
 
 Every waft of the air 
 
 Was a whisper of prayer. 
 Or a dirge for the Dead.
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 1 59 
 
 Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! 
 Ye are at peace in the troubled stream ; 
 Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these 
 Thy flag, that is rent in twain, 
 
 Shall be one again, 
 
 And without a seam ! 
 
 EXCELSIOR. 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast 
 As through an Alpine village pass'd 
 A youth who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
 A banner with the strange device — 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 His brow was sad, his eye beneath 
 Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath ; 
 And like a silver clarion rung 
 The accents of that unknown tongue — 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 In happy homes he saw the light 
 Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
 Above, the spectral glaciers shone : 
 And from his lips escaped a groan — 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 Try not the Pass ! " the old man said ; 
 Dark lowers the tempest over-head. 
 The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! " 
 And loud that clarion voice replied — 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 a 
 
 O Stay ! " the maiden said, " and rest 
 Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
 A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
 But still he answer'd, with a sigh, 
 
 Excelsior !
 
 l6o HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 
 
 " Beware the pine-tree's witlier'd branch ! 
 Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
 This was the peasant's last Good-night : 
 A voice replied, far up the heiglit, 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 At break of day, as heavenward 
 The pious monks of St. Bernard 
 Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer, 
 A voice cried through the startled air — 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
 Half-buried in the snow was found, 
 Still grasping in his hand of ice 
 That banner with the strange device — 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 There, in the twilight cold and grey, 
 Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
 And from the sky, serene and far, 
 A voice fell like a falling star — 
 
 Excelsior ! 
 
 THE RAINY DA V. 
 
 The day is cold and dark and dreary ; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, 
 But at every gust the dead leaves fall : 
 And the day is dark and dreary. 
 
 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
 It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
 My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 
 But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 
 And the days are dark and dreary.
 
 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. l6l 
 
 Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining : 
 Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all : 
 Into each life some rain must fall, 
 Some days must be dark and dreary. 
 
 CHILDREN. 
 
 Come to me, O ye children ! 
 
 For I hear you at your play : 
 And the questions that perplex'd me 
 
 Have vanish'd quite away. 
 
 Ye open the Eastern windows 
 
 That look toward the sun, 
 Where thoughts are singing swallows 
 
 And the brooks of morning run. 
 
 In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, 
 In your thoughts the brooklets flow : 
 
 But in mine is the wind of Autumn 
 And the first fall of the snow. 
 
 Ah ! what would the world be to us. 
 
 If the children were no more ? 
 We should dread the desert behind us 
 
 Worse than the dark before. 
 
 What the leaves are to the forest, 
 
 With light and air for food, 
 Ere their sweet and tender juices 
 
 Have been harden'd into wood, — 
 
 That to the world are children : 
 
 Through them it feels the glow 
 Of a brighter and sunnier climate 
 
 Than reaches the trunks below. 
 
 Come to me, O ye children! 
 And whisper in my ear 
 II.— II
 
 j62 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 What the birds and the winds are singing 
 In your sunny atmosphere. 
 
 For what are all our contrivings, 
 
 And the wisdom of our books, 
 When compared with your caresses 
 
 And the gladness of your looks ? 
 
 Ye are better than all the ballads 
 
 That ever were sung or said : 
 For ye are living poems, 
 
 And all the rest are dead. 
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 1807— 
 
 \ 
 
 IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 
 Still sits the school-house by the road, 
 
 A ragged beggar, sunning : 
 Around it still the sumachs grow. 
 
 And blackberry vines are running. 
 
 \i ^et/ Within the master's desk is seen, 
 
 ^^-' r ' Deep-scarr'd by raps official ; 
 
 " y The warping floor, the batter'd seats, 
 -^^^ lA-x ^j^g jack-knife's carved initial ; 
 
 The charcoal frescoes on its wall ; 
 
 Its door's worn sill, betraying 
 The feet that, creeping slow to school. 
 
 Went storming out to playing. 
 
 Long years ago a winter sun 
 Shone over it at setting ; 
 
 Lit up its Western window panes 
 And low eaves icy fretting. 
 
 It touch'd the tangled golden curls, 
 And brown eyes full of grieving.
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 16^ 
 
 Of One who still her steps delay'd 
 When all the school were leaving. 
 
 For near her stood the little boy 
 
 Her childish favour singled, 
 His cap puU'd low upon a face 
 
 Where pride and shame were mingled. 
 
 Pushing with restless feet the snow 
 
 To right and left, he linger'd, 
 As restlessly her tiny hands 
 
 The blue-check'd apron finger' d. 
 
 He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt 
 
 The soft hand's light caressing ; 
 And heard the tremble of her voice, 
 
 As if a fault confessing : 
 
 " I'm sorry that I spell'd the word ; 
 I hate to go above you. 
 Because " (the brown eyes lower fell), 
 " Because, you see, I love you." 
 
 Still memory to a grey-hair'd man 
 That sweet child-face is showing : 
 
 Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave 
 Have forty years been growing. 
 
 He lives to learn, in life's hard school, 
 
 How few who pass above him 
 Lament their triumph and his loss, 
 
 Like her, — because they love him. 
 
 TELLING THE BEES. 
 
 Here is the place : right over the hill 
 
 Runs the path I took ; 
 You can see the gap in the old wall still, 
 
 And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
 
 1 64 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 There is the house, with the gate red-barr'd, 
 
 And the poplars tall, 
 And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard, 
 
 And the white horns tossing above the wall. 
 
 There are the bee -hives ranged in the sun ; 
 
 And down by the brink 
 Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed o'er-run, 
 
 Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. 
 
 A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, 
 
 Heavy and slow; 
 And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows. 
 
 And the same brook sings, of a year ago. 
 
 There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze ; 
 
 And the June sun warm 
 Tangles his wings of fire in the trees. 
 
 Setting, as then, over Fernside Farm. 
 
 I mind me how, with a lover's care, 
 
 From my Sunday coat 
 I brush'd off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, 
 
 And cool'd at the brookside my brow and throat. 
 
 Since we parted a month had pass'd, — 
 
 To love a year ; 
 Down through the beeches I look'd at Inst 
 
 On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. 
 
 I can see it all now, — the slant-wise rain 
 
 Of light through the leaves, 
 The sun-down's blaze on her window-pane, 
 
 The bloom of her roses under the eaves. 
 
 Just the same as a month before, 
 
 The house and the trees. 
 The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, — 
 
 Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 165 
 
 Before them, under the garden wall, 
 
 Forward and back, 
 Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, 
 
 Draping each hive with a shred of black. 
 
 Trembling I listen'd : the summer sun 
 
 Had the chill of snow ; 
 For I knew she was telling the bees of One 
 
 Gone on the journey we all must go. 
 
 Then I said to myself — My Mary weeps 
 
 For the Dead to-day : 
 Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps 
 
 The fret and the pain of his age away. 
 
 But her dog whined low ; on the doorway sill. 
 
 With his cane to his chin, 
 The old man sat ; and the chore -girl still 
 
 Sang to the bees stealing out and in. 
 
 And the song she was singing ever since 
 In my ear sounds on : 
 " Stay at home, pretty bees ! fly not hence ! 
 Mistress Mary is dead and gone ! " 
 
 ICHABOD. 
 
 So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 
 
 Which once he wore ! 
 The glory from his grey hairs gone 
 
 For evermore ! 
 
 Revile him not ! the Tempter hath 
 
 A snare for all ; 
 And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, 
 
 Befit his fall. 
 
 O ! dumb be passion's stormy rage, 
 
 When he who might 
 Have lighted up and led his age 
 
 Falls back in night !
 
 l66 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 
 
 Scorn ? Would the angels laugh to mark 
 
 A bright soul driven, 
 Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark 
 
 From hope and heaven ? 
 
 Let not the land once proud of him 
 
 Insult him now ; 
 Nor brand with deeper shame his dim 
 
 Dishonour'd brow ! 
 
 But let its humbled sons, instead, 
 
 From sea to lake 
 A long lament as for the Dead 
 
 In sadness make ! 
 
 Of all we loved and honour'd nought 
 
 Save power remains, — 
 A fallen angel's pride of thought, 
 
 Still strong in chains. 
 
 'to 
 
 All else is gone ; from those great eyes 
 
 The soul hath fled : 
 When faith is lost, when honour dies, 
 
 The Man is dead. 
 
 Then pay the reverence of old days 
 
 To his dead fame : 
 Walk backward, with averted gaze. 
 
 And hide the shame ! 
 
 THE RIVER-PATH. 
 
 No bird-song floated down the hill. 
 The tangled bank below was still ; 
 No rustle from the birchen stem, 
 No ripple from the water's hem : 
 The dusk of twilight round us grew. 
 We felt the falling of the dew,
 
 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 167 
 
 For from us ere the day was done 
 
 The wooded hills shut out the sun. 
 
 But on the river's farther side 
 
 We saw the hill-tops glorified : 
 
 A tender glow, exceeding fair, 
 
 A dream of day without its glare : 
 
 With us the damp, the chill, the gloom ; 
 
 With them the sunset's rosy bloom : 
 
 While dark, through willowy vistas seen, 
 
 The river roll'd in shade between. 
 
 From out the darkness where we trod 
 
 We gazed upon those hills of God, 
 
 Whose light seem'd not of moon or sun. 
 
 We spake not, but our thought was one. 
 
 We paused, as if from that bright shore 
 
 Beckon'd our Dear Ones gone before; 
 
 And still'd our beating hearts to hear 
 
 The voices lost to mortal ear. 
 
 Sudden our pathway turn'd from night: 
 
 The hills swung open to the light ; 
 
 Through their green gates the sunshine show'd, 
 
 A long slant splendour downward flow'd : 
 
 Down glade and glen and bank it roU'd ; 
 
 It bridged the shaded stream with gold ; 
 
 And, borne on piers of mist, allied 
 
 The shadowy with the sunlit side. 
 
 So (pray'd we), when our feet draw near 
 The river dark with mortal fear, 
 And the night cometh chill with dew, 
 O Father ! let thy light break through! 
 So let the hills of doubt divide ! 
 So bridge with faith the sunless tide ! 
 So let the eyes that fail on earth 
 On thy eternal hills look forth, 
 And in thy beckoning Angels know 
 The Dear Ones whom we loved below !
 
 l68 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 
 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 
 1807— 
 
 THE LENT JEWELS. 
 
 In schools of wisdom all the day was spent : 
 His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent, 
 With homeward thoughts which dwelt upon the wife 
 And two fair children who consoled his life. 
 She, meeting at the threshold, led him in. 
 And, with these words preventing, did begin : — 
 " Ever rejoicing at your wish'd return, 
 
 Yet am I most so now : for since this morn 
 
 I have been much perplex'd and sorely tried 
 
 Upon one point which you shall now decide. 
 
 Some years ago, a friend into my care 
 
 Some jewels gave, — rich precious gems they were ; 
 
 But having given them in my charge, this friend 
 
 Did afterward nor come for them, nor send, 
 
 But left them in my keeping for so long 
 
 That now it almost seems to me a wrong 
 
 That he should suddenly arrive to-day, 
 
 To take those jewels which he left away. 
 
 What think you ? Shall I freely yield them back, 
 
 And with no murmuring ? — so henceforth to lack 
 
 Those gems myself, which I had learn'd to see 
 
 Almost as mine for ever, mine in fee." 
 
 " What question can be here ? Your own true heart 
 Must needs advise you of the only part : 
 That may be claim'd again which was but lent, 
 And should be yielded with no discontent ; 
 Nor surely can we find herein a wrong. 
 That it was left us to enjoy so long." 
 
 " Good is the word ! " she answer'd : " may we now 
 And evermore that it is good allow ! " 
 And, rising, to an inner chamber led ;
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 169 
 
 And there she show'd him, stretch'd upon one bed, 
 Two children pale. And he the jewels knew 
 Which God had lent him and resumed anew. 
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 1809 — 1849. 
 
 THE BELLS. 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells, 
 Silver bells ! 
 What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! 
 How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
 
 In the icy air of night ! 
 While the stars that oversprinkle 
 All the heavens seem to twinkle 
 
 With a crystalline delight : 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhvme. 
 To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells 
 From the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. 
 
 Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 Golden bells ! 
 What a world of happiness their harmony fortells ! 
 Through the balmy air of night 
 How they ring out their delight ! 
 From the molten-golden notes. 
 
 And all in tune. 
 What a liquid ditty iloats 
 To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats 
 On the moon ! 
 O, from out the sounding cells 
 What a gush of euphony voluminously wells ! 
 How it swells ! 
 How it dwells
 
 I/O EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 On the future ! how it tells 
 Of the rapture that impels 
 To the swinging and the ringing 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the loud alarum bells, 
 Brazen bells ! 
 What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells ! 
 In the startled ear of night 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 Too much horrified to speak. 
 They can only shriek, shriek 
 Out of tune. 
 In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, 
 In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire 
 Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
 With a desperate desire. 
 And a resolute endeavour. 
 Now, now to sit or never 
 By the side of the pale-faced moon. 
 O the bells, bells, bells, 
 What a tale their terror tells 
 
 Of despair ! 
 How they clang, and clash, and roar! 
 What a horror they outpour 
 On the bosom of the palpitating air ! 
 Yet the ear it fully knows. 
 By the twanging. 
 And the clanging. 
 How the danger ebbs and flows ; 
 Yet the ear distinctly tells, 
 In the jangling. 
 And the wrangling,
 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE. I/I 
 
 How the danger sinks and swells, 
 By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the 
 bells, — 
 
 Of the bells, 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 In the clamor and the clangor of the bells ! 
 
 Hear the tolling of the bells, 
 Iron bells ! 
 What a world of solemn thought their monody compels ! 
 In the silence of the night 
 How we shiver with affright * 
 
 At the melancholy menace of their tone ! 
 For every sound that floats 
 From the rust within their throats 
 
 Is a groan. 
 And the people (ah ! the people. 
 They that dwell up in the steeple. 
 
 All alone, 
 And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 
 
 In that muffled monotone, 
 Feel a glory in so rolling 
 
 On the human heart a stone), 
 They are neither man nor woman. 
 They are neither brute nor human. 
 
 They are Ghouls : 
 And their king it is who tolls ; 
 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 
 Rolls, 
 A paean from the bells ! 
 And his merry bosom swells 
 
 With the paean of the bells ; 
 And he dances, and he yells, 
 Keeping time, time, time. 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme
 
 1/2 EDGAR ALLAN POE. 
 
 To the paean of the bells, 
 Of the bells! 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 In a sort of Runic rhyme, 
 To the throbbing of the bells. 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 To the sobbing of the bells, — 
 Keeping time, time, time, 
 As he knells, knells, knells. 
 In a happy Runic rhyme, 
 To the rolling of the bells, 
 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, 
 To the tolling of the bells. 
 Of the bells, bells, bells, bells. 
 Bells, bells, bells, — 
 To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. 
 
 TO HELEN. 
 
 Helen ! thy beauty is to me 
 
 Like those Nicean barks of yore 
 That gently o'er a perfumed sea 
 The weary way-worn wanderer bore 
 To his own native shore. 
 
 On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
 Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face. 
 
 Thy Naiad airs, have brought me home 
 
 To the glory that was Greece 
 
 And the grandeur that was Rome. 
 
 Lo ! in your brilliant window-niche 
 How statue-like I see thee stand, 
 
 The agate lamp within thy hand ! 
 
 Ah, Psychfe ! from the regions which 
 Are holy land.
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 1/3 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 1809 — 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 
 
 This is the Ship of Pearl which (poets feign) 
 
 Sails the unshadow'd main, 
 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 
 
 And coral reefs lie bare, 
 Where the cold Sea-Maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl : 
 
 Wreck'd is the Ship of Pearl ; 
 
 And every chamber'd cell, 
 Where its dim dreaining life was wont to dwell 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell. 
 
 Before thee lies reveal'd : 
 Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd. 
 
 Year after year beheld the silent toil 
 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 
 Still as the spiral grew 
 He left the past year's dwelling for the new. 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 
 
 Built up its idle door, 
 Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 
 
 Child of the wandering Sea, • 
 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is borne 
 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
 While on mine ear it rings. 
 
 Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings
 
 174 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul ! 
 
 As the swift seasons roll : 
 
 Leave thy low-vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 
 
 Till thou at length art free. 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 1809 — 
 
 TITHONUS. 
 
 The woods decay, the woods decay and fall. 
 
 The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, 
 
 Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, 
 
 And after many a summer dies the swan. 
 
 Me only cruel immortality 
 
 Consumes : I wither slowly in thine arms, 
 
 Here at the quiet limit of the world, 
 
 A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream 
 
 The ever-silent spaces of the East, 
 
 Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of IMorn. 
 
 Alas for this grey shadow, once a inan, 
 
 So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, 
 
 Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd 
 
 To his great heart none other than a God ! 
 
 I ask'd thee — " Give me immortality ! " 
 
 Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, 
 
 Like wealthy men who care not how they give. 
 
 But thy strong Hours, indignant, work'd their wills, 
 
 And beat me down, and marr'd and wasted me ; 
 
 And, though they could not end me, left me maim'd 
 
 To dwell in presence of immortal youth, 
 
 Immortal Age beside immortal Youth, 
 
 And all I was in ashes. Can thy love,
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 1/5 
 
 Thy beauty, make amends ? though even now 
 
 Close over us the silver star, thy guide, 
 
 Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears 
 
 To hear me. Let me go ! Take back thy gift ! 
 
 "Why should a man desire in any way 
 
 To vary from the kindly race of men, 
 
 Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance 
 
 Where all should pause, as is most meet for all ? 
 
 A soft air fans the cloud apart ; there comes 
 A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. 
 Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals 
 From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, 
 And bosom beating with a heart renew'd. 
 Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom ; 
 Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine 
 Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team 
 Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise 
 And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manco 
 And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. 
 
 Lo ! ever thus thou growest beautiful 
 
 In silence ; then, before thine answer given, 
 
 Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. 
 
 Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears. 
 And make me tremble lest a saying learn'd 
 In days far off, on that dark earth, be true ? 
 " The Gods themselves can not recall their gifts." 
 
 &' 
 
 Ay me ! ay me ! with what another heart, 
 
 In days far off, and with what other eyes 
 
 I used to watch (if I be he that watch'd) 
 
 The lucid outline forming round thee ; saw 
 
 The dim curls kindle into sunny rings ; 
 
 Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood 
 
 Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all 
 
 Thy presence and thy portals, — while I lay,
 
 1/6 ALFRED TENNYSON, 
 
 Mouth, forehead, eyehds, growing dewy-warm 
 With kisses bahnier than half-opening buds 
 Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd. 
 Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet : 
 Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, 
 W^hile Ilion like a mist rose into towers. 
 
 Yet hold me not for ever in thine East ! 
 How can my nature longer mix with thine ? 
 Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold 
 Are all my lights, and cold my wrinkled feet 
 Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam 
 Floats up from those dim fields about the homes 
 Of happy men that have the power to die, 
 And grassy barrows of the happier dead. 
 Release me and restore me to the ground ! 
 Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave : 
 Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn ; 
 I, earth in earth, forget these empty courts 
 And thee returning on thy silver wheels. 
 
 MARIANA 
 
 " IN THE MOATED GRANGE." 
 
 W^ith blackest moss the flower plots 
 Were thickly crusted, one and all; 
 The rusted nails fell from the knots 
 That held the peach to the garden wall. 
 The broken sheds look'd sad and strange, 
 Unlifted was the clinking latch, 
 Weeded and worn the ancient thatch 
 Upon the lonely moated grange. 
 
 She only said — " My life is dreary. 
 He Cometh not : " she said. 
 
 She said — " I am aweary, aweary, — 
 I would that I were dead ! "
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 1/7 
 
 Her tears fell with the dews at even, 
 Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; 
 She could not look on the sweet heaven 
 Either at morn or eventide. 
 After the flitting of the bats, 
 When thickest dark did trance the sky, 
 She drew her casement curtain by, 
 And glanced athwart the glooming flats. 
 
 She only said—" The night is dreary, 
 He Cometh not : " she said. 
 
 She said — " I am aweary, aweary, — 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 Upon the middle of the night, 
 Waking, she heard the night fowl crow ; 
 The cock sung out an hour ere light ; 
 From the dark fen the oxen's low 
 Came to her : without hope of change, 
 In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, 
 Till colds winds woke the grey-eyed morn 
 About the lonely moated grange. 
 
 She only said — " The day is dreary. 
 He cometh not : " she said. 
 
 She said — " I am aweary, aweary, — 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 About a stone-cast from the wall, 
 A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, 
 And o'er it many, round and small. 
 The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. 
 Hard by a poplar shook alway. 
 All silver green with gnarled bark : 
 For leagues no other tree did dark 
 The level waste, the rounding grey. 
 
 She only said—" My life is dreary. 
 He cometh not : " she said. 
 
 She said—" I am aweary, aweary,— 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 II.— 12
 
 1/8 ALFRED TENNYSON. 
 
 And ever when the moon was low, 
 
 5 
 
 And the shrill winds were up and away, 
 In the white curtain, to and fro. 
 She saw the gusty shadow sway. 
 But when the moon was very low. 
 And wild winds bound within their cell, 
 The shadow of the poplar fell 
 Upon her bed, across her brow. 
 
 She only said — " The night is dreary, 
 He Cometh not : " she said. 
 
 She said — " I am aweary, aweary, — 
 I would that I were dead I " 
 
 All day within the dreamy house 
 The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; 
 The blue fly sang i' the pane ; the mouse 
 Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, 
 Or from the crevice peer'd about. 
 Old faces glimmer'd through the doors. 
 Old footsteps trod the upper floors. 
 Old voices called her from without. 
 
 She only said — " My life is dreary. 
 
 He cometh not : " she said. 
 She said — " I am aweary, aweary, — 
 
 I would that I were dead ! " 
 
 The sparrow's chirrup on the roof. 
 The slow clock ticking, and the sound 
 Which to the wooing wind aloof 
 The poplar made, did all confound 
 Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour 
 When the thick-moted sunbeam lay 
 Athwart the chambers, and the day 
 Was sloping toward his western bower. 
 
 Then said she — " I am very dreary, 
 He will not come : " she said. 
 
 She wept, — " I am aweary, aweary, — 
 O God, that I were dead ! "
 
 ALFRED TENNYSON. 179 
 
 THE POET'S SONG. 
 
 The rain had fallen ; the Poet arose, 
 
 He pass'd by the town and out of the street : 
 A light wind blew from the gates of the sun, 
 
 And waves of shadow went over the wheat : 
 And he sat him down in a lonely place, 
 
 And chanted a melody loud and sweet, 
 That made the wild swan pause in her cloud 
 
 And the lark drop down at his feet. 
 
 The swallow stopp'd as he hunted the bee, 
 
 The snake slipp'd under a spray, 
 The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak 
 
 And stared, with his foot on the prey ; 
 And the nightingale thought — " I have sung many songs, 
 
 But never a one so gay, — 
 For he sings of what the world will be 
 
 When the years have died away." 
 
 THE DA YS THAT ARE NO MORE. 
 
 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean ; 
 Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
 Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes 
 In looking on the happy autumn fields 
 And thinking of the days that are no more. 
 
 Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
 
 That brings our friends up from the under world. 
 
 Sad as the last which reddens over one 
 
 That sinks with all we love below the verge, — 
 
 So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more ! 
 
 Ah ! sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
 The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds 
 To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
 
 l8o RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. 
 
 The casement slowly grows a glimmering square, — 
 So sad, so strange, the days that are no more ! 
 
 Dear as remember'd kisses after death, 
 And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 
 On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
 Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
 O death in life ! the days that are no more. 
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. 
 
 (lord HOUGHTON.) 
 1809 
 
 THE BROOK-SIDE. 
 
 I wander'd by the brook-side, 
 
 I wander'd by the mill, — 
 I could not hear the brook flow. 
 
 The noisy wheel was still ; 
 There was no burr of grasshopper. 
 
 No chirp of any bird : 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 I sat beneath the elm-tree ; 
 
 I watch'd the long long shade, 
 And as it grew still longer 
 
 I did not feel afraid : 
 For I listen'd for a footfall, 
 
 I listen'd for a word, — 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 He came not, — no! he came not ; 
 
 The night came on alone, 
 The little stars sat one by one 
 
 Each on his golden throne ; 
 The evening wind pass'd by my cheek, 
 
 The leaves above were stirr'd, —
 
 RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. l8l 
 
 But the beating of my own heart 
 Was all the sound I heard. 
 
 Fast silent tears were flowing, 
 
 When something stood behind ; 
 A hand was on my shoulder, — 
 
 I knew its touch was kind ; 
 It drew me nearer, nearer ; 
 
 We did not speak one word, — 
 For the beating of our own hearts 
 
 Was all the sound we heard. 
 
 THE TREASURE SHIP. 
 
 My heart is freighted full of love. 
 
 As full as any argosy. 
 
 With gems below and gems above, — 
 
 And ready for the open sea, 
 
 For the wind is blowing summerly : 
 
 Full strings of Nature's beaded pearl, 
 Sweet tears, composed in amorous ties 
 And turkis-lockets, that no churl 
 Hath fashion'd out mechanic-wise, 
 But all made up of thy blue eyes ; 
 
 And girdles wove of subtle sound. 
 And thoughts not trusted to the air, 
 Of antique mould, the same as bound 
 In Paradise the primal pair 
 Before Love's arts and niceness were ; 
 
 And carcanets of living sighs, 
 
 Gums that have dropp'd from Love's own stem ; 
 
 And one small jewel most I prize, 
 
 The darling gaud of all of them : 
 
 I wot, so rare and fine a gem 
 
 Ne'er glow'd on Eastern anadem.
 
 l82 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 
 
 I've cased the rubies of thy smiles 
 In rich and triply-plated gold ; 
 But this no other wealth defiles : 
 Itself — itself can only hold — 
 The stealthy kiss on Maple-Wold. 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 
 
 1811— 1863. 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE. 
 
 Although I enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 
 Ofttimes I hover; 
 And near the sacred gate, 
 With longing eyes I wait, 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The Minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout 
 
 And noise and humming ; 
 They've hush'd the Minster bell ; 
 The organ 'gins to swell : 
 
 She's coming! she's coming ! 
 
 My Lady comes at last, 
 Timid and stepping fast 
 
 And hastening hither, 
 With modest eyes down-cast : 
 She comes — she's here — she's pass'd. 
 
 May heaven go with her ! 
 
 Kneel undisturb'd, fair Saint! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 ]\Ieckly and duly ! 
 I will not enter there 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly.
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY, 1 83 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden place, 
 
 Lingering a minute ! 
 Like outcast spirits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM. 
 
 Ho, pretty Page with the dimpled chin 
 That never has known the barber's shear ! 
 
 All your wish is woman to win : 
 
 This is the way that boys begin : 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year ! 
 
 Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ; 
 
 Billing and cooing is all your cheer, 
 Sighing, and singing of midnight strains 
 Under Bonnybell's window panes : 
 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year ! 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass. 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear : 
 Then you know a boy is an ass, 
 Then you know the worth of a lass, 
 Once you have come to Forty Year. 
 
 Pledge me round ! I bid ye declare. 
 
 All good fellows whose beards are grey! 
 Did not the fairest of the fair 
 Common grow and wearisome ere 
 Ever a month was pass'd away ? 
 
 The reddest lips that ever were kiss'd, 
 
 The brightest eyes that ever have shone. 
 May pray and whisper, and we not list, 
 Or look away ; and never be miss'd 
 Ere yet ever a month is gone.
 
 1 84 SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. 
 
 Gillian's dead : God rest her bier! 
 
 How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
 Marian's married : but I sit here, 
 Alone and inerry at Forty Year, 
 
 Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 
 
 SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. 
 
 1810— 1883. 
 
 THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS. 
 
 Last night, among his fellow roughs. 
 
 He jested, quaff 'd, and swore, — 
 A drunken Private of the Buffs, 
 
 Who never look'd before : 
 To-day, beneath the foeman's frown. 
 
 He stands in Elgin's place, 
 Ambassador from Britain's crown, 
 
 And type of all her race. 
 
 Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, 
 
 Bewilder'd, and alone, 
 A heart with English instinct fraught 
 
 He yet can call his own. 
 Ay ! tear his body limb from limb ! 
 
 Bring cord, or axe, or flame ! 
 He only knows that not through him 
 
 Shall England come to shame. 
 
 Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd 
 
 Like dreams to come and go ; 
 Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd, 
 
 One sheet of living snow ; 
 The smoke above his father's door 
 
 In grey soft eddyings hung, — 
 Must he then watch it rise no more, 
 
 Doom'd by himself, so young?
 
 ALFRED DOMETT. 1 85 
 
 Yes ! honour calls : Avith strength like steel 
 
 He put the vision by. 
 Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ! 
 
 An English lad must die. 
 And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, 
 
 With knee to man unbent, 
 Unfaltering on its dreadful brink, 
 
 To his red grave he went. 
 
 Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed, 
 
 Vain those all-shattering guns, 
 Unless proud England keep untamed 
 
 The strong heart of her sons ! 
 So let his name through Europe ring I 
 
 A man of mean estate 
 Who died as firm as Sparta's king, 
 
 Because his soul was great. 
 
 ALFRED DOMETT. 
 
 WHAT MATTER? 
 I 
 What matter, what matter, O friend ! though the sea 
 In lines of silvery fire may slide 
 O'er the sands so tawny and tender and wide, 
 
 Murmuring soft as a bee ? — 
 No matter ! no matter ! in sooth, said he : 
 But the sunlit sands and the silvery play 
 Are a truthful smile long pass'd away : 
 
 No more to me. 
 
 II 
 
 What matter, what matter, dear friend ! can it be 
 If a long blue stripe, dim-swelling and dark 
 Beneath the lighter blue headland, may mark 
 All of the town we can see ?
 
 1 86 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 No matter ! no matter ! in truth, said he : 
 But the streak, that fades and fades as we part, 
 Is a broken voice and a breaking heart : 
 No more to me. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 1809 — 1 86 1. 
 
 A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 
 
 What was he doing, the great God Pan, 
 
 Down in the reeds by the river? 
 Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
 Splashing and paddUng with hoofs of a goat, 
 And breaking the golden lilies afloat 
 With the dragon-fly on the river. 
 
 He tore out a reed, the great God Pan, 
 
 From the deep cool bed of the river : 
 The limpid water turbidly ran, 
 And the broken lilies a-dying lay, 
 And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
 
 Ere he brought it out of the river. 
 
 High on the shore sat the great God Pan, 
 
 W^hilc turbidly flow'd the river ; 
 And hack'd and hew'd, as a great God can. 
 With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, 
 Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 
 To prove it fresh from the river. 
 
 He cut it short, did the great God Pan, 
 (How tall it stood in the river!) 
 
 Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, 
 
 Steadily from the outside ring. 
 
 And notch'd the poor dry empty thing 
 In holes, as he sat by the river.
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 1 8/ 
 
 " This is the way," laugh'd the great God Pan, 
 
 Laugh'd while he sat by the river, — 
 " Tlie only way, since Gods began 
 To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
 Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 
 He blew in power, by the river. 
 
 Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan ! 
 
 Piercing sweet by the river ! 
 Blinding sweet, O great God Pan ! 
 The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
 And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 
 
 Came back to dream on the river. 
 
 Yet half a beast is the great God Pan, 
 
 To laugh as he sits by the river, 
 Making a poet out of a man ! 
 The true Gods sigh for the cost and pain, — 
 For the reed which grows nevermore again 
 
 As a reed with the reeds in the river. 
 
 A FALSE STEP. 
 
 Sweet ! thou hast trod on a heart : 
 Pass ! there's a world full of men ; 
 
 And women as fair as thou art 
 
 Must do such things now and then. 
 
 Thou only hast stepp'd unaware, 
 (Malice not one can impute) ; 
 
 And why should a heart have been there 
 In the way of a fair woman's foot ? 
 
 It was not a stone that could trip, 
 Nor was it a thorn that could rend : 
 
 Put up thy proud under-lip ! 
 
 'Twas merely the heart of a friend.
 
 1 88 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 And yet, peradventure, one day 
 
 Thou sitting alone at the glass, 
 Remarking the bloom gone away, 
 
 Where the smile in its d implement was. 
 
 And seeking around thee in vain, 
 From hundreds who flatter'd before, 
 
 Such a word as " O, not in the main 
 
 Do I hold thee less precious, but more : " 
 
 Thou wilt sigh, very like, on thy part — 
 " Of all I have known or can know 
 
 I wish I had only that Heart 
 I trod upon ages ago ! " 
 
 THE SEA-MEW. 
 How joyously the young Sea-Mew 
 Lay dreaming on the waters blue. 
 Whereon our little bark had thrown 
 A forward shade, the only one : 
 But shadows aye will man pursue. 
 
 Familiar with the waves, and free 
 As if their own white foam were he. 
 His heart upon the heart of ocean 
 Lay, learning all its mystic motion 
 And throbbing to the throbbing sea. 
 
 'a 
 
 And such a brightness in his eye. 
 As if the ocean and the sky 
 Within him had lit up and nursed 
 A soul God gave him not at first, 
 To comprehend their majesty. 
 
 We were not cruel, yet did sunder 
 
 His white wing from the blue waves under, 
 
 And bound it, — while his fearless eyes 
 
 Shone up to ours in calm surprise. 
 
 As deeming us some ocean wonder.
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 1 89 
 
 We bore our ocean bird unto 
 A grassy place where he might view 
 The flowers that curtsey to the bees, 
 The waving of the tall green trees, 
 The falling of the silver dew. 
 
 But flowers of earth were pale to him 
 Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim ; 
 And when earth's dew around him lay 
 He thought of ocean's winged spray : 
 And his eye waxed sad and dim. 
 
 The green trees round him only made 
 A prison with their darksome shade ; 
 And droop'd his wing, and mourned he 
 For his own boundless glittering sea, — 
 Albeit he knew not they could fade. 
 
 Then One her gladsome face did bring. 
 Her gentle voice's murmuring. 
 In ocean's stead his heart to move 
 And teach him what was human love : 
 He thought it a strange mournful thing. 
 
 He lay down in his grief to die 
 (First looking to the sea-like sky 
 That hath no waves) : because, alas ! 
 Our human touch did on him pass, 
 And with our touch our agony. 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Unlike are we, unlike, O Princely Heart ! 
 
 Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
 
 Our ministering two angels look surprise 
 
 On one another as they strike athwart 
 
 Their wings in passing. Thou (bethink thee !) art 
 
 A guest for queens to social pageantries,
 
 I90 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 With gages, from a hundred brighter eyes 
 Than tears even can make mine, to ply thy part 
 Of chief musician. What hast Thou to do 
 With looking from the lattice-lights at me, 
 A poor tired wandering singer, singing through 
 The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree ? 
 The chrism is on thine head, on mine the dew : 
 And Death must dig the level where these agree. 
 
 Go from me ! Yet I feel that I shall stand 
 Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore, 
 Alone upon the threshold of my door 
 Of individual life, I shall command 
 The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
 Serenely in the sunshine as before, 
 Without the sense of that which I forebore — 
 Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land 
 Doom takes to part us leaves thy heart in mine 
 With pulses that beat double. What I do 
 And what I dream include Thee, as the wine 
 ]\Iust taste of its own grapes. And when I sue 
 God for myself, he hears that name of thine, 
 And sees within my eyes the tears of two. 
 
 Say over again, and yet once over again, 
 
 That thou dost love me ! Though the word repeated 
 
 Should seem " a cuckoo song," as thou dost treat it, 
 
 Remember never to the hill or plain. 
 
 Valley and wood, without her cuckoo strain 
 
 Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed ! 
 
 Beloved ! I, amid the darkness greeted 
 
 By a doubtful spirit's voice, in that doubt's pain 
 
 Cry — Speak once more, thou lovcst ! Who can fear 
 
 Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll ; 
 
 Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year ?
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. I91 
 
 Say thou dost love me, love me, love me ! toll 
 The silver iterance ! — only minding. Dear ! 
 To love me also in silence, with thy soul. 
 
 First time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd 
 
 The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ; 
 
 And ever since it grew more clean and white, 
 
 Slow to world-greetings, quick with its " O list ! " 
 
 When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
 
 I could not wear here plainer to my sight 
 
 Than that first kiss. The second pass'd in height 
 
 The first, and sought the forehead and half-miss'd. 
 
 Half-falling on the hair. O, beyond meed. 
 
 That was the chrism of Love, which Love's own crown, 
 
 With sanctifying sweetness, did precede. 
 
 The third upon my lips was folded down 
 
 In perfect purple state. Since when indeed 
 
 I have been proud, and said — My Love ! my own ! 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 1812— 
 
 THE LOST LEADER. 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us, 
 
 Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat ; 
 
 Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us, 
 
 Lost all the others she lets us devote. 
 
 They with the gold to give doled him out silver. 
 
 So much was theirs who so little allow'd : 
 
 How all our copper had gone for his service ! 
 
 Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud. 
 
 We that had loved him so, follow'd him, honour'd him. 
 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
 
 Learn'd his great language, caught his clear accents, 
 
 Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
 
 Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
 
 192 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their graves ! 
 He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; 
 He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves. 
 
 We shall march prospering, not through his presence ; 
 Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre ; 
 Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence, 
 Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. 
 Blot out his name then ! record one lost soul more, 
 One task more declined, one more foot-path untrod, 
 One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, 
 One wrong more for man, one more insult to God ! 
 Life's night begins : let him never come back to us ! 
 There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain. 
 Forced praise on our part, the glimmer of twilight, 
 Never glad confident morning again. 
 Best fight on, well, for we taught him ; strike gallantly, 
 Menace our heart ere we master his own ! 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge, and wait us, 
 Pardon'd, in heaven, the first by the Throne ! 
 
 THE MO T/rS KISS. 
 
 The moth's kiss first ! 
 
 Kiss me as if you made believe 
 
 You were not sure, this eve, 
 How my face, your flower, had pursed 
 
 Its petals up : so here and there 
 
 You brush it, till I grow aware 
 Who wants me, and wide ope I burst I 
 
 The bee's kiss now ! 
 
 Kiss me as if you enter'd gay 
 
 My heart, at some noon-day, 
 A bud that dares not disallow 
 
 The claim, so all is render'd up, 
 
 And passively its shatter'd cup 
 Over your head to sleep I bow !
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 193 
 
 EVELYN HOPE. 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her book-shelf, this her bed ; 
 
 She pluck'd that piece of geranium-flower, 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass. 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think, — 
 The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name : 
 It was not her time to love ; beside, 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim, 
 Duties enough, and little cares ; 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, 
 Till God's hand beckon'd unawares, 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Is it too late then ? Evelyn Hope ! 
 
 What ! your soul was pure and true, 
 The good stars met in your horoscope. 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire and dew, — 
 And just because I was thrice as old, 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide, 
 Each was nought to each — must I be told ? 
 
 We were fellow-mortals — nought beside ? 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant as mighty to make. 
 And creates the love to reward the love : 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
 Delay'd it may be, for more lives yet. 
 
 Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few : 
 Much is to learn and much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 11.-13
 
 194 
 
 ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 But the time will come — at last it will- 
 When, Evelyn Hope ! what mean'd, I shall say, 
 
 In the lower earth, in the years long still. 
 That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
 
 Why your hair was amber I shall divine. 
 
 And your mouth of your own geranium's red : 
 
 And what you would do with me, in fine, 
 In the new life come in the old one's stead. 
 
 I have lived (I shall say) so much since then ; 
 
 Given up myself so many times, 
 Gain'd me the gains of various men, 
 
 Ransack'd the ages, spoil'd the climes : 
 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope. 
 
 Either I miss'd or itself miss'd me, — 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
 
 What is the issue ? Let us see ! 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn ! all the while 
 
 My heart seem'd full as it would hold : 
 There was place and to spare for the frank young smile 
 
 And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold. 
 So, hush ! I will give you this leaf to keep ; 
 
 See ! I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. 
 There ! that is our secret : go to sleep ! 
 
 You will wake and remember, and understand. 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 I. 
 The grey sea and the long black land, 
 And the yellow half-moon large and low. 
 And the startled little waves that leap 
 In fiery ringlets from their sleep 
 As I gain the cove with pushing prow 
 And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 
 
 Then a smile of warm sea-scented beach. 
 Three fields to cross till a farm appears ; 
 A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
 
 ROBERT NICOLL. 195 
 
 And blue spurt of a lighted match, 
 
 And a voice less loud through its joys and fears 
 
 Than the two hearts beating each to each. 
 
 Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 
 And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim : 
 And straight was a path of gold for him, 
 And the need of a world of men for me. 
 
 ROBERT NICOLL. 
 1814— 1837. 
 
 BONNIE BESSIE LEE. 
 
 Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles, 
 An' mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee ; 
 An' light was the footfa', an' winsome the wiles 
 O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee. 
 
 Wi' the bairnies she would rin, and the school laddies paik, 
 And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee, 
 Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake : 
 There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee. 
 
 She grat wi' the waefu' an' laugh'ii wi' the glad ; 
 An' light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she ; 
 And a tongue that could jeer too the little limmer had, 
 Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee. 
 
 An' she whiles had a sweetheart, an' sometimes had twa, — 
 
 A limmer o' a lassie! but, atween you and me. 
 
 Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa. 
 
 Though monie a anc had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee, 
 
 But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last. 
 For ten years had parted my auld hame an' me ; 
 And I said to mysel' as her mither's door I pass'd — 
 " Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee ? "
 
 196. ROBERT NICOLL. 
 
 But Time changes a' things, the ill-natured loon ! 
 Were it ever sae rightly, he'll no let it be : 
 But I rubbit o' my een, and I thought I would swoon, — 
 How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee. 
 
 The wee laughing lassie was a gude-wife growing auld, 
 Twa weans at her apron and ane on her knee ; 
 She was douce too, an' wise-like, — an' wisdom's sae cauld : — 
 I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee. 
 
 MENIE. 
 
 Fu' ripe, ripe, was her rosy lip ; 
 
 An' gowden was her hair ; 
 An' white, white was her swan-like neek ; 
 
 Her een like starnies were : 
 An' raven, raven was her hair ; 
 
 So like the snaw her brow ; 
 An' the words that fell from her v/ee saft mouth 
 
 Were happy words, I trow. 
 
 An' pure, pure was her maiden heart ; 
 
 An' ne'er a thought o' sin 
 Durst venture there, — an angel dwelt 
 
 Its borders a' within : 
 An' fair as was her sweet bodie, 
 
 Yet fairer was her mind : — 
 Menie's the queen amang the flowers, 
 
 The wale o' womankind. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF BURNS. 
 
 By a kirk-yard yett I stood, while many enter'd in : 
 Men bow'd wi' toil and age, wi' haffets auld an' thin, 
 And ithcrs in their prime wi' a bearin' proud an' hie. 
 An' maidens pure an' bonnie as the daisies o' the lea, 
 An' matrons wrinkled auld wi' lyart heads an' grey, 
 An' bairns like things owre fair for Death to wede away.
 
 THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS. 1 97 
 
 I stood beside the yett while onward still they went, 
 
 The laird frae out his ha' an' the shepherd frae the bent : 
 
 It seem'd a type o' man and o' the grave's domain, 
 
 But these were livin' a' an' could straight come forth again. 
 
 And o' the bedral auld wi' meikle courtesie 
 
 I speer'd what it might mean, an' he bade me look an' see. 
 
 On the trodden path that led to the house o' worshiping, 
 Or before its open doors, there stood nae livin' thing; 
 But awa amang the tombs ilk comer quickly pass'd, 
 An' upon ae lowly grave ilk seekin' ee was cast : 
 There were sabbin' bosoms there, an' proud yet saften'd eyes, 
 And a whisper breathed around — " There the Loved and 
 Honour'd lies ! " 
 
 There was nae a murmur there, the deep-drawn breath was 
 
 hush'd ; 
 And o'er the maiden's cheek the tears o' feelin' gush'd ; 
 An' the bonnie infant's face was lifted as in prayer ; 
 An' manhood's brow was flush'd wi' the thoughts that movin' 
 
 were : — 
 I stood beside the grave, and I gazed upon the stone : 
 And the name of Robert Burns was engraven thereupon. 
 
 THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS. 
 
 1814—1845. 
 
 THE WELCOME. 
 
 Come in the evening, or come in the morning, — 
 Come when you're look'd for, or come without warning, - 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you. 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever; 
 And the linnets are singing — True lovers don't sever !
 
 198 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
 I'll pull you sweet flowers to wear, if you choose 'em ; 
 Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom ; 
 I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you ; 
 I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. 
 O ! your step's like the rain to the summer-vex'd farmer, 
 Or sabre and shield to a knight without armour ! 
 I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me ; 
 Then wandering I'll wish you in silence to love me. 
 
 We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie ; 
 We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy ; 
 We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, 
 Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. 
 O ! she'll whisper you — " Love, as unchangeably beaming, 
 And trust when in secret most tunefully streaming : 
 Till the star-light of heaven above us shall quiver. 
 As our souls flow in one down Eternity's river." 
 
 So come in the evening, or come in the morning, — 
 Come when you're look'd for, or come without warning, — 
 Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you ; 
 And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you ! 
 Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; 
 Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 
 The green of the trees looks far greener than ever ; 
 And the linnets are singing — True lovers don't sever ! 
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 1811— 
 
 THE NORNS WATERING YGGDRASILL. 
 
 Within the unchanging twilight 
 Of the high land of the Gods 
 
 Between the murmuring fountain 
 And the Ash-tree, tree of trees. 
 
 The Norns, the terrible Maidens, 
 Forevermore come and go.
 
 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 1 99 
 
 Yggdrasill, the populous Ash-tree 
 Whose leaves embroider heaven, 
 
 Fills all the grey air with music : 
 To Gods and to men sweet sounds, 
 
 But speech to the fine-ear'd Maidens 
 Who evermore come and go. 
 
 That way to their domestead thrones 
 
 The yEsir ride each day. 
 And every one bends to the saddle 
 
 As they pass beneath the shade : 
 Even Odin, the strong All-Father, 
 Bends to the beautiful Maidens 
 
 Who cease not to come and go. 
 
 The tempest crosses the high boughs. 
 
 The great snakes heave below. 
 The wolf, the boar, and antler'd harts 
 
 Delve at the life-giving roots ; 
 But all of them fear the wise Maidens, 
 The wise-hearted Water-bearers 
 
 Who evermore come and go. 
 
 And men far away, in the night hours 
 To the North-wind listening, hear, — 
 
 They hear the howl of the were-wolf, 
 And know he hath felt the sting 
 
 Of the eyes of the potent Maidens 
 Who sleeplessly come and go. 
 
 They hear on the wings of the North-wind 
 
 A sound as of three that sing ; 
 And the skald, in the blae mist wandering 
 
 High on the midland fell, 
 Heard the very words of the o'ersong 
 
 Of the Norns, who come and go. 
 
 But alas for the ears of mortals 
 
 Chance-hearing that fate-laden song !
 
 200 WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. 
 
 The bones of the skald lie there still : 
 For the speech of the leaves of the Tree 
 
 Is the song of the three Queen-Maidens 
 Who evermore come and go. 
 
 PARTING AND MEETING AGAIN. 
 
 Last time I parted from my Dear 
 The linnet sang from the briar-bush, 
 
 The throstle from the dell ; 
 The stream too carol'd full and clear, 
 It was the spring-time of the year, 
 And both the linnet and the thrush 
 
 I love them well 
 Since last I parted from my Dear. 
 
 But when he came again to me 
 The barley rustled high and low, 
 Linnet and thrush were still ; 
 Yellow'd the apple on the tree, 
 'Twas autumn merry as it could be. 
 What time the white ships come and go 
 
 Under the hill ; 
 They brought him back again to me, 
 Brought him safely o'er the sea. 
 
 PYGMALION. 
 
 " Mistress of Gods and men ! I have been thine 
 From boy to man, and many a myrtle rod 
 Have I made grow upon thy sacred sod. 
 Nor ever have I pass'd thy white shafts nine 
 Without some votive offering for the shrine, 
 Carved beryl or chased bloodstone ; — aid me now ! 
 And I will live to fashion for thy brow 
 Heart-breaking priceless things : O, make her mine." 
 Venus inclined her ear, and through the Stone 
 Forthwith slid warmth like spring through sapling-stems.
 
 WILLIAM JAMES LINTON. 20I 
 
 And lo ! the eyelid stirr'd, beneath had grown 
 The tremulous light of life, and all the hems 
 
 Of her zoned peplos shook Upon his breast 
 
 She sank, by two dread gifts at once oppress'd. 
 
 ROSE-LEA VES. 
 
 Once a rose ever a rose, we say : 
 One we loved and who loved us 
 Remains beloved though gone from day : 
 To human hearts it must be thus, 
 The past is sweetly laid away. 
 
 Sere and seal'd for a day and year. 
 Smell them, dear Christina ! pray : 
 So Nature treats its children dear, 
 So memory deals with yesterday : 
 The past is sweetly laid away. 
 
 WILLIAM JAMES LINTON. 
 1812— 
 
 BRIDAL SONG. 
 
 Blessed Hours ! approach her gently ; 
 Peace ! smile on her excellently ; 
 Midnight Stars ! attend her pleasure: 
 
 Veil thy splendour, Night ! 
 Not even Love's own eyes should measure 
 
 Love's delight. 
 
 Touch life's chords with lightest finger ; 
 Echoes sweet ! around her linger ; 
 By the love makes marriage holy. 
 
 Tame thy carriage, Fate ! 
 Like a bridesmaid murmuring lowly — 
 
 Yet we wait !
 
 202 WILLIAM JAMES LINTON. 
 
 THE HAPPY LAND. 
 
 The Happy Land ! 
 
 Studded with cheerful homesteads, fair to see, 
 With garden grace and household symmetry : 
 How grand the wide-brow'd peasant's lordly mien, 
 The matron's smile serene ! 
 
 O happy, happy land ! 
 
 The happy land ! 
 
 Half-hid in the dewy grass the mower blithe 
 Sings to the day-star as he whets his scythe ; 
 And to his babes at eventide again 
 Carols as blithe a strain. 
 
 O happy, happy land ! 
 
 The happy land ! 
 
 Where in the golden sheen of autumn eves 
 
 The bright-hair'd children play among the sheaves ; 
 
 Or gather ripest apples all the day. 
 
 As ruddy-cheek'd as they. 
 
 O happy, happy land ! 
 
 O happy land ! 
 
 The thin smoke curleth through the frosty air ; 
 
 The light smiles from the windows ; hearken there 
 
 To the white grandsire's tale of heroes old. 
 
 To flame-eyed listeners told ! 
 
 O happy, happy land ! 
 
 O happy, happy land ! 
 
 The tender-foliaged alders scarcely shade 
 Yon loitering lover and glad blushing maid : 
 O happy land ! the Spring that quickens thee 
 Is human liberty. 
 
 O happy, happy land !
 
 AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE. 203 
 
 IPHIGENEIA AT AULTS. 
 
 I am Achilles. Thou wast hither brought 
 
 To be my wife, not for a sacrifice. 
 Greece and her kings may stand aside as nought 
 
 To what Thou art in my expectant eyes. 
 
 Or kings or Gods : I too am heaven-born. 
 
 I trample on their auguries and needs. 
 Where the foreboding dares to front my scorn 
 
 Or break the promise from my heart proceeds ? 
 
 But thou Beloved ! smilest down my wrath 
 So able to protect thee. Who should harm 
 
 Achilles' Bride ? — Thou pointest to the path 
 Of sacrifice, yet leaning on my arm. 
 
 There is no need of words ; from me reply 
 
 As little requisite : Thy lightest hand 
 Guideth me, as the helm the ship ; Thine eye 
 
 Doth more than all the Atridas could command. 
 
 Thou givest life and love for Greece and Right : 
 I will stand by thee lest thou shouldst be weak — 
 
 Not weak of soul. — I will but hold in sight 
 
 Thy marvelous beauty. — Here is She you seek ! 
 
 AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE. 
 1814— 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Seek not the tree of silkiest bark 
 
 And balmiest bud, 
 To carve her name while yet 'tis dark 
 
 Upon the wood ! 
 The world is full of noble tasks 
 
 And wreaths hard won :
 
 204 AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE. 
 
 Each work demands strong hearts, strong hands, 
 Till day is done. 
 
 Sing not that violet-veined skin, 
 
 That cheek's pale roses, 
 The lily of that form wherein 
 Her soul reposes ! 
 Forth to the fight, true man ! true knight ! 
 
 The clash of arms 
 Shall more prevail than whisper'd tale, 
 To win her charms. 
 
 The warrior for the True, the Right, 
 
 Fights in Love's name ; 
 The love that lures thee from that fight 
 
 Lures thee to shame : 
 That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves 
 
 The spirit free, — 
 That love, or none, is fit for one 
 
 Man-shaped like thee. 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 When I was young, I said to Sorrow 
 " Come, and I will play with thee ! " 
 He is near me now all day, 
 And at night returns to say 
 " I will come again to-morrow — 
 
 I will come and stay with thee." 
 
 Through the woods we walk together, — 
 His soft footsteps rustle by me : 
 To shield an unregarded head 
 He hath built a winter shed ; 
 And all night in rainy weather 
 
 1 hear his gentle breathings by me.
 
 AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE, 205 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Love laid down his golden head 
 On his mother's knee : 
 " The world runs round so fast " — he said, 
 " None has time for me." 
 
 Thought, a sage unhonor'd, turn'd 
 
 From the on-rushing crew ; 
 Song her starry legend spurn'd ; 
 
 Art her glass down threw. 
 
 Roll on, blind world ! upon thy track 
 
 Until thy wheels catch fire : 
 For that is gone which comes not back 
 
 To seller nor to buyer. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Softly, O midnight Hours ! 
 
 Move softly o'er the bowers 
 Where lies in happy sleep a Girl so fair : 
 
 For ye have power, men say, 
 
 Our hearts in sleep to sway 
 And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. 
 
 Round ivory neck and arm 
 
 Enclasp a separate charm : 
 Hang o'er her poised ; but breathe nor sigh nor prayer ! 
 
 Silently ye may smile, 
 
 But hold your breath the while 
 And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair ! 
 
 Bend down your glittering urns 
 (Ere yet the dawn returns) 
 And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread ; 
 Upon the air rain balm ; 
 Bid all the woods be calm ;
 
 206 . THOMAS BURBIDGE. 
 
 Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed ! 
 
 That so the Maiden may 
 
 With smiles your care repay 
 When from her couch she lifts her golden head, 
 
 Waking with earliest birds 
 
 Ere yet the misty herds 
 Leave warm 'mid the grey grass their dusky bed. 
 
 NOTHING MORE. 
 
 A sigh in the morning grey, — 
 
 And a solitary tear, 
 Slow to gather, slow to fall, — 
 And a painful flush of shame 
 At the mention of thy name : 
 
 This is little, this is all, 
 False One ! that remains to say 
 That thy love of old was here. 
 That thy love hath pass'd away. 
 
 THOMAS BURBIDGE. 
 1816— 
 
 LOVE'S INSISTENCE. 
 
 If I desire with pleasant songs 
 To throw a merry hour away, 
 
 Comes Love unto me, and my wrongs 
 In careful tale he doth display ; 
 
 And asks me how I stand for singing 
 
 While I my helpless hands am wringing. 
 
 And then, another time, if I 
 
 A noon in shady bovver would pass. 
 
 Comes he with stealthy gestures sly 
 And, flinging down upon the grass,
 
 CHARLES GEORGE ROSENBERG. 20/ 
 
 Quoth he to me — " My Master dear ! 
 Think of this noontide such a year." 
 
 And if elsewhile I lay my head 
 
 On pillow, with intent to sleep, 
 Lies Love beside me on the bed 
 
 And gives me ancient words to keep : 
 Says he — " These looks, these tokens number ! 
 May be they'll help you to a slumber," 
 
 So every time when I would yield 
 
 An hour to quiet, comes he still, 
 And hunts up every sign conceal'd 
 
 And every outward sign of ill ; 
 And gives me his sad face's pleasures 
 For Merriment's or Sleep's or Leisure's 
 
 CHARLES GEORGE ROSENBERG. 
 
 1815— 1876. 
 
 THE WINGED HORSE. 
 
 Wake from your homes in tomb and shroud ! 
 
 Wake, Splendours of the Past ! 
 
 Joy divine, and Passion proud, 
 
 Hope sublime, and Vision vast ! 
 
 Let our love your glories trace 
 
 Eye to eye and face to face ; 
 
 Let our arms your beauties bind : — 
 Or are ye like the wind 
 To sight impalpable, too thin for our embrace? 
 
 Fire and water have we bound 
 
 To the car and to the wheel 
 With harness and with trace of steel ; 
 A living speech and utterance found 
 
 For the very lightning's speed : 
 Every element compell'd
 
 208 CHARLES GEORGE ROSENBERG. 
 
 To our luxury or need ; 
 And with a certain prophecy 
 Learn'd to count the courses held 
 
 By the chance-worlds that whirl on high, 
 
 The nightmares of a dreaming sky. 
 
 Surely it were an easy task 
 After this to bend and yoke 
 The mighty Thought of ages past, 
 The Horse our younger fathers broke : 
 The wondrous Steed 
 Whose wind-wing'd speed 
 Treads on the hill-top and the cloud, — 
 The glorious Horse 
 Whose sun-paved course 
 The young Greek and Roman bow'd, — 
 The Steed whose mane, 
 Like golden rain, 
 A glory round the Italian shed 
 On the great road through Hell and Heaven 
 His restless will alone might tread, — 
 The Horse with living music shod 
 To the one bard of England given. 
 By whom, as by a guiding God, 
 His tramp of melody was driven 
 Through every deep and hidden part 
 Of that strange thing the human heart. 
 
 And yet the Song is still, 
 
 And on the cloud and hill 
 Does the strong Steed unbitted stray ; 
 
 The wave and air we tame, 
 
 Harness the wind and flame, — 
 Uncurb'd and free his glories play. 
 None the Wing'd One's speed may yoke, — 
 
 Lost the bit, the bridle broke, — 
 Unknown the might, unseen the way.
 
 CHARLES GEORGE ROSENBERG, 209 
 
 He alone may mount the Steed 
 To whom the ancient spell is known ; 
 He its magic letters read 
 Who has the Will, and he alone : 
 And the Will our souls have sold 
 For the love of steel and gold, — 
 Sold the mighty for the mean, 
 Truck'd the priceless for the vile, 
 Barter'd for the foul the clean ; 
 And, instead of weeping, smile. 
 
 In the name of Truth alone 
 
 Might the ancient rider feel 
 The strength to curb the heavenly Steed : 
 A very child would scarcely need 
 
 Scourge in hand or spur on heel 
 
 If that little word were known ; 
 But giant brawn and Titan force — 
 
 Strength of muscle and of mind — 
 
 Human wit and might combined, 
 
 Were those letters five unread, 
 
 111 upon the task were sped 
 To mount and curb the glorious Horse. 
 
 &' 
 
 Earth is old, but then was young : 
 They were children, We are men : 
 
 Youth's great hymn of faith is sung : 
 Clay which counts could worship then. 
 
 Give us a God — a living God, 
 One to wake the sleeping soul. 
 
 One to cleanse the tainted blood 
 Whose pulses in our bosoms roll : 
 
 A vigorous faith's refreshing breath, 
 To make us hunger for the True, — 
 A faith to quicken and renew 
 
 The nightmare of our Life-in-Death ! 
 
 II.— 14
 
 2IO HENRY S. SUTTON, 
 
 Come it how or whence it may, 
 That Faith divine, that earnest Will, — 
 
 This alone may teach the way 
 To curb and bit the Wing'd One still. 
 Truth and Faith are ever wed, — 
 Faith alone the cloud may tread 
 And look unblinded on the Sun. 
 This was tlie magic of the Dead : 
 They had a faith, — and we have none. 
 
 HENRY SEPTIMUS SUTTON. 
 1825— 
 
 THE BATTLE OF GOD. 
 
 So strive, so rule, Almighty Lord of All ! 
 So greatly win thy planet-victory ! 
 So gloriously what baffles bring in thrall ! 
 So strongly work. Earth's final jubilee 
 With gladness and with singing to instal ! 
 
 And man may work with the great God : yea, ours 
 This privilege, — all others how beyond ! 
 To tend the great Man-root until it flowers ; 
 To scorn with godly laughter when Despond 
 Tamely before a hoary hindrance cowers ; 
 
 Effectually the planet to subdue. 
 And break old savagehood in claw and tusk ; 
 That noble end to trust in and pursue 
 Which under Nature's half-expressive husk 
 Lies ever from the base conceal'd from view; 
 
 To draw our fellows up, as with a cord 
 Of love, unto their high-appointed place, 
 Till, from our state barbaric and abhorr'd, 
 We do arise unto a royal race : 
 To be the blest companions of The Lord.
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 211 
 
 CHARLES WELDON. 
 i8— 1856 ? 
 
 THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE. 
 
 The Poem of the Universe 
 Nor rhythm has nor rhyme ; 
 
 Some God recites the wondrous song 
 A stanza at a time. 
 
 Great deeds is he foredoom'd to do — 
 With Freedom's flag unfurl'd — 
 
 Who hears the echo of that song 
 As it goes down the world. 
 
 Great words he is compell'd to speak 
 Who understands the song : 
 
 He rises up hke fifty men, 
 Fifty good men and strong. 
 
 A stanza for each century : — 
 Now heed it, all who can! 
 
 Who hears it, he, and only he, 
 Is the elected man. 
 
 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 1819— 1861. 
 
 PESCHIERA. 
 
 What voice did on my spirit fall, 
 Peschiera ! when thy bridge I cross'd ? 
 " 'Tis better to have fought and lost 
 Than never to have fought at all ! " 
 
 The tricolour — a trampled rag 
 Lies, dirt and dust ; the lines I track 
 By sentry boxes, yellow-black, 
 Lead up to no Italian flag.
 
 212 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 
 
 I see the Croat soldier stand 
 Upon the grass of your redoubts ; 
 The eagle with his black wings flouts 
 The breadth and beauty of your land. 
 
 Yet not in vain, although in vain, 
 O men of Brescia ! on the day 
 Of loss past hope I heard you say 
 Your welcome to the noble pain. 
 
 You said — " Since so it is, good-bye, 
 Sweet life ! high hope ! but whatsoe'er 
 May be, or must, no tongue shall dare 
 To tell— the Lombard fear'd to die." 
 
 You said (there shall be answer fit !) — 
 *' And if our children must obey, 
 
 They must ; but thinking on this day 
 'Twill less debase them to submit." 
 
 You said (O not in vain you said) — 
 " Haste, brothers! haste, while yet we may, 
 The hours ebb fast of this one day 
 When blood may yet be nobly shed." 
 
 Ah ! not for idle hatred, not 
 For honour, fame, nor self- applause, 
 But for the glory of the Cause 
 You did what will not be forgot. 
 
 And though the stranger stand, 'tis true, — 
 By force and fortune's right he stands : 
 By fortune, which is in God's hands ; 
 And strength, which yet shall spring in you. 
 
 This voice did on my spirit fall, 
 Peschiera ! when thy bridge I cross'd : 
 'Tis better to have fought and lost 
 Than never to have fought at all.
 
 JULIA WARD HOWE. 213 
 
 NOT UNAVAILING. 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
 The labour and the wounds are vain, 
 
 The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
 
 And as things have been they remain. 
 
 If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 
 
 It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, 
 Your comrades chase even now the fliers 
 
 And, but for you, possess the field. 
 
 For while the tired waves, vainly breaking. 
 Seem here no painful inch to gain. 
 
 Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
 Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 
 
 And not by Eastern windows only. 
 
 When daylight comes, comes in the light ; 
 
 In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly ! 
 But Westward, look ! the land is bright. 
 
 JULIA WARD HOWE. 
 1819— 
 
 BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord : 
 
 He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are 
 
 stored ; 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword ; 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory ! hallelujah ! his truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps ; 
 They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and 
 damps ;
 
 214 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps ; 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory ! hallelujah ! his day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnish'd rows of steel : 
 
 As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall 
 
 deal : 
 Let the hero born of woman crush the serpent with his heel ! 
 Since God is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory ! hallelujah ! since God is marching on. 
 
 He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call re- 
 treat ; 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat : 
 O, be swift, my soul ! to answer Him ; be jubilant, iny feet ! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory ! hallelujah ! our God is marching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across the sea, 
 With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me : 
 As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free ! 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 Glory ! glory ! hallelujah ! while God is marching on. 
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 
 1819— 
 
 PIONEERS. 
 
 Come, my tan-faced children ! 
 Follow well in order, get your weapons ready ! 
 Have you your pistols ? have you your sharp-edged axes ? 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 For W'C can not tarry here ; 
 We must march, my darlings ! we must bear the brunt of 
 danger :
 
 WALT WHITMAN, 21 5 
 
 We, the youthful sinewy races, — all the rest on us depend, 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 O you youths, Western youths ! 
 So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship : 
 Plain I see you, Western youths ! see you tramping with the 
 foremost, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Have the elder races halted ? 
 Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there be- 
 yond the seas ; 
 We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson, 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 All the past we leave behind : 
 We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world : 
 Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labour and the 
 march, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 We detachments steady throwing, 
 Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep. 
 Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go the unknown 
 ways, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 We primeval forests felling. 
 We the rivers stemming, vexing we and piercing deep the 
 
 mines within, 
 We the surface broad surveying, and the virgin soil upheaving. 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Colorado men are we : 
 From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high 
 plateaus,
 
 2l6 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail, we 
 come, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 From Nebraska, from Arkansas, 
 Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental 
 
 blood intervein'd. 
 All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the 
 Northern, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 O resistless, restless race ! 
 O beloved race in all ! O my breast aches with tender love for 
 
 all! 
 O I mourn and yet exult — I am rapt with love for all. 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers! 
 
 Raise the mighty Mother Mistress ! 
 Waving high the delicate Mistress, over all, the starry Mis- 
 tress ! — bend your heads all ! 
 Raise the fang'd and warlike Mistress, stern, impassive, wea- 
 pon'd Mistress ! 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 See my children, resolute children ! 
 By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter. 
 Ages back in ghostly millions frowning there behind us urging, 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 On and on, the compact ranks, 
 With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead 
 
 quickly fill'd, — 
 Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stop- 
 ping, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 O to die advancing on ! 
 Are there some of us to droop and die ? has the hour come ?
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 21/ 
 
 Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is 
 fill'd, 
 
 Pioneers! pioneers! 
 
 All the pulses of the world, 
 Falling in, they beat for us, with the Western movement beat, 
 Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us, 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Life's involved and varied pageants, 
 All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work. 
 All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their 
 slaves. 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 All the hapless silent lovers. 
 All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous, and the 
 
 wicked, 
 All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying. 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 I too with my soul and body, 
 We a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way, 
 Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions 
 pressing, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Lo ! the darting bowling orb, 
 Lo ! the brother orbs around, all the clustering suns and 
 
 planets. 
 All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams, 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 These are of us, they are with us, 
 
 All for primal needed work, while the followers there in em- 
 bryo wait behind. 
 
 We to-day's procession heading, we the route for travel clear- 
 in o* 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers !
 
 2l8 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 O you daughters of the West ! 
 O you young and elder daughters ! O you mothers and you 
 
 wives ! 
 Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united, 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Minstrels latent on the prairies ! 
 (Shrouded bards of other lands ! you may sleep — you have 
 
 done your work) 
 Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp 
 amid us, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Not for delectations sweet. 
 Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the 
 
 studious, 
 Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment. 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Do the feasters gluttonous feast. 
 Do the corpulent sleepers sleep, have they lock'd and bolted 
 
 doors, — 
 Still be ours the diet hard and the blanket on the ground ! 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Has the night descended ? 
 Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop, discouraged, 
 
 nodding on our way ? 
 Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause ob- 
 livious, 
 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers ! 
 
 Till with sound of trumpet, 
 Far, far off the day-break call ! Hark ! how loud and clear I 
 
 hear it wind. 
 Swift ! to the head of the army ! swift ! spring to your places ! 
 Pioneers ! O pioneers !
 
 WALT WHITMAN. 219 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S LETTER. 
 I. 
 
 Come up from the fields, Father! here's a letter from our 
 
 Pete ; 
 And come to the front door, Mother ! here's a letter from thy 
 
 dear son. 
 
 Lo ! tis Autumn : 
 
 Lo ! where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder, 
 
 Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages, with leaves fluttering in the 
 
 moderate wind ; 
 Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the 
 
 trellis'd vines ! 
 (Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines ? 
 Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing ?) 
 
 Above all, lo ! the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain, 
 and with wondrous clouds ; 
 
 Below too all calm, all vital and beautiful, — and the farm pros- 
 pers well. 
 
 3- 
 
 Down in the fields all prospers well : 
 
 But now from the fields come, Father ! come at the daughter's 
 
 call ; 
 And come to the entry. Mother ! to the front door come, right 
 
 away. 
 
 Fast as she can she hurries — something ominous — her steps 
 
 trembling ; 
 She does not tarry to smooth her hair, nor adjust her cap. 
 
 Open the envelope quickly ! 
 
 O, this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd ;
 
 220 WALT WHITMAN. 
 
 O, a strange hand writes for our dear son — O stricken Mother's 
 
 soul ! 
 All swims before her eyes — flashes with black — she catches the 
 
 main words only ; 
 Sentences broken, — " gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry 
 
 skirmish, taken to the hospital, 
 At present low, but will soon be better." 
 
 4- 
 Ah ! now the single figure to me. 
 
 Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio with all its cities and farms, 
 Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint, 
 By the jamb of a door leans. 
 
 "Grieve not so, dear Mother!" The just grown daughter 
 
 speaks through her sobs ; 
 The little sisters huddle around speechless and dismay'd : 
 "See, dearest Mother! the letter says Pete will soon be 
 
 better." 
 
 5- 
 
 Alas, poor boy ! he will never be better (nor may-be needs to 
 
 be better, that brave and simple soul). 
 While they stand at home at the door, he is dead already. 
 The only son is dead. 
 
 But the Mother needs to be better, — 
 
 She, with thin form, presently dress'd in black ; 
 
 By day her meals untouch'd, — then at night fitfully sleeping, 
 often waking, 
 
 In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep long- 
 ing — 
 
 O that she might withdraw unnoticed — silent from life escape 
 and withdraw. 
 
 To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son !
 
 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 221 
 
 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 
 1819— 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 What shall we do now, Mary being dead, 
 Or say, or write, that shall express the half? 
 What can we do but pillow that fair head. 
 And let the Spring-time write her epitaph ? 
 
 As it will soon, in snow-drop, violet, 
 Wind-flower, and columbine, and maiden's tear 
 Each letter of that pretty alphabet 
 That spells in flowers the pageant of the year. 
 
 She was a maiden for a man to love, 
 She was a woman for a husband's life, 
 One that had learn'd to value far above 
 The name of Love the sacred name of Wife. 
 
 Her little life -dream, rounded so with sleep, 
 Had all there is of life — except grey hairs : 
 Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep, 
 And that mysterious tie a Mother bears. 
 
 She hath fulfiU'd her promise and hath pass'd. 
 Set her down gently at the iron door ! 
 Eyes ! look on that loved image for the last : 
 Now cover it in earth — her earth no more ! 
 
 SAINT PERAY. 
 
 When to any saint I pray, 
 It shall be to Saint Peray. 
 He alone, of all the brood, 
 Ever did me any good : 
 Many I have tried that are 
 Humbugs in the calendar.
 
 222 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 
 
 On the Atlantic, faint and sick, 
 Once I pray'd Saint Dominick : 
 He was holy (sure), and wise ; — 
 Was't not he that did devise 
 Auto-da-fes and rosaries ? 
 But for one in my condition 
 This good saint was no physician. 
 
 Next, in pleasant Normandie, 
 
 I made a prayer to Saint Denis, 
 
 In the great cathedral where 
 
 All the ancient kings repose ; 
 
 But how I was swindled there 
 
 At the " Golden Fleece," — he knows ! 
 
 In my wanderings vague and various 
 Reaching Naples, — as I lay 
 Watching Vesuvius from the bay, 
 I besought Saint Januarius. 
 But I was a fool to try him, — 
 Nought I said could liquefy him ; 
 And I swear he did me wrong, 
 Keeping me shut up so long 
 In that pest-house, with obscene 
 Jews and Greeks and things unclean : 
 What need had I of quarantine ? 
 
 In Sicily at least a score. 
 In Spain about as many more, 
 And in Rome almost as many 
 As the loves of Don Giovanni, 
 Did I pray to — sans reply : 
 Devil take the tribe ! said I. 
 
 Worn with travel, tired and lame. 
 To Assissi's walls I came : 
 Sad, and full of home-sick fancies, 
 I address'd me to Saint Francis :
 
 THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. 223 
 
 But the beggar never did 
 Anything as he was bid, 
 Never gave me aught — but fleas : 
 Plenty had I at Assisse. 
 
 But in Provence, near Vaucluse, 
 Hard by the Rhone, I found a Saint 
 Gifted with a wondrous juice 
 Potent for the worst complaint ! 
 'Twas at Avignon that first, 
 In the witching time of thirst. 
 To my brain the knowledge came 
 Of this blessed Catholic's name, 
 Forty miles of dust that day 
 Made me welcome Saint Peray. 
 
 Though till then I had not heard 
 Aught about him, ere a third 
 Of a litre pass'd my lips. 
 All saints else were in eclipse : 
 For his gentle spirit glided 
 With such magic into mine 
 That methought such bliss as I did 
 Poet never drew from wine. 
 
 Rest he gave me, and refection, 
 Chasten'd hopes, calm retrospection. 
 Softened images of sorrow. 
 Bright forebodings for the morrow, 
 Charity for what is pass'd. 
 Faith in something good at last. 
 
 Now, why should any almanack 
 The name of this good creature lack ? 
 Or wherefore should the breviary 
 Omit a Saint so sage and merry ? 
 The Pope himself should grant a day
 
 224 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 Especially to Saint Peray. 
 But, since no day hath been appointed 
 On purpose by the Lord's Anointed, 
 Let us not wait ! We'll do him right. 
 Send round your bottles, Hal ! and set your night ! 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 1819—1875. 
 
 TO THE NORTH-EAST WIND. 
 
 Welcome, wild North-Easter ! 
 
 Shame it is to see 
 Odes to every Zephyr, 
 
 Ne'er a verse to thee. 
 Welcome, black North-Easter ! 
 
 O'er the German foam. 
 O'er the Danish moorlands, 
 
 From thy frozen home. 
 Tired we are of Summer, 
 
 Tired of gaudy glare, 
 Showers soft and steaming, 
 
 Hot and breathless air ; 
 Tired of listless dreaming 
 
 Through the lazy day : 
 Jovial Wind of Winter ! 
 
 Turn us out to play ! 
 Sweep the golden reed-beds ! 
 
 Crisp the lazy dyke ! 
 Hunger into madness 
 
 Every plunging pike ! 
 Fill the lake with wild fowl ! 
 
 Fill the marsh with snipe, 
 While on dreary moorlands 
 
 Lonely curlew pipe ! 
 Through the black fir-forest
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 225 
 
 Thunder harsh and dry, 
 Shattering down the snow-flakes 
 
 Off the curdled sky ! 
 Hark! the brave North-Easter ! 
 
 Breast-high Ues the scent : 
 On, by holt and headland, 
 
 Over heath and bent ! 
 Chime, ye dappled darlings ! 
 
 Through the sleet and snow : 
 Who can over-ride you ? 
 
 Let the horses go ! 
 Chime, ye dappled darlings ! 
 
 Down the roaring blast : 
 You shall see a fox die 
 
 Ere an hour be pass'd. 
 Go ! and rest to-morrow, 
 
 Hunting in your dreams, 
 While our skates are ringing 
 
 O'er the frozen streams. 
 Let the luscious South-Wind 
 
 Breathe in lover's sighs, 
 While the lazy gallants 
 
 Bask in ladies' eyes ! 
 What does he but soften 
 
 Heart alike and pen ? 
 'Tis the hard grey weather 
 
 Breeds hard Englishmen. 
 What's the soft South-Wester ? 
 
 'Tis the ladies' breeze. 
 Bringing home their true loves 
 
 Out of all the seas. 
 But the black North-Easter, 
 
 Through the snow-storm hurl'd. 
 Drives our English hearts of oak 
 
 Seaward, round the world. 
 Come ! as came our fathers, 
 
 Heralded by thee, 
 II.-iS
 
 226 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 Conquering, from the East-ward, 
 
 Lords by land and sea. 
 Come ! and strong within us 
 
 Stir the Vikings' blood, 
 Bracing brain and sinew ! 
 
 Blow ! thou Wind of God ! 
 
 THE SANDS OF DEE. 
 
 ' O Mary ! go and call the cattle home, — 
 And call the cattle home. 
 And call the cattle home 
 Across the sands of Dee ! " 
 The Western wind was wild and dank with foam, 
 And all alone went she. 
 
 The creeping tide came up along the sand, 
 
 And o'er and o'er the sand, 
 
 And round and round the sand. 
 
 As far as eye could see ; 
 The blinding mist came down and hid the land ; 
 
 And never home came she. 
 
 O, is it weed or fish or floating hair, 
 
 A tress of golden hair, 
 
 A drowned maiden's hair. 
 
 Above the nets, at sea ? 
 Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
 
 Among the stakes on Dee." 
 
 They row'd her in across the rolling foam, 
 
 The cruel crawling foam, 
 
 The cruel hungry foam, 
 
 To her grave beside the sea : 
 But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
 
 Across the sands of Dee.
 
 MARY ANN EVANS LEWIS. 22/ 
 
 A HOPE. 
 
 Twins stars, aloft in ether clear, 
 
 Around each other roll alvvay, 
 Within one common atmosphere 
 
 Of their own mutual light and day. 
 
 And myriad happy eyes are bent 
 Upon their changeless love alway : 
 
 As, strengthen'd by their one intent, 
 They pour the flood of life and day. 
 
 So we through this world's waning night 
 May, hand in hand, pursue our way ; 
 
 Shed round us order, love, and light, 
 And shine unto the perfect day. 
 
 MARY ANN EVANS LEWES. 
 
 " GEORGE ELIOT." 
 1819— 1880. 
 
 THE DARK. 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair ? 
 
 Say, O Song ! 
 Lacks my Love aught that I should long ? 
 
 Dark the Night, with breath all flowers, 
 And tender broken voice that fills 
 With ravishment the listening hours, — 
 
 Whisperings, wooings. 
 Liquid ripples, and soft ring-dove cooings 
 In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills ! 
 Dark the Night : yet is she bright, 
 For in her dark she brings the mystic star, 
 Trembling yet strong as is the voice of love, 
 
 From some unknown afar. 
 O radiant Dark ! O darkly foster'd Ray ! 
 Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day.
 
 ~^^ JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 1819 — 
 
 HEBE. 
 
 I saw the twinkle of white feet, 
 
 I saw the flash of robes descending, — 
 
 Before her ran an influence fleet 
 
 That bovv'd my heart, hke barley bending. 
 
 As in bare fields the searching bees 
 Pilot to blooms beyond our finding, 
 It led me on, — by sweet degrees, 
 ' Joy's simple honey-cells unbinding. 
 
 Those Graces were that seem'd grim Fates ; 
 With nearer love the sky lean'd o'er me ; 
 The long-sought secret's golden gates 
 On musical hinges swung before me. 
 
 I saw the brimm'd bowl in her grasp, 
 Thrilling with godhood ; like a lover, 
 I sprang the proffer'd life to clasp : 
 The beaker fell, the luck was over. 
 
 The earth has drunk the vintage up : 
 What boots it patch the goblet's splinters ? 
 Can Summer fill the icy cup 
 Whose treacherous crystal is but Winter's ? 
 
 O spendthrift Haste ! Await the Gods ! 
 Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience. 
 Haste scatters on unthankful sods 
 The immortal gift in vain libations. 
 
 Coy Hebe flies from those that woo, 
 And shuns the hands would seize upon her; 
 Follow thy life, and she will sue 
 To pour for thee the cup of honour !
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 229 
 
 THE COURT IN". 
 God makes sech nights, all white an' still 
 
 Fur'z you can look or listen, 
 Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 
 
 All silence an' all glisten — 
 
 Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
 
 An' peek'd in thru' the winder, 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 
 'Ith no one nigh to hender. 
 
 A fire-place fill'd the room's one side 
 
 With half a cord o' wood in,^ 
 There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
 
 To bake ye to a puddin'. 
 
 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
 
 Towards the Pootiest, bless her ! 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung. 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted. 
 The ole queen's-arm that gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetch'd back from Concord busted. 
 
 The very room, coz she was in, 
 Seem'd warm from floor to ceilin*, 
 
 An' she look'd full ez rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
 
 On sech a blessed cretur : 
 A dog-rose blushin' to a brook 
 
 Ain't modester nor sweeter. 
 
 He was six foot o' man, A i. 
 
 Clean grit an' human natur' ; 
 None couldn't quicker pitch a ton, 
 
 Nor dror a furrer straighten
 
 230 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 He'd spark'd it with full twenty gals, 
 
 He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 
 
 Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells : 
 All is, he couldn't love 'em. 
 
 But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
 
 All crinkly, like curl'd maple ; 
 The side she bresh'd felt full o' sun 
 
 Ez a South slope in A'pil. 
 
 She thought no v'ice hed such a swing 
 
 Ez hisn in the choir ; 
 My ! when he made Old Hundred ring, 
 
 She know^d the Lord was nigher. 
 
 'O' 
 
 An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
 When her new meetin'-bunnet 
 
 Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
 O' blue eyes sot upon it. 
 
 That night, I tell ye, she look'd so?ne ! 
 
 She seem'd to've gut a new soul. 
 For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 
 
 Down to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She heer'd a foot, an' know'd it tu, 
 A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
 
 All ways to once her feelins flew 
 Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' I'iter'd on the mat, 
 Some doubtfle o' the sekle ; 
 
 His heart kep' going pity-pat, 
 But hern went pity Zekle. 
 
 An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
 Ez though she wish'd him furder, 
 
 An' on her apples kep' to work, 
 Parin' away like murder.
 
 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 23 1 
 
 " You want to see my Pa, I s'pose ? " 
 
 " Wal no 1 come dasifrnin' " 
 
 <e 
 
 To see my Ma ? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
 Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 
 
 't>' 
 
 To say why gals act so or so, 
 Or don't, 'ould be presumin' ; 
 
 Mebbe to mean Yes an' say No 
 Comes nateral to women. 
 
 He stood a spell on one fut fust, 
 Then stood a spell on t'other ; 
 
 An' on which one he felt the wust 
 He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 
 
 Says he — " I'd better call agin ; " 
 Says she—" Think likely, Mister ! " 
 
 That last word prick'd him like a pin. 
 An' Wal, he up an' kist her. 
 
 When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldy sot pale ez ashes. 
 All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she was jes' the quiet kind 
 
 Whose naturs never vary, 
 Like streams that keep a summer mind 
 
 Snow-hid in Jenooary. 
 
 The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
 
 Too tight for all expressin'. 
 Tell mother see how matters stood, 
 
 And gin em' both her blessin'. 
 
 Then her red come back like the tide 
 
 Down to the Bay o' Fundy. 
 An' all I know is they was cried 
 
 In meetin' come nex' Sunday.
 
 232 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN. 
 Into the sunshine, 
 
 Full of the light, 
 Leaping and flashing 
 
 From morn till night, — 
 
 Into the moonlight, 
 
 Whiter than snow. 
 Waving so flower-like 
 
 When the winds blow, — 
 
 Into the starlight 
 
 Rushing in spray, 
 Happy at midnight, 
 
 Happy by day, — 
 
 Ever in motion. 
 
 Blithesome and cheery. 
 Still climbing heavenward, 
 
 Never aweary, — 
 
 Glad of all weathers 
 
 Still seeming best. 
 Upward or downward, 
 
 Motion thy rest, — 
 
 Full of a nature 
 
 Nothing can tame. 
 Changed every moment. 
 
 Ever the same, — 
 
 Ceaseless aspiring. 
 
 Ceaseless content, 
 Darkness or sunshine 
 
 Thy element, — 
 
 Glorious Fountain ! 
 
 Let my heart be 
 Fresh, changeful, constant. 
 
 Upward, like thee !
 
 MARIA WHITE LOWELL. 233 
 
 SHE CAME AND WENT. 
 
 As a twig trembles which a bird 
 
 Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, 
 
 So is my memory thrili'd and stirr'd : 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
 As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
 The blue dome's measureless content, 
 
 So my soul held that moment's heaven : 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
 As at one bound our swift Spring heaps 
 The orchards full of bloom and scent, 
 
 So clove her May my wintry sleeps : 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
 An angel stood and met my gaze 
 
 Through the low doorway of my tent,— 
 
 The tent is struck, the vision stays : 
 I only know She came and went. 
 
 O, when the room grows slowly dim, 
 And life's last oil is nearly spent. 
 
 One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
 Only to think She came and went. 
 
 MARIA WHITE LOWELL. 
 1821—1853. 
 
 AN OPIUM FANTASY. 
 
 Soft hangs the opiate in the brain, 
 And lulling soothes the edge of pain, 
 Till harshest sound, far off or near. 
 Sings floating in its mellow sphere.
 
 234 MARIA WHITE LOWELL. 
 
 What wakes me from my heavy dream ? 
 
 Or am I still asleep ? 
 Those long and soft vibrations seem 
 
 A slumbrous charm to keep. 
 
 The graceful play, a moment stopp'd, 
 
 Distance again unrolls, 
 Like silver balls that, softly dropp'd, 
 
 Ring into golden bowls. 
 
 I question of the poppies red, 
 
 The fairy flaunting band, 
 While I, a weed with drooping head 
 
 Within their phalanx stand : 
 
 " Some airy one, with scarlet cap ! 
 The name unfold to me 
 Of this new minstrel who can lap 
 Sleep in his melody ! " 
 
 Bright grew their scarlet-kerchief'd heads. 
 As freshening winds had blown. 
 
 And from their gently-swaying beds 
 They sang in undertone : — 
 
 " O, he is but a little Owl, 
 
 The sniallest of his kin, 
 Who sits beneath the Midnight's cowl 
 And makes this airy din." 
 
 " Deceitful tongues of fiery tints ! 
 Far more than this ye know : 
 That he is your Enchanted Prince 
 Doom'd as an Owl to go. 
 
 " Now his fond play for years hath stopp'd ; 
 But nightly he unrolls 
 His silver balls that, softly dropp'd. 
 Ring into golden bowls."
 
 WILLIAM ROSS V\^4lLLACE. 235 
 
 WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. 
 
 1820— 1881. 
 
 EL AMIN—THE FAITHFUL. 
 
 Who is this that comes from Hara ? not in kingly pomp and 
 
 pride, 
 But a great free Son of Nature, lion-soul'd and eagle-eyed : 
 
 Who is this before whose presence idols tumble to the sod ? 
 While he cries out — "Allah Akbar ! and there is no god but 
 God ! " 
 
 Wandering in the solemn desert, he has wonder'd, like a child 
 Not as yet too proud to wonder, at the sun and star and wild. 
 
 " O thou Moon ! who made thy brightness ? Stars ! who hung 
 
 ye there on high ? 
 Answer ! so my soul may worship : I must worship, or I die." 
 
 Then there fell the brooding silence that precedes the thun- 
 der's roll ; 
 And the old Arabian Whirlwind call'd another Arab soul. 
 
 Who is this that comes from Hara ? not in kingly pomp and 
 
 pride, 
 But a great free Son of Nature, lion-soul'd and eagle-eyed. 
 
 He has stood and seen Mount Hara to the Awful Presence 
 
 nod ; 
 He has heard from cloud and lightning — " Know there is no 
 
 god but God ! " 
 
 Call ye this man an Impostor ? He was call'd The Faithful, 
 
 when 
 A boy he wander'd o'er the deserts, by the wild-eyed Arab men.
 
 236 WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. 
 
 He was always call'd The Faithful. Truth, he knew, was 
 
 Allah's breath ; 
 But the Lie went darkly gnashing through the corridors of 
 
 Death. 
 
 He " was fierce ! " Yes ! fierce at falsehood, fierce at hideous 
 
 bits of wood 
 That the Koreish taught the people made the sun and solitude. 
 
 But his heart was also gentle ; and affection's graceful palm 
 Waving in his tropic spirit to the weary brought a balm. 
 
 *' Precepts ? " — Have on each compassion ! Lead the stranger 
 
 to your door ! 
 In your dealings keep up justice ! Give a tenth unto the poor ! 
 
 " Yet, ambitious! " Yes ! ambitious, while he heard the calm 
 
 and sweet 
 Aidenn-voices sing, to trample conquer'd Hell beneath his 
 
 feet. 
 
 " Islam ? " — Yes! submit to heaven !— " Prophet ? "—To the 
 
 East thou art. 
 What are prophets but the trumpets blown by God to stir the 
 
 heart ? 
 
 And the great Heart of the Desert stirr'd unto that solemn 
 
 strain 
 Rolling from the trump at Hara over Error's troubled main. 
 
 And a hundred dusky millions honour still El Amin's rod, 
 Daily chanting — "Allah Akbar ! know there is no god but 
 God ! " 
 
 Call him then no more Impostor ! Mecca is the Choral Gate 
 Where, till Zion's noon shall take them, nations in the morning 
 wait.
 
 EBENEZER JONES, 23/ 
 
 EBENEZER JONES. 
 1820 — 1860. 
 
 RAIN. 
 
 More than the wind, more than the snow, 
 More than the sunshine, I love rain : 
 
 Whether it droppeth soft and low, 
 Whether it rusheth amain. 
 
 Dark as the night it spreadeth its wings, 
 
 Slow and silently, up on the hills ; 
 Then sweeps o'er the vale, like a steed that springs 
 
 From the grasp of a thousand wills. 
 
 Swift sweeps under heaven the raven cloud's flight ; 
 
 And the land and the lakes and the main 
 Lie belted beneath with steel-bright light, 
 
 The light of the swift-rushing rain. 
 
 'o 
 
 On evenings of summer, when sunlight is low. 
 Soft the rain falls from opal-hued skies ; 
 
 And the flowers the most delicate summer can show 
 Are not stirr'd by its gentle surprise. 
 
 It falls on the pools, and no wrinkling it makes. 
 
 But touching melts in, like the smile 
 That sinks in the face of a dreamer, but breaks 
 
 Not the calm of his dream's happy wile. 
 
 The grass rises up as it falls on the meads. 
 
 The bird softlier sings in his bower. 
 And the circles of gnats circle on like wing'd seeds 
 
 Through the soft sunny lines of the shower. 
 
 WHEN THE WORLD IS BURNING. 
 
 When the world is burning, 
 Fired within, yet turning 
 Round with face unscathed ;
 
 238 DENIS FLORENCE McCARTHY. 
 
 Ere fierce flames, uprushing, 
 O'er all lands leap, crushing. 
 
 Till earth fall, fii'e-swathed, — 
 Up, amidst the meadows. 
 Gently through the shadows, 
 
 Gentle flames will glide. 
 Small and blue and golden : 
 Though by bard beholden 
 When in calm dreams folden, 
 
 Calm his dreams will bide. 
 
 Where the dance is sweeping, 
 Through the greensward peeping. 
 
 Shall the soft lights start ; 
 Laughing maids, unstaying, 
 Deeming it trick-playing, 
 High their robes upswaying, 
 
 O'er the lights shall dart ; 
 And the woodland haunter 
 Shall not cease to saunter 
 
 When, far down some glade. 
 Of the great world's burning 
 One soft flame upturning 
 Seems, to his discerning, 
 
 Crocus in the shade. 
 
 DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
 1820— 1881. 
 
 SUMMER LONGINGS. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
 
 Waiting for the May : 
 Waiting for the pleasant rambles 
 Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 
 With the woodbine alternating, 
 
 Scent the dewy way :
 
 DENIS FLORENCE McCARTHY. 239 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary, waiting, 
 Waiting, for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
 
 Longing for the May : 
 Longing to escape from study. 
 To the young face fair and ruddy. 
 And the thousand charms belonging 
 
 To the summer's day : 
 Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
 
 Longing for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
 
 Sighing for the May : 
 Sighing for their sure returning 
 When the summer beams are burning,— 
 Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 
 
 All the winter lay : 
 Ah! my heart is sore with sighing. 
 
 Sighing for the May. 
 
 Ah ! my heart is pain'd with throbbing, 
 
 Throbbing for the May : 
 Throbbing for the seaside billows 
 Or the water-wooing willows 
 Where in laughing and in sobbing 
 
 Glide the streams away : 
 Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. 
 
 Throbbing for the May. 
 
 Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, — 
 
 Waiting for the May : 
 Spring goes by with wasted warnings. 
 Moonlit evenings, sun-bright mornings,— 
 Summer comes, yet, dark and dreary. 
 
 Life still ebbs away : 
 Man is ever weary, weary, 
 
 Waiting for the May.
 
 140 ALICE GARY 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 1821— 
 
 THE UNREALIZED IDEAL. 
 
 My only Love is always near, 
 
 In country or in town : 
 I see her twinkling feet, I hear 
 
 The whisper of her gown. 
 
 She foots it ever fair and young, 
 Her locks are tied in haste, 
 
 And one is o'er her shoulder flung 
 And hangs below her waist. 
 
 She ran before me in the meads. 
 And down this world-worn track 
 
 She leads me on ; but while she leads 
 She never gazes back. 
 
 And yet her voice is in my dreams, 
 To witch me more and more : 
 
 That wooing voice ! Ah me, it seems 
 Less near me than of yore. 
 
 Lightly I sped when hope was high 
 And youth beguiled the chase, — 
 
 I follow, follow still : but I 
 Shall never see her face. 
 
 ALICE CARY. 
 
 1820 — 1871. 
 
 OPEN SECRETS. 
 
 The truth lies round about us, 
 All too closely to be sought : 
 
 So open to our vision that 
 'Tis hidden to our thought.
 
 PHCEBE GARY. 241 
 
 We know not what the glories 
 Of the grass, the flower, may be : 
 
 We needs must struggle for the sight 
 Of what we always see. 
 
 Waiting for storms and whirlwinds, 
 
 And to have a sign appear, 
 We deem not God is speaking 
 
 In the still small voice we hear. 
 
 In reasoning proud, blind leaders 
 Of the blind through life we go ; 
 
 And do not know the things we see, 
 Nor see the things we know. 
 
 Single and indivisible, 
 
 We pass from change to change, 
 
 Familiar with the strangest things. 
 And with familiar strange. 
 
 We make the light through which we see 
 
 The light, and make the dark : 
 To hear the lark sing we must be 
 
 At heaven's gate with the lark. 
 
 PHGEBE GARY. 
 
 1824 — 1871. 
 
 THE MAIDEN'S SONG. 
 
 Laugh out, O stream ! from your bed of green, 
 
 Where you lie in the sun's embrace ; 
 And talk to the reeds that o'er you lean 
 
 To touch your dimpled face. 
 But let your talk be sweet as it will, 
 
 And your laughter be as gay. 
 You can not laugh as I laugh in my heart, — 
 
 For my Lover will come to-day. 
 II.— 16
 
 242 
 
 PHCEBE GARY. 
 
 Sing sweet, little bird ! sing out to your mate 
 
 That hides in the leafy grove ; 
 Sing clear, and tell him for him you wait, 
 
 And tell him of all your love. 
 But though you sing till you shake the buds 
 
 And the tender leaves of May, 
 My spirit thrills with a sweeter song,— 
 
 For my Lover must come to-day. 
 
 Come up, O winds ! come up from the South 
 
 With eager hurrying feet, 
 And kiss your red rose on her mouth 
 
 In the bower where she blushes sweet. 
 But you can not kiss your darling flower. 
 
 Though you clasp her as you may. 
 As I kiss in my thought the Lover dear 
 
 I shall hold in my arms to-day. 
 
 ALAS ! 
 Since, if you stood by my side to-day, 
 
 Only our hands could meet. 
 What matter if half the weary world 
 
 Lies out between our feet ? 
 
 That I am here by the lonesome sea. 
 
 You by the pleasant Rhine ? 
 Our hearts were just as far apart 
 
 If I held your hand in mine. 
 
 Therefore, with never a backward glance, 
 
 I leave the past behind ; 
 And standing here by the sea alone 
 
 I give it to the wind. 
 
 I give it all to the cruel wind. 
 And I have no word to say : 
 
 Yet, alas to be as we have been, 
 And to be as we are to-day !
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 243 
 
 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 1822 — 
 
 PHILOMELA. 
 
 Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 
 
 The tawny-throated ! 
 
 Hark ! from that moonUt cedar what a burst, 
 
 What triumph ! — Hark ! what pain ! — 
 
 O wanderer from a Grecian shore ! 
 
 Still after many years, in distant lands, 
 
 Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain 
 
 That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain. 
 
 Say ! will it never heal? 
 
 And can this fragrant lawn, 
 
 With its cool trees, and night, ' 
 
 And the sweet tranquil Thames, 
 
 And moonshine, and the dew, 
 
 To thy rack'd heart and brain 
 
 Afford no balm ? 
 
 Dost thou to-night behold, 
 
 Here, through the moonlight, on this English grass. 
 
 The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild ? 
 
 Dost thou again peruse 
 
 With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes 
 
 The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? 
 
 Dost thou once more essay 
 
 Thy flight, and feel come over thee, 
 
 Poor fugitive ! the feathery change 
 
 Once more, and once more seem to make resound 
 
 With love and hate, triumph and agony. 
 
 Lone Daulis and the high Cephissian vale ? — 
 
 Listen, Eugenia ! 
 How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves ! 
 
 Again — thou hearest ? 
 
 Eternal passion ! 
 
 Eternal Pain !
 
 244 MATTHEW ARNOLD. 
 
 GROWING OLD. 
 
 What is it to grow old ? 
 
 Is it to lose the glory of the form, 
 
 The lustre of the eye ? 
 
 Is it for Beauty to forego her wreath ? 
 
 Yes ! but not this alone. 
 
 Is it to feel our strength, 
 
 Not our bloom only, but our strength decay ? 
 
 Is it to feel each limb 
 
 Grow stififer, every function less exact. 
 
 Each nerve more weakly strung ? 
 
 Yes ! this : and more ! but not. 
 
 Ah ! 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be 
 
 'Tis not to have our life 
 
 Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset glow, 
 
 A golden day's decline. 
 
 'Tis not to see the world 
 
 As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes 
 
 And heart profoundly stirr'd ; 
 
 And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, 
 
 The years that are no more. 
 
 It is to spend long days 
 
 And not once feel that we were ever young ; 
 
 It is to add, immured 
 
 In the hot prison of the present, month 
 
 To month with weary pain. 
 
 It is to suffer this. 
 
 And feel but half and feebly what we feel : 
 
 Deep in our hidden heart 
 
 Festers the dull remembrance of a change, 
 
 But no emotion, — none.
 
 WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY: 245 
 
 It is (last stage of all) 
 
 When we are frozen up within, and quite 
 
 The phantom of ourselves, 
 
 To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost. 
 
 Which blamed the living man. 
 
 WILLIAM (JOHNSON) CORY. 
 1823— 
 
 MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH. 
 
 You promise heavens free from strife. 
 Pure truth, and perfect change of will ; 
 
 But sweet, sweet is this human life, 
 So sweet I fain would breathe it still : 
 
 Your chilly stars I can forego ; 
 
 This warm kind world is all I know. 
 
 You say there is no substance here. 
 
 One great reality above : 
 Back from that void I shrink in fear. 
 
 And child-like hide myself in love. 
 Show me what angels feel ! till then 
 I cling, a mere weak man, to men. 
 
 You bid me lift my mean desires 
 From faltering lips and fitful veins 
 
 To sexless souls, ideal choirs. 
 
 Unwearied voices, wordless strains : 
 
 My mind with fonder welcome owns 
 
 One dear dead friend's remember'd tones. 
 
 Forsooth the present we must give 
 To that which can not pass away ; 
 
 All beauteous things for which we live 
 By laws of time and space decay : 
 
 But O, the very reason why 
 
 I clasp them is because they die.
 
 246 SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL. 
 
 A FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH SWEETHEART. 
 I can not forget my jo ; 
 
 I bid him be mine in sleep : 
 But battle and woe have changed him so, 
 There's nothing to do but weep. 
 
 My mother rebukes me yet, — 
 
 And I never was meek before : 
 His jacket is wet, his lip cold set, — 
 
 He'll trouble our home no more. 
 
 O, breaker of reeds that bend! 
 
 O, quencher of tow that smokes ! 
 I'd rather descend to my sailor friend 
 
 Than prosper with lofty folks. 
 
 I'm lying beside the gowan, 
 
 My jo in the English bay ; 
 I'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan, — 
 
 He call'd me his Bien-Aimee. 
 
 I'll hearken to all you quote, 
 
 Though I'd rather be dead and free : 
 
 The little he wrote in the sinking boat 
 Is Bible and charm to me. 
 
 SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL. 
 1824 — 1874. 
 
 A SLEEP SONG. 
 Sister Simplicitie ! 
 Sing, sing a song to me, — 
 
 Sing me to sleep ! 
 Some legend low and long. 
 Slow as the summer song 
 
 Of the dull Deep : 
 
 Some legend long and low, 
 Whose equal ebb and flow,
 
 SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL. 24/ 
 
 To and fro, creep 
 On the dim marge of grey, 
 'Tween the soul's night and day. 
 Washing " awake" away 
 
 Into " asleep" : 
 
 Some legend low and long. 
 Never so weak or strong 
 
 As to let go 
 While it can hold this heart 
 Withouten sigh or smart, 
 Or as to hold this heart 
 
 When it sighs No : 
 
 Some long low-swaying song 
 As the sway'd shadow long 
 
 Sways to and fro 
 Where, through the crowing cocks, 
 And by the swinging clocks, 
 Some weary mother rocks 
 
 Some weary woe. 
 
 Sing up and down to me ! 
 Like a dream-boat at sea. 
 
 So, and still so, 
 Float through the " then" and " when," 
 Rising from when to then. 
 Sinking from then to when. 
 
 While the waves go ! 
 
 Low and high, high and low. 
 Now and then, then and now, 
 Now, now, — 
 And when the now is then and when the then is now. 
 And when the low is high and when the high is low, 
 Low, low, — 
 Let me float, let the boat 
 Go, go !
 
 248 SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL. 
 
 Let me glide, let me slide, 
 
 Slow, slow ! 
 Gliding boat, sliding boat, 
 
 Slow, slow. 
 Glide away, slide away ! 
 
 So ! so ! 
 
 BOW'S MY BOY? 
 " Ho, sailor of the sea ! 
 
 How's my Boy, my Boy ? " 
 " What's your boy's name ? good wife ! 
 
 And in what good ship sail'd he ? " 
 
 " My boy John ! 
 
 He that went to sea — 
 
 What care I for the ship ? sailor ! 
 
 My boy's my boy to me. 
 
 " You come back from sea, 
 And not know my John ? 
 I might as well have ask'd some landsman 
 Yonder down in the town. 
 There's not an ass in all the parish, 
 But he knows my John. 
 
 *' How's my boy, my boy ? 
 And unless you let me know, 
 I'll swear you are no sailor. 
 Blue jacket or no, — 
 Brass buttons or no, sailor ! 
 Anchor and crown or no. 
 Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton ! " 
 — *' Speak low, woman ! speak low ! " 
 
 " And why should I speak low, sailor ! 
 About my own boy John ? 
 If I was loud as I am proud, 
 I'd sing him over the town :
 
 HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. 249 
 
 Why should I speak low ? sailor ! " 
 — " That good ship went down." 
 
 *' How's my boy ? how's my boy ? 
 What care I for the ship ? sailor ! 
 I was never aboard her : 
 Be she afloat or be she aground. 
 Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound 
 Her owners can aiTord her. 
 I say, how's my John ? " 
 — " Every man on board went down, — 
 Every man aboard her." 
 
 (( 
 
 How's my boy, my boy ? 
 
 What care I for the men ? sailor ! 
 
 I'm not their mother. 
 
 How's my boy, my boy ? 
 
 Tell me of him, and no other ! 
 
 How's my boy, my boy ? " 
 
 HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. 
 1824 — 1872. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF THE DANE. 
 
 Blue gulf all around us, 
 
 Blue sky overhead : 
 Muster all on the quarter ! 
 
 We must bury the dead. 
 
 It is but a Danish sailor, 
 
 Rugged of front and form, — 
 
 A common son of the forecastle. 
 Grizzled with sun and storm. 
 
 His name and the strand he hail'd from 
 We know, — and there's nothing more 
 
 But perhaps his mother is waiting 
 In the lonely Island of Fohr.
 
 250 HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. 
 
 Still as he lay there dying, 
 Reason drifting, a wreck, 
 " 'Tis my watch ! " he would mutter, — 
 " I must go upon deck ! " 
 
 Ay, on deck, by the foremast ! — 
 But watch and look-out are done : 
 
 The Union-Jack laid o'er him. 
 How quiet he lies in the sun I 
 
 Slow the ponderous engine ! 
 
 Stay the hurrying shaft ! 
 Let the roll of ocean 
 
 Cradle our giant craft ! 
 Gather around the grating, 
 
 Carry your messmate aft ! 
 
 Stand in order, and listen 
 
 To the holiest page of prayer ; 
 Let every foot be quiet. 
 
 Every head be bare ! 
 The soft trade-wind is lifting 
 
 A hundred locks of hair. 
 
 Our captain reads the service 
 
 (A little spray on his cheeks), 
 The grand old words of burial, 
 
 And the trust a true heart seeks — 
 " We therefore commit his body 
 
 To the deep ! " — and as he speaks, 
 
 Launch'd from the weather-railing 
 
 Swift as the eye can mark, 
 The ghastly shotted hammock 
 
 Plunges, away from the shark, 
 Down, a thousand fathoms, 
 
 Down into the dark ! 
 
 A thousand summers and winters 
 The stormy Gulf shall roll
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 251 
 
 High o'er his canvas coffin : — 
 But, silence to doubt and dole ! 
 
 There's a quiet harbour somewhere 
 For the poor aweary soul. 
 
 Free the fetter'd engine ! 
 
 Speed the tireless shaft ! 
 Loose to'gallant and topsail ! 
 
 The breeze is far abaft. 
 
 Blue sea all around us, 
 
 Blue sky bright o'erhead : 
 Every man to his duty ! 
 
 We have buried our dead. 
 
 QU'IL MOURUT! 
 
 Not a sob, not a tear he, spent 
 
 For those who fell at his side ! 
 But a moan, and a long lament 
 
 For him — who might have died ! 
 
 Who might have lain, as Harold lay, 
 
 A King, and in state enow. 
 Or slept with his peers, like Roland 
 
 In the Straits of Roncesvaux. 
 
 GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS. 
 1824 — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Rushes lean over the water, 
 
 Shells he on the shore. 
 And thou, the blue Ocean's daughter, 
 
 Sleep'st soft in the song of its roar. 
 
 Clouds sail over the ocean, 
 White gusts fleck its calm.
 
 252 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 
 But never its wildest motion 
 Thy beautiful rest should harm. 
 
 White feet on the edge of the billow 
 Mock its smooth-seething cream ; 
 
 Hard ribs of beach-sand thy pillow, 
 And a noble lover thy dream. 
 
 Like tangles of sea-weed streaming- 
 Over a perfect pearl, 
 
 Thy fair hair fringes thy dreaming, 
 O sleeping Lido girl. 
 
 MAJOR AND MINOR. 
 A bird sang sweet and strong 
 
 In the top of the highest tree : 
 He sang — " I pour out my soul in song 
 
 Yox the Summer that soon shall be." 
 
 But deep in the shady wood 
 
 Another bird sang — " I pour 
 My soul on the solemn solitude 
 
 For the Springs that return no more." 
 
 THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 
 1825— 1868. 
 
 THE PENITENT RAVEN. 
 The Raven's house is built with reeds, — 
 
 Sing woe, and alas is me ! 
 And the Raven's couch is spread with weeds, 
 
 High on the hollow tree ; 
 And the Raven himself, telling his beads 
 In penance for his past misdeeds, 
 
 Upon the top I see. 
 
 Telling his beads from night to morn, — 
 Sing alas ! and woe is me !
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 253 
 
 In penance for stealing the Abbot's corn, 
 
 High on the hollow tree. 
 Sin is a load upon the breast ; 
 And it nightly breaks the Raven's rest, 
 
 High on the hollow tree. 
 
 The Raven pray'd the Winter through, — 
 
 Sing woe, and alas is me ! 
 The hail it fell, the winds they blew. 
 
 High on the hollow tree, — 
 Until the Spring came forth again, 
 And the Abbot's men to sow their grain 
 
 Around the hollow tree. 
 
 Alas ! alas for earthly vows, — 
 
 Sing alas ! and woe is me ! 
 Whether they're made by men or crows 
 
 High on the hollow tree ! 
 The Raven swoop'd upon the seed, 
 And met his death in the very deed, 
 
 Beneath the hollow tree. 
 
 So beat we our breasts in shame of sin, — 
 
 Alas ! and woe is me ! 
 While all is hoUowness within : 
 
 Alas ! and woe is me ! 
 And when the ancient Tempter smiles. 
 So yield we our souls up to his wiles : 
 
 Alas ! and woe is me ! 
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 1825— 1878. 
 
 THE WISDOM OF ALT. 
 The Prophet once, sitting in calm debate. 
 Said — " I am Wisdom's fortress ; but the gate 
 Thereof is Ali." Wherefore some who heard 
 With unbelieving jealousy were stirr'd ;
 
 254 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 And, that they might on him confusion bring, 
 Ten of the boldest join'd to prove the thing. 
 " Let us in turn to Ali go ! " tliey said, — 
 " And ask if Wisdom should be sought instead 
 Of earthly riches : then, if he reply 
 To each of us in thought accordantly, 
 And yet to none in speech or phrase the same, 
 His shall the honour be, and ours the shame." 
 
 Now, when the first his bold demand did make, 
 These were the words which Ali straightway spake : 
 " Wisdom is the inheritance of those 
 
 Whom Allah favours ; riches of his foes." 
 
 Unto the second he said — " Thy self must be 
 Guard to thy wealth ; but Wisdom guardeth thee." 
 
 Unto the third — " By Wisdom wealth is won ; 
 But riches purchased Wisdom yet for none." 
 
 Unto the fourth — " Thy goods the thief may take ; 
 But into Wisdom's house he can not break." 
 
 Unto the fifth — " Thy goods decrease the more 
 Thou givest ; but use enlarges Wisdom's store." 
 
 Unto the sixth — " Wealth tempts to evil ways ; 
 But the desire of Wisdom is God's praise." 
 
 Unto the seventh — " Divide thy wealth, each part 
 Becomes a pittance ; give with open heart 
 Thy Wisdom, and each separate gift shall be 
 All that thou hast, yet not impoverish thee." 
 
 Unto the eighth — " Wealth can not keep itself; 
 But Wisdom is the steward even of pelf. " 
 
 Unto the ninth — " The camels slowly bring 
 
 Thy goods ; but Wisdom has the swallow's wing." 
 
 And lastly, when the tenth did question make. 
 These were the ready words which Ali spake :
 
 BAYARD TAYLOR. 2 55 
 
 " Wealth is a darkness which the soul should fear ; 
 But Wisdom is the lamp that makes it clear." 
 
 Crimson with shame the questioners withdrew, 
 
 And they declared — " The Prophet's words were true : 
 
 The mouth of Ali is the golden door 
 
 Of Wisdom." When his friends to Ali bore 
 
 These words, he smiled and said : " And should they ask 
 
 The same until my dying day, the task 
 
 Were easy, — for the stream from Wisdom's well. 
 
 Which God supplies, is inexhaustible." 
 
 BEDOUIN SONG. 
 
 From the Desert I come to thee, 
 
 On a stallion shod with fire ; 
 And the winds are left behind 
 
 In the speed of my desire ! 
 Under thy window I stand, 
 
 And the midnight hears my cry — 
 I love thee, I love but thee. 
 
 With a love that shall not die 
 Till the sun grows cold 
 And the stars are old 
 And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold. 
 
 Look from thy window, and see 
 
 My passion and my pain ! 
 I lie on the sands below, 
 
 And I faint in thy disdain. 
 Let the night winds touch thy brow 
 
 With the heat of my burning sigh, 
 And melt thee to hear the vow 
 
 Of a love that shall not die 
 
 Till the sun grows cold 
 And the stars are old 
 And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold.
 
 256 BAYARD TAYLOR. 
 
 My steps are nightly driven 
 
 By the fever in my breast 
 To hear from thy lattice breathed 
 
 The word that shall give me rest. 
 Open the door of thy heart ! 
 
 And open thy chamber door ! 
 And my kisses shall teach thy lips 
 
 The love that shall fade no more 
 Till the sun grows cold 
 And the stars are old 
 And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold. 
 
 THE ARAB TO THE PALM. 
 
 Next to thee, O fair Gazelle ! 
 
 O Beddowee Girl, beloved so well ! 
 
 Next to the fearless Nedjidee, 
 
 Whose fleetness shall bear me again to thee, — 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Palm, 
 
 With his leaves of beauty, his fruit of balm : 
 
 Next to ye both I love the Tree 
 Whose fluttering shadow wraps us three 
 With love and silence and mystery. 
 
 Our tribe is many, our poets vie 
 
 With any under the Arab sky : 
 
 Yet none can sing of the Palm but I. 
 
 The marble minarets that begem 
 
 Cairo's citadel-diadem 
 
 Are not so light as his slender stem. 
 
 He lifts his leaves in the sunbeam's glance. 
 As the Almehs lift their arms in dance : 
 
 A slumbrous motion, a passionate sign, 
 That works in the cells of the blood like wine.
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 257 
 
 Full of passion and sorrow is he, 
 Dreaming where the Beloved may be. 
 
 And when the warm South-Winds arise, 
 He breathes his longing in fervid sighs, 
 
 Quickening odours, kisses of balm, 
 That drop in the lap of his chosen Palm. 
 
 The sun may flame and the sands may stir, 
 But the breath of his passion reaches her. 
 
 O Tree of Love ! by that love of thine, 
 Teach me how I shall soften mine ! 
 
 Give me the secret of the Sun, 
 Whereby the woo'd is ever won ! 
 
 If I were a king, O stately Tree ! 
 A likeness, glorious as might be, 
 In the court of my palace I'd build for thee : 
 
 With a shaft of silver burnish'd bright. 
 And leaves of beryl and malachite, 
 
 With spikes of golden bloom ablaze. 
 And fruits of topaz and chrysoprase. 
 
 And there the poets in thy praise 
 
 Should night and morning frame new lays, — 
 
 New measures sung to tunes divine : 
 But none, O Palm ! should equal mine. 
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 1825— 
 
 BRAHMA'S ANSWER. 
 Once, when the days were ages, 
 And the old Earth was young, 
 The high Gods and the sages 
 From Nature's golden pages 
 Her open secrets wrung. 
 II.— 17
 
 258 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 
 
 Each question'd each to know 
 Whence came the Heavens above, and whence the Earth 
 below. 
 
 Indra, the endless giver 
 
 Of every gracious thing 
 The Gods to him deliver, 
 Whose bounty is the river 
 
 Of which they are the spring, — 
 Indra, with anxious heart, 
 Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is apart. 
 
 " Brahma ! Supremest Being ! 
 
 By whom the worlds are made, — 
 Where we are blind, all-seeing, — 
 Stable, where we are fleeing, 
 
 Of Life and Death afraid, — • 
 Instruct us, for mankind, 
 What is the body, Brahma ? O Brahma ! what the mind ? " 
 
 Hearing us though he heard not, 
 
 So perfect was his rest, 
 So vast the Soul that err'd not, 
 So wise the lips that stirr'd not, — 
 
 His hand upon his breast 
 He laid, whereat his face 
 Was mirror'd in the river that girt that holy place. 
 
 They question'd each the other 
 What Brahma's answer meant. 
 
 Said Vivochunu — " Brother ! 
 
 Through Brahma the Great Mother 
 Hath spoken her intent : 
 
 Man ends as he began, — 
 The shadow on the water is all there is of Man." 
 
 '' The Earth with woe is cumber'd, 
 And no man understands ;
 
 RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. 259 
 
 They see their days are number'd 
 By One that never slumber'd 
 
 Nor stay'd his dreadful hands. 
 / see with Brahma's eyes : 
 The body is the shadow that on the water Hes," 
 
 Thus Indra, looking deeper, 
 
 With Brahma's self possessed. 
 So dry thine eyes, thou weeper ! 
 And rise again, thou sleeper ! 
 
 The hand on Brahma's breast 
 Is his divine assent 
 Covering the soul that dies not. This is what Brahma meant. 
 
 A JAR OF WINE. 
 
 Day and night my thoughts incline 
 To the blandishments of wine : 
 Jars were made to drain, I think ; 
 Wine, I know, was made to drink. 
 
 When I die (the day be far !) 
 Should the potters make a jar 
 Out of this poor clay of mine, 
 Let the jar be fill'd with wine ! 
 
 UNDER THE ROSE. 
 
 She wears a rose in her hair, 
 
 At the twilight's dreamy close 
 Her face is fair, — how fair 
 Under the rose ! 
 
 I steal like a shadow there, 
 
 As she sits in rapt repose, 
 And whisper my loving prayer 
 Under the rose.
 
 26o ELIZABETH DREW BARSTOW STODDARD. 
 
 She takes the rose from her hair, 
 
 And her colour comes and goes, 
 And I, — a lover will dare 
 Under the rose. 
 
 ELIZABETH DREW BARSTOW STODDARD. 
 
 1823— 
 
 MERCEDES. 
 
 Under a sultry yellow sky 
 
 On the yellow sand I lie : 
 
 The crinkled vapours smite my brain, 
 
 I smoulder in a fiery pain. 
 
 Above the crags the condor flies, — 
 He knows where the red gold lies. 
 He knows where the diamonds shine : 
 If I knew, would she be mine ? 
 
 Mercedes in her hammock swings, — 
 In her court a palm tree flings 
 Its slender shadow on the ground. 
 The fountain falls with silver sound. 
 
 Her lips are like this cactus-cup, — 
 With my hand I crush it up, 
 I tear its flaming leaves apart : 
 Would that I could tear her heart ! 
 
 Last night a man was at her gate : 
 In the hedge I lay in wait : 
 I saw Mercedes meet him there, 
 By the fire-flies in her hair. 
 
 I waited till the break of day, 
 Then I rose and stole away ; 
 But left my dagger in her gate : 
 Now she knows her lover's fate.
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 261 
 
 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 
 1825 — 1864. 
 
 A WOMAN'S QUESTIONING. 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee, 
 
 Or place my hand in thine, 
 Before I let thy Future give 
 
 Colour and form to mine, 
 Before I peril all for thee, 
 Question thy soul to-night for me ! 
 
 I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
 
 A shadow of regret : 
 Is there one link within the Past 
 
 That holds thy spirit yet ? 
 Or is thy faith as clear and free 
 As that which I can pledge to thee ? 
 
 Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
 
 A possible future shine 
 Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 
 
 Untouch'd, unshared by mine ? 
 If so, at any pain or cost, 
 O tell me, before all is lost ! 
 
 Look deeper still ! If thou canst feel 
 
 Within thy inmost soul 
 That thou hast kept a portion back, 
 
 While I have staked the whole. 
 Let no false pity spare the blow, 
 But in true mercy tell me so ! 
 
 Is there within thy heart a need 
 
 That mine can not fulfil. 
 One cord that any other hand 
 
 Could better wake, or still ? 
 Speak now, lest at some future day 
 My whole life wither and decay !
 
 262 LUCY LARCOM. 
 
 Lives there within thy nature hid 
 
 The demon spirit — Change, 
 Shedding a passing glory still 
 
 On all things new and strange ? 
 It may not be thy fault alone : 
 But shield my heart against thy own ! 
 
 Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day, 
 
 And answer to my claim 
 That Fate, and that to-day's mistake, 
 
 Not thou, had been to blame ? 
 Some soothe their conscience thus : but thou 
 Wilt surely warn and save me now. 
 
 Nay ! answer not ! I dare not hear : 
 
 The words would come too late. 
 Yet I would spare thee all remorse : 
 
 So comfort thee, my Fate ! 
 Whatever on my heart may fall. 
 Remember — I would risk it all. 
 
 LUCY LARCOM. 
 1826— 
 
 SLEEP-SONG. 
 Hush the homeless baby's crying. 
 Tender Sleep ! 
 Every folded violet 
 May the outer storm forget : 
 Those wet lids with kisses drying, 
 Through them creep ! 
 
 Soothe the soul that lies thought-weary, 
 Murmurous Sleep ! 
 Like a hidden brooklet's song. 
 Rippling gorgeous woods among. 
 Tinkling down the mountains dreary, 
 White and steep.
 
 MORTIMER COLLINS. 263 
 
 Breathe thy balm upon the lonely, 
 Gentle Sleep ! 
 As the twilight breezes bless 
 With sweet scents the wilderness, 
 Ah, let warm white dove -wings only 
 Round them sweep ! 
 
 O'er the aged pour thy blessing, 
 Holy Sleep ! 
 Like a soft and ripening rain 
 Falling on the yellow grain, 
 For the glare of suns oppressing. 
 Pitying weep ! 
 
 O'er thy still seas met together, 
 Charmed Sleep ! 
 Hear them swell a drowsy hymning. 
 Swans to silvery music swimming. 
 Floating with unruffled feather 
 O'er the deep ! 
 
 MORTIMER COLLINS. 
 
 1827— 1876. 
 
 SNOW AND SUN. 
 Fast falls the snow, O Lady mine ! 
 Sprinkling the lawn with crystals fine : 
 But, by the Gods, we won't repine, 
 
 While we're together ; 
 We'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine. 
 
 Defying weather. 
 
 So stir the fire, and pour the wine ! 
 And let those sea-green eyes divine 
 Pour their love-madness into mine ! 
 
 I don't care whether 
 'Tis snow or sun or rain or shine, 
 
 If we're together.
 
 264 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 
 1828— 
 
 THE TOUCHSTONE. 
 
 A man there came, whence none could tell, 
 Bearing a Touchstone in his hand ; 
 And tested all things in the land 
 By its unerring spell. 
 
 Quick birth of transformation smote 
 The fair to foul, the foul to fair ; 
 Purple nor ermine did he spare, 
 Nor scorn the dusty coat. 
 
 Of heirloom jewels, prized so much. 
 Were many changed to chips and clods ; 
 And even statues of the Gods 
 Crumbled beneath its touch. 
 
 Then angrily the people cried — 
 The loss outweighs the profit far : 
 Our goods suffice us as they are, — 
 We will not have them tried." 
 
 And since they could not so avail 
 To check his unrelenting quest, 
 They seized him, saying — " Let him test 
 How real is our jail ! " 
 
 But though they slew him with the sword. 
 And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd, 
 Its doings could not be o'erturn'd. 
 Its undoings restored. 
 
 'o- 
 
 And when, to stop all future harm, 
 They strew'd its ashes on the breeze, 
 They little guess'd each grain of these 
 Convey'd the perfect charm.
 
 ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. 265 
 
 ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. 
 1828— 
 
 VIOLET. 
 She stood where I had used to wait 
 
 For her, beneath the gaunt old yew, 
 And near a column of the gate 
 
 That open'd on the avenue. 
 
 The moss that capp'd its granite ball, 
 The grey and yellow lichen stains, 
 
 The ivy on the old park wall, 
 
 Were glossy with the morning rains. 
 
 She stood amid such tearful gloom ; 
 
 But close behind her, out of reach. 
 Lay many a mound of orchard bloom. 
 
 And trellis'd blossoms of the peach. 
 
 Those peaches blooming to the South, 
 Those orchard blossoms, seem'd to me 
 
 Like kisses of her rosy mouth 
 Revived on trellis and on tree : 
 
 Kisses that die not when the thrill 
 Of joy that answer'd them is mute, 
 
 But such as turn to use and fill 
 
 The summer of our days with fruit. 
 
 And she, impressing half the sole 
 
 Of one small foot against the ground, 
 
 Stood resting on the yew-tree bole, 
 A-tiptoe to each sylvan sound. 
 
 She, whom I thought so still and shy, 
 Express'd in every subtle move 
 
 Of lifted hand and open eye 
 The large expectancy of love.
 
 266 ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. 
 
 Until, with all her dewy hair 
 
 Dissolved into a golden flame 
 Of sunshine on the sunless air, 
 
 She came to meet me as I came. 
 
 But in her face no sunshine shone ; 
 
 No sunlight, but the sad unrest 
 Of shade that sinks from zone to zone 
 
 When twilight glimmers in the West, • 
 
 What grief had touch'd her on the nerve ? 
 
 For grief alone it is that stirs 
 The full ineffable reserve 
 
 Of quiet spirits such as hers. 
 
 'Twas this that we had met to part ; 
 
 That I was going, and that she 
 Had nothing left but her true heart 
 
 Made strong by memories of me. 
 
 What wonder then she quite forgot 
 
 Her old repression and controul. 
 And loosed at once, and stinted not, 
 
 The tender tumult of her soul? 
 
 What wonder that she droop'd and lay 
 
 In silence, and at length in tears, 
 On that which should have been the stay 
 
 And comfort of her matron years ? 
 
 But from her bosom, as she lean'd. 
 
 She took a nestled violet. 
 And gave it me : " because 'twas mean'd 
 
 For those who never can forget." 
 
 This is the flower ! 'tis dry — or wet 
 With something I may call my own. 
 
 Why did I rouse this old regret ? 
 It irks me, now, to be alone.
 
 ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. '^^7 
 
 Triumphs, indeed ! Why, after all. 
 
 My life has but a leaden hue : 
 My heart grows like the heart of Saul, 
 
 For hatred, and for madness too. 
 
 Why sits that smirking minstrel there ? 
 
 I hate him and the songs he sings : 
 They only bring the fond despair 
 
 Of inaccessible sweet things. 
 
 I will avoid him once for all, 
 
 Or slay him in my righteous ire ; — 
 
 Alas ! my javelin hits the wall, 
 
 And spares the minstrel and his lyre. 
 
 Yea! and the crown upon my head, 
 The crown of wealth for which I strove, 
 
 Shall fall away ere I be dead 
 
 To yon slight boy who sings of love. 
 
 Why are we captive, such as I, 
 
 Mature in age and strong in will, 
 To one who harps so plaintively ? 
 
 I struck at him : why lives he still ? 
 
 Why lives he still ? Because the ruth 
 Of those pure days may never die. 
 
 He lives because his name is Youth, 
 Because his harp is Memory. 
 
 MAR Y ANERLE Y. 
 
 Little Mary Anerley, sitting on the stile ! 
 Why do you blush so red, and why so strangely smile ? 
 Somebody has been with you : somebody, I know. 
 Left that sunset on your cheek, left you smiling so. 
 
 Gentle Mary Anerley, waiting by the wall, 
 
 Waiting in the chestnut walk where the snowy blossoms fall !
 
 268 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 Somebody is coming there : somebody, I'm sure, 
 
 Knows your eyes are full of love, knows your heart is pure. 
 
 Happy Mary Anerley, looking O so fair ! 
 
 There's a ring upon your hand, and there's myrtle in your hair. 
 
 Somebody is with you now : somebody, I see, 
 
 Looks into your trusting face very tenderly. 
 
 Quiet Alary Forester, sitting by the shore. 
 Rosy faces at your knee, roses round the door ! 
 Somebody is coming home : somebody, I know. 
 Made you sorry when he sailed. Are you sorry now ? 
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 1828— 1882. 
 
 THE CARD-DEALER. 
 
 Could you not drink her gaze like wine ? 
 
 Yet, though its splendour swoon 
 Into the silence languidly 
 
 As a tune into a tune, 
 Those eyes unravel the coil'd night 
 
 And know the stars at noon. 
 
 The gold that's heap'd beside her hand 
 
 In truth rich prize it were ; 
 And rich the dreams that wreathe her brows 
 
 With magic stillness there ; 
 And he were rich who would unwind 
 
 That woven golden hair. 
 
 Around her, where she sits, the dance 
 
 Now breathes its eager heat ; 
 And not more lightly or more true 
 
 Fall there the dancers' feet 
 Than fall her cards on the bright board, 
 
 As 'twere a heart that beat.
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 269 
 
 Her fingers let them softly through, 
 
 Smooth polish'd silent things ; 
 And each one as it falls reflects 
 
 In swift light-shadovvings, 
 Blood-red and purple, green and blue, 
 
 The great eyes of her rings. 
 
 Whom plays she with ? With thee who lovest 
 
 Those gems upon her hand ; 
 With me, who search her secret brows ; 
 
 With all men, bless'd or bann'd. 
 We play together, she and we, 
 
 Within a vain strange land. 
 
 A land without any order, — 
 
 Day even as night (one saith), — 
 Where who lieth down ariseth not 
 
 Nor the sleeper awakeneth ; 
 A land of darkness as darkness itself 
 
 And of the shadow of death. 
 
 What be her cards ? you ask. Even these : 
 
 The heart, that doth but crave 
 More, having fed ; the diamond, 
 
 SkiU'd to make base seem brave ; 
 The club, for smiting in the dark ; 
 
 The spade, to dig a grave. 
 
 And do you ask what game she plays ? 
 
 With me 'tis lost or won ; 
 With thee it is playing still ; with him 
 
 It is not well begun : 
 But 'tis a game she plays with all 
 
 Beneath the sway o' the sun. 
 
 Thou seest the card that falls ; — she knows 
 The card that foUoweth :
 
 2'JO DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 
 
 Her game in thy tongue is call'd Life, 
 
 As ebbs thy daily breath : 
 When she shall speak, thou'lt learn her tongue, 
 
 And know she calls it Death. 
 
 FIRST LOVE REMEMBERED. 
 Peace in her chamber ! whereso'er 
 
 It be, a holy place : 
 The thought still brings my soul such grace 
 
 As morning meadows wear. 
 
 Whether it still be small and light, 
 A maid's, who dreams alone, 
 
 As from her orchard gate the moon 
 Its ceiling show'd at night : 
 
 Or whether, in a shadow dense. 
 
 As nuptial hymns invoke. 
 Innocent maidenhood awoke 
 
 To married innocence : 
 
 There still the thanks unheard await 
 
 The unconscious gift bequeath'd, — 
 
 For there my soul this hour has breathed 
 An air inviolate. 
 
 LILITH. 
 Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told 
 (The witch beloved before the gift of Eve) 
 That, ere the Snake's, her sweet tongue could deceive, 
 And her enchanted hair was the first gold. 
 And still she sits, young while the earth is old. 
 And, subtly of herself contemplative, 
 Draws men to watch the bright net she can weave, 
 Till heart and body and life are in its hold. 
 
 The rose and poppy are her flowers : for wliere 
 Is he not found, O Lilith ! whom shed scent
 
 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 2/ 1 
 
 And soft-shed kisses and soft sleep shall snare ? 
 Lo ! as that youth's eyes burn'd at thine, so went 
 Thy spell through him, and left his straight neck bent. 
 And round his heart one strangling golden hair. 
 
 TRUE WOMAN. 
 
 To be a sweetness more desired than Spring ; 
 
 A bodily beauty more acceptable 
 
 Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell ; 
 
 To be an essence more environing 
 
 Than wine's drain'd juice ; a music ravishing 
 
 More than the passionate pulse of Philomel ; — 
 
 To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell 
 
 That is the flower of life : — how strange a thing ! 
 
 How strange a thing to be what man can know 
 
 But as a sacred secret ! Heaven's own screen 
 
 Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow, — 
 
 Closely withheld as all things most unseen : 
 
 The wave-bower'd pearl, — the heart-shape seal of green 
 
 That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow. 
 
 LOST DAYS. 
 
 The lost days of my life until to-day. 
 What were they, could I see them on the street 
 Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of wheat 
 Sown once for food but trodden into clay ? 
 Or golden coins squander'd and still to pay ? 
 Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet ? 
 Or such spill'd water as in dreams must cheat 
 The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway ? 
 I do not see them here ; but after death 
 God knows I know the faces I shall see, — 
 Each one a murder'd self, with low last breath : 
 " I am thyself, — what hast thou done to me ? " 
 " And I — and I — thyself" (lo ! each one saith) — 
 " And thou thyself to all eternity."
 
 272 CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 1830- 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When I am dead, my Dearest ! 
 
 Sing no sad songs for me ; 
 Plant thou no roses at my head, 
 
 No shady cypress-tree ! 
 Be the green grass above me, 
 
 With showers and dew-drops wet ; 
 And, if thou wilt, remember ! 
 
 And, if thou wilt, forget ! 
 
 I shall not see the shadows, 
 
 I shall not feel the rain, 
 I shall not hear the nightingale 
 
 Sing on as if in pain : 
 And dreaming through the twilight 
 
 That doth not rise nor set, 
 Haply I may remember, — 
 
 And haply may forget. 
 
 THE BOURNE. 
 
 Underneath the growing grass, 
 Underneath the living flowers. 
 Deeper than the sound of showers, 
 There we shall not count the hours 
 By the shadows as they pass. 
 
 Youth and health will be but vain, 
 Beauty reckon'd of no worth, — 
 There a very little girth 
 Can hold round what once the earth 
 Seem'd too narrow to contain.
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 2/3 
 
 JEAN INGELOW. 
 
 1830— 
 
 EXPECTING. 
 
 I lean'd out of window, I smell'd the white clover ; 
 Dark, dark was the garden, I saw not the gate : 
 Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover : — 
 Hush, nightingale ! hush ; O sweet nightingale ! wait, 
 
 Till I listen and hear 
 
 If a step draweth near! 
 
 For my Love he is late. 
 
 The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, 
 A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree, 
 The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : 
 To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see? 
 Let the star-clusters glow, 
 Let the sweet waters flow, 
 And cross quickly to me ! 
 
 You night-moths that hover w^here honey brims over 
 From sycamore blossoms, or settle, or sleep! 
 You glow-worms, shine out and the pathway discover 
 To him that comes darkling along the rough steep ! 
 
 Ah, my sailor ! make haste ! 
 
 For the time runs to waste 
 
 And my love lieth deep. 
 
 Too deep for swift telling : and yet, my one lover ! 
 
 I've conn'd thee an answer, it waits thee to-night. 
 
 By the sycamore pass'd he and through the white clover. 
 
 Then all the sweet speech I had fashion'd took flight. 
 But I'll love him more, more, 
 Than e'er wife loved before, 
 Be the days dark or bright. 
 II.— 18
 
 274 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 1833- 
 
 THE DOORSTEP. 
 
 The conference meeting through at last, 
 We boys around the vestry waited 
 
 To see the girls come tripping past, 
 Like snow-birds willing to be mated. 
 
 Not braver he that leaps the wall 
 
 By level musket-flashes bitten, 
 Than I, who stepp'd before them all 
 
 Who long'd to see me get the mitten. 
 
 But no ! she blush'd and took my arm : 
 We let the old folks have the highway. 
 
 And started tow'rd the Maple Farm 
 Along a kind of lover's by-way. 
 
 I can't remember what we said, — 
 'Twas nothing worth a song or story ; 
 
 Yet that rude path by which we sped 
 Seem'd all transform'd and in a glory. 
 
 The snow was crisp beneath our feet, 
 
 The moon was full, the fields were gleaming ; 
 
 By hood and tippet shelter'd sweet, 
 
 Her face with youth and health was beaming. 
 
 The little hand outside her muff 
 
 (O sculptor! if you could but mould it) 
 
 So lightly touch'd my jacket-cuff. 
 To keep it warm I had to hold it. 
 
 To have her there with me alone, — 
 
 'Twas love and fear and triumph blended : 
 
 At last we reach'd the foot-worn stone 
 Where that delicious journey ended.
 
 EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. 
 
 275 
 
 The old folks too were almost home : 
 Her dimpled hand the latches finger'd, 
 
 We heard the voices nearer come, 
 Yet on the doorstep still we linger'd. 
 
 She shook her ringlets from her hood, 
 
 And with a " Thank you, Ned ! " dissembled ; 
 
 But yet I knew she understood 
 
 With what a daring wish I trembled. 
 
 A cloud pass'd kindly overhead, 
 
 The moon was slyly peeping through it, 
 
 Yet hid its face, as if it said — 
 
 " Come, now or never do it ! do it !" 
 
 My lips till then had only known 
 The kiss of mother and of sister, — 
 
 But somehow, full upon her own 
 
 Sweet rosy darling mouth — I kiss'd her. 
 
 Perhaps 'twas boyish love : yet still, 
 
 O listless woman! weary lover! 
 To feel once more that fresh wild thrill 
 
 I'd give But who can live youth over ? 
 
 TO U JOURS AMOUR. 
 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 
 At what age does love begin ? 
 Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
 Summers three, my fairy queen ! 
 But a miracle of sweets. 
 Soft approaches, sly retreats, 
 Show the little archer there, 
 Hidden in your pretty hair : 
 When didst learn a heart to win ? 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin !
 
 2/6 EDMUND CLARENXE STEDMAX. 
 
 *•' O ! " the rosy lips reply, — 
 " I can't tell you if I try : 
 
 'Tis so long I can't remember. — 
 
 Ask some younger lass than I ! " 
 
 Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 
 Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
 ^^^len does hoary love expire ? 
 \Vhen do frosts put out the fire ? 
 Can its embers bum below 
 All that chill December snow ? 
 Care you still soft hands to press, 
 Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 
 When does Love give up the chase ? 
 Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face ! 
 
 ti 
 
 Ah ! " the ^"ise old lips reply, — 
 Youth may pass and strength may die. 
 But of Love I can't foretoken 
 Ask some older sage than I." 
 
 Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word. 
 
 Close, close in my arms thou art clinging ; 
 
 Alone for my ear thou art singing 
 
 A song which no stranger hath heard : 
 
 But afar from me yet, like a bird. 
 
 Thy soul in some region unstirr'd 
 
 On its mystical circuit is winging. 
 
 Thou art mine, I have made thee mine own,- 
 Henceforth we are mingled for ever : 
 But in vain, all in vain 1 endeavour, 
 Though round thee my garlands are thrown 
 And thou j-ieldest thy hps and thy zone, 
 To master the spell that alone 
 My hold on thy being can sever.
 
 GEORGE ARNOLD. V7 
 
 Thou art mine, thou hast come unto me : 
 
 But thy soul, when I strive to be near it, 
 
 The innermost fold of thy spirit. 
 
 Is as far from my grasp, is as free, 
 
 As the stars from the mountain-tops be, 
 
 As the pearl in the depths of the sea 
 
 From the portionless king who would wear it. 
 
 GEORGE ARNOLD. 
 1834—1865. 
 
 GLORIA. 
 
 IN TIME OF WAK. 
 
 The laurels shine in the morning sun, 
 
 The tall grass shakes its glittering spears. 
 
 And the webs the spiders last night spun 
 Are threaded with pearly tears. 
 
 At peace -v^-ith the world and all therein, 
 I walk in the fields this summer mom : 
 
 What should I know of sorrow or sin 
 Among the laurels and corn ? 
 
 But hark ! through the corn a murmur comes,- 
 'Tis growing, 'tis swelling, it rises high : 
 
 The thunder of guns and the roll of drums. 
 And an army marching by. 
 
 Away with the sloth of peace and ease \ 
 'Tis a nation's voice that seems to call : 
 
 Who cares for aught in times like these 
 Save to win, or else to fall ? 
 
 Farewell, O shining laurels ! now, 
 I go with the army marching by : 
 
 Your leaves, should I win, may deck my brow. 
 Or my bier, if I should die.
 
 2/8 JOHN NICHOL. 
 
 JOHN NICHOL. 
 
 IMP A TIENCE. 
 
 Our life is spent in little things, 
 
 In little cares our hearts are drown'd ; 
 
 We move, with heavy-laden wings, 
 In the same narrow round. 
 
 We waste on wars and petty strife, 
 And squander in a thousand ways, 
 
 The fire that should have been the life 
 And power of after days. 
 
 We toil to make an outward show, 
 And only now and then reveal 
 
 How far the under currents flow 
 Of all we think and feel. 
 
 Mining in caves of ancient lore, 
 
 Unweaving endless webs of thought. 
 
 We do what has been done of yore : 
 And so we come to nought. 
 
 The Spirit longs for wider scope. 
 And room to let its fountains play 
 
 Ere it has lost its love and hope, 
 Tamed down or worn away. 
 
 I wander by the cloister walls. 
 
 My fancy fretting to be free 
 As, through the twilight, voices call 
 
 From mountain and from sea. 
 
 Forgive mc if I feci oppress'd 
 By Custom, lord of all and me ! 
 
 My soul springs upward, seeking rest, 
 And cries for liberty.
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. V9 
 
 LEWIS MORRIS. 
 
 1833— 
 
 LOVE'S SUICIDE. 
 
 Alas for me that my love is dead ! 
 Sunk fathom-deep, and may not rise again : 
 Self-murder'd, vanish'd, fled beyond recall : 
 And this is all my pain. 
 
 'Tis not that She I loved is gone from me ; 
 She lives, and grows more lovely day by day : 
 Not Death could kill my love, — but, though She lives, 
 My love has died away. 
 
 Nor was it that a form or face more fair 
 Forswore my troth, for so my love had proved 
 Eye-deep alone, not rooted in the soul : 
 And 'twas not thus I loved. 
 
 Nor that, by too long dalliance with delight 
 And recompense of love, my love had grown 
 Surfeit with sweets, like some tired bee that flags 
 'Mid roses overblown. 
 
 None of these slew my love ; but some cold wind, 
 Some chill of doubt, some shadowy dissidence, 
 Born out of too great concord, did o'ercloud 
 Love's subtle inner sense. 
 
 So one sweet changeless chord too long sustain'd 
 Falls at its close into a lower tone ; 
 So the swift train, sped on the long straight way, 
 Sways and is overthrown. 
 
 For difference is the soul of life and love. 
 And not the barren oneness weak souls prize : 
 Rest springs from strife, and dissonant chords beget 
 Divincst harmonics.
 
 28o HELEN FISKE JACKSON. 
 
 HELEN FISKE JACKSON. 
 1833-S— 
 
 CORONATION. 
 
 At the king's gate the subtle Noon 
 
 Wove filmy yellow nets of sun ; 
 Into the drowsy snare too soon 
 
 The guards fell, one by one. 
 
 Through the king's gate unquestion'd then 
 A beggar went, and laugh'd — " This brings 
 
 Me chance at last to see if men 
 Fare better, being kings." 
 
 The king sat bow'd beneath his crown, 
 Propping his face with listless hand. 
 
 Watching the hour-glass shifting down 
 Too slow its shining sand. 
 
 " Poor man ! what wouldst thou have of me ? " 
 The beggar turn'd and, pitying, 
 Replied, like one in dream — " Of thee 
 Nothing : I want the king." 
 
 Uprose the king, and from his head 
 Shook off the crown and threw it by : 
 " O man! thou must have known," he said, 
 " A greater king than I." 
 
 Through all the gates unquestion'd then 
 Went king and beggar, hand in hand : 
 
 Whisper'd the king — " Shall I know when 
 Before his throne I stand ? " 
 
 The beggar laugh'd (free winds in haste 
 Were wiping from the king's hot brow 
 
 The crimson lines the crown had traced): 
 " This is his presence now ! "
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 At the king's gate the crafty Noon 
 Unwove its yellow nets of sun ; 
 
 Out of their sleep in terror soon 
 The guards waked, one by one. 
 
 " Ho here ! ho there ! has no man seen 
 The king ? " the cry ran to and fro : 
 Beggar and king they laugh'd, I ween, 
 The laugh that free men know. 
 
 On the king's gate the moss grew grey ; 
 
 The king came not. They call'd him dead ; 
 And made his eldest son one day 
 
 Slave in his father's stead. 
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 1834- 
 
 281 
 
 SONG. 
 Fair is the night, and fair the day, 
 Now April is forgot of May, 
 Now into June May falls away : 
 Fair day ! fair night ! O give me back 
 The tide that all fair things did lack 
 Except my Love, except my Sweet ! 
 
 Blow back, O wind ! thou art not kind, 
 Though thou art sweet : thou hast no mind 
 Her hair about my Sweet to bind. 
 
 flowery sward ! though thou art bright, 
 
 1 praise thee not for thy delight, — 
 Thou hast not kiss'd her silver feet. 
 
 Thou know'st her not, O rustling tree ! 
 What dost thou then to shadow me, 
 Whose shade her breast did never see ? 
 O flowers ! in vain ye bow adown : 
 Ye have not felt her odorous gown 
 Brush past your heads my lips to meet.
 
 282 WILLIAM MORRIS. 
 
 Flow on, great river ! thou mayst deem 
 
 That far away, a summer stream, 
 
 Thou saw'st her limbs amidst the gleam, 
 
 And kiss'd her foot, and kiss'd her knee : 
 
 Yet get thee swift unto the sea ! 
 
 With nought of true thou wilt me greet. 
 
 And Thou that men call by my name I 
 O helpless One ! hast thou no shame 
 That thou must even look the same 
 As while agone, as while agone 
 When Thou and She were left alone, 
 And hands and lips and tears did meet ? 
 
 Grow weak and pine, lie down to die, 
 
 O body ! in thy misery, 
 
 Because short time and sweet goes by. 
 
 O foolish heart ! how weak thou art : 
 
 Break, break, because thou needs must part 
 
 From thine own Love, from thine own Sweet ! 
 
 BEFORE OUR LADY CAME. 
 
 Before our Lady came on earth 
 Little there was of joy or mirth : 
 About the borders of the sea 
 The sea-folk wander'd heavily ; 
 About the wintry river side 
 The weary fishers would abide. 
 
 Alone, within the weaving-room. 
 The girls would sit before the loom, 
 And sing no song and play no play, — 
 Alone, from dawn to hot mid-day, 
 From mid-day vmto evening, 
 The men a-field would work, nor sing 
 'Mid weary thoughts of man and God,- 
 Before thy feet the wet ways trod.
 
 WILLIAM MORRIS. 283 
 
 Unkiss'd the merchant bore his care, 
 Unkiss'd the knights went out to war, 
 Unkiss'd the mariner came home, 
 Unkiss'd the minstrel men did roam. 
 
 Or in the stream the maids would stare, 
 Nor know why they were made so fair : 
 Their yellow locks, their bosoms white, 
 Their limbs well-wrought for all delight, 
 Seem'd foolish things that waited death, — 
 As hopeless as the flowers beneath 
 The weariness of unkiss'd feet : 
 No life was bitter then, or sweet. 
 
 Therefore, O Venus ! well may we 
 Praise the green ridges of the sea 
 O'er which, upon a happy day. 
 Thou camest to take our shame away. 
 Well may we praise the curdling foam 
 Amidst the which thy feet did bloom — 
 Flowers of the Gods ; the yellow sand 
 They kiss'd atwixt the sea and land ; 
 The bee-beset ripe-seeded grass 
 Through which thy fine limbs first did pass ; 
 The purple-dusted butterfly 
 First blown against thy quivering thigh ; 
 The first red rose that touch'd thy side. 
 And overblown and fainting died ; 
 The flickering of the orange shade 
 Where first in sleep thy limbs were laid ; 
 The happy day's sweet life and death. 
 Whose air first caught thy balmy breath : — 
 Yea! all these things well praised may be, 
 But with what words shall we praise Thee ? 
 O Venus ! O thou Love alive ! 
 Born to give peace to souls that strive.
 
 284 JOHN JAMES PIATT, 
 
 JOHN JAMES PIATT. 
 1835— 
 
 THE OLD MAN AND THE SPRING-LEA VES. 
 
 Underneath the beechen tree 
 All things fall in love with me ! 
 Birds, that sing so sweetly, sung 
 Ne'er more sweet when I was young ; 
 Some sweet breeze, I will not see, 
 Steals to kiss me lovingly ; 
 All the leaves so blithe and bright. 
 Dancing, sing in Maying light 
 Over me — " At last, at last. 
 He has stolen from the Past." 
 
 Wherefore, leaves ! so gladly mad ? 
 I am rather sad than glad. 
 
 " He is the merry child that play'd 
 Underneath our beechen shade 
 Years ago, whom all things bright 
 Gladden'd, glad with his delight." 
 
 I am not the child that play'd 
 
 Underneath your beechen shade ; 
 
 I am not the boy ye sung 
 
 Songs to, in lost fairy tongue. 
 
 He read fairy dreams below, 
 
 Legends leaves and flowers must know ; 
 
 He dream'd fairy dreams, and ye 
 
 Changed to fairies, in your glee 
 
 Dancing, singing from the tree ; 
 
 And awaken'd fairy-land 
 
 Circled childhood's magic wand. 
 
 Joy swcU'd his heart, Joy kiss'd his brow : 
 
 I am following funerals now. 
 
 Fairy shores from Time depart ;
 
 CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER. 285 
 
 Lost horizons flush my heart : 
 I am not the child that play'd 
 Underneath your beechen shade. 
 
 " 'Tis the merry child that play'd 
 Underneath our beechen shade 
 Years ago, whom all things bright 
 Loved, made glad by his delight." 
 
 Ah ! the bright leaves will not know 
 That an old man dreams below. 
 No ! they will not hear nor see, 
 Clapping their hands at finding me, 
 Singing, dancing from their tree. 
 Ah ! their happy voices steal 
 Time away : again I feel, 
 While they sing to me apart. 
 The lost child come in my heart : 
 In the enchantment of the Past 
 The old man is the child at last. 
 
 CELIA LEIGHTON THAXTER. 
 183s- 
 
 MEDRAKE AND OSPREY. 
 
 Medrake, waving wide wings low o'er the breeze-rippled 
 
 bight ! 
 Osprey, soaring superb overhead in the fathomless blue, 
 Graceful, and fearless, and strong ! do you thrill with the 
 
 morning's delight 
 Even as I ? Brings the sunshine a message of beauty for you ? 
 
 O the blithe breeze of the West, blowing sweet from the far 
 
 away land, 
 Bowing the grass heavy-headed, thick-crowding, so slender 
 
 and proud !
 
 286 BYRON FORCEYTHE WILLSON. 
 
 O the warm sea sparkling over with waves by the swift wind 
 
 fann'd ! 
 O the wide sky crystal clear, with bright islands of delicate 
 
 cloud ! 
 
 Feel you the waking of life in the world lock'd so long in the 
 frost ? 
 
 Beautiful birds, with the light flashing bright from your ban- 
 ner-like wings ! 
 
 Osprey, soaring so high, in the depths of the sky half lost ! 
 
 Medrake, hovering low where the sandpiper's sweet note 
 rings ! 
 
 Nothing am I to you, a blot perhaps on the day ; 
 
 Nought do I add to your joy, but precious you are in my 
 sight ; 
 
 And you seem on your glad wings to lift me up into the ether 
 away ; 
 
 And the morning divine is more radiant because of your glori- 
 ous flight. 
 
 BYRON FORCEYTHE WILLSON. 
 
 1837— 1867. 
 
 THE E STRAY. 
 " Now tell me, my merry woodman ! 
 
 Why standest so aghast ? " — 
 " My lord ! 'twas a beautiful creature 
 
 That hath but just gone past ! " — 
 
 *' A creature, — what kind of a creature ? " — 
 " Nay, now, but I do not know." — 
 Humph ! what did it make you think of? " — 
 The sunshine, or the snow." — 
 
 
 " I shall overtake my horse then." — 
 The woodman open'd his eye : 
 The gold fell all around him ; 
 And a rainbow spann'd the sky.
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 28/ 
 
 AUTUMN-SONG. 
 
 In Spring the poet is glad, 
 
 And in Summer the poet is gay ; 
 But in Autumn the poet is sad, 
 
 And has something sad to say : 
 
 For the wind moans in the wood. 
 
 And the leaf drops from the tree, 
 And the cold rain falls on the graves of the good, 
 
 And the mist comes up from the sea : 
 
 And the Autumn Songs of the poet's soul 
 
 Are set to the passionate grief 
 Of winds that sough and bells that toll 
 
 The dirge of the Falling Leaf, 
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 1836- 
 
 LOVE'S QUEEN. 
 
 He loves not well whose love is bold : 
 I would not have thee come too nigh. 
 
 The sun's gold would not seem pure gold 
 Unless the sun were in the sky : 
 
 To take him thence and chain him near 
 
 Would make his beauty disappear. 
 
 He keeps his state : do thou keep thine, 
 And shine upon me from afar ! 
 
 So shall I bask in light divine 
 
 That falls from Love's own guiding-star 
 
 So shall thy eminence be high, 
 
 And so my passion shall not die. 
 
 But all my life shall reach its hands 
 Of lofty longing tow'rd thy face,
 
 288 WILLIAM WINTER. 
 
 And be as one who speechless stands 
 
 In rapture at some perfect grace : 
 My love, my hope, my all shall be 
 To look to heaven and look to thee. 
 
 Thine eyes shall be the heavenly lights ; 
 
 Thy voice shall be the summer breeze, 
 What time it sways, on moonlit nights, 
 
 The murmuring tops of leafy trees ; 
 And I will touch thy beauteous form 
 In June's red roses rich and warm. 
 
 But thou — thyself— shalt not come down 
 
 From that pure region far above ; 
 But keep thy throne and wear thy crown. 
 
 Queen of my heart and queen of love : 
 A monarch in thy realm complete, 
 And I a monarch at thy feet ! 
 
 AFTER ALL. 
 
 The apples are ripe in the orchard, 
 The work of the reaper is done ; 
 
 And the golden woodlands redden 
 In the blood of the dying sun. 
 
 At the cottage-door the grandsire 
 Sits, pale, in his easy chair, 
 
 While a gentle wind of twilight 
 Plays with his silver hair. 
 
 A woman is kneeling beside him ; 
 
 A fair young head is press'd, 
 In the first wild passion of sorrow, 
 
 Against his aged breast. 
 
 And far from over the distance 
 The faltering echoes come
 
 WILLIAM WINTER. 289 
 
 Of the flying blast of trumpet 
 And the ratthng roll of drum. 
 
 Then the grandsire speaks in a whisper : 
 
 '' The end no man can see, — 
 But we give him to his Country, 
 
 And we give our prayers to Thee ! " — 
 
 The violets star the meadows, 
 
 The rose-buds fringe the door, 
 And over the grassy orchard 
 
 The pink-white blossoms pour. 
 
 But the grandsire's chair is empty, 
 
 The cottage is dark and still ; 
 There's a nameless grave on the battle-field, 
 
 And a new one under the hill. 
 
 And a pallid tearless woman 
 
 By the cold hearth sits alone ; 
 And the old clock in the corner 
 
 Ticks on with a steady drone. 
 
 THE LAST SCENE. 
 
 Here she lieth, white and chill : 
 
 Put your hand upon her brow ? 
 Her sad heart is very still. 
 
 And she does not know you now. 
 
 Ah ! the grave's a quiet bed : 
 
 She will sleep a pleasant sleep, 
 And the tears that you may shed 
 
 Will not wake her, — therefore weep ! 
 
 Weep ! for you have wrought her woe ; 
 
 Mourn ! she mourn'd and died for you : 
 Ah ! too late we come to know 
 
 What is false and what is true. 
 II.— 19
 
 290 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 
 1836- 
 
 PALABRAS CARINOSAS. 
 Good-night ! I have to say good-night 
 To such a host of peerless things ! 
 Good-night unto that fragile hand 
 All queenly with its weight of rings, 
 Good-night to fond up-lifted eyes, 
 Good-night to chestnut braids of hair. 
 Good-night unto the perfect mouth 
 And all the sweetness nestled there ! 
 The snowy hand detains me, — then 
 I'll have to say Good-night again. 
 
 But there will come a time, my Love ! 
 
 When, if I read our stars aright, 
 
 I shall not linger by this porch 
 
 With my adieus. Till then, Good-night ! 
 
 You wish the time were now ? And I. 
 
 Y'ou do not blush to wish it so ? 
 
 You would have blush'd yourself to death 
 
 To own so much a year ago. 
 
 What ! both these snowy hands ? ah, then 
 I'll have to say Good-night again. 
 
 TIGER-LILIES. 
 I like not lady-slippers. 
 Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms. 
 Nor yet the flaky roses, 
 
 Red, or white as snow ; 
 I like the chaliced lilies, 
 The heavy Eastern lilies. 
 The gorgeous tiger-lilies, 
 
 That in our garden grow. 
 
 For they are tall and slender ; 
 
 Their mouths are dash'd with carmine ;
 
 RICHARD GARNETT. 29I 
 
 And, when the wind sweeps by them, 
 
 On their emerald stalks 
 They bend so proud and graceful : 
 They are Circassian women. 
 The favourites of the Sultan, 
 
 Adown our garden walks. 
 
 And when the rain is falling, 
 
 I sit beside the window 
 
 And watch them glow and glisten, — 
 
 How they burn and glow ! 
 O for the burning lilies. 
 The tender Eastern lilies, 
 The gorgeous tiger-lilies 
 
 That in our garden grow ! 
 
 RICHARD GARNETT. 
 183s— 
 
 VIOLETS. 
 
 Cold blows the wind against the hill, 
 
 And cold upon the plain ; 
 I sit me by the bank, until 
 
 The violets come again. 
 
 Here sat we when the grass was set 
 With violets shining through, 
 
 And leafing branches spread a net 
 To hold a sky of blue. 
 
 The trumpet clamour'd from the plain, 
 
 The cannon rent the sky ; 
 I cried — O Love ! come back again 
 
 Before the violets die ! 
 
 But they are dead upon the hill, 
 
 And he upon the plain ; — 
 I sit me by the bank until 
 
 My violets come again.
 
 292 THOMAS ASHE. 
 
 FADING LEAF AND FALLEN LEAF. 
 
 Said Fading-Leaf to Fallen-Leaf — 
 
 I toss alone on a forsaken tree, 
 
 It rocks and cracks with every gust that rocks 
 
 Its straining bulk : say ! how is it with thee ? 
 
 Said Fallen-Leaf to Fading-Leaf — 
 
 A heavy foot went by, an hour ago : 
 
 Crush'd into clay, I stain the way ; 
 
 The loud Wind calls me, and I can not go. 
 
 Said Fading-Leaf to Fallen- Leaf — 
 
 Death lessons Life, a ghost is ever wise : 
 
 Teach me a way to live till ]May 
 
 Laughs fair with fragrant lips and loving eyes ! 
 
 Said Fallen-Leaf to Fading-Leaf — 
 
 Hast loved fair eyes and lips of gentle breath ? 
 
 Fade then, and fall ! thou hast had all 
 
 That Life can give ; ask somewhat now of Death ! 
 
 THOMAS ASHE. 
 1836- 
 
 DALL YING. 
 
 Dear Love ! I have not ask'd you yet ; 
 
 Nor heard you, murmuring low 
 As wood-doves by a rivulet. 
 
 Say if it shall be so. 
 
 The colour in your check, which plays 
 
 Like an imprison'd bliss, 
 In its unworded language says — 
 
 " Speak, and I'll answer Yes ! " 
 
 See ! pluck this flower of wood-sorrel, 
 And twine it in your hair !
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 293 
 
 Its woodland grace becomes you well, 
 And makes my Rose more fair. 
 
 Oft you sit 'mid the daises here, 
 
 And I lie at your feet ; 
 Yet day by day goes by, — I fear 
 
 To break a trance so sweet. 
 
 As some first Autumn tint looks strange, 
 
 And wakes a strange regret. 
 Would your soft Yes our loving change ? — 
 
 Love ! I'll not ask you yet. 
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 1837— 
 
 BEFORE THE MIRROR. 
 
 ( IVriiten under a picture.) 
 I 
 
 White rose in red rose garden 
 
 Is not so white ; 
 Snowdrops, that plead for pardon 
 
 And pine for fright 
 Because the hard East blows 
 Over their maiden rows, 
 Grow not as this face grows from pale to bright. 
 
 Behind the veil, forbidden. 
 
 Shut up from sight, 
 Love ! is there sorrow hidden ? 
 
 Is there delight? 
 Is joy thy dower, or grief? 
 White rose of weary leaf! 
 Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light ! 
 
 Soft snows, that hard winds harden 
 Till each flake bite.
 
 294 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 Fill all the fiowerless garden 
 Whose flowers took flight 
 Long since, when summer ceased, 
 And men rose up from feast, 
 And warm West wind grew East, and warm day night. 
 
 " Come snow, come wind, or thunder 
 High up in air, 
 I watch my face and wonder 
 
 At my bright hair : 
 Nought else exalts or grieves 
 The rose at heart, that heaves 
 With love of her own leaves and lips that pair. 
 
 *' She knows not loves that kiss'd her 
 She knows not where : 
 Art thou the ghost ? my sister ! — 
 
 White sister there ! 
 Am I the ghost ? — who knows ? 
 My hand, a fallen rose. 
 Lies snow-white on white snows, and takes no care. 
 
 " I can not see what pleasures 
 Or what pains were ; 
 What pale new loves and treasures 
 
 New years will bear ; 
 What beam will fall, what shower ; 
 W^hat grief or joy for dower : 
 I'ut one thing knows the flower, — the flou-er is fair." 
 
 Glad, but not flush'd with gladness, 
 
 Since joys go by, — 
 Sad, but not bent with sadness, 
 
 Since sorrows die, — 
 Deep in the gleaming glass
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 295 
 
 She sees all past things pass, 
 And all sweet life that was lie down, and lie. 
 
 There glowing ghosts of flowers 
 
 Draw down, draw nigh ; 
 And wings of swift spent hours 
 
 Take flight and fly ; 
 She sees by formless gleams, 
 She hears across cold streams, 
 Dead mouths of many dreams that sing and sigh. 
 
 Face fallen and white throat lifted, 
 
 With sleepless eye 
 She sees old loves that drifted, 
 
 She knew not why ; — 
 Old loves and faded fears 
 Float down a stream that hears 
 The flowing of all men's tears beneath the sky. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 When the hounds of Spring are on Winter's traces, 
 
 The Mother of Months in meadow or plain 
 
 Fills the shadows and windy places 
 
 With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain ; 
 
 And the brown bright nightingale amorous 
 
 Is half assuaged for Itylus, 
 
 For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, 
 
 The tongue-less vigil, and all the pain. 
 
 Come, with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, 
 
 Maiden most perfect ! Lady of Light ! 
 
 With a noise of winds and many rivers. 
 
 With a clamour of waters, and with might : 
 
 Bind on thy sandals, O Thou most fleet ! 
 
 Over the splendour and speed of thy feet : 
 
 For the faint East quickens, the wan West shivers, 
 
 Round the feet of the Day and the feet of the Night.
 
 296 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 Where shall we find her ? how shall we sing to her, 
 
 Fold our hands round her knees, and cling ? 
 
 O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, 
 
 Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring ! 
 
 For the stars and the winds are unto her 
 
 As raiment, as songs of the harp-player : 
 
 For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, 
 
 And the Southwest-wind and the West-wind sing. 
 
 '£)• 
 
 For Winter's rains and ruins are over. 
 And all the season of snows and sins ; 
 The days dividing lover and lover; 
 The light that loses, the night that wins ; 
 And time remember'd is grief forgotten ; 
 And frosts are slain, and flowers begotten; 
 And in green underwood and cover 
 Blossom by blossom the Spring begins. 
 
 The full streams feed on flower of rushes ; 
 Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot ; 
 The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes 
 From leaf to flower and flower to fruit ; 
 And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire ; 
 And the oat is heard above the lyre ; 
 And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
 The chestnut husk at the chestnut root. 
 
 And Pan by noon, and Bacchus by night, 
 Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 
 Follows with dancing, and fills with delight 
 The Maenad and the Bassarid ; 
 And, soft as lips tliat laugh and hide, 
 The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
 And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
 The God pursuing, the Maiden hid. 
 
 The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
 Over her eyebrows, hiding her eyes ;
 
 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 297 
 
 The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 
 
 Her bright breast shortening into sighs ; 
 
 The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, 
 
 But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
 
 To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
 
 The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 
 
 THE SUNDEW. 
 
 A little marsh-plant, yellow green, 
 And prick'd at lip with tender red ! 
 Tread close, and either way you tread 
 Some faint black water jets between, 
 Lest you should bruise the curious head. 
 
 A live thing, may be : who shall know ? 
 The Summer knows, and suffers it : 
 For the cool moss is thick and sweet 
 Each side, and saves the blossom so 
 That it lives out the long June heat. 
 
 The deep scent of the heather burns 
 About it ; breathless though it be. 
 Bow down and worship ! more than we 
 Is the least flower whose life returns, 
 Least weed renascent in the sea. 
 
 We are vex'd and cumber'd in Earth's sight 
 With wants, with many memories : 
 These see their Mother what she is, — 
 Glad-growing, till August leave more bright 
 The apple-colour'd cranberries. 
 
 Wind blows and bleaches the strong grass, 
 Blown all one way to shelter it 
 From trample of stray'd kine (with feet 
 Felt heavier than the moor-hen was), 
 Stray'd up past patches of wild wheat.
 
 298 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 
 
 You call it Sundew : how it grows, 
 If with its coloui- it have breath, 
 If life taste sweet to it, if death 
 Pain its soft petal, no man knows : 
 Man has no sight nor sense that saith. 
 
 My Sundew ! grown of gentle days, 
 In these green miles the Spring begun 
 Thy growth ere April had half done 
 With the soft secret of her wavs, 
 Or June made ready for the Sun. 
 
 red-lipp'd mouth of marsh-flower ! 
 
 1 have a secret halved with thee : 
 The name that is love's name to me 
 Thou knowest, and the face of Her 
 Who is my festival to see. 
 
 The hard sun, as thy petals knew, 
 Colour'd the heavy moss-water : — 
 Thou wert not worth green midsummer 
 Nor fit to live to August blue, 
 O Sundew ! not remembering Her. 
 
 RONDEL. 
 
 These many years, since we began to be, 
 What have the Gods done with us? what with me. 
 What with my love ? They have shown mc fates and fears. 
 Harsh springs, and fountains bitterer than the sea, 
 Grief a fix'd star, and joy a vane that veers. 
 
 These many years. 
 
 With her, my Love, — witli her have they done well ? 
 But who shall answer for her ? who shall tell 
 Sweet things or sad, such things as no man hears ? 
 May no tears fall, if no tears ever fell. 
 From eyes more dear to me than starriest spheres, 
 
 These many years !
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 299 
 
 But if tears ever touch'd, for any grief, 
 Those eyelids folded like a white-rose leaf, 
 Deep double shells where through the eye-flower peers, 
 Let them weep once more only, sweet and brief, 
 Brief tears and bright, for One who gave her tears 
 
 These many years ! 
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 1S34— 1882. 
 
 THE THREE THA T SHALL BE ONE. 
 
 Love, on the earth alit 
 
 (Come to be Lord of it), 
 
 Look'd round and laugh'd with glee : 
 
 Noble my empery ! 
 
 Straight ere that laugh was done 
 
 Sprang forth the royal sun. 
 
 Pouring out golden shine 
 
 Over the realm divine. 
 
 Came then a lovely May, 
 Dazzling the new-born day, 
 Wreathing her golden hair 
 With the red roses there. 
 Laughing with sunny eyes 
 Up to the sunny skies, 
 Moving so light and free 
 To her own minstrelsy. 
 
 Love with svvift rapture cried — 
 Dear Life ! thou art my bride : 
 Whereto with fearless pride — 
 Dear Love ! indeed thy bride : 
 All the earth's fruit and flowers, 
 All the world's wealth, are ours;
 
 300 JAMES THOMSON. 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars, gem 
 Our marriage diadem. 
 
 So they together fare, 
 
 Lovely and joyous pair ! 
 
 So hand in hand they roam 
 
 All through their Eden home. 
 
 Each to the other's sight 
 
 An ever-new delight : 
 
 Blue heaven and blooming earth 
 
 Joy in their darlings' mirth. 
 
 Who comes to meet them now ? 
 She with the pallid brow, 
 Wreathing her night-dark hair 
 With the red poppies there, 
 Pouring from solemn eyes 
 Glooin through the sunny skies. 
 Moving so silently 
 In her deep reverie. 
 
 Life paled as she drew near, 
 
 Love shook with doubt and fear. 
 
 Ah, then (she said) in truth 
 
 (Eyes full of yearning ruth) 
 
 Love ! thou wouldst have this Life, 
 
 Fair May, to be thy wife ? 
 
 Yet at an awful shrine 
 
 Wert thou not plighted mine? 
 
 Pale, paler poor Life grew ; 
 Love murmur'd — It is true! 
 How could I thee forsake ? 
 From the brief dream I wake. 
 Yet, O beloved Death! 
 See how She suft'ereth : 
 Ere we from earth depart. 
 Soothe her, thou Tender-Heart!
 
 JAMES THOMSON. 3OI 
 
 Faint on the ground she lay : 
 Love kiss'd her swoon away ; 
 Death then bent over her, 
 Death the sweet comforter! 
 Whisper'd with tearful smile — 
 Wait but a little while ! 
 Then I will come for thee : 
 We are one family. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 O, what are you waiting for here ? young man ! 
 What are you looking for over the bridge ? — 
 " A little straw hat with the streaming blue ribbons 
 Is soon to come dancing over the bridge. 
 
 " Her heart beats the measure that keeps her feet dancing, 
 Dancing along like a wave o' the sea ; 
 
 Her heart pours the sunshine with which her eyes glancing 
 Light up strange faces, in looking for me. 
 
 " The strange faces brighten in meeting her glances ; 
 The strangers all bless her, pure, lovely, and free ; 
 She fancies she walks, but her walk skips and dances, 
 Her heart makes such music in coming to me. 
 
 " O, thousands and thousands of happy young maidens 
 Are tripping this morning their sweethearts to see : 
 But none whose heart beats to a sweeter love-cadence 
 Than hers who will brighten the sunshine for me." 
 
 O what are you waiting for here ? young man ! 
 What are you looking for over the bridge ? — 
 "A little straw hat with the streaming blue ribbons." 
 — And here it comes dancing over the bridge.
 
 503 JOHN HAY. 
 
 JOHN HAY. 
 
 1839— 
 
 A WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 A sentinel angel sitting high in glory 
 Heard this slirill wail ring out from Purgatory : — 
 " Have mercy, mighty angel ! hear my story. 
 
 "I loved, — and, blind with passionate love, I fell. 
 Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell 
 For God is just, and death for sin is well. 
 
 "I do not rage against His high decree. 
 Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be ; 
 But for my Love on earth, who mourns for me. 
 
 " Great Spirit ! let me see my Love again, 
 And comfort him one hour, and I were fain 
 To pay a thousand years of fire and pain ! " 
 
 Then said the pitying angel — " Nay ! repent 
 That wild vow : look ! the dial-finger's bent 
 Down to the last hour of thy punishment." 
 
 But still she wail'd — " I pray thee let me go ! 
 I can not rise to peace and leave him so : 
 O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe ! " 
 
 The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar. 
 And upward, joyous, like a rising star, 
 She rose and vanish'd in the ether far. 
 
 But soon adown the dying sunset sailing. 
 And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing. 
 She flutter'd back, with broken-hearted wailing.
 
 HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON. 303 
 
 She sobb'd — " I found him by the summer sea 
 
 Rechned, his head upon a maiden's knee, — 
 
 She curl'd his hair and kiss'd him. Woe is mc ! " 
 
 She wept : " Now let my punishment begin ! 
 I have been fond and foolish. Let me in 
 To expiate my sorrow and my sin ! " 
 
 The angel answer' d—" Nay, sad soul ! go higher ! 
 To be deceived in your true heart's desire 
 Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire." 
 
 HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 1840 — 
 
 BEFORE SEDAN. 
 
 Here in this leafy place 
 
 Quiet he lies, 
 Cold, with his sightless face 
 
 Turn'd to the skies : 
 'Tis but another dead : 
 All you can say is said. 
 
 Carry his body hence ! 
 
 Kings must have slaves : 
 Kings climb to eminence 
 
 Over men's graves : 
 So this man's eye is dim ; — 
 Throw the earth over him ! 
 
 What was the white you touch'd, 
 
 There, at his side ? 
 Paper his hand had clutch'd 
 
 Tight ere he died : 
 Message or wish, may be : 
 Smooth the folds out and see !
 
 304 ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN. 
 
 Hardly the worst of us 
 
 Here could have smiled ! 
 Only the tremulous 
 
 Words of a child : 
 Prattle that has for stops 
 Just a few ruddy drops. 
 
 Look ! — " She is sad to miss, 
 
 Morning and night, 
 His (her dead father's) kiss ; 
 
 Tries to be bright, 
 Good to Mamma, and sweet : " 
 (That is all)—" Marguerite." 
 
 Ah ! if beside the dead 
 
 Slumber'd the pain : 
 Ah ! if the hearts that bled 
 
 Slept with the slain : 
 If the grief died : — but no ! 
 Death will not have it so. 
 
 ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN. 
 1841— 
 
 THE MODERN WARRIOR. 
 
 O Warrior for the Right ! 
 Though thy shirt of mail be white 
 
 As the snows upon the breast of The Adored, 
 Though the weapon thou mayst claim 
 Hath been temper'd in the flame 
 
 Of the fire upon the Altar of the Lord, 
 Ere the coming of the night 
 Thy mail shall be less bright, 
 
 And the taint of sin may settle on the sword.
 
 KOBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN. 305 
 
 For the foemen thou must meet 
 
 Are the phantoms in the street, 
 And thine armour shall be foul'd in many a place, 
 
 And the shameful mire and mud 
 
 With a grosser stain than blood 
 Shall be scatter'd 'mid the fray upon thy face ; 
 
 And the helpless thou dost aid 
 
 Shall shrink from thee, dismay'd, 
 Till thou comest to the knowledge of things base. 
 
 Ah, mortal ! with a brow- 
 Like the gleam of sunshine, thou 
 
 Mayst wander from the pathway in thy turn ; 
 In the noontide of thy strength 
 Be stricken down at length, 
 
 And cry to God for aid, and live, and learn : 
 And when with many a stain 
 Thou arisest up again. 
 
 The lightning of thy look will be less stern. 
 
 Thou shalt see with humbler eye 
 
 The adulteress go by. 
 Nor shudder at the touch of her attire ; 
 
 Thou shalt only look with grief 
 
 On the liar and the thief ; 
 Thou shalt meet the \-ery murtherer in the mire : 
 
 And to which wouldst thou accord, 
 
 O thou Warrior of the Lord ! 
 The vengeance of the Sword and of the Fire ? 
 
 Nay ! batter'd in the fray. 
 
 Thou shalt quake in act to slay, 
 And remember thy transgression and be meek ! 
 
 And the thief shall grasp thy hand, 
 
 And the liar blushing stand. 
 And the harlot if she list shall kiss thy cheek ; 
 
 And the murtherer, unafraid, 
 
 II.— 20
 
 306 ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN. 
 
 Shall meet thee in the shade 
 And pray thee for the doom thou wilt not wreak. 
 
 Yet shalt thou help the frail 
 
 From the phantoms that assail, — 
 Yea ! the strong man in his anger shalt thou dare ; 
 
 Thy voice shall be a song 
 
 Against Wickedness and Wrong, 
 But the wicked and the wronger thou wilt spare. 
 
 And, while thou lead'st the van, 
 
 The ungrateful hand of man 
 Shall smite thee down and slay thee unaware. 
 
 With an agonized cry 
 
 Thou shalt shiver down, and die, 
 With stained shirt of mail and broken brand ; 
 
 And the voice of men shall call — 
 
 " He has fallen like us all, 
 Though the weapon of the Lord was in his hand : " 
 
 And thine epitaph shall be — 
 
 " He was wretched even as we ; " 
 And thy tomb may be unhonour'd in the land. 
 
 But the basest of the base 
 
 Shall bless thy pale dead face ; 
 And the thief shall steal a bloody lock of hair : 
 
 And over thee asleep 
 
 The adulteress shall weep 
 Such tears as she can never shed elsewhere, 
 
 Shall bless the broken brand 
 
 In thy chill and nerveless hand. 
 Shall kiss thy stained vesture, with a prayer. 
 
 Then, while in that chill place 
 Stand the basest of the base 
 Gather'd round thee in the silence of the dark, 
 A white Face shall look down 
 On the silence of the town
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 307 
 
 And see thee lying dead, with those to mark; 
 
 And a Voice shall fill the air — 
 
 " Bear my Warrior lying there 
 To his sleep upon my Breast! " and they shall hark. 
 
 Lo ! then those fallen things 
 Shall perceive a rush of wings 
 
 Growing nearer down the azure gulf untrod ; 
 And around them in the night 
 There shall grow a wondrous light, 
 
 While they hide affrighted faces on the sod : 
 But ere again 'tis dark 
 They shall raise their eyes, and mark 
 
 White arms that waft the Warrior up to God. , 
 
 ROBERT BRIDGES. 
 
 1844— 
 
 THE SEA- POPPY. 
 
 A Poppy grows upon the shore 
 Bursts her twin cup in summer late : 
 Her leaves are glaucous green and hoar, 
 Her petals yellow, delicate. 
 
 Oft to her cousins turns her thought, 
 In wonder if they care that she 
 Is fed with spray for dew, and caught 
 By every gale that sweeps the sea. 
 
 She has no lovers like the Red 
 That dances with the noble Corn : 
 Her blossoms on the waves are shed. 
 Where she sits shivering and forlorn.
 
 >08 EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. 
 
 EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. 
 1849 — 
 
 THE SUPPLIANT. 
 Beneath the poplars o'er the sacred pool 
 The halcyons dart like rays of azure light : 
 Fair presage ! By the columns white and cool 
 I'll watch to-night. 
 
 Perchance the Goddess, at the twilight's breath, 
 Will come with silver feet and braidless hair 
 And, all too startled to decree my death, 
 Will hearken to my prayer. 
 
 So when at moon-rise by the farm I go, 
 The lovely girl who near the fig-tree stands 
 May turn no more on scornful feet and slow, 
 But hold out both her hands. 
 
 THEOPHILE MARZIALS. 
 1850- 
 
 RONDEL. 
 To-day what is there in the air 
 That makes December seem sweet May ? 
 There are no swallows anywhere, 
 Nor crocuses to crown your hair 
 And hail you down my garden way. 
 Last night the full moon's frozen stare 
 Struck me, perhaps ; or did you say 
 Reallv— you'd come, sweet Friend and fair! 
 
 To-day ? 
 To-day is here : come ! crown to-day 
 With Spring's delight or Spring's despair ! 
 Love can not bide old Time's delay : — 
 Down my glad gardens light winds play. 
 And my whole soul shall bloom and bear 
 
 To-day.
 
 ANDREW LANG. 309 
 
 PAKENHAM THOMAS BEATTY. 
 
 1855- 
 
 IN MY DREAMS. 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and say 
 Sweet words I never hear by day, 
 And murmur lovingly and low, 
 And take my hand and kiss my brow ! 
 
 And I will whisper all night through 
 What I can only say to you : 
 My hopes I had, my life I plann'd, 
 That only you can understand. 
 
 Rest with me, Love ! until the day ; 
 Then kiss me once, and pass away ! 
 And let me waken. Dear ! to weep, 
 You can but kiss me in my sleep. 
 
 ANDREW LANG. 
 
 1844- 
 
 IN ITHACA. 
 
 'Tis thought Odysseus, when the strife was o'er 
 
 With all the waves and wars, a weary while. 
 
 Grew restless in his disenchanted isle. 
 
 And still would watch the sunset, from the shore, 
 
 Go down the waves of gold ; and evermore 
 
 His sad heart follow'd after, mile on mile. 
 
 Back to the Goddess of the magic wile — 
 
 Calypso, and the love that was of yore. 
 
 Thou too, thy haven gain'd, must turn thee yet 
 
 To look across the sad and stormy space, 
 
 Years of a youth as bitter as the sea. 
 
 Ah ! with a heavy heart and eyelids wet : 
 
 Because within a fair forsaken place 
 
 The life that might have been is lost to thee.
 
 3IO WILLIAM DAVIES. 
 
 WILLIAM DAVIES. 
 
 1829 — 
 
 DOING AiVD BEING. 
 
 Think not alone to do right and fulfil 
 
 Life's due perfection by the simple worth 
 
 Of lawful actions call'd by justice forth, 
 
 And thus condone a world confused with ill ! 
 
 But fix the high condition of thy will 
 
 To be right, that its good's spontaneous birth 
 
 May spread like flowers springing from the earth 
 
 On which the natural dews of heaven distil ! 
 
 For these require no honours, take no care 
 
 For gratitude from men, — but more are bless'd 
 
 In the sweet ignorance that they are fair ; 
 
 And through their proper functions live and rest. 
 
 Breathing their fragrance on the joyous air, 
 
 Content with praise of bettering what is best.
 
 NO TES. 
 
 Wordsworth. Born at Cockermouth, Cumberland. Wordsworth be- 
 longs to the close of the eighteenth century as well as to half of the nine- 
 teenth. His Evening Walk was written in 1793 ; his Lyrical Ballads were 
 published in 1798. Peter Bell also was written in 1798, though not pub- 
 lished till 1815. Nature's Darling bears date of 1799 ; the Ode to 
 Duty, 1805 ; the Invocation to the Power of Sound and the 
 Triad, 1828 ; the Sonnet — " Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne," 
 1836. Of his two longest poems, the Excursion came out in 1814; the 
 Prelude, begun in his early days, was not published till after his death. 
 
 In later editions of the Ode to Duty the last two lines of the second 
 stanza read as follows : 
 
 O, if through confidence misplaced 
 They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast ! 
 
 Coleridge, "logician, metaphysician, and bard, "as Lamb calls him, 
 born at Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, belongs almost wholly to the eigh- 
 teenth century, little of his poetry being written later, except in 1814-16 
 the tragedy of 7Mpolya. Christabcl, first printed in 1816, had been mainly 
 written in 1797. So also Remorse, a tragedy, acted in 1813. The Rime 
 of the Ancient Mariner was printed with Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads, 
 1798 ; and in 1798-1800 he translated from Schiller's MSS., for simultane- 
 ous publication in Germany and England, the Piccolomini and Death of 
 Wallenstein, which Carlyle praised as " the best translation from Ger- 
 man then produced, except Sotheby's Oberon." Genevieve may be 
 taken as of his earliest, the poems at pp. 24, 25, as of his latest writing. 
 
 Genevieve is only part of the poem as originally written for introduc- 
 tion to a longer poem never completed. Coleridge himself struck out 
 some stanzas at the beginning and end, and published it as a complete
 
 312 NOTES. 
 
 poem, on Love, in its present form. One stanza, that beginning " And 
 how he cross'd — " (p. 21), seems to have been inadvertently dropped, and 
 is omitted from the usual copies. 
 
 SouTHEY, born at Bristol, had also written before 1800 : jfoan of Arc, 
 Wat Tyler, and many minor poems. Thalaba the Destroyer is dated 
 1800 ; Madoc, 1S05. The Czirse of Kehama was begun in 1801 and fin- 
 ished in 1809 ; and Roderick, the last of the Goths, begun in 1809 and 
 finished in 1814. These are his principal works, gtmsi epics (except Wat 
 Tyler) : all of weight and considerable worth. The Holly Tree was 
 written in 1798 ; the Scholar in 1818. 
 
 Tannahill. a Scottish minor poet. The " Lake poets " have been 
 kept together partly on account of their early work before the present 
 century: so Tannahill may follow, his poems being chiefly of the same 
 date. He was dead before Hogg, born two years earlier, had done any- 
 thing of mark. 
 
 Gart is forced, compelled ; tine — lose ; dowie — doleful ; a' 7ny lane — all 
 alone ; daffin — joking ; short syne — a short time ago ; aboon — above ; 
 w'aiW— spent ; coft — bought; fa' — fall; gowden — golden; gloaming — twi- 
 light. 
 
 Scott (Sir Walter). Born at Edinburgh. The Poet preceded the 
 Novelist. The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border (with some ballads by 
 himself) was published in 1802 ; the Lay of the Last Minstrel, 1805 ; Mar- 
 mion, 1808 ; Lady of the Lake, 1810 ; Vision of Don Roderick^ 1811 ; 
 Rokeby and the Bridal of Triertnain, 1813 ; Lord of the Isles, 1814. In 
 1814 appeared Waverley, the first of the novels. 
 
 The Pibroch of Donuil Dhu was written for Campbell's Albyn An- 
 thology in 1816 ; Jock o' Hazeldean also, except the first stanza, which 
 "is ancient." Light Love will be found in Rokeby; the Death- 
 Ch.\nt in Guy Manner ing ; and Proud Maisie in the Heart of Mid- 
 Lothian. 
 
 Loot is let ; birn — lightning. 
 
 Montgomery. Another Scottish-born poet. His lengthier poems are 
 the Wanderer in Switzerland, 1806; the World before the Flood, 1S12 ; 
 Greenland, 1819 ; the Pelicatt Island, 1828. He wrote also Songs and 
 Hymns. As Editor of the Sheffield Iris he was in 1795 imprisoned for 
 " seditious " writing.
 
 NOTES. 313 
 
 Hogg. The " Ettrick Shepherd." Born at Ettrick in Selkirkshire, 
 and in early life a shepherd and farmer laborer. Though so closely fol- 
 lowing Scott in order of birth, his poems are of later date. The first in 
 time and importance is his Queen's Wake^ 1813, not written till he was 
 forty years of age. He wrote afterward the Pilgrims of the Sun ; Queen 
 Hynde ; and numerous short pieces and songs ; took part with Professor 
 Wilson in the Noctes Athbrosiants of Blackwood's Magazine ; and in 1819 
 and 1821 edited a collection of " Jacobite Relics." 
 
 The laverock is the lark. 
 
 IjAMB. Born in lyondon. Besides the Essays of Eli a and other prose 
 works, he wrote a few poems: some printed with those of Coleridge in 
 1797; John IVoodvil, a tragedy, 1802; the Wife's Trial, 1828; Album 
 Verses, 1830. 
 
 Landor. Born at Ipsley House, Warwickshire. The magnificence 
 of Landor's prose works has overshadowed the e.xcellence of his poetry, 
 ranging over nearly three-quarters of a century. Besides his most poetic 
 prose, — the hnaginary Conversations, the Citation and Examination of 
 Shakespeare (which Lamb said "only two men could have written"), 
 Pericles and Aspasia, and the Pentameron, — he wrote an epic poem in 
 seven books, Gebir, in 1797; a tragedy. Count jfulian, in 1811 ; in later 
 time Hellenics, Heroic Idylls^ Dramatic Scenes ; and short poems and 
 epigrams down to the very close of life, in his ninetieth year. 
 
 Age7i is a spelling insisted upon by him. 
 
 Campbell. Born at Glasgow, but, like Montgomery, only for place 
 of birth to be called a Scottish poet. The Pleasures of Hope appeared in 
 1798 ; Gertrude of Wyoming in 1809 ; Theodoric in 1824. The Mari- 
 ners OF England was written in 1800 ; the Battle of the Baltic 
 commemorates the seizure in Copenhagen harbor, by Nelson, in 1S07, 
 of the Danish fleet, to prevent its being of service to Napoleon. 
 
 Moore. Born in Dublin. Odes of Anacreo7i, 1800 ; Irish Melodies 
 (and Songs to other national airs), from 1807 to 1834 ; Lalla Rookh, 
 1817 ; Loves of the Angels, 1823. 
 
 Smith (Horace or Horatio). Amaryftthics, the Kympholept, a pastoral 
 drama, 1821 ; Gaieties and Gravities, 1825. He also had part with his 
 brother James in Rejected Addresses, parodies of Wordsworth, Byron, 
 and other contemporary poets.
 
 314 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Elliott. Born near Rotherham in Yorkshire. Working at his 
 father's foundry in early days, and afterward in business as an iron- 
 monger in Sheffield. Chiefly known as the "Corn-law Rhymer," his 
 rhymes having materially aided the popular movement in England for 
 repeal of the bread- tax. His longer poems are the Vernal Walk, writ- 
 ten in his seventeenth year, 1798 ; and the Village Patriarch, 1829. 
 
 Leigh Hunt. Poet and Essayist. Juvenilia appeared in 1801 ; his 
 most important poem, the Story of Rimini, m 1816. Besides many 
 shorter poems, and translations, should be noted a very noble play, the 
 Legend 0/ Florence, written and acted in 1840. The SoNG OF Peace is 
 from the Descent of Liberty, a masque, written in 1814 while in prison 
 (imprisoned for two years) for ridiculing the Prince Regent, afterward 
 George the Fourth. The Grasshopper and Cricket (p. 63) was composed 
 in competition with and at the same time as that by Keats, p. loi. 
 
 Cunningham. In 1810 one Cromek published Re?nains of A-ithsdale 
 and Galloway Song, supposed to have been collected, but certainly much 
 of it written, by Allan Cunningham, a Dumfries stone-mason. The song 
 at page 65 Cromek gives as sent to him by a lady ; but Peter Cunning- 
 ham claims it for his father, and the father printed it, with some varia- 
 tions, in his collected works. It is hard to know certainly what is really 
 and entirely his, as he was in the habit (as Burns was) of adapting and 
 completing ancient fragments : this song therefore may be taken as his, 
 but doubtfully. He is chiefly known for his Lives of British Painters. 
 
 Darley. The Errors of Ecstasie, and other poems, 1822 ; Sylvia, or 
 the May-Queen, a lyrical drama, 1S27 ; Ethels tan and Becket, dramatic 
 chronicles, 1840 and i8^i. 
 
 Peacock. Novelist, satirist, and poet. His poetry consists of Songs 
 in his novels (^Headlong Hall, Maid Marian, Gryll Grange, etc.) ; Pal- 
 myra, 1806; the Genius of the Thames, 1810; Rhododaphne, along, learned, 
 fanciful poem, i8i3 (the year of Endymion) ; the Deceived, a comedy, 
 1831 ; Paper-money Lyrics, 1837 ; and ^lia Lcelia Crispis, 1862. 
 
 Procter. Play-wright as well as writer of Songs. Better known by 
 his pseudonym, " Barry Cornwall." Born in London. He published 
 Dramatic Scenes in 1819 ; Marcian Colotina and Mirandola, plays, in 1820 
 and 1821 ; the Flood of Thessaly, 1823 ; and English Songs, 1832, with 
 additions in 1851.
 
 NOTES. 315 
 
 Dana. Born fit Cambridge, Massachusetts. The Idle Man, 1821 ; 
 The Buccafiier and Other Poems, 1827 ; Poems and Prose Writings, 1850. 
 
 Byron. Born in London. Hours of Idleness, 1807 ; English Bards 
 and Scotch Reviewers, 1809 ; the first two cantos of Childc Harold, 1812 ; 
 the third and fourth, 1816-17; rnetrical romances, — the Brtde 0/ Abydos, 
 Corsair, etc., Beppo, and Manfred, between 1813 and 1818 ; Marino Fali- 
 ero, 1820 ; Heaven and Earth, Sardanapalus, the Two Foscari, and Cain, 
 in 1821. Don jfuan, his greatest work, was begun in 1818. 
 
 The Isles of Greece from Don Juan; And Thou art Dead, one 
 of several poems "to Thyrza," written in 1812 ; the Song of Saul, the 
 Patriot, and She Walks in Beauty, from Hebmo Melodies. Byron's 
 Last Verse was written at Missolonghi on the 22d of January, 1824, 
 within three months of his death. 
 
 Shelley. Born at Field Place, Sussex. Queen Malt, 1813 ; Alasior, 
 1816 ; Laon and Cythna (the Revolt of I slant)., 1817 ; Rosalind and Helen, 
 1817-18 ; the Cenci, the Masque of Anarchy, and Peter Bell the Third, 
 1819 ; Promotheus Unbound, CEdipus Tyrannus (^Swell-foot the Tyratit), 
 and the Witch of Atlas., 1820; Ej>ipsychtdion and Adonais, 1821 ; Charles 
 the First (z.ivs.gment), 1821-22; Hellas, 1822. 
 
 The different editions of Shelley (Forman's latest and best) have vari- 
 ous readings of his poems, but not often so important as to justify de- 
 parture from that issued by Mrs. Shelley. Allingham suggests pine, for 
 fail (an evident misprint), in the second stanza of Lines to an Indian 
 Air ; and surely strain should be taken instead of the usually printed 
 stain in the Wail at page 92. In the song To-Night all the authorities 
 have Day both male and female, probably following Shelley's careless 
 manuscript. Rossetti suggests her for his in the third stanza ; but the 
 alteration in the second stanza, in our text, seems preferable, Day being 
 always male and Night female. In most, if not all, editions wrong punc- 
 tuation destroys the poetic beauty and the sense of the first four lines of 
 A Bridal Song, p. 90. 
 
 Kkats. Born in London. His first verse appeared in 1817. In 1818 
 he published Endymion (in which are the Roundelay and Hymn to 
 Pan, pp. 92, 94); and in the two following years Lamia, Isabella, the Eve 
 of St. Agnes, his shorter poems, and the glorious ixs-graent— Hyperion. 
 
 Wolfe. Born in Dublin. He owes his immortality to this one poem : 
 besides which he wrote only a few songs of little importance.
 
 3l6 NOTES. 
 
 Sir John Moore, in command of the British army in Spain, in the war 
 against Napoleon, was slain at the battle of Corunna, in 1809. when cov- 
 ering the embarkation of his troops, in their retreat before Ney and 
 Soult. In the last stanza but one sullenly is generally misprinted for s^td- 
 denly. Wolfe's manuscript has suddoily ; and in the account in the Edin- 
 burgh Annual Register (which suggested the poem) we find it stated that 
 the burial " was hastened, for about eight in the morning some firing was 
 heard," — a renewed attack feared. 
 
 Hemans. Felicia Dorothea Browne, afterward Mrs. Hemans, was 
 born at Liverpool. Between 1803 and 1835 she wrote numerous poems, 
 graceful and musical, if not of high imagination or intellectuality : his- 
 toric poems on Welsh, Greek, Spanish themes; two dramas, the Siege of 
 Valencia and the Vespers of Palei-mo : Scenes and Hy7n7is of Life ; Sotigs 
 of the Affections ; translations from Horace ; etc., etc. 
 
 Bryant. Born at Cummington, Massachusetts. The Embargo, 1809 ; 
 The Ages, 1821 ; Poems, 1832 ; The Fountain and Other Poe^ns, 1842 ; The 
 White-Footed Deer and Other Poems, 1844; Poetns, 1846; Letters of a 
 Traveller, 1850; Thirty Poems, 1863 ; Letters from the East, 18S9 ; Trans- 
 lation of the Iliad, 1870 ; Translation of the Odyssey, 1871-72. 
 
 Carlyle. Some few slight verses were written by the great historian 
 and essayist. 
 
 Reynolds, Hood's brother-in-law. The author of Peter Bell the Sec- 
 ond, making fun of Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads, in the same year as 
 and seemingly suggestive of Shelley's Peter Bell the Third, a profounder 
 and more elaborate criticism, serious though jocose. He wrote also the 
 Garden of Florence, with other poems, " by John Hamilton," 1821. 
 
 Coleridge (Hartley), eldest son of the Poet, wrote a number of minor 
 poems, published in 1833. 
 
 Motherwell. Born at Glasgow. Poems, lyrical and narrative, 
 1832-3. In 1827 he edited Ancient and Modern Minstrelsy (a collection). 
 
 Beltane— 'b'la.y-dsiy ; Yule — Christmas ; blinks — glances ; ae laigh bink — 
 one low seat ; leir ilk ither lear — teach each other ; loof—-^-d\vn ; brent — 
 burn'd ; weans — children ; cleek' d—\\oo\i 6., clung ; skailt — dispersed ; 
 speel — climb ; hinnied — honey'd ; simmer — summer ; deavin' — deafening ; 
 croon — murmur ; 7ohusslit — whistled ; knowe — knoll ; abune or aboon — 
 above ; ^r<z/— wept ; ^/«— if ; grit — full.
 
 NOTES. 317 
 
 Hood. Born in London. Great not only as a humorist, but also as a 
 serious poet, though not so recognized until the appearance of his Song 
 of the Shirt \n Punch, in 1843, barely two years before his death. The 
 Plea of the Midsummer Fairies (with Hero and Leander, Lycus the Cen- 
 taur, and other poems) was printed in 1827. Tylney Hall, a novel (in 
 which our poem of Constancy), came out in 1B34 ; Miss Kilmansc^!^,^ 
 and her Golden Leg, a serio-comic poem, in 1840 ; the Haunted House and 
 the Bridge of Sighs in 1844. 
 
 Wells. The friend of Keats. Author oi Joseph and his Brethren, a 
 Scriptural drama, published with the pseudonym of " Howard," in 1824, 
 republished in 1876. He wrote also poetical-prose Stories after Nature, 
 in one of which is the SoNG at page 124. 
 
 Taylor (Sir Henry). Dramatist. His principal work is Philip Van 
 Artevelde, an historical play, published in 1834. His other plays are 
 Isaac Coinnenus, Edwin the Fair, A Sicilian Summer (called in the first 
 edition the Virgin VVidoiu), and St. Clemettt' s Eve. 
 
 Barnes. The Rev. William Barnes, a Dorsetshire clergyman, is au- 
 thor of some three or four hundred, or more, poems of rural life, in the 
 Dorset dialect, and others in common English. 
 
 Newman. John Henry, Cardinal Newman. Verses on several oc- 
 casions, 1868. The Elements, p. 127, written in 1833 ; A Voice from 
 AFAR, 1829. 
 
 Martineau. This single hymn and a song in one of her tales may 
 entitle Harriet Martineau to a corner in our anthologies. 
 
 Beddoes. The son of Dr. Beddoes (physician) and nephew of Maria 
 Edgeworth. He published the Improvisatore in 1821 and the Bride s 
 Tragedy in 1822. Death's Jest Book, or the Fool's Tragedy, the Second 
 Brother and Torrismond (unfinished dramas), dramatic fragments and 
 poems, were printed after his death. 
 
 Horne. Poet, dramatist, and prose writer. He has pubhshed, — in 
 1835, the Death of Marlowe, a tragedy in one act ; in 1837, Cosmo de' Me- 
 dici, a tragedy ; in 1840, Gregory the Seventh, a tragedy, and the Death- 
 Fetch ; in 1843, Orion, an epic poem ; in 1846, Ballad Romances ; in 1864, 
 Prometheus the Fire-Bringer (written in Australia); in 1880, Laura Di-
 
 3l8 NOTES. 
 
 taho, a tragedy; and in 1881, yo/m the Baptist, J?ahman (Job's Vv''ife), 
 and Judas Iscariot — a miracle play. He has also very extensively con- 
 tributed to the magazines and other periodical publications. 
 
 Emerson. Born at Boston, Massachusetts. Nature, 1836 ; Essays 
 and Lectures, First Series, 1840 ; Essays and Lectures, Second Series, 
 1844; Poems, 1846; Miscellanies, 1849; Representative Men, 1850; Eng- 
 lish Traits, 1856 ; The Conduct of Life, i860 ; May Day and Other Pocms^ 
 1867; Solitude and Society , 1870; Prose Works, 1870. 
 
 Griffin. One of the "Young Ireland" party of 1S42-48, and con- 
 tributor to the Irish Nation of those years. Born at Limerick. He wrote 
 in his twentieth year his drama of Gisippus, put on the stage by Ma- 
 cready in 1842. His poetical works were published in 1851. He is more 
 generally known as a novelist of merit. 
 
 Mangan. Another Irish poet of the Young Ireland time. Born in 
 Dublin. Of genius similar to that of Poe. His poems are free transla- 
 tions (rather new poetic renderings from prose translations) of early 
 Irish ; translations from the German ; and original contributions to the 
 Nation and the United Irishman. His collected works, original and 
 translated, were published in New York in 1859. 
 
 Blanchard. a bright essayist and writer of society verses. Lyric 
 Offerings, 1828. 
 
 Hawker, Vicar of Morwenstow in Cornwall, published Tendrils of 
 Reuben (juvenile poems) in 1821 ; Records of the Western Shore in 1832 ; 
 the Quest of the San Graal in 1864. 
 
 Isha Cherioth is the Cherioth woman, or maiden. 
 
 Adams. Mrs. Adams, the daughter of Benjamin Flower, Editor of the 
 Ca7nbridgc lutelligencer (one of the first liberal newspapers in England), 
 and wife of William Bridges Adams, notable as a civil engineer and po- 
 litical writer. She wrote Vivia Pcrpettta, a drama, 1841 ; anti-corn-law 
 rhymes, contemporaneously with Elliott ; and Hymns (set to music by 
 her sister, Eliza Flower) for the Unitarian religious services conducted 
 by W. J. Fox at South Place, Finsbury, London. 
 
 Hamilton. T.Iathematician, and astronomer-royal for Ireland. Born 
 in Dublin.
 
 NOTES. 319 
 
 Wade. Author of the yccu of Arragon, a tragedy brought out by 
 Charles Kemble in 1830 ; Woman s Love, a comedy, 1828 ; Mundi et 
 Cordis Carmhia (Songs of the Universe and the Heart), 1835 ; the Con- 
 tention of Death and Love, Helena, and the Shadow- Seeker, 1837 ; Pro- 
 tkanasia, 1839. 
 
 Sterling. Born in the Isle of Bute. Minor Poems, 1839 ; The Elec- 
 tion, 1841 ; Strafford, a drama, 1843. 
 Daedalus is the type of inventive genius. 
 
 SIMMS. Born at Charleston, South Carolina. A voluminous writer of 
 poems, plays, stories, romances, histories, biographies, and criticisms, 
 his works numbering upward of sixty different titles. His poetical 
 writings are : Lyrical and Other Poems, 1827 ; Early Lays, 1827 ; The 
 Vision of Cortes and other Poems, 1829 ; The Tri-Color, or Three Days 
 of Bloody 1830 ; Atalantis, a Drama of the Sea, 1832 ; Southern Passages 
 and Pictures, 1839 ; Donna Florida, a Tale, 1843 ; Grouped Thoughts and 
 Scattered Fajicies, 1845 ; Areytos ; or. Songs of the South, 1846; Songs of 
 the Palmetto, 1848 ; The Eye and the Wing, 1848 ; The City of the Silent, 
 1850 ; Poems, 1854. 
 
 Willis. Born at Portland, Maine. One of the most accomplished 
 and versatile of American authors, magazinists, and journalists. His 
 principal poetical writings are : Sketches, 1827 ; Fugitive Poetry, 1829 ; 
 Alelanie and Other Poems, 1835 ; Tortesa the Usurer, 1839 ; Bianca Vis- 
 conti, 1839 ; The Lady Jane and Other Poems, 1844. 
 
 Longfellow. Born at Portland, Maine. The most popular writer 
 of English verse in the nineteenth century. Coplas de Manrique, a trans- 
 lation from the Spanish, 1833 ; Outre-Mer, a Pilgrimage beyond the Sea, 
 1835 ; Hyperion, a Romance, 1839 ; Voices of the Night, 1839; Ballads and 
 Other Poetns, 1841 ; Poems on Slavery, 1842 ; The Spanish Student, 1843 ; 
 The Waif, a Collection of Poems, 1845 ; The Poets and Poetry of Europe, 
 1845 ; T/ie Belfry of Bruges and Other Poems, 1846 ; The Estray, a Col- 
 lection of Poems, 1847 ; Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie, 1847 ; Kavanagh, a 
 Tale, 1849 ; The Seaside and the Fireside, 1850 ; The Goldeti Legend, 1851 ; 
 The Song of Hiawatha, 1855 ; The Courtship of Miles Standish, 1858 ; 
 Tales of a Wayside Inn, 1863 ; Flower-dc-Lucc, 1867 ; The New England 
 Tragedies, 1868 ; Translation of Dante's Divine Comedy, 1867-70 ; The 
 Divine Tragedy, 1872 ; Christus, a Mystery, 1872 ; Tliree Books of Sot/g, 
 1872 ; Aftermath, 1874 ; T/ie Masque of Pandora, 1875 ; Keramos and 
 Other Poems, 1878 ; Ultima Tkule, iSSo ; Michael Angela, a Tragedy, 1883.
 
 320 NOTES. 
 
 Whittier. Born at Haverhill, Massachusetts. A grave and earnest 
 thinker, whose inspiration is largely drawn from moral and political ques- 
 tions, and with whom poetry is a passion, not an art. The following 
 are his principal works : Legends of New England, 1831 ; Moll Pitcher, 
 1831 ; Mogg Megonc, 1836 ; Lays of My Home, and Other Poems, 1843 ; 
 The Bridal of Pennacook, 1848 ; Leaves from Margaret Smith's Journal, 
 1849 ; The Voices of Freedojn, 1849 ; Songs of Labor and Other Poems, 
 1850; Old Portraits and Modern Sketches, 1850; The Chapel of the Her- 
 mits, 1853 ; The Panora^na and Other Poems, 1856 ; Home Ballads and 
 Other Poems, i860 ; In War Time and Other Poems, 1863 ; Snow-Bound, 
 a Winter Idyl, 1S66 ; The Tent on the Beach afid Other Poems, 1867 ; 
 Among the Hills and Other Pocms^ 1868 ; Miriatn a?id Other Poems, 1870 ; 
 The Pennsylvania Pilgrim and Other Poems, 1872 ; The Vision of Ec hard 
 and Other Poems, 1878 ; The King's Missive and Other Poems, 1881 ; The 
 Bay of Seven Islands and Other Poems, 1S83. 
 
 Trench. Archbishop of Dublin. Justin Martyr and other poems, 
 1835 ; Honor Neale, 1838 ; Genoveva, 1842 ; Sacred Poems, 1846 ; Alma 
 and other poems, 1855. 
 
 POE. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, the son of strolling players, he 
 was lavishly, if not wisely, indulged by his adoptive father. A reckless 
 student and a cashiered cadet, he wrote melodious verses and ghastly 
 stories : edited the Southern Literary Messenger and Graham s Magazine, 
 made enemies by writing captious criticisms about his brother authors, 
 and was himself liis own worst enemy. " The rest is silence." Tamar- 
 lane and Other Poems, 1827 ; Al Araaf, Tamarlane and Mi?ior Poems, 
 1829 ; Poems, 1831 ; The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, 1838 ; Tales 
 of the Grotesque and Arabesque, 1839; Poems, 1845; Eureka, 1848. 
 
 Holmes. Born at Cambridge, Massachusetts. A witty and ingenu- 
 ous writer in verse and prose, he was educated as a physician, and filled 
 for thirty-five years the chair of Anatomy and Physiology in the Medical 
 School attached to Harvard College. His non-professional writings are 
 Poems, 1836 ; Urania, a Rhymed Lessoti, 1842 ; Astrea^ The Balance of 
 Illusions, 1850 ; The Autocrat of the Breakfast- Table, 1858 ; The Profes- 
 sor at the Breakfast-Table, 1859; Elsie Venncr, A Romance of Destiny, 
 1861 ; Songs in Many Keys, 1861 ; The Guardiatt Angel, 1867 ; The Poet 
 at the Breakfast-Table, 1873; Songs of Many Seasons, 1874; The Iron 
 Gate and other Poems, 1880.
 
 NOTES. 321 
 
 Tennyson. His first verse in Poems by two Brothers (Alfred and 
 Charles). Poems chiefly lyrical, 2 vols., 1830; with additions in 1832, 
 and again in 1840 to 1846 ; the Princess, 1847 ; with the Songs, 1850 ; hi 
 Mctnoriam, 1850 ; Maud, 1855 ; Idylls of the King, part published in 1859, 
 completed in 1872; Enoch Arden, 1864; Lucretius, 1868; Queett Alary, 
 187s ; Harold, i2>77. 
 
 MiLNES. Historical Poems, 1835 ; Poems of Many Years, 1838 ; Poetry 
 for the People, 1840. 
 
 Thackeray. The Chronicle of the Drum; the Great Cossack Epic 
 (the Legend of St. Sophia of Kioff) ; the Poems of the Molony of Kilbally- 
 molony ; the Ballads of Policem.an X ; etc. 
 
 Doyle. The Return of the Guards and other poems, 1866. 
 
 Moyse was a private in the regiment of the '' Kentish Buffs." Taken 
 prisoner, along with some Sikh soldiers, by the Chinese, he was or- 
 dered to perform Kotoo. Looking on it as a degradation, the Englishman 
 refused. 
 
 Domett. Flotsam and yetsam^ Rhymes old and new, 1834 to 1875. 
 Venice, 1839. Panolf and Amohia, 1877. 
 
 Browning (Mrs.). Protnetheus Bound, from ^schylus, translated be- 
 fore she was twenty, published with other poems in 1833. The Seraphim, 
 1838 ; A Drama of Exile and other poems, 1844 ; Casa Guidi Windows, 
 1851 ; Aurora Leigh, 1856 ; Poems before Congress, i860. Her Sonnets 
 "from the Portuguese" (a modest mask of her own identity), are the 
 fullest expression of womanly love ever written, as Sidney's may be 
 taken for the manly correspondence. 
 
 Browning (Robert). Paracelsus, 1835 ; Strafford, 1837 ; Sordello, 
 1840; Bells and Pomegranates, 1841 to 1846 (containing the Petur?t of the 
 Druses, A Blot in the 'Scutcheon, Colombe's Birthday, Luria, and other 
 poems); Christmas Eve and Easter Day, 1850; Men and Women, 1855; 
 The Ring and the Book, 1868 ; Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangan — Saviour of 
 Society, 1871 ; Fifi7ic at the Fair, 1872; Balaustion s Adventure, 1871, — 
 The Last Adventure, 1875 ; Red Cotton Night-cap Country, 1873 ; the Inn 
 Album, 1875 ; Pacchiarotto, 1876 ; La Saisiaz, the Two Poets of Croisic, 
 1878 ; Dramatic Idylls, 1879 ; J'ocoseria, 1882. 
 
 There are at least three versions, apparently by Browning himself, of 
 the second stanza of the Lost Leader. Our text seems to be the latest, 
 n.— 21
 
 322 NOTES. 
 
 NiCOLL. Born at Auchtergaven, Perthshire. Poems and Lyrics, 1835. 
 A second edition, with additions, in 1842, after his death. 
 
 Slce—zX-^ ; parochin—^^2X\%h. ; /a//i— tease ; ^a/— wept ; limmer—\\\- 
 lain ; weans — children ; (/i?«i:^— sedate ; starnies—sta.xs ; -wale — choicest ; 
 yett—gz.\.e ; haffets—iho. temples ; /yar^— grizzled ; bent—ihe rough grass 
 on the hill-side. 
 
 Davis. Born at Mallow, Cork County. Another of the Irish patriotic 
 singers of 1842-48. Most and the best of his songs treat of historical sub- 
 jects. 
 
 Scott (William Bell). Born at Edinburgh. A painter and engraver 
 of eminence, and writer upon Art. As a poet only known to the " fit au- 
 dience though few." He has published Hades or- the Transit, 1838 ; The 
 Year 0/ the World, a philosophical poem. 1846 ; Poems by a Painter, 1854 ; 
 Poems, 1875 ; and a Poet's Harvest Home, 1882. 
 
 Linton. Engraver and political writer. In poetry Bob Thin, a poor- 
 law tale, 1845 ; i\i& Plaint of Freedom, 1852; Poems, 1865; and verses in 
 the Irish Natio7i and elsewhere. 
 
 De Vere. Irish-born, but descended from one of Cromwell's officers, 
 named Hunt, who had a grant of lands in Ireland and settled there. His 
 works, dating from 1842, are numerous, generally inspired by pious 
 Catholic and patriotic Irish feeling. The Waldenses, or the Fall of Rora ; 
 \he Infant Bridal ; the Search after Proserpine ; May Carols (poems to 
 the Virgin Mary); the Sisters; Inisfail ; Legends of St. Patrick; Le- 
 gends of Saxon Saints ; Alexander the Great; etc. 
 
 BURBIDGE. College companion and friend of Clough, with whom in 
 1848 he brought out a book of poems, Ambarvalia. He wrote also the 
 Bridal of Ravenna (with other juvenile poems), 1838; zxi6. Hymns and 
 Days, 1851. He is now British chaplain at Palermo. 
 
 Rosenberg. Born at Bath, but emigrated to America. Author of 
 Tiberius and other unpublished plays, but only known as a miscellaneous 
 writer in American newspapers and magazines. 
 
 Sutton. Clifton Grove; and some verses in Quinquenergia, an essay 
 toward a new religion, 1854.
 
 NOTES. 323 
 
 Weldon, an Englishman (the name perhaps only a pseudonym), 
 wrote some short poems over the signature O. O. in the New York Trib- 
 mie, between 1850 and 1856. 
 
 Clough. One very notable poem, the Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich, a 
 long-vacation pastoral, 1848 ; Poetical Remains, 1869. 
 
 After Charles Albert's defeat at Novara, the inhabitants at Brescia 
 nevertheless rose against the Austrian garrison, on the 21st of March, 
 1849. 
 
 How^E. Mrs. Howe was born in New York City. Passio?i Floweis, 
 1854; Words for the Hour, 1856 ; The World's Own, 1857 ; Hippolytus, a 
 Tragedy, 1858 ; A Trip to Cuba, 1859 ; Later Lyrics, 1866 ; From the Oak 
 to the Olive, 1868. 
 
 Whitman. Born at West Hills, New York. Leaves of Grass, 1855; 
 Drum Taps, 1865; Specimen Days, and a Collect, 1883. 
 
 Parsons. Born at Boston, Massachusetts. Translation of the First 
 Ten Cantos of the Inferno of Dante, 1843 ; Poems, 1854 ; The Magnolia, 
 1866 ; The First Canticle {Inferno) of the Divine Comedy, 1867. 
 
 KiNGSLEY. Born in Devonshire ; Vicar of Eversley in Hampshire. 
 Novelist, and poet if only for the songs in his novels. But he also wrote 
 the Saint's Tragedy, a drama of mediiBval time, 1848 ; and Andromeda, a 
 sustained poem, 1858. His collected poems were published in 1872. 
 
 Lewes. Mary Ann Evans (Mrs. Lewes). The Spanish Gypsy, 1868 ; 
 the Legend of y'ubal and other poems, 1874. 
 
 Lowell (James Russell). Born at Cambridge, Massachusetts. A 
 Year's Life, 1841 ; Poems, 1844; Conversations on some of the Old Poets, 
 1845 ; Poems, 1848 ; The Vision of Sir Launfal, 1848 ; A Fable for Critics, 
 1848 ; The Dighnu Papers, First Series, 1848 ; Fireside Travels, 1864 ; 
 Biglow Papers, Second Series, 1867 ; Under the Willows and Other 
 Poems, 1868 ; The Cathedral, 1869 ; Among My Books, 1870 ; My Study 
 Windows, 1870. 
 
 Lowell (Maria White). Born at Watertown, Massachusetts. The 
 first wife of J. R. Lowell.
 
 324 NOTES. 
 
 Wallace. Born at Lexington, Kentucky. Albait, a Poetical Romance ^ 
 1848 ; Meditatio7is in America and Other Poems, 1851. 
 
 Jones. A single volume of poems, Studies of Sensation and Event, 
 1843 ; republished in 1879. 
 
 McCarthy. Another poet of the Irish Nation. Born in Dublin. 
 Poems and Ballads, translated and original, 1850 ; Under-^litnpses and 
 other poems, and the Bell-Founder, 1857 ; translations from Calderon. 
 
 Locker. London Lyrics, 1862; Lyra Elegantiarum, 1867; Patchwork 
 (prose and verse), 1879. 
 
 Gary (Alice). Born near Cincinnati, Ohio. Clovcrnook Papers, First 
 Series, 1851 ; Hagar, a Story of To-Day^ 1852 ; Clovernook Papers, Second 
 Series, 1853 ; Lyra and Other Poems, 1853 ; Clovernook Children, 1854 ; 
 Married, not Mated, 1856 ; Pictures of Country Life, 1859 ; Lyrics and 
 Hymns, 1866 ; The Bishop's Son, 1867 ; The Lover s Diary, 1867 ; Snow 
 Berries, 1869. 
 
 Cary (Phoebe). Sister of Alice, and born at the same place. Poems 
 and Parodies, 1854; Poems of Faith, Hope, and Love, 1868. 
 
 Arnold (Matthew). Poet, essayist, critic. His chief poems are Soh- 
 rab and Rustam ; Tristan and Iseidt ; Balder dead; the Scholar Gypsy; 
 Thyrsis ; Empedocles on ^tna ; and Merope, a tragedy. 
 
 Cory. William Johnson, a master at Eton, changed his name to Cory. 
 He published a small collection of poems, lonica, in 1858 ; and printed 
 privately a few more in 1877. Mimnermus was a Greek elegiac and 
 amatory poet of the time of Solon. 
 
 DOBELL. The Roman, 1850; Balder, 1853; Poems collected after his 
 death. 
 
 Brownell. Born in New York City. Poems, 1849 ; Lyrics of a Day, 
 1864 ; War Lyrics and Other Poems, 1866. 
 
 Curtis. Born at Providence, Rhode Island. Nile Notes of a Ho- 
 ivadji, 1851 ; The Ho^oadji in Syria, 1852 ; Lotus Eating, 1852 ; Potiphar 
 Papers, 1853 ; Prue and I, 1856 ; Trumps, 1861.
 
 NOTES. 325 
 
 McGee. Born at Carlingford, Ireland. Was associate editor with 
 Charles Gavan Duffy of the Irish Nation ; and poetical contributor to its 
 columns. He emigrated to America, settling finally in Canada, where 
 he was assassinated on account of his opposition to Fenianism. His col- 
 lected poems were published in New York, in 1869. 
 
 Taylor (Bayard). Born in Pennsylvania. Zimena, 1844 ; Views 
 a-Foot, 1846 ; Rhymes of Travel, 1848 ; El Dorado, 1850 ; The American. 
 Legend, 1850 ; Book of Romances, Lyrics, and Songs, 1851 ; A yourney to 
 Central Africa, 1854 ; Poems and Ballads, 1854 ; The Lands of the Sara~ 
 cen, 1854 ; A Visit to India, China, and Japati, 1855 ; Poems of the Orient, 
 1855; Poe7ns of Home and Travel, 1855; Northern Travel, 1857; Travels 
 in Greece and Russia, 1859 ; At Home and Abroad, First Series, 1859; At 
 Home and Abroad, Second Series, 1862; The Poet's yournal, 1862; Han- 
 nah Thurston, 1863 ; jfohn Godfrey's Fortufies, 1864 ; The Story of Ken- 
 nett, 1866 ; The Picture of St. yohn, 1866 ; Byways of Europe, 1869 ; The 
 Ballad of Abraham Lincoln, 1869; Joseph and His Friend, 1870; Trans- 
 lation of Goethe's Faust (both parts), 1871 ; Beauty and the Beast, 1872; 
 The Masque of the Gods, 1872 ; Lars, 1873 ; The Prophet, a Tragedy, 1874; 
 Home Pastorals, Ballads, and Lyrics, 1875 ; Prince Deucalion, 1878. 
 
 Stoddard (R. H.). Born at Hingham, Massachusetts. Footprints, 
 1849 ; Poems, 1852 ; Adventures in Fairy Land, 1853 ; Songs of Summer, 
 1857 ; The King's Bell, 1862 ; The Story of Little Red Riding Hood, 1863 ; 
 The Children in the Wood, 1864 ; Abraha?n Liticoln, an Horatia7i Ode, 
 1865 ; Putna?ii the Brave, 1869 ; The Book of the East, 1871 ; Poems, 1880. 
 
 Stoddard (E. D. B.). Born at Mattapoisett, Massachusetts. The 
 Morgesons, 1862 ; Two Men, 1865 ; Temple House, 1867 ; Lolly Dinks' 
 Doings, 1874. 
 
 Procter (Adelaide). Daughter of B. W. Procter (" Barry Corn- 
 wall"). Poems in H'lckens Household Words, the first by " Miss Ber- 
 wick " in 1853 ; Legends and Lyrics, two series, 1858 and 1861 ; A Chaplet 
 of Verses, 1862. 
 
 Larcom. Miss Larcom was born in Massachusetts. An Idyl of Work, 
 1875 ; Poems, 1878 ; Wild Roses of Cape Ann and Other Poctns, 1881 ; 
 Childhood' s Songs, 1883. 
 
 Collins. Idylls and Rhymes, 1855 ; Summer Songs, i860 ; the Inn of 
 Strange Meetings and other poems, 1871.
 
 326 NOTES. 
 
 Allingham. Born at Ballyshannon, Ireland. Poems, 1850 ; Day and 
 Night Song's, 1854 ; Lawrence Bloomfield in Ireland, a. descriptive poem 
 characteristic of Irish life, 1869 ; Songs atid Ballads, 1877. 
 
 MUNBY. Benoni, 1852; Elegiacs, 1859; Verses N^ew and Old, 1865; 
 Dorothy, a country story, 1880. 
 
 RossETTi (Dante Gabriel). Painter and Poet. Notable as the founder 
 of the pre-Raftaelite school of painting in England. His poetical works 
 are Ballads and Songs ; the House of Life, a series of sonnets ; and 
 Translations from the early Italian poets, and of the Vita Nuova of 
 Dante. 
 
 RossETTi (Christina). The sister of Dante Gabriel. Gobli?i Market ; 
 the Prince's Progress ; and miscellaneous poems, 1862-18S1. 
 
 Ingelow. Poems, 1863 ; A Sto?y of Doom, 1867. 
 
 Stedman. Born at Hartford, Connecticut. Poems Lyrical and Idyllic, 
 i860 ; Alice of Moj2 mouth and Other Poems, 1864 ; The Blameless Prince 
 and Other Poems, 1869 ; Poetical Works, 1873 ; The Victorian Poets, 1875 ; 
 Hawthorne arid Other Poc7ns, 1877. 
 
 Arnold (George). Born in New York City. Drift and Other Poems, 
 1866 ; Poems Grave and Gay, 1867. 
 
 NiCHOL. Born at Montrose. Hannibal, an historical drama ; the 
 Death of Themisiocles, and other poems, 1881. 
 
 Morris (Lewis). Songs of Two Worlds, 1871 ; The Epic of Hades, 
 iZ-jT, Gwen,iZ7<); The Ode of Life, x^Zo. 
 
 Jackson. Mrs. Jackson (her earlier poems "by H. H.," Mrs. Hunt) 
 was born at Amherst, Massachusetts. Verses, 1870. 
 
 Morris (William). The Defence of Guinevere and other poems, 1858 ; 
 the Life and Death of Jason, 1867; ih.^ Earthly Paradise, 1868-70; Love 
 is enough, 1873 ; the Story of Sigurd, 1876. 
 
 Piatt. Born at Jackson, Indiana. A'ests at Washington and Other 
 Poems, 1864 ; Poems in Sunshine and Firelight, 1866 ; Western Windows 
 and Other Poems, 1869 ; Landmarks and Other Poems, 1871.
 
 NOTES. 327 
 
 Thaxter. Mrs. Thaxter. Born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. 
 Poems, 1874. 
 
 WiLLSON. The Old Sargcant and Other Poems, 1867. 
 
 Winter. Born at Gloucester, Massachusetts. My Witness, a Book 
 of Verse, 187 1. 
 
 Aldrich. Born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire. The Bells, 1854 ; 
 Daisy' s Necklace, afid IV'hat Came of it, 1856 ; The Ballad of Babie Bell 
 and Other Poems, 1858 ; The Course of True Love fiever did Run Smoothly, 
 
 1858 
 1863 
 
 1873 
 1877 
 1882 
 
 Pampinea and Other Poems, 1861 ; Out of His Head, 1862 ; Poems, 
 The Story of a Bad Boy, 1869 ; Marjorie Daw and Other People, 
 Cloth of Gold, 1873 ; Prudence Palfrey, 1874 ; Flower and Thor?i, 
 The Queen of Sheba, 1877 ; The Stillwater Tragedy, 1880 ; Poe?ns, 
 From Poukapog to Pesth, 1883. 
 
 Garnett. Primula, 1858 ; lo in Egypt and other poems, 1859 ; 
 Translations from the German, 1862 ; Idylls and Epigrams, from the 
 Greek Anthology, 1869. Since 1875 Mr. Garnett has been Superinten- 
 dent of the Reading Room at the British Museum. 
 
 Ashe. The Rev. Thomas Ashe has written Poems, 1859 ; Sorrows of 
 Hypsipyle, a drama, 1866 ; Edith, 1873 ; Songs Noiu and Then, 1876. 
 
 Swinburne. The Queen Mother and Rosamond, 1861 ; Chastelard ; 
 Atalanta in Calydon, 1864 ; Poems and Ballads, 1866 ; A Song of Italy, 
 1867 ; Songs before Sunrise, 1871 ; Bothwell, 1874 ; Songs of Two Nations, 
 1875 ; Erechtheus, 1876 ; Poems and Ballads (second series), 1878 ; Songs 
 of the Spring-tides, 1880 ; Mary Stuart, 1881 ; Tristram of Lyonesse, 1882. 
 
 Thomson. Born at Port Glasgow. The Doo)n of a City ; Bertratn to 
 the Lady Geraldi?te ; the Lord of the Castle of Indolence ; Vane's Story ; 
 Sunday at Hatnp stead ; Sunday up the River ; the City of Dreadful Night 
 (written between 1870 and 1874, and published in 1880); and other poems. 
 
 Hay. Born at Salem, Indiana. Pike County Ballads and other Pieces, 
 1871 ; Castilian Days, 1872. 
 
 DOBSON. Vignettes in Rhyme, 1874 ; Proverbs in Porcelain, 1877 ; 
 Latter-day Lyrics, 1878.
 
 328 NOTES. 
 
 Buchanan. The collected edition of his poetical works (he is also 
 well known as a novelist), comprises Ballads and Poems of Life ; Lojidon 
 Lyrics, 1866; Sonnets; Political Mystics ; and a long Ossianic poem, the 
 Book of Orm. 
 
 Bridges. Poems, 1873. 
 
 GossE. Madrigals, Songs, and Sonnets^ 1870 ; On Viol and Flute, 1873 ; 
 King Erik, a drama, 1876 ; iVew Poems, 1879. 
 
 MaRZIALS. The Gallery of Pigeons, 1873. 
 
 Bbatty. To my Lady, 1878; Three Women of the People, 1881 ; Alar- 
 cia, a tragedy. 
 
 Lang. Ballads and Lyrics of Old France^ 1872; the Prince of Omur, 
 and other poems, 1880; XXII Ballades in Blue China^ 1880; YJ^W a7id 
 X, 1881 ; Helen of Troy, 18S2. 
 
 Davies. Songs of a Wayfarer, 1869 ; the Shepherd's Garden, 1873.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A bird sang sweet and strong 252 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !) 61 
 
 Above yon sombre swell of land 13S 
 
 A despot gazed on sunset clouds 133 
 
 Ah, Marian mine ! the face you look on now 64 
 
 Ah ! my heart is weary waiting 238 
 
 Alas for me that my love is dead ! 279 
 
 A little marsh-plant, yellow green 297 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights 19 
 
 Although I enter not 182 
 
 A man there came, whence none could tell 264 
 
 And thou art dead ! as young and fair 80 
 
 A place in thy memory, Dearest ! 141 
 
 A Poppy grows upon the shore 307 
 
 Arise, my slumbering soul ! arise ! i43 
 
 As a twig trembles which a bird 233 
 
 A sentinel angel sitting high in glory 302 
 
 A sigh in the morning grey 206 
 
 As upland fields were sun-burn'd brown 125 
 
 At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay i57 
 
 A thousand miles from land are we 69 
 
 At the king's gate the subtle Noon 280 
 
 Awake thee, my Lady-Love ! 66 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair Maid ! 32 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! I93 
 
 Beautiful Things of Old ! why are ye gone for ever 150 
 
 Before I trust my fate to thee 261
 
 330 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Before our Lady came on earth 282 
 
 Beloved the last ! beloved the most ! 41 
 
 Beneath the poplars o'er the sacred pool 308 
 
 Beneath this starry arch 129 
 
 Bird of the wilderness ! 35 
 
 Blessed Hours ! approach her gently 201 
 
 Blue gulf all around us 249 
 
 Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles 19S 
 
 Bring the bright garlands hither ! 52 
 
 Burly, dozing Humble-Bee ! 138 
 
 By a kirk-yard yett I stood 196 
 
 Cold blows the wind against the hill 291 
 
 Come in the evening, or come in the morning 197 
 
 Come, my tan-faced children ! 214 
 
 Come to me in my dreams, and say 309 
 
 Come to me, O ye children ! 161 
 
 Come up from the fields. Father ! here's a letter 219 
 
 Could you not drink her gaze like wine ? 268 
 
 Day and night my thoughts incline 259 
 
 Day Stars ! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle 55 
 
 Dear Love ! I have not ask'd you yet 292 
 
 Fair is the night and fair the day 281 
 
 False Friend ! wilt thou smile or weep ? 91 
 
 Far out at sea, — the sun was high 132 
 
 Fast falls the snow, O Lady mine ! 263 
 
 First time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd 191 
 
 Flowers! winter flowers ! The child is dead 57 
 
 From the Desert I come to thee 255 
 
 Fu' ripe, ripe, was her rosy lip 196 
 
 Glass antique ! 'twixt thee and Nell 144 
 
 God makes sech nights, all white an' still 229 
 
 Go from me 1 Yet I feel that I shall stand 190 
 
 Golden-bill ! Golden-bill ! 34 
 
 Good-night ! I have to say good-night 290 
 
 Go where the water glideth gently ever 111 
 
 Green little vaulter in the sunny grass 6:^
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 33 1 
 
 FAGF, 
 
 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit ! 85 
 
 Hark ! ah, the Nightingale ! 243 
 
 Hear the sledges with the bells ! 169 
 
 Helen ! thy beauty is to me 172 
 
 He loves not well whose love is bold 287 
 
 Here in this leafy place 303 
 
 Here is the place : right over the hill 163 
 
 Here she lieth, white and chill 289 
 
 Hesperus ! hail ! thy winking light 40 
 
 Ho, pretty Page with the dimpled chin ! 183 
 
 Ho, sailor of the sea ! 248 
 
 Hour after hour departs no 
 
 How joyously the young Sea-Mew 188 
 
 How many summers. Love ! 75 
 
 How many times do I love thee ? Dear ! 131 
 
 Hush, the homeless baby's crying ! 262 
 
 I am Achilles. Thou wast hither brought 203 
 
 I arise from dreams of Thee 88 
 
 I ask'd my Fair, one happy day 22 
 
 I bend above the moving stream 134 
 
 I can not forget my jo 246 
 
 If e'er she knew an evil thought 60 
 
 If I desire with pleasant songs 206 
 
 If you become a Nun, Dear ! 63 
 
 I have had playmates, I have had companions 38 
 
 I lean'd out of window 273 
 
 I like a church, I like a cowl 136 
 
 I like not lady-slippers 290 
 
 I loved him not ; and yet, now he is gone 42 
 
 I love him, I dream of him Ti 
 
 In schools of wisdom all the day was spent 16S 
 
 In Spring the poet is glad 287 
 
 In the days of old 68 
 
 Into the sunshine 232 
 
 I saw old Autumn in the misty morn 119 
 
 I saw the twinkle of white feet 228 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air 156 
 
 It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ! 17 
 
 It was not in the winter 123
 
 332 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I've wander'd East, I've wander'd West 113 
 
 I wander'd by the brook-side 180 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us 191 
 
 Kiss no more the Vintages ! 124 
 
 Lady ! wouldst thou heiress be 121 
 
 Last night, among his fellow roughs 184 
 
 Last time I parted from my Dear 200 
 
 Laugh out, O stream ! from your bed of green 241 
 
 Let Time and Chance combine, combine ! 109 
 
 Let us sing and sigh ! 73 
 
 Little Mary Anerley, sitting on the stile ! 267 
 
 Long night succeeds thy little day 69 
 
 Love laid down his golden head 205 
 
 Love, on the earth alit 299 
 
 Man is permitted much 127 
 
 Medrake, waving wide wings 285 
 
 Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne 19 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory 213 
 
 Mistress of Gods and men ! I have been thine 200 
 
 More than the wind, more than the snow 237 
 
 Mother ! I can not mind my wheel 43 
 
 My days among the Dead are pass'd 28 
 
 My heart is freighted full of love 181 
 
 My heart leaps up when I behold 17 
 
 My only Love is always near 240 
 
 My thoughts by night are often fiU'd 68 
 
 Next to thee, O fair Gazelle ! 256 
 
 Night closed around the conqueror's way 54 
 
 No bird-song floated down the hill 166 
 
 Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame , 91 
 
 Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 102 
 
 Not a sob, not a tear be spent 251 
 
 Not in the sky 153 
 
 Not in the solitude 106 
 
 Now tell me, my merry woodman ! 286
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 333 
 
 PAGE 
 
 O bear him where the rain can fall ! 59 
 
 O brooding Spirit of Wisdom and of Love ! 148 
 
 O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain 18 
 
 O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule 24 
 
 Of Adam's first wife, Lilith, it is told. 270 
 
 O fair and stately Maid ! whose eyes 140 
 
 Of Nelson and the North 44 
 
 O Friend ! whom glad or grave we seek 64 
 
 Often have I heard it said 41 
 
 O Mary ! go and call the cattle home ! 226 
 
 Once a rose ever a rose, we say 201 
 
 Once, when the days were ages 257 
 
 One more Unfortunate 116 
 
 On me, on me 135 
 
 O Reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 26 
 
 O sair I rue the witless wish 28 
 
 O, Sorrow ! 94 
 
 O the sight entrancing ! 53 
 
 O Thou that art our Queen again ! 62 
 
 O Thou ! whose mighty palace-roof doth hang 92 
 
 Our life is spent in little things 278 
 
 O Warrior for the Right ! 304 
 
 O, what are you waiting for here ? young man ! 301 
 
 O what will a' the lads do ? 36 
 
 Peace be around thee wherever thou rovest ! 52 
 
 Peace in her chamber, whereso'er 270 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu ! 30 
 
 Poor little Foal of an oppressed race ! 23 
 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 275 
 
 Proserpine may pull her flowers 130 
 
 Proud Maisie is in the wood 33 
 
 Rains fall, suns shine, winds flee 74 
 
 Rough Wind ! that moanest loud 92 
 
 Rushes lean over the water 251 
 
 Said Fading-Leaf to Fallen-Leaf 292 
 
 Say not, the struggle nought availeth 213 
 
 Say over again, and yet once over again ! 190 
 
 Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness ! 100
 
 334 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Seek not the tree of silkiest bark ! 203 
 
 Send the red wine round to-night ! 70 
 
 She is not fair to outward view 112 
 
 She stood breast high amid the corn 122 
 
 She stood where I had used to wait 265 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 83 
 
 She was not fair, nor full of grace 74 
 
 She wears a rose in her hair 259 
 
 Should I long that dark were fair ? 227 
 
 Show me the noblest Youth of present time ! 10 
 
 Since, if you stood by my side to-day 242 
 
 Sing ! — who sings 72 
 
 Sister Simplicitie ! 246 
 
 So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn •. . 165 
 
 Soft hangs the opiate in the brain 233 
 
 Softly breathes the West wind beside the ruddy forest io3 
 
 Softly, O midnight Hours ! 205 
 
 So strive, so rule. Almighty Lord of All ! 210 
 
 Stern daughter of the Voice of God ! 7 
 
 Still glides the gentle streamlet on 122 
 
 Still sits the school-house by the road 162 
 
 Suck, baby ! suck ! mother's love grows by giving 39 
 
 Sweet ! thou hast trod on a heart 187 
 
 Swiftly walk over the Western wave ! 89 
 
 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 179 
 
 The apples are ripe in the orchard 288 
 
 The conference-meeting through at last 274 
 
 The day is cold and dark and dreary 160 
 
 The Earth was but a platform for thy power 136 
 
 The flash at midnight, — 'twas a light 35 
 
 The golden gates of sleep unbar 90 
 
 The grey sea and the long black land 194 
 
 The Happy Land ! 202 
 
 The Isles of Greece ! the Isles of Greece ! 77 
 
 The laurels shine in the morning sun 277 
 
 The lost days of my life until to-day 271 
 
 The morning broke, and Spring was there 125 
 
 The moth's kiss first ! 192 
 
 Then fare thee well, my own dear Love ! 51 
 
 The night is come, but not too soon 156
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 335 
 
 rAGR 
 
 The Poem of the Universe 211 
 
 The poetry of earth is never dead loi 
 
 The Prophet once, sitting in calm debate 253 
 
 The rain had fallen ; the Poet arose 179 
 
 The Raven's house is built with reeds 252 
 
 There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear 18 
 
 The sad and solemn Night 107 
 
 These many years since we began to be 298 
 
 The shades of night were falling fast 159 
 
 The shadows lay along Broadway 155 
 
 The streams that wind amid the hills 66 
 
 The sun rises bright in France 65 
 
 The trees in Sherwood Forest are old and good in 
 
 The truth lies round about us 240 
 
 The woods decay, the woods decay and fall 174 
 
 They bear the hero from the fight, dying 148 
 
 They say his sin was dark and deep 146 
 
 They say 'tis a sin to sorrow 147 
 
 Think me not unkind and rude 141 
 
 Think not alone to do right and fulfil 310 
 
 This is the Ship of Pearl which (poets feign) 173 
 
 This world is too much with us : late and soon 17 
 
 Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word 276 
 
 Thou blossom ! bright with autumn dew 105 
 
 Thou little bird ! thou dweller by the sea ! - . 76 
 
 Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness ! 98 
 
 Three years she grew in sun and shower 9 
 
 Thy days are done, thy fame begun 82 
 
 Thy fruit full well the schoolboy knows , 58 
 
 Thy functions are ethereal i 
 
 'Tis thought Odysseus when the strife was o'er 309 
 
 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved 84 
 
 To be a sweetness more desired than Spring 271 
 
 To-day what is there in the air 308 
 
 To sea ! to sea ! The calm is o'er 131 
 
 Twin stars aloft in ether clear 227 
 
 Under a sultry yellow sky 260 
 
 Underneath the beechen tree 284 
 
 Underneath the growing grass 272 
 
 Unlike are we, unlike, O Princely Heart ! 189
 
 336 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying 25 
 
 Wail for Daedalus, all that is fairest ! 151 
 
 Wail ! wail ye o'er the Dead ! 67 
 
 Wake from your homes in tomb and shroud ! 207 
 
 Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 82 
 
 Wasted, weary, wherefore stay 33 
 
 Weep not for me ! 128 
 
 Welcome, wild North-Easter ! 224 
 
 What is it to grow old ? 244 
 
 What matter, what matter, O friend ! 185 
 
 What's hallow'd ground ? Has earth a clod 48 
 
 What shall we do now, Mary being dead 221 
 
 What voice did on my spirit fall ? 211 
 
 What was he doing ? the great God Pan 186 
 
 When from the child, that still is led 126 
 
 When gloaming treads the heels of day 29 
 
 When I am dead, my Dearest ! 272 
 
 When I was young, I said to Sorrow 204 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die 37 
 
 When the hounds of Spring are on Winter's traces 295 
 
 When the world is burning 237 
 
 When to any saint I pray 221 
 
 Where art thou gone ? light-ankled Youth ! 43 
 
 Where shall we make her grave ? , 103 
 
 White rose in red rose garden 293 
 
 Whither is gone the wisdom and the power ? 112 
 
 Whither, 'midst falling dew 104 
 
 Who breathes to thee the holiest prayer 44 
 
 Who is this that comes from Hara ? 235 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide ? Lady ! 31 
 
 With blackest moss the flower plots 176 
 
 Within a low-thatched hut, built in a lane 149 
 
 Within the unchanging twilight 198 
 
 Ye Mariners of England ! 46 
 
 You never bade me hope, 'tis true 142 
 
 You promise heavens free from strife 245
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 
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