r.... ^ > iv.ilf III. Library S3 the university OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY From the collection of Julius Doerner, Chicago Purchased, 1918, .jf' ■1 K~' . '_'*0:v* w ■ r/>- ) y 1 , Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign Alternates https://archive.org/details/crownjewelsorgemOOnort library OF IHE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LIBRARY OF the UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS GEMS OF LITERATURE ART AND MUSIC BEING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS AND MUSICAL PRODUCTIONS OF THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS, FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES ; COMPRISING GEMS FOR THE HOME CIRCLE; NARRATIVES, BALLADS, SONGS; POEMS OF FRIEND- SHIP AND LOVE; BRILLIANT DESCRIPTIONS OF THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE AND RURAL LIFE ; LYRICS OF HEROISM, ADVENTURE AND PATRIOTISM ; JEWELS OF SENTIMENT; CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM RELIGIOUS LITERATURE, SORROW AND ADVERSITY, CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH; DESCRIPTIONS OF PERSONS, PLACES AND HISTORIC EVENTS; MASTERPIECES OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE ; POETICAL ROMANCE; WIT, HUMOR, ETC. INCLUDING A BIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTHORS. THE WHOLE FORMING ^ iff of llectrs, Pvirse aitii COMPILED BY HENRY DAVENPORT NORTHROP, D. D., ‘author of “MARVELOUS WONDERS OF THE WHOLE WORLD,” “ EARTH, SEA AND SKY,” Etc., Etc. EMBELLISHED WITH NUMEROUS SUPERB STEEL-PLATE ENGRAVINGS. JAMES TRAYIiTOR, 612 TAYLOR ST., CHICAGO, ILL. PHILIP TRAYNOR, ST. MARY’S, KANSAS. Copyright, 1887, by J. R. Jones. Copyright, 1888, by J. R. Jones. INTRODUCTION. “Crown Jewels” has been pronounced the most captivating title ever given to any book, and this title is in keeping with the Jewels of Thought, Feeling and Sen- timent, which sparkle on every page. This very attractive and valuable work em- braces all that is of the greatest interest in Poetry, Prose, Art and Song. It covers the whole field of literature in all languages from the earliest times. Those Gems which have fascinated the world with their beauty are here gath- ered into one magnificent cluster. The most brilliant Authors of every age, in every department of literature, shine resplendent in one marvelous galaxy. The book is a popular educator, avast treasury of the noblest thoughts and sentiments, and its Jewels should sparkle in every home throughout the land. As Crown Jewels is pre-eminently a home book, it is appropriate that its first department should be entitled the Home Circle. Here, gathered into one rich and beautiful bouquet, are fascinating descriptions of the pleasures of home life. “The Cotter’s Saturday Night,” by Robert Burns; Daniel Webster’s description of the “Old Log Cabin;” the song of the “Merry Christmas Time,” by Sir Wal- ter Scott, and the “Old Familiar Faces,” by Charles Lamb, are but specimens of the captivating productions which embellish this*part of the book. The next department is Narratives and Ballads. There are songs that have touched the hearts of whole nations. Every phase of human life has been pictured in words and rhythms that entrance the reader. This part of the work may be described as stories told in verse — such as “The Village Blacksmith,” by Long- fellow; “Bingen on the Rhine,” by Mrs. Norton; and the “Sands of Dee,” by Charles Kingsley. The narrative portion of the work contains everything of special interest stored in ancient or modern literature. Under the title of Love and Friendship is a vast collection of heart-poems. It is impossible, for want of space, to mention even the names of these beautiful gems. Here are the finest things written by Moore, Byron, Goldsmith, Shake- speare, Wordsworth, Ingelow, Tennyson, and a host of others. The great love passion — its joys, its pathos, its hopes, its disappointments, its all-controlling power — throbs in every line. We come next to the Beauties of Nature — which is the native field of poetry. The reader, looking with the eyes of the poet, is spell-bound amidst the beauties ^N^of creation. He beholds landscapes of marvelous loveliness ; and gazes up at the ^ midnight heavens “where blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the ^ angels.” With Thomson he beholds the magnificent panorama of the seasons ; with 815488 Lowell he breathes the sweet air of leafy June, when “heaven tries the earth if it be in tune.” Birds and fountains sing to him, and the universe is clothed with new life. The next part, entitled Heroism and Adventure, is remarkably spirited and attractive. Narratives in both prose and poetry, excite to the highest pitch the reader’s admiration for the heroic and give this part of Crown Jewels an absorbing interest. “The Heart of the Bruce,” “The Draw-Bridge Keeper,” “The Fate of Vir- ginia,” by Lord Macaulay, “Jim Bludso,” and many other heroic adventures, make the m.ost daring creations of romance seem tame and powerless in comparison. Sea Pictures comprise the most vivid descriptions of the sea ever gathered Into one volume. The jolly tar who braves the dangers of the great deep, the treasures of coral and pearl hidden beneath the waves, the light-house that guides the weary mariner, the awful grandeur of the ocean — these and many other themes, treated by the most brilliant authors, render Sea Pictures peculiarly fascinating. Under the title of Patriotism and Freedom the patriotic songs and epics which have aroused nations and helped to gain victories are collected. Following these stirring appeals to the patriotic emotions Is an uhrivaled col- lection sf the world’s best thoughts, classified under Sentiment and Reflection. Here are the famous “Elegy” of Gray; Longfellow’s “Psalm of Life”; “Evening Bells,” by Moore ; “The Last Leaf,” by Holmes; the song of the “Irish Famine;” the “Wants of Man,” by John Quincy Adams; Poe’s mystic “Raven,” etc., etc. Ballads of Labor and Reform present a fine collection of songs and poems peculiarly appropriate to the times. Here labor is dignified, and its magnificent achievements celebrated. Hood’s “Song of the Shirt,” and Charles Mackay’s “Good Time Coming,” are specimens of the numerous beautiful and touching productions. The next part of Crown Jewels treats of Rural Life. Here are exquisite pic- tures of life in the country, such as the “Harvest Song,” , by Eliza Cook; “The Farmer’s Wife,” by Paul Hayne; “The Horseback Ride,” by Grace Greenwood; “On the Banks of the Tennessee,” by W. D. Gallagher;” the reader follows the “Ploughman,” and “Mowers;” he rambles away with the “Angler” and “Bare- foot Boy,” and returns to enjoy the hospitality of the “ Busy Housewife.” A number of exquisite productions are classified under the title of Sorrow and Adversity. Here Dickens describes the “ Last Hours of Little Paul Dom- bey ; ” Charles Lewis tells “ Bijah’s Story ; ” Mrs. Stowe contributes a beautiful selection entitled “ Only a Year ; ” Tom Hood with his “ Bridge of Sighs ” makes the breast heave and the lip quiver. The next department comprises Persons and Places. The great authors, ex- plorers, heroes, statesmen, orators, patriots, and painters of ancient and modern times are immortalized. Classic Athens; sacred Jerusalem ; the golden Orient; sunny Italy; Thebes, with her hundred gates ; Naples, whose every adjacent cliff “flings on the clear wave some image of delight;” the Isles of Greece, “where burning Sappho loved and sung ; ” Russia’s village scenes and Scotland’s High- lands and old abbeys, are all commemorated in a manner that entrances the reader. Then follow selections relating to Religious Life. In this department alone are nearly one hundred gems, each with its own peculiar beauty and attraction, by Pope, Cowper, Mrs. Sigourney, the Cary sisters, Newman, Ella Wheeler, and scores of others. The songs which have been sung clear round the globe, which have cheered the desponding, and brought peace to the troubled, are here set in attractive array. Under the title of Childhood and Youth is an admirable collection of pieces interesting to young persons. Children and young people will read something, and only the best reading matter should be placed in their hands. In Dramatic Selections are the masterpieces of the world’s great dramatists. The sublime creations of Shakespeare, Coleridge, Knowles, Addison, Joanna Bai lie, and others, and the sparkling effusions of Sheridan, Jerrold, and their compeers, are here presented for the instruction and delight of every reader. Poetical Curiosities and Humorous Readings make up an extensive collection of quaint, curious and witty productions which are greatly relished by all readers. Irish wit, Scotch wit, German wit, Yankee wit, and every other kind of wit are given a place, and the great humorists, who have made the world healthier and better by making it laugh, here indulge in their favorite pastime. By no possible arrangement could a greater variety of thoughts and topics be presented, while the Gems, both those that are new and those that are old favorites, are the finest, and most captivating in the literature of all ages. In addition to the myriad of attractive features already named, the work is a Treasury of the Choicest Music. A great variety of songs and popular pieces by authors whose fame fills the earth, affords a source of entertainment for the home. These have been selected with great care, and charm all lovers of music. The aim has been to insert only the finest melodies, the sweetest songs that musical genius has produced. This valuable work is elegantly embellished with a Galaxy of the most Beautiful Steel Plate Engravings, by artists of world-wide renown. The most entrancing scenes are reproduced in these charming pages, forming a magnificent picture gallery. Crown Jewels is a work of Art, and each of its many superb illustrations is a beauty and a delight. The book contains a Biographical Dictionary, giving in concise form those facts concerning the most renowned authors which the reading public desire to know. This is a very valuble feature of the book. Publisher’s Annoimcement magnificent work, which comprises many books in one volume, is 3 vast treasury of the Choicest Gems of English Literature, in prose and ^ poetry. It contains those resplendent jewels of thought, feeling and sentiment which fascinate, instruct and entertain the reader. The following are only a fev/ of the many reasons why Crown Jewels is more complete than any other work : First. The elegant appearance of the work recommends it. It is indeed a beautiful book. Second. The selections possess the very highest merit, and are the best in every department of literature. They are admirably suited to every home and to every class of readers. Third. No work so comprehensive and with such great variety of selections was ever before published. It contains more than 1000 gems from 500 of'the world’s most famous authors. Fourth. The great masterpieces and favorite productions, which all persons desire to possess, are gathered into this superb volume. Fifth. It contains the latest and most fascinating pieces of the popular writers of the day. Sixth. The arrangement is admirable. There are eighteen departments, thus affording a whole library of the choicest literature in one volume. Seventh. There is something charming, instructive and entertaining for old and young alike. Eighth. The book is a treasury of the most captivating music, containing a large collection of the finest melodies and sweetest songs. Ninth. The work is furnished with a Biographical Dictionary of the authors. Tenth. It is embellished with a galaxy of magnificent Steel-Plate Engravings, which are alone worth the whole cost of the book. It is a superb work of art. Eleventh. The Prospectus is very attractive, and shows at a glance the great superiority of this book over other similar works that are illustrated with cheap wood-cuts. Twelfth. The price for such a rare volume is very low, and brings it within the reach of all. POETICAL CONTENTS, THE HOME CIRCLE. Page. Love of Home.... James Montgomery 17 Sweet Home John Howard Payne 17 Heaven on Earth Thoynas Hood 17 If Thou Wert by My Side, My Love Reginald Heber 17 Associations of Home Walter Conder 18 The Cotter’s Saturday Night Robert Burns 18 The Happiest Spot Oliver Goldsmith 19 Friendliness of a Fire t...Mary Howitt 19 Love Lightens Labor 20 Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers Allen 20 Nobody’s Child Phila A. Case 20 Kisses Elizabcik Akers Allen 21 The Old House Louise Chandler Moulton 21 The Dearest Spot of Earth is Home IV. T. V/righlon 21 Which Shall It Be 22 Learning to Pray Mary E. Dodge 22 The House in the Meadow ! Louise Chandler Moulton 23 Conduct at Home Hannah More 23 My Old Kentucky Woxwt.. .Stephen Collins Foster 24 The Worn Wedding Ring... Williayn Cox Bennett 24 Filial Love Lord Byron 24. John Anderson, My Jo Robert Burns 25 O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, ...G crald Massey 25 The Absent Ones Charles M. Dickinson 25 A Picture Charles Carnage Eastman 26 The Poet’s Song to His Wife Bryan W''aller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 26 Ode to Solitude Alexander Pope 26 My Wife’s a Winsome, Wee "YVavg... Robert Bums 26 The Reconciliation Alfred Tennyson 26 I Knew by the Smoke That So Grace.Ally Curled Thomas Moore 27 Adam to Eve .John Milton 27 A Wish Samuel Rogers 27 The Happy Man .James Thompson 28 My Mother’s Picture William Cowper 28 Christmas Time ...Sir Walter Scott 28 The Old Hearthstone Sarah J. Hale 29 The Old Folks at Viomo..... Stephen Collins Foster 29 Homeward Bound Nathaniel P. Willis 29 I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 30 The Patter of Little Feet 30 The Fireside Nathaniel Cotton 30 The Happy Marriage Edward Moore 31 Be Kind 31 The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb 31 Page. The Wife Elizabeth Oakes Smith 32 Household Treasures Thomas Greet 32 A Home in the Heart Eliza Cook 32 Farmer Gray’s Photograph 32 The Graves of a Household Felicia Dorothea Hemans 33 The Old Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 33 The Stream of Life 34 Wife, Children, and Friends William Robert Spencer 34 Home Voices 34 My Little Wife 35 Good Bye, Old House... PEllie C. Pomeroy 35 A Mother’s Influence Arthur Henry Hallam 35 The W’ife to Her Husband 36 Thanksgiving Day Thomas Berry Smith 36 The Three Dearest Words Mary J. Aluckle 36 NARRATIVES AND BALLADS Vision of Bel.'-hazzar Lord Byron 37 The Village Blacksmith Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 37 Young Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott 38 The Light of Other Days Thomas Moore 38 Auld Lang Syne.. Robert Burns 39 The Nantucket Skipper .James Thomas Fields 39 On the Funeral of Charles I.. William Lisle Bowles 39 The Painter Who Pleased Nobody and Every- body John Gay 40 Little Nell’s Funeral Charles Dickens 40 Cornin’ Through the Rye 4r The Vagabonds .John T. Trowbridge 41 Over the Hill to the Poor house. Will M. Carleton 42 Song Thomas Hood 42 In the Summer Twilight Harriet Prescott Spofford 43 Lord Ullin's Daughter Thomas Campbell 44 The Field of Waterloo Lord Byron 44 The Pebble and the Acorn Hannah F. Gould 45 The Shepherd Boy Letitia E. London 45 Maud Muller John G. Whittier 46 Bingen on the Rhine... Caroline Elizabeth Norton 47 The Sands of Dee Charles Kingsiey aS A Name in the Sand Hannah F. Gould 48 Over the Hills from the Poor-house May Mignonette 48 Mona’s Waters 49 The Wreck of the Hesperus Henry W'adsworth Longfellow 50 After Blenheim ...Robert Southey 51. 6 CONTENTS. Page. Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene Matthew Gregory Lewis 52 Old Grimes Albert G. Greeiie 53 The Sleeping Sentinel . De Hces Janvier 53 The Pied Piper of Hamelin Robert Browning 55 How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix Robert Brownmg 55 Curfew Must Not Ring To-night Rose Hartwick Thorpe 58 The Miser Who Lost His Treasure 59 The Death of Napoleon Isaac McLellan 59 Faithless Nelly Gray Thojuas Hood 60 The Miser’s Will George Birdseye 60 The Tale of a Tramp 61 Little Golden-Hair Will M. Carleton 61 The Wonderful “One Moss Sliay ’’ 62 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 62 The Drummer- Boy’s Burial 63 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. Thou’rt All the World to Me Gerald Massey 65 Tlie Queen William Cox Beimeit 65 The Vale of Avoca Thomas Moore 65 Annabel Lee Edgar Allen Poe 66 To Mary in Heaven Robert Burns 66 The Sailor’s Farewell Edgar Thompson 66 Apostrophe to Love Robert Pollok 67 The Sailor’s Return Edward Thompson 67 Yes or No Elizabeth Barrett Bow f dug 67 The Heart’s Devotion Edward Bulwer Lytton 67 Not Ours the Vows Bernard Barto7i 67 Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed -. Richard Brinsley Sheridan 68 The Minstrel’s Song in WAzl... Thomas Chattcrton 68 The Hare-Bell Charles Swain 68 P'orsaken Robert Browning 69 The Lover’s Departure Sir Walter Scott 60 The Smack in School W. P. Palmer 70 Fly to the Desert, P'ly with Me Thomas Moore 70 The Quiver Philip James Bailey 70 Othello’s Defence William Shakespeare 70 Friendship Robert Blair 71 Euphrosyne Matlhcw Arnold 71 Tliey Sin Who Tell Us Love Can Die Robert Southey 72 To His Wife Thomas Hay}ies Baylcy 72 Lament of the Irish Emigrant Hele7i Selina Sheridan 72 Tile Fickleness of Phyllis William Shenstone 73 Love’s Young Dream Thoinas Moore 73 Maid of Athens Lord Byron 73 First Love’s Recollections John Clare 73 Love and Friendship William Leggett 74 The Heavenly Flame Henry Wadsworth Longfelloiv 74 Bill Mason’s Bride F. Bret Harte 74 Bedouin Song Bayard Taylor 74 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer Thomas Moore 75 Page Gentlest Girl Dean Alford 75 The Parting Kiss Robert Dodsley 75 No Heart Without its Mate Maria Brooks 75 On an Old Wedding-Ring George Washington Doane 76 Edwin and Angelina Oliver Goldstnith 76 All for Love Lord Byron 78 Love Will Find out the Way 78 We Have Been Friends Together Caroline Elizabeth Norton 78 Sally in Our Alley Henry Carev 7S Amynta Sir Gilbert Elliott 79 Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English 79 Lucy William Wordsworth 79 Pearly Tears Richard Henry Stoddard 79 The Time of Roses Thomas Hood 80 Love’s Philosophy Percy Bysshe Shelley 80 No Jewelled Beauty Is My Love 80 The Low-Backed Car Sa^nuel Lover 8t If I Had Known '. 81 When Sparrows Build .Jean Ingelow 81 Severed Friendship Samuel Taylor Coleridge 82 Rory O’More Satnuel Lover 82 The Pledge of Love 82 A Milkmaid’s Song Sydney Dobell 83 Fetching Water from the Well 83 Kitty of Coleraine 84 Sweet Meeting of Desires Covetitry Patmore 84 The Lover’s Coming .Jean I)igelow 84 Summer Days 84 Meeting Robert Browning 85 F orget Thee ? .John Moultrie 85 Genevieve ..Samuel Taylor Coleridge 86 The Courtin’ .James Russell Lowell 87 Constancy Allan Ramsay 87 Gone Before Phoebe Cary 88 Happy Matches Isaac Watts 88 The Dead Friend Alfred Tennyson 89 A Benediction .John Greenlief Whittier 89 To a friend Ralph Waldo Emersoft 89 Parted Friends James Montgomery 90 Anne Hathaway 90 The Widow’s Wooer Emma C. Embury 90 On the Death of a Friend Fitz Greene Halleck 91 The Memory of the Heart Daniel Webster gi Robin Adair Lady Caroline Keppel 91 The Maid’s Remonstrance Thomas Campbell 91 No Time Like the Old Time 92 The Maiden Sat at Her Busy Wheel Emma C Embury 92 Afton Water Robert Bu7-ns 92 The Wakeful Heart Deimar Stewart 93 Minnie Adair Lyman Goodman 93 Smile and Never Heed Me Charles Swain 93 The Lass of Richmond Hill .James Upton 93 United Lives Thomas Bailey Aldrich 93 Oh, Tell Me not of Lofty Fate...A'w;«a C. Embury 94 Somebody 94 CON 1 ENTS. 7 Page. ■f hough Lost to Sight to Memory Dear Thomas Moore 94 Evening Song Sidney Lanier 94 A Maiden’s Ideal of a Husband Henry Carey 94 New Loveliness Edward Pollock 95 Sweet and Low Alfred Teniiyson 95 To a Sister Edward Everett 95 The Ring’s Motto 95 To Althea from Prison Richard Lovelace 96 The Day is Fixed Henry Davenport 96 The Shepherd’s Lament William Hamilton 96 Lady Barbara Alexander Smith 97 AUlanta’s Race William Morris 97 Place Your Hand in Mine, Wife Frederick Langbridge 99 The Little Milliner Robert Buchanan 99 The Exchange Samuel Taylor Coleridge loi The Miller’s Daughter Alfred Tennyson loi A Love Knot Nora Perry 102 A Spinster’s Stint Alice Cary ic2 O, Do Not Wanton with Those Eyes..j?c« Jonson 102 A Nymph’s Reply Sir Walter Raleigh 102 Blest as the Immortal Gods Ambrose Phillips 103 The Whistle Robert Story 103 A Maiden with a Milking-Pail Jean Ingeloiv 103 The Eve of St. Agnes John Keats 104 Farewell to His Wife Lord Byron 107 Black-Eyed Susan John Gay 108 The Bloom was on the Alder, and the Tassel on the Corn Do 7 i Piatt 109 Lament Sir Walter Scott 109 We parted in Silence Julia Craiiford 109 Love and Time Denis Floreyice MacCarthy 110 Hero to Leander Alfred Tennyson in Farewell ! but Whenever Thomas Moore in BEAUTIES OF NATURE. The Greenwood William Lisle Bowles 112 Thanatopsis William Cullen Brya^it 112 Ode on the Spring Thomas Gray 113 The Late Spring Louise Chandler Moulton 113 God’s First Temples William Cullen Bryant 113 In June Nora Perry 114 May Eve, Or Kate of Aberdeen Joint Cunningham 114 March William Cullen Bryant 114 They Come ! The Merry Summer Months William Motherwell 115 April Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 115 The Vernal Season Anna L. Barbauld 116 The Water ! The Water !... William Motherwell 1 16 May James G. Percival 116 The Summer Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 117 The Midnight Wind William Motherwell 1 17 Wild Flowers Robert Nicoll 117 To the Dandelion James Russell Lowell 117 The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 1 1 8 To a Daisy James Montgomery 118 Page. The Changing World Charles of Orleans 118 On a Sprig of Heath Narian Gratit 119 Willow Song Felicia Dorothea Hemans 119 The Wandering 'NxnWFelicia Dorothea Llemans 1 1 9 The Rose Isaac Watts 119 Chorus of Flowers Leigh Hunt 119 May Day John Wolcot 120 To the Bramble Flower Ebenezer Elliott 120 A Day in June James Russell Lowell 120 The Primeval Forest Hctiry Wadsworth Lotig fellow I2e To an Eaily Primrose Henry Kirke White 121 The Lily .. ..Mary Tighe 12 1 The Brave Old OcM... Henry Fothergill Chorley 121 The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley 122 Come to These Scenes of Peace Williatn Lisle Bowles 122 Song of the Summer Winds George Darlcy 122 Daffodils William Wordsworth 123 Hymn to the Flowers Horace Smith 123 American Skies Wiliam Cullen Bryant 123 Flowers— The Gems of Nature. Thomas Campbell 124 Recollections of English Scenery.. Charlotte Smith 1 24 The Grape-Vine Swing.. William Gilmore Simms 124 My Heart Leaps Up Wiliam Wordsworth 124 The Close of Spring Charlotte Smith 125 The Wood-Nymph 125 Nature’s Chain Alexander Pope 125 The Little Beach Bird Richard Henry Dana 125 The Swallow Charlotte Smith 123 Robert of Lincoln Wiliam Cullen Bryant 126 May to April.. A Philip Frenau 126 Song of Wood-Nymphs Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 126 Answer to a Child’s Question Samuel Taylor Coleridge 127 The Bobolink Thomas Hill 127 The Katydid Oliver Wendell Holmes 127 The Departure of the Nightingale Charlotte Smith 127 Address to the Butterfly Samuel Rogers 127 The Redbreast .John Bampfylde 127 The Skylark James Hogg 128 The Cuckoo William Wordsworth 128 Night Birds Alonzo Lewis 128 The Mocking Bird Calling Her Mate Walt O' hitman 128 The Stormy Petrel 129 The Thrush's Nest John Clare 129 To a Waterfowl Wiliam Cullen Bryant 129 The Barn Owl Samuel Butler 129 The Squirrel Wiliam Cowper 129 To the Cuckoo John Logan 130 The Belfry Pigeon Nathaniel Parker Wilis 130 The Eagle .James G. Percival 130 The Lion’s Ride Ferdinand Freiligrath 131 Lambs at Play Robert Bloomfield 13 1 A Song in the Grove .James Thompson 132 CONTENTS. Page. Summer Longings Denis Florence MacCarthy 132 On a Goldfinch William Cowper 132 The Robin Harrison Weir 132 The Blood Horse Bryan Waller Procler {Barry Cornwall) 133 September Rain Thomas McKeller 133 No Thomas Hood 133 Autumn Thomas Hood 134 Woods in Winter. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 134 September George Arnold 134 Winter Friedrich W. Krummacher 134 The Little Beach Bird Richard Henry Dana 135 The Death of the Flowers.. William Cullen Bryant 135 November Hartley Coleridge 135 What the Winds Bring Edmund Clarence Stedman 135 The Snowdrop Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 136 The Snow Storm Ralph Waldo Emerson 136 It Snows Sarah Josepha Hale 136 The Crickets Harriet McEwen Kimball 137 Snow-Flakes Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 137 The Sleigh Ride Edmund Clarence Stedman 138 Christmas in the Woods Harrison Weir 138 Morning .fohfi Cunningham 138 A Calm Eve George Croly 138 Celestial Light John Milton 139 The Two April Mornings... M/Aaw Wordsworth 139 Day is Dying Marian Evans Lewes Cross {George Eliot) 139 Advancing Morn John Bampfylde 140 A Winter Landscape James Thompson 140 A Hymn to the Seasons James Thompson 140 The Advent of Evening Alfred B. Street 141 Moonrise Ernest Jones 141 Dover Cliff. William Shakespeare 141 A Lowering Eve George Croly 142 The Tempestuous Evening John Scott 142 The Moon Was A-Waning James Hogg 142 Night Edward Young 142 To a Star Lucretia Maria Davidson 143 The Night Flowering Cereus 143 On Re crossing the Rocky Mountains John C. Fremont 143 The Evening Star John Leyden 144 The Scenes of Boyhood John Logan 144 The Shepherd-Swain James Beattie 144 Alpine Heights Friederich W. Krtmimacher 145 To a Comet James Hogg 145 The Pumpkin John Greenleaf Whittier 145 To Seneca Lake James Gates Pereival 146 The Cataract of Lodore ...Robert Southey 146 The Rhine Lord Byron 147 Song of the River Charles Kingsley 147 Tweedside William Crawford 148 Niagara Lydia H. Sigourney 148 The Fountain .James Russell Lowell 148 The Fall of Niagara .John G. C. Brainard 149 Invocation to Rain in Summer William Cox Bennett The Brook-Side Lord Houghton Ode to Leven Water T. George Smollett The Rainbow William Wordsworth Song of the Brook Alfred Tennyson Little Streams Mary Howitt The Cataract and the S\.re 3 m\&\....Berfiard Barton Showers in Spring .James Thompson The Angler’s Song Isaac McLeltan Hymn of N.iture William B. Peabody Signs of Rain Edward Jenner Before the Rain Thomas Bailey Aldrich After the Rain Thomas Bailey Aldrich The Angler’s Wish Izaak Walton Apostrophe to the Ocean Lord Byron Sunset at Norham Castle Sir Walter Scott The Iceberg .J. O. Rockwell Mount Washington ; The Loftiest Peak of the White Mountains Grenville Mellen Palestine Thomas Moore The Northern Benjamin Franklin Taylor The Supernatural .James Thompson Hymn on Solitude .James Thompson To a Wild Deer .John Wilson The Sierras .Joaquin Miller The Sea-Breeze and the Scarf. Ella Wheeler Wilcox Under the Leaves Albert Leighton To the Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley When the Hounds of Spring Algernon Charles Swinburne Remonstrance with the Snails Almond Blossoms Edwin Arnold The Grasshopper and Cricket ...John Keats The Planting of the Apple Tree William Cullen Bryant The Maize William W. Fosdick Winter Pictures .James Russell Lowell The Midnight Ocean .John Wilson Spring in the South Henry Nimrod Three Summer Studies .James Wai-ren Hope A Snow Storm Charles Gamage Eastman View from the Euganean Hills, North Italy Percy Bysshe Shelley The Winged Worshippers Charles Sprague O Winter ! Wilt Thou Never Got. ^... David Cray The Heath Cock .Joanna Baillie Moonlight on the Prairie Henry Wadsworth Longfellow God Everywhere in Nature Carlos Wlcox HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 'i.ost in the Snow John Maynard Horatio Alger, Jr. The Diverting History of John Gilpin Wiliam Cowper Fall of Tecumseh 149 249 J49 150 10 150 151 151 151 152 153 153 t53 153 153 154 154 155 155 155 tSS 156 156 156 157 157 157 158 159 159 r6o 160 160 161 162 <63 163 163 164 166 166 166 167 167 CONTENTS. 9 The Engfneer’s Story The Main Truck : or, A Leap for Life C- C Colton The Fate of Virginia Lord Macaulay Johnny Bartholomew Thcnnas Dunn English The French Army Retreating from Moscow George Croly Jim Bludso .John Hay Death of Gaudentis The Battle of Ivry Lord Macaulay The Draw- Bridge Keeper Henry Abbey On Board the Cumberland, March 7, 1S62 George H Boker The Great Discovery Frederic Schiller Sheridan’s Ride Thomas Buchanan Read Norval .John Home The Ride of Paul Venarez The Relief of Lucknow Robert T. S. Lowell By the Alma River Dinah Maria Mulock Craik The Trooper’s Death R. IV. Raymond Balaklava Alexander Beaufort Meek Cavalry Song Edmund Clarence Stedman The Nobleman and the Pensioner Charles T. Brooks My Wife and Child Henry R. Jackson Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman The Fleart of the Bruce William Edmundstone Aytoun Hudibras’ Sword and Dagger Samuel Butler Flodden Field Sir Walter Scott Naseby Lord Macaulay Bannockburn Robert Burns Battle of the Baltic Thomas Campbell A Court Lady Elizabeth Barrett Browning Battle of Wyoming and Death of Gertrude Thomas Campbell Cadyow Castle Sir Walter Scott James Fitz-James and Ellen Sir Walter Scott The Sea Cave Lord Byron Btistowe Tragedy; or, the Death of Sir Charles Bawdin Thomas Chatterton The Forging of the Anchor Samuel Ferguson The Battle of Alexandria James Montgomery The Ballad of Agincourt AFichael Drayton Ye Mariners of England Thomas Campbell The Unreturning Brave Lord Byron ATred the Harper .John Sterling The Wild Huntsman Sir Walter Scolt The Old Sergeant Forceythe Willson Wreck of the “Grace of Sutherland” Jean Ingelow George Nidiver P«*«. SEA PICTURES. How’s My Boy? Sydney Dobell 216 Ail’s Well Thomas Dibdin 216 The Sea-Bird’s Song .John G. C. Bramard 216 The Mariner’s Dream William Dimond 217 The Treasures of the Deep Felicia Dorothea Hemans 217 To Certain Golden Fishes Hartley Coleridge 218 Our Boat to the Waves William Ellery Channing 218 The Sea Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 218 The Light-House Thomas Moore 219 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea Allan Cunningham 219 The Minute Gun R. S. Sharpe 219 Twilight at Sea Amelia B. Welby 219 Ocean Robert Pollok 219 The Tempest — .James Thomas Fields 220 The Bay of Biscay ....Andrew Cherry 220 The Sea-Limits Dante Gabriel Rosetti 220 On the Beach William Whitehead 222 By the Sea William Wordsworth 222 On the Loss of “The Royal George ” William Cowper 222 The Shipwreck William Falconer 2..'3 The Sailor’s Consolation Wiliam Pitt 223 The Disappointed Lover Algernon Charles Swinburne 223 The Long Voyage Sam Slick, Jr. 224 Dover Beach Matthew Arnold 224 Address to the Ocean Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 224 The Sea-Shore William Wordsworth 225 The Co-al Grove .James Gates Percival 225 The Inchcape Rock Robert Southey 225 To Sea ! Thomas Lovell Bsddoes 22S Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda Andrew Marvell 226 Stanzas on the Sea Bernard Barton 226 Sea-Weed Cornelius George Fenner 22S The Tar for All Weathers Charles Dibdin 227 The “Atlantic” ...Benjamin F. Taylor 227 The Shiprwrecked Sailors James Montgomery 228 The Beacon Light .Julia Pardoe 228 At Sea .John Townsend Trowbridge 229 Rime of the Ancient Mariner Samuel Taylor Coleridge 22c Poor Jack Charles Dibdin 235 Napoleon and the British Sailor Thomas Campbell 235 Sunrise at Sea.. Epes Sargent 236 The Storm George Alexander Stevens 236 The Sea in Calm and Storm George Crabbe 237 A Life on the Ocean Wave Epes Sargent 237 Night at Sea Letitia Elizabeth Landon 238 Hilda, Spinning 239 Page. 172 U3 173 175 175 176 177 177 178 179 181 i8r 182 182 183 184 184 185 185 186 186 187 187 189 190 192 193 194 194 195 197 199 201 201 205 206 207 208 208 209 210 212 214 215 10 CONTENTS. The Chambered Nautilus Oliver Wendell Holmes The Dying Sailor George Crabbe PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake The Star-Spangled Banner Francis S. Key Freedom Irrepressible Sarah Ja 7 ie Lippincott {Grace Greenwood) Independence Bell, July 4, 1776 Love of Country Sir Walter Scott Hail, Columbia Joseph Hopkinso^i General Warren’s Address John Pieipont The People’s Song of Peace Joaquin Miller On Laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument John Pierpont The Woods of Tennessee Barbara Frietchie John Greenleaf Whittier The Marseillaise Rouget de Lisle An Incident of the French Camp Robert Browning Rule Britannia James Thomson The Blue and the Gray F. M. Finch Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers Felicia Dorothea Hemans Battle Hymn of the Republic, ./w/za Ward Howe The Drummer Boy Scotland Jolm Leyden Arnold Winkelried James Montgomery Die Wacht Am Rhein (The Watch on the Rhine) The Patriot’s Bride Sir Charles Gavan Duffy The Pilgrims Lydia Huntley Sigourney The Picket Guard Ethelin Eliot Beers The Bivouac of the Dead Theodore O'Hara SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. The Creole Lover’s Song Elegy Written in a Country Church- Yard Thomas Gray Expectation Gerald Massey A Psalm of Life... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Those Evening Bells Thomas Moore The Magical Isle True Nobility Alfred Tennyson A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever..._/h/^« Keats The Emigrant’s Farewell Thomas Pringle A Butterfly on a Child’s Grave Lydia Hu 7 itley Sigourney Theology in the Quarters J. A. Macon The Widow and Child Alfred Tennyson Oh ! Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud ? William Knox Memory James Abram Garfield The Wdghtofa Word 1 Oriental Mysticism Leonard Woods The Seasons of Life Thomas John Ouseley Tlie Village School-Master Oliver Goldsmith The Inquiry Charles MacKay Page. From Childhood to Old Age 261 Observations of Rev. Gabe Tucker.../. A. Macon 262 The Last Leaf Oliver Wendell Holmes 262 The Pauper’s Death- Bed.. A 7 me Southey 262 If I Should Die To-night 263 Better Things George McDonald 263 Woman’s Will John Godfrey Saxe 263 An Angel in the House Leigh Hunt 263 Wo )dman, Spare That Tree George Perkins Morris 264 The Long Ago Bayard F. Taylor 264 Roll Call N. G. Shepherd 265 The Lark and Her Little Ones with the Owner of a Field 265 The Orphan Boy Cha^des Swain 265 Will the New Year Come To-Night, Mamma?.... Cora M. Eager 267 The Last Time That I Met Lady Ruth Robert Bulwer Lylton {Owen Meredith) 267 The Snow-Flake Hannah Flagg Gould 268 The Minstrel Girl John Greenleaf Whittier 268 A Song of the Mole Joel Chandler Harris ( Uncle Remus) 26O Give Me Three Grains of Corn, Mother Amelia Blanford Edwards 268 My Min 1 to Me a Kingdom Is William Byrd 269 The Biind Man William Lisle Bowles 2-ji Somebody’s Darling Marie R. Lacoste 271 Tell Me, Ye Winged Winds Charles Mackay 271 The Collier’s Dying Child 272 Wind and Rain Richard Henry Stoddard 272 The Funeral Will M. Carle ton 272 Nine Graves in Edinboro’ Lrwin Russell 273 When I Beneath the Cold Red Earth am Sleep- ing William Motherwell 274 Alexander’s Feast ; or, The Power of Music John Dryden 274 Art and Nature William Shakespeare 275 Daedalus John Sterlmg 276 Dickens in Camp Bi'et Harte 276 James Melville’s Child Anna Stuart Mentcath 276 Looking into the Future Thomas Campbell 277 Only Waiting Francis Laughton Mace 277 The Wants of Man John Qumey Adams 278 The Raven Edgar Allen Poe 279 There’s No Dearth of KlmCi'aQss... Gerald Massey 281 What I Live For G. Linnaeus Banks 281 Look Aloft Jonathan Lawrence 282 The Death of Absalom Nathaniel. Parker Willis 283 Claude Melnotte’s Apology and Defense Lo 7 'd Lytlon 284 The Shaded Water William Gilmore Simms 2S4 The Portrait Robert Bulwer Lylton { Owen Meredith I 286 A Mother’s Wail. Henry Timrod 287 A Common Thought Henry Timrod 288 Good-By, Proud 'Ko\\A... Ralph Waldo Eynerson 288 The Deserted Village Oliver Goldsmith 2S8 Page. 239 240 241 241 241 242 243 243 244 244 244 244 245 245 246 246 247 248 249 249 250 250 250 251 251 252 252 254 254 255 256 256 256 256 257 257 257 257 258 258 258 259 259 260 261 261 CONTENTS. 11 Page. Little Ned Robert Buchanan 2S9 Tlie Dance of Death Theodore Martin 290 Somebody’s Mother 290 Weddiny: Bells Charlotte M. Griffiths 290 The Weaver 292 The Present Condition of Man Vindicated Alexander Pope 292 The Bridge Plenry Wadsworth Longfellow 293 Tile Polish Boy Ann S. Stephens 293 LABOR AND REFORM. Work Mary N. Prescott 295 The Th ee Fi.shers Charles Kingsley 295 The Song of the Shirt Thomas Hood 295 Wliat Might Be Done Charles Mackay 29') L ibor Frances Sargent Osgood 296 Tlie Factory Girl’s Last Day 297 The Coral Insect Lydia Huntley Sigourney 297 Ring Out, Wild Bells Alfred Tennyson 298 Tlie Good Time Coming Charles Mackay 298 Endurance Elizabeth Akers Allen 299 Learn to Sweep H. S. Brooks 299 Rhymes for Hard Times Norman McLeod 299 The Miner John Swift 300 A Lancashire Doxology Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 300 The Drunkard’s Daughter 300 The Song of Steam George W. Cutler 301 301 301 302 302 302 Duty. True Rest John Sullivan Dwight Good Night Charles T. Brooks Labor Song Denis Florence McCarthy Ode to the Harvest Moon Henry Kirke Uhile Song of the Peasant Wife Caroline Elizabeth Norton 303 A Shepherd’s Life Robert Bloomfield 303 Your Mission 304 Knocked About Daniel Connoly 304 Tubal Cain Charles Mackay 304 RURAL LIFE. The Ploughman Oliver Wendell Holmes 306 I'he Mowers Myron B. Benton 306 The Sungs of Our Fathers Felicia Dorothea Hemans 307 The Useful Plough 308 A Pastoral John Byrom 308 The Old Mill Thomas Dunn English 309 Angling James Thomson 309 MiikingTime Philip Morse 309 The Angler Thomas Buchanan Read 310 Millionaire and Barefoot Boy G. T.Lanigan 310 The Shepherd-Boy Letitia E. Landon 310 The Busy Housewife 31 1 Ruth Thomas Hood 31 1 Rural Sounds William Cowper 31 1 Health — The Handmaid of Happiness 312 Page. River Song F. B. Sanborne 3 1 2 Happy the Man Whose Wish and Care Alexander Pope 312 Come to the Sunset Tree Felicia Dorothea Llenians 3 1 2 When the Cows Come Home Mary E. Ncaley 313 Cornfields Mary Howitt 313 Driving Home the Cows Kate P. Osgood 31J. Town and Country William Cowper 314 My Heart’s in the Highlands Robert Burns 314 Hunting Song Paul Whitehead 314 The Cave James Maepherson 314 Harvest Song Eliza Cook 315 The Farmer’s Wife Paul Hamilton Hayne 315 River and Wood William Barnes 316 Farm-Yard Soa^.—Jolm Townsend Trowbridge 316 The Horseback Ride Sarah Jane Lippincott {Grace Greenwood) 317 The House on the Hill Eugene J. Hall 317 On the Banks of the Tennessee William D. Gallagher 318 The Happiness of Animals William Cowper 319 SORROW AND ADVERSITY. Go Where Glory Waits Thee Thomas Moore 320 Bijah’s Story Charles M. Lewis 320 The Bridge of Sighs Thomas Hood 321 The Sexton Park Benjamin 322 Good-Bye 322 Farewells 322 On the Bridge of Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 323 Parting Thomas Kibble Hervey 323 The Little Match-Girl . . . Hans Christian Andersen 323 Thou Art Gone to the Grave Bishop Reginald Hebcr 324 The Lot of Thousands Mrs. Himtcr 325 -The Little Grave 325^ The Widowed Mother .John Wilson 325 ‘ The Maiden s Grave 326 Shipwrecked Hopes Hiram Rich 326 Man Was Made to Mourn Robert Burns 326 The Closing Scene Thomas Buchanan Read 327 The Death of the Old Year Alfred Tennyson 32S Only the Clothes She Wore N. G. Shepherd 328 Very Dark 329 The Blessings of Adversity Samuel Daniel 329 Victory from Defeat 329 The Gambler’s Wife Dr. Coates 330 A Thought 330 Only a Year Harriet Beecher Stowe 330 Break, Break, Break Alfred Tcn 7 iyson 331 Moan, Moan, Ye Dying Gales Henry Neele 331 Retrospection Alfred Tennyson 331 Perished Marv Louise Ritter 33 1 The Female CoxcsixCl.... L etitia Elizabeth Landcm 331 The Dreamer 332 Losses Frances Brown 333 12 CONTENTS. The Pauper’s Drive Thomas Noel Onlhe Frontier .J Edgar Jones Prince’s Feather Mary E. Bradley PERSONS AND PLACES. To Thomas Moore Lord Bryon The Burial of Sir John Moore Charles Wolfe Dirge for a Soldier George Henry Baker Gei^rge Washington .James Russel Lowell Sir John Franklin George Henry Baker Benjamin Franklin William B. Tappan A Tribute to Samuel Adams Robert Treat Paine Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Francis F. Brown Washington Allston Henry Theodore Tuckerman William Ellery Cha.nnmg.. James Russell Lowell Honor to Kane Fitzjames O' Brien Cour de Lion at the Bier of His Father Felicia Dorothea Hemans Farragut Charles DeKay Robert Burns Ebenezer Elliott Napoleon Lord Byron Benjonson Lucius Cary {Lord Falkland) Dante Thomas William Parsons John Milton John Dryden To Shakespeare Charles Sprague Washington Irving To the Memory of My Beloved Master, William Shakespeare, and What He Hath Left Us... Be 7 i Jotison Epitaph on Shakespeare John Milto 7 i Marius Lydia Maria Child Leather Stocking .John G. C. Bramard The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz Henry Wadsworth Longfellow A Panegyric to Oliver Cromwell Edtnund Waller Wolsey’s Advice to Cromwell Willia>n Shakespeare Lord Macaulay Walter Savage Landor Joseph Mazzini Laura C. Redden ^Howard Glyndon) Daniel Boone Lord Byron A Welcome to “Boz” W. H. Venable To Victor Hugo Alfred Tennyson The Burial of Moses Cecil Frames Alexander To the Memory of Thomas Hood Bartholonlew Shmnons The Land of the West George P. Morris Monody on Samuel Patch Robert C. Sands The Orient Lord Byron Liberty to Athens .Jaynes Gates Percival Jerusalem Before the Siege of Titus Henry Hart Milman Sunny Italy Edward C Pinkfiey Page. 333 333 334 ,1’ 347 348 348 349 349 349 350 350 350/ n 351 352 353 353 354 354' 355 355 355 356 Page. 356 356 357 357 358 358 359 The Mountains of Switzerland . Terry Cooke Palestine John GreenleaJ Whittier Greece .James G. Brooks Naples Samuel Rogers Melrose Abbey Sir Walter Scott Thebes William Whitehead The Isles of Greece Lord Byron RELIGIOUS LIFE. Hymn of the Dunkers.. ./7 The Well of St. Keyne Robert Southey 468 Sally Simpkin’s Lament ThomasHood 468 The Ghost 4^9 Faithless Sally Brown Thomas Hood 470 Of a Certain Man Sir John Harrington 470 To My Nose Alfred A. Forrester {Alfred Crowquill) 470 The Proud Miss MacBride...../o/^« Godfrey Saxe 471 Widow Bedott to Elder Sniffles Frances Miriam Whitcher 472 To the “Sextant” Arabella M. Willson. 472 My Lord Tomnoddy Richard Harris Barham { Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq.) 473 Darius Green and his Flying-Machine John Townsend Trowbridge 475 Pat’s Criticism Charles F. Adams 478 Socrates Snooks 479 The Retort George Perkins Morris 479 An Ax to Grind Benjamin Frankhn 480 Kris Kringle’s Surprise Henry Davenport 480 PROSE CONTENTS. Page. I Affections of Home Charles Dickens 25 The Old Log Cabin Daniel Webster 27^ Home of the Workingman 34/ The Pilot John B. Gough i63 Goffe, the Regicide Timothy Dwight 174 Columbus First Discovers Land in the New World Washington Irving 180 Grandeur of the Ocean Walter Colton 220 The Star-Spangled Banner Francis S. Key 241 Hail Columbia Joseph Hopkinson 243 Address at the Dedication of Gettysburg Ceme- tery Abraham Lincoln 246 Patriotism Fisher Ames 247 On Being Found Guilty of Treason Thomas Francis Meagher 248 Oriental Mysticism Leonard Woods 259 Ideas the Life of a People George William Curtis 269 The Right Must Conquer Thomas Carlyle 270 Nine Graves in Edinboro’ Irwin Russell 273 Mosses from an Old Manse Nathaniel Hawthorne 282 Coming and Going Henry Ward Beecher 285 The Hero of the Dutch Republic John Lothrop Motley 287 Nature’s Artistic Power - John Ruskin 2S8 Page. The Last Hours of Little Paul Dombey Charles Dickens 333 Washington as a Civilian 338 The Welcome to Lafayette on his Return to America Joseph T Buckmgham 341 Extract from an Oration on James A. Garfield ... James G. Blaine 343 Queen Elizabeth David Hunt 344 Sufferings and Destiny of the Pilgrims Edward Everett 348 Maria Theresa’s Appeal to Plungary 351 Maria De Medicis Receiving the Regency 352 Monody on Samuel Patch 354 Festival in a Rus-Gn Village 358 A Dream of thv u Jeatt Paul Richter 376 Recollections 'j 1 i .imas Tree Charles Dickens 4 1 4 Picking to Pieces the (Characters of Other People Richard Brinsley Sheridan 423 Bubbles of the Day Douglas Jerrold 427 The Newi-;istie Ap')Uiecary George Colman 467 Widow lijo.at s Poetry Frances Miriam White her Mrs. Caudle’s Lecture on Shirt Buttons Douglas Jeyrold 479 An Ax to GrioJ Benjamin Franklin 480 15 I Special Notice. Atterdion is called to the fact that by pennission of and arrangenicyit with, Messrs. Hoiighton, Mijflin & Co., of Boston, Mass., who hold the copyrights on the works of Longfellow, Holmes, Lowell, Whittier, Mrs. Stowe, Bayard Taylor, Miss Phelps, Alice and Phoebe Cary, Saxe, Brei Harte, Aldrich, Hawthor7ie, T'ow- bridge, Emerson, Stedman and others, the publishers of CROWN fEWELS are enabled to present the choicest gems from this most brilliant galaxy of our American authors. These selections add greatly to the value of the book which is unrivalled in beauty and excellence. LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS THE HOME CIRCLE. LOVE OF HOME. HERE is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by heaven o’er all the world beside ; Where brighter suns dis- pense serener light, And milder moons em- paradise the night ; A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, Time-tutor’d age, and love-exalted youth. The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most en- chanting shores. Views not a realm so bountiful and fair. Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ; In every clime the magnet of his soul. Touch’d by remembrance, trembles to that pole ! For in this land of heaven’s peculiar grace. The heritage of nature’s noblest race. There is a spot of earth supremely blest — A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride. While in his soften’d looks benignly blend Tlie sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. Here woman reigns ; the mother, daughter, wife. Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life ! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie ! Around her knees domestic duties meet. And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found ? Art thou a man? — a patriot?— look around ; Oh thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam. That land thy country, and that spot thy home ! James Montgomery. SWEET HOME. m lD pleasures and palaces though we may roam. Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home ! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here. Which, seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere. Home, home, sweet home ! There’s no place like home ! 2J An e.'dle from home, splendor dazzles in vain ! O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ! The birds singing gayly that came at my call ; — O, give me sweet peace of mind, dearer than all ! Home, home, sweet home ! There’s no place like home ! John Howard Payne. HEAVEN ON EARTH. O' ND has the earth lost its so spacious round, The sky its blue circumference above. That in this little chamber there are found Both earth and heaven, my universe of love. All that my God can give me or remove. Here sleeping save myself in mimic death? Sweet, that in this small compass I behoove To live their living, and to breathe their breath ! Almost I wish that, with one common sigh. We might resign all mundane care and strife ; And seek together that transcendent sky. Where father, mother, children, husband, wife, Together pant in everlasting life ! Thomas Hood. IF THOU WERT BY, MY SIDE. MY LOVE. F thou wert by my side, my love. How fast would evening fail. In green Bengala’s palmy grove, I Listening the nightingale ! I miss thee, when, by Gunga’s stream. My twilight steps I guide. But most beneath the lamp’s pale beam I miss thee from my side. But when at mom and eve the star Beholds me on my knee, I feel, though thou art distant far. Thy prayers ascend for me. Then on, then on, where duty leads ! My course be onward still. O’er broad Hindostan’s sultry meads. O’er bleak Almorah’s hill. That course nor Delhi’s kingly gates. Nor mild Malwah detain ; For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say; Across the dark blue sea ; But ne’er were hearts so light and gay As then shall meet in thee ! Reginald Hebei^ (17) 18 CROWN JEWELS. ASSOCIATIONS OF HOf/,E. HAT is not home, where day by day I wear the busy hours away; That is not home, where lonely night 'f' Prepares me for the toils of light; ’Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give A home in which the heart can live. It is a presence undefined, O’ershadowing the conrcious mind; Where lave and duty sweetly blend To consecrate the name of friend : Where’er thou art, is home to me, And home without thee cannot be. Walter Conder. THE COTTER’S SATURDAY NIGHT. OVEMBER chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh ; The short’ ning winter-day is near a close ; The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; The black’ning trains o’ craws to their re- pose ; The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes. This night his weekly moil is at an end. Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes. Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. And weary, o’er the moor, his course does hameward bend. At length his lonely cot appears in view. Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; Th’ e.xpectant wee-things, toddlin stacher thro’. To meet their Dad, wi’ flichterin noise an’ glee. His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonnily. His clane hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie’s smile. The lisping infant prattling on his knee. Does all his weary carking cares beguile. An’ makes him quite forget his labor an’ his toil. Wi’ joy unfeign’d brothers and sisters meet. An’ each for other’s welfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years. Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi’ her needle and her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel’s the new ; The father mixes a’ wi’ admonition due. Their master’s an’ their mistress’s command. The younkers a’ are warned to obey ; And mind their labors wi’ an eydent hand. And ne’er, tho’ out o’ sight, to jauk or play : “And, oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway. And mind your duty, duly, morn and night ! Lest in temptation’s path ye gang astray. Implore his counsel and a.ssisting might : They never sought in vain that sought tlie Lord aright !’’ But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o’ the same. Tells how a neebor lad cam o’er the moor. To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother secs the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny’s e’e, and flush her cheek ; Wi’ heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name. While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas’d the mother hears, it’s nae wild worthless rake. Wi’ kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; A strappan youth ; he takes the mother’s eye ; Blythe Jenny sees the visit’s no ill ta’en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster’s artless heart o’erflows wi’ joy. But, blate and laithfu’, scarce can weel behave ; The woman, wi’ a woman’s wiles, can spy VYhat makes the youth sae bashfu’ an’ sae grave ; Weel pleas’d to think her bairn’s respected like the lave. O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I’ve paced much this weary, mortal round. And sage experience bids me this declare — “ If Heav’n a draught of heav’nly pleasure spare. One cordial in this melancholy vale, ’Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. In other’s arms breathe out the tender tale. Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev’ning gale!’’ But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halesome parritch, chief o’ Scotia’s food : The soupe their only hawkie does afford. That ’yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; The dame brings forth in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain’d kebbuck, fell, And aft he’s prest, and aft he calls it gude ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How ’twas a towmond auld, sin’ lint was i’ the bell. The cheerful supper done, wi’ serious face. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o’er, wi’ p.atriarchal grace. The big ha’-Bible, ance his father’s pride : His bonnet rev’rently is laid aside. His lyart haffets wearing thin an’ bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales a portion with judicious care ; And “ Let us worship God ! ’’ he says, with solemn air They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; Perhaps “Dundee’s” wild warbling measures nse. Or plaintive “ Martyrs,” worthy of the name ; Or noble “ Elgin ” beats the heav’nward flame. The sweetest far of Scotia’s holy lays : Compar’d with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator’s praise. Tin: iiOMi: circle. 19 Tiie priest-like father reads tlie sacred pa-^e, How Abram was the friend of God on hij^di ; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek’s ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven’s avenging ire : Or Job’s pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah’s wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : How He, who lone in Patmos banishM, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Babylon’s doom pronounced by Heaven’s command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven’s Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope “springs exulting on triumphant wing,” That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays. No more to sig'n, or shed the bitter tear. Together hymning their Creator’s praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar’d with this, how poor religion’s pride. In all the pomp of method, and of art. When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev’ry grace, except the heart ! The Power, incens’d, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart. May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev’ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; The parent-pair their secret homage pay, And proffer up to Heaven the warm request. That He who stills the raven's clam’rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow’ry pride. Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia’s grandeur springs. That makes her lov’d at home, rever’d abroad ; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings ; ‘‘An honest man’s the noblest work of God And certes, in fair virtue’s heavenly road. The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling’s pomp ? a cumbrous load. Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin’d ! O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury’s contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe’er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while. And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov’d isle, O Thou ! who pour’d the patriotic tide That stream’d thro’ Wallace’s undaunted heart ; Who dar’d to nobly stem tyrannic pride. Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot’s God, peculiarly Thou art. His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never Scotia’s realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! Robert Burns. THE HAPPIEST SPOT. UT where to find that happiest spot below. Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his owm ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked negro, panting at the line. Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave. And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot’s boast, where’er we roam, His first, best countrj', ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. And estimate the blessings which they share. Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equ.al portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given. To different nations makes their blessings even. Oliver Goldsmith. FRIENDLINESS OF A FIRE. FIRE’S a good companionable friend, A comfortable friend, who meets your face With welcome glad, and makes the poorest shed As pleasant as a palace. Are you cold ? He warms you — weary? he refreshes you — Hungry? he doth prepare your food for you — Are you in darkness ? he gives light to you — In a strange land? he wears a face that is Familiar from your childhood. Are you poor? What matters it to him. He knows no difference Between an emperor and the poorest beggar ! AVhere is the friend, that bears the name of man. Will do as much for you ? Mary Howitt. 20 CROWN JEWELS. LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR. GOOD wife rose from her bed one morn, And thought with a nervous dread Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more Than a dozen mouths to be fed. There’s the meals to get for the men in the field, And the children to fix away To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned ; And all to be done this day. It had rained in the night, and all the wood Was wet as it could be ; There were puddings and pies to bake, besides A loaf of cake for tea. And the day was hot, and her aching head Throbbed wearily as she said, “ If maidens but knew what good wives know. They would not be in haste to wed ! ” “Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Brown? ’’ Called the farmer from the well ; And a flush crept up to his bronzed brow. And his eyes half bashfully fell ; “It was this,” he said, and coming near He smiled, and stooping down, Kissed her cheek — “ ’twas this, that you were the best And the dearest wife in tow'n ! ” The farmer went back to the field, and the w ife In a smiling, absent way Sang snatches of tender little songs She’d not sung for many a day. And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes Were white as the foam of the sea ; Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet. And as golden as it could be. “Just think,” the children all called in a breath, “Tom Wood has run off to sea ! “He wouldn’t, I know, if he’d only had As happy a home as we.” The night came down, and the good wife smiled To herself, as she softly said : “ ’Tis so sweet to labor for those w'e love, — It’s not strange that maids will wed ! ” ROCK ME TO SLEEP. § ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight. Make me a child again just for to-night ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore. Take me again to your heart as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care. Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother,— rock me to sleep ! B.ackward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! ^ 1 am so weary of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — Take them, and give me my childhood again'. I have growm w'eary of dust and decay, — • Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep 1 Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you ! Many a summer the grass has grown green. Blossom’d and faded, our faces between : Yet, w'ith strong yearning and passionate pain. Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Over my heart in the days that are flown. No love like mother-love ever has shone ; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours ; None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Come, let your browm hair, just lighted with gold. Fall on j our shoulders again as of old ; Let it drop over my forehead to-night. Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listen’d your lullaby song : Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood’s years have been only a dream. Clasp’d to your heart in a loving embrace. With your light lashes just sweeping my face. Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Elizabeth Akers Allen, NOBODY’S CHILD. ✓~^LONE in the dreary, pitiless street, f With my torn old dress and bare cold feet. All day I’ve wandered to and fro. Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go ; The night’s coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head ; Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild? Is it because I’m nobody’s child ? Just over the way there’s a flood of light. And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; Beautiful children, in robes so fair. Are caroling songs in rapture there. I wonder if they, in their blissful glee. Would pity a poor little beggar like me. THE HOME CIRCLE. 21 Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering and nothing to eat. Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down In its terrible blackness all over the town? Shall I lay me down ’nealh the angry sky, On the cold hard pavements alone to die ? When the beautiful children their prayers have said, And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed. j No dear mother ever upon me smiled — Why is it, I wonder, that I’m nobody’s child ! No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me ; e’en the little dogs run When I wander too near them ; ’tis wondrous to see, How everything shrinks trom a beggar like me ! Perhaps ’tis a dream ; but, sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in the dark blue sky. Watching for hours some large bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. And a host of white-robed, nameless things, Come fluttering o’er me in gilded wings ; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair. And a voice like the carol of some wild bird The sweetest voice that was ever heard— Calls me many a dear pet name. Till my heart and spirits are all aflame ; THE OLD HOUSE. IM standing by the window-sill, ’ W’here we have stood of yore ; The sycamore is waving still Its branches near the door ; And near me creeps the wild rose-viue • On which our wreaths were hung.— Still round the porch its tendrils twine, As when we both were young. The little path that used to lead Down by the river shore Is overgrown with brier and weed— Not level as before. But there’s no change upon the hill, From whence our voices rung— The violets deck the summit still, As when we both were young. And j-onder is the old oak-tree. Beneath whose spreading shade, When our j’oung hearts were light and free. In innocence we played ; And over there the meadow gate On which our playmates swung. Still standing in its rustic state. As when we both were young. Louise Chandler Moulton. And tells me of such unbounded love. And bids me come up to their home above, .And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, They look at me with their sweet blue eyes. And it seems to me out of the dreary night, [ am going up to the world of light, And away from the hunger and storms so wild— I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. Phila a. Case. KISSES. THE DEAREST SPOT OF EARTH 'S HOME HE dearest spot of earth to me Is home, sweet home ! The fairy land I long to see Is home, sweet home ! There, how charmed the sense of hearing 1 There, where love is so endearing ! All the world is not so cheering As home, sweet home ! T ^^HE kiss of friendship, kind and calm. May fall upon the brow like balm; ^> 1 ^ A deeper tenderness may speak In precious pledges on the cheek ; Thrice dear may be, when young lips meet. Love’s dewy pressure, close and sweet; — But more than all the rest I prize The faithful lips that kiss my eyes. Smile, lady, smile, when courtly lips Touch reverently your finger-tips; Blush, happy maiden, when you feel The lips which press love’s glowing seal; But as the slow years darklier roll, Grown wiser, the experienced soul Will own as dearer far than they The lips which kiss the tears away ! Elizabeth Akers Allen. The dearest spot of earth to me Is home, sweet home ! The fairy land I long to see Is home, sweet home ! I’ve taught my heart the way to prize My home, sweet home ! I've learned to look with lovers’ eyes On home, sweet home ! There, where vows are truly plighted 1 There, where hearts are so united f All the world besides Pve slightea For home, sweet home ! The dearest spot of earth to me Is home, sweet home ! The fairy land I long to see Is home, sweet home ! W. T. Wrighton. 22 CROWN JEWELS. V/HICH SHALL IT BE? The following poem is founded upon an incident where a rich neighbor ofiered to make a poor family comfortable, and provide for the chdd, if one of the seven were given to him. HIGH shall it be ? which shall it be ? ” I looked at John,— John looked at me. (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet.) And when I found that I must speak, IVIy voice seemed strangely low and weak ; “Tell me again what Robert said ; ” And then I listening bent my head. “This is his letter : ‘ I will gjve A house and land while you shall live, If, in return, from out your seven, One child to me for aye is given.’ ” I looked at John’s old garments w^om, I thought of all that John had borne Of poverty, and work, and care. Which I, though willing, could not share ; Of seven hungry mouths to feed. Of seven little children’s need. And then of this. “Come, John,’’ said I “We’ll choose among them as they lie Asleep ;’’ so walking hand in hand. Dear John and I surveyed ‘Olir band. First to the cradle lightly stepped, W' here Lilian, the baby slept ; Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, A glory ’gainst the pillow W’hite ; Softly her father stooped to lay His rough hand down in loving way. When dream or whisper made her stir, And huskily he said, “ Not her." We stooped beside the trundle-bed. And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athwart the boyish faces there. In sleep so pitiful and fair. I saw on Jamie’s rough red cheek A tear undried ; ere John could speak, “ He's but a baby too,” said I, And kissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robby’s angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering’s trace ; “ No, for a thousand crowns, not him" He whispered, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick ! sad Dick ! our wayward son. Turbulent, reckless, idle one, — Could he be spared ? “ Nay, he who gave Rids us befriend him to the grave ; Only a mother’s heart can be Patient enough for such as he ; And so,” said John, “ I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer.” Then stole we softly up above. And knelt by Mary, child of love ; “ Perhaps for her ’twould better be,” 1 said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl, that lay Acro.ss her cheek in wilful way. And shook his head : “ Nay, love, not thee The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad, Trusty and truthful, good and glad, — So like his father : “ No, John, no ; I cannot, will not, let him go ! ” And so we wrote, in courteous way. We could not give one child away ; And afterward toil lighter seemed. Thinking of that of which we dreamed ; Happy, in truth, that not one face We missed from its accustomed place ; Thankful to work for all the seven. Trusting then to one in heaven. LEARNING TO PRAY. K neeling, fair in the twilight gray, A beautiful child was trjing to pray; His cheek on his mother’s knee, His bare little feet half hidden. His smi’e still coming unbidden. And his heart brimful of glee. “ I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, O mamma ! I've had such fun to-day I hardly can say my prayers. I don’t feel just like praying ; I want to be out-doors playing. And run, all undressed, down stairs. “ I can see the flowers in the garden-bed, Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; And Sammy is swinging, I guess. Oh 1 everything is so fine out there, I want to put it all in the prayer,— Do you mean I can do it by ‘ Yes ?’ “When I say, ‘ Now I lay me — word for word. It seems to me as if nobody heard. Would ‘Thank you, dear God,’ be right? He gave me my mamma. And papa, and Sammy — O mamma 1 you nodded I might.” Clasping his hands and hiding his face. Unconsciously yearning for help and grace. The little one now began ; His mother’s nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord’s feet. And his words like music ran : “Thank you for making this home so nice, [ The flcwers, and my two white mice, — THE HOME CIRCLE. 2;l I wish I could keep right on ; I thank you, too, for every day — Only I’m most too glad to pray. Dear God, I think I’m done. “Now, mamma, rock me— ju't a minute — And sing the hymn with ‘ darling ’ in it. I wish I coiild say my prayers ! When I get big, I know I can. Oh ! won’t it be nice to be a man And stay all night down stairs !’’ The mother, singing, clasped him tight, Kissing and cooing her fond “Good-night,” And treasured his every word. For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. Mary E. Dodge. THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW "r T stands in a sunny meadow, •&' The house so mossy and brown. With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, ■ And the gray roof sloping down. The trees fold their green arms around it,— The trees a century old ; And the winds go chanting through them. And the sunbeams drop their gold. The cowslips spring in the marshes. The roses bloom on the hill. And beside the brook in the pasture The herds go feeding at will. Within, in the wide old kitchen. The old folks sit in the sun, That creeps through the sheltering woodbine. Till the day is almost done. Their children have gone and left them • They sit in the sun alone ! And the old wife’s ears are failing As she harks to the well-known tone That w'on her heart in her girlhood, That has soothed her in many a care. And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear. She thinks again of her bridal, — How, dressed in her robe of white. She stood by her gay young lover In the morning’s rosy light. O, the morning is rosy as ever. But the rose from her cheek is fled ; And the sunshine still is golden. But it falls on a silvered head. And the girlhood dreams, once vanished, Come back in her winter-time. I Till her feeble pulses tremble With the thrill of spring-time’s prime. And looking forth from the window. She thinks how the trees have grown Since, clad in her bridal whiteness. She crossed the old door-stone. Though dimmed her eyes’ bright azure, And dimmed her hair’s young gold, The love in her girlhood plighted Has never grown dim or old. They sat in peace in the sunshine Till the day was almost done. And then, at its close, an angel Stole over the threshold stone. He folded their hands together, — He touched their eyelids with balnn. And their last breath floated outward,. Like the close of a solemn psaln^ !. Like a bridal pair they traversed The unseen, mystical road That leads to the Beautiful City, Whose builder and maker is God., Perhaps in that miracle country They will give her lost youth back, And the flowers of the vanished spring-time Will bloom in the spirit’s track. One draught from the living waters Shall call back his manhood’s prime And eternal years shall measure The love that outlasted time. But the shapes that they left behind them. The wrinkles and silver hair,— Made holy to us by the kisses The angel had printed there, — We will hide away ’neath the willow's. When the day is low in the west, AVhere the sunbeams cannot find them. Nor the winds disturb their rest. And we’ll suffer no telltale tombstone. With its age and date, to rise O’er the tw'o who are old no longer, In the Father’s house in the skies. Louise Chandler Moulton. CONDUCT AT HOME. Vf~*HE angry word suppressed, the taunting thought ; Subduing and subdued, the petty strife, f Which clouds the color of domestic life; The sober comfort, all the peace which springs From the large aggregate of little things ; On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend, Tlie almost sacred joys of home depend. Hannah More, 24 CROWN JEWELS. MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME ■ HE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky home ; ’T is summer, the darkeys are gay ; f The corn top’s ripe and the meadow’s in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day ; The young folks roll on the little cabin .door. All merry, all happy, all bright ; By’mby hard times comes a knockin’ at the door, — Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! We’ll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the possum and the coon. On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door ; The day goes by, like the shadow o’er the heart. With sorrow where all was delight ; The time has come, when the darkeys have to part. Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go ; A few more days, and the troubles all will end. In the field where the sugar-cane grow ; A few more days to tote the weary load. No matter, it will never be light ; A few more days till we totter on the road. Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! Stephen Collins Foster. THE WORN WEDDING-RING. OUR wedding-ring w'ears thin, dear wife ; ah, summers not a few. Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o’er me and you ; And, love, what changes we have seen, — what cares and pleasures, too, — Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new ! O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life. When, thanks to God, your low, sweet “Yes” made you my loving wife ! Your heart will say the same, I know ; that day’s as dear to you, — That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new. How well do I remember now your young sweet face that day ! How fair you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say ; Nor how I doated on you ; O, how proud I was of you ! But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new ? No — no ! no fairer were you then than at this hour (o me ; And, dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be? As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, ’tis true ; But did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new ? r ears bring fresh links to bind us, wife, — young voices that are here ; Young faces round our fire that make their mother’s yet more dear ; Young loving hearts your care each day makes yet more like to you. More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new. The past is dear, its sweetness still our memories treas- ure yet ; The griefs we’ve borne, together borne, we would not now forget. Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart stili true, ' We’ll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new. And if God spares us ’mongst our sons and daughters to grow old, W'^e know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold. Your aged eyes will see in mine all they’ve still shown to you. And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to my rest. May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast ; O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear sight of you. Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when this old ring was new ! William Cox Bennett. FILIAL LOVE. HERE is a dungeon in whose dim drear light W’hat do I gaze on ? Nothing ; look agaiii ! Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight,-- "f Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so ; I see them full and plain, — An old man and a female young and fair. Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar : but what doth she there. With her unmanlled neck, and bosom white and bare } Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life. Where on the heart and froyn the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife. LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS THE HOME CIRCLE. 25 Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives I\Ian knows not, when from out its cradled nook She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — What may the fruit be yet? I know not — Cain was Eve’s. But here youth offers to old age the food. The milk of his own gift ; it is her sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No ! he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature’s Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt’s river ; — from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven’s realm holds no such tide. The starry fable of the milky-way Has not thy story’s purity ; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray. And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds : — O, holiest nurse ! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire’s heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. Lord Byron. JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. ‘jl’ OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, J When we were first acquent. Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. birth and power; the poor man’s attachment to the tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, gold, or precious stones ; he has no property but in the affections of his own heart ; and when they endear bare floors and walls, despite of toil and scanty meals, that man has his love of home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place. Charles Dickens. 0, LAY THY HAND IN MINE. DEAR! LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! We’re growing old ; But Time hath brought no sign, dear. That hearts grow cold. ’Tis long, long since our new love Made life divine ; But age enricheth true love. Like noble wine. And lay thy cheek to mine, dear. And take thy rest ; Mine arms around thee twine, dear. And make thy nest. A many cares are pressing On this dear head ; But Sorrow’s hands in blessing Are surely laid. O, lean thy life on mine, dear ! ’T will shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear. On my young tree : And so, till boughs are leafless. And songbirds flown. We’ll twine, then lay us, griefless. Together down. Gerald Massey. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And monie a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. Robert Burns. AFFECTIONS OF HOME. *ir F ever household affections and loves are grace- fill thing.s, they are grace ful in the poor. The •!> ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to I home, may be forged on e Tth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth, are of the true metal, and bear the stamp of heaven. The man of high descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies of his I THE ABSENT ONES. SHALL leave the old house in the autumm To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door ! I shall miss the “good nights” and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee. The group on its green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and at even. Their song in the school and the street; I shall miss the low hum of ^leir voices. And the tread of their deficate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended. And death says, “ The school is dismissed !” May the little ones gather around me. To bid me good night and be kissed ! Charles M. Dickinson. 26 CROWN JEWELS. A PICTURE. farmer sat in his easj'-chair, /(g\ Smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife, with busy care, 'I' Was clearing the dinner away ; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes. On her grandfather’s knee was catching flies. The old man laid his hand on her head. With a tear on his wrinkled face ; He thought how often her mother, dead. Had sat in the self-same place. As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, “Don’t smoke !’’ said the child ; “ how it makes you cry !” The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal ; The busy old wife, by the open door, Was turning the spinning-wheel ; And the old brass clock on the mantel tree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair. While close to his heaving breast The moistened brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were pressed ; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : Fast asleep were they both, that summer day ! Charles Gamage Eastman. THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE, OW many summers, love. Have I been thine ? How many days, thou dove. Hast thou been mine? Time, like the winged wind When ’t 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 ! With tongues all sweet and low Like a pleasant rhyme. They tell how much I owe To thee and time ! Bryan Waller Procter {Earry Cornwall.) H0r\4ES\CK. OME to me, O my Mother ! come to me, 0 1 hine own son slowly dying far away ! Through the moist ways of the wide ocean blown By great invisible winds, come stately ships To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ; They come, they rest awhile, they go away. But, O my Mother, never comest thou ! The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow. That cold soft revelation pure as light, And the pine-spire is mystically fringed. Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee ? Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods Jewelled from bough to bough ? O home, my home \ O river in the valley of my home. With mazy-winding motion intricate, Twi-ting thy deathless music underneath The polished ice-work — must I nevermore Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch Thy beauty changing with the changeful day. Thy beauty constant to the constant change? David Gray. MY WIFE’S A WINSOME WEE THING. HE is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing. She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o’ mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo’ed a dearer. And neist my heart Pll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing. She is a handsome wee thing. She is a bonnie wee thing. This sweet wee wife o’ mine. The warld’s wrack we share o’t. The warstle and the care o’t : W’i’ her I’ll blythely bear it. And think my lot divine. Robert Burns. THE RECONCILIATION. S through the land at eve we went. And pluck’d the ripen’d ears, • We fell out, my wife and I, — Oh, we fell out, I know not wh)-. And kiss’d again with tears. For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years. There above the little grave, Oh, there above the little grave. We kiss’d again with tears. Alfred Tennyson. THE HOME CIRCLE. 27 I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACE- FULLY CURLED. TT KNEW by the smoke that so gracefully curled • Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, X And I said, “ If there’s peace to be found in the I world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here ! ” It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. And “ Here in this lone little wood,” I exclaimed, “With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye. Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed. How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! “ By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips. Which had never been sighed on by any but mine ! ” Thomas Moore. ADAM TO EVE. . FAIREST of creation, last and best ^ ■ Of all God’s works, creature in whom ex- celled Whatever can to sight or thought be formed. Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet ! How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, •Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote ! Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress The strict forbiddance, how to violate The sacred fruit forbidden ! Some curs^id fraud Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown. And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee Certain my resolution is to die. How can I live without thee, how forego Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined. To live again in these wild woods forlorn? Should God create another Eve, and I Another rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart ; no, no, I feel The link of nature draw me : flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe. However, I with thee have fixed my lot. Certain to undergo like doom ; if death Consort with thee, death is to me as life ; So forcible within my heart I feel The bond of nature draw me to my own. My own in thee, for what thou ai t is mine ; Our state cannot be severed, we are one. One flesh ; to lose thee were to lose myse lf. John Milton. A WISH. m lNE be a cot beside the hill ; A beehive’s hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook that turns the mill, ^ With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shalt twitter from her clay-built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch. And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew. And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village-church among the trees. When first our marriage vows were given. With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to heaven. Samuel Rogers.' THE OLD LOG CABIN. ThT is only shallow-minded pretenders who either •|’ make distinguished origin a matter of personal X merit, or obscure origin a matter of personal re- ' proach. Taunt and scoffing at the humble con- dition of early life affect nobody in America but those who are foolish enough to indulge in them ; and they are generally sufficiently punished by public rebuke. A man who is not ashamed of himself need not be ashamed of his early condition. It did not happen to me to be born in a log cabin; but my elder brothers and sisters were born in a log cabin, raised among the snow-drifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early, that when the smoke first rose from its rude chimney and curled over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence of a white man’s habitation between it and the settlements on the rivers of Canada. Its remains still exist. I make to it an annual visit. I carry my children to it, to teach them the hardships endured by the generations which have gone before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred ties, the early affections, and the touching nar- ratives and incidents which mingle with all I know of this primitive family abode. I weep to think that none of those who inhabited it are now among the living ; and if ever I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affec- tionate veneration for him who reared it, and defended it against savage violence and destruction, cherished all the domestic virtues beneath its roof, and, through the fire and blood of a seven years’ revolutionary war, shrunk from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country, and to raise his children to a condition better than his own, may my name, and the name of my posterity, be blotted forever from the memory of mankind I Daniel Webster. 28 CROWN JEWELS. THE HAPPY MAN. not the Happy Man to whom is given 1$^ A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven ; A ^ Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise, And painted walls enchant the gazer’s eyes ; Whose table flows with hospitable cheer, And all the various bounty of the year ; Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe the spring, Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing ; For whom the cooling shade in Summer twines. While his full cellars give their generous wines ; From whose wide fields unbounded Aqtumn pour A golden tide into his swelling stores ; Whose winter laughs ; for whom the liberal gales Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails ; When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure seiwes ; While youth, and health, and vigor string his nerves. Ev’n not all these, in one rich lot combined. Can make the Happy Man, without the mind ; When Judgment sits clear-sighted, and surveys The chain of Reason with unerring gaze ; Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes, His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise ; Where social Love exerts her soft command. And plays the passions with a tender hand. Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife, And all the moral harmony of life. James Thompson. MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. Y mother, when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, was thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son — Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun ? I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; And, turning from my nursery-window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone. Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore. The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern. Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; , What ardently I wished, I long believed. And, disappointed still, was still deceived — By expectation every day beguiled. Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to morrow came and went. Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last .submission to my lot ; But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more ; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way— Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, — Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture’s tissued flowers— The violet, the pink, the jessamine — I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while — Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile.) Could those few pleasant days again appear, I Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here i But no ! What here we call our life is such. So little to be loved, and thou so mui h. That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. William Cowper. CHRISTMAS TIME. 'EAP on more wood !— the wind is chill ; But let it whistle as it will. We’ll keep our Christmas merry still Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer : And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled. And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honor to the holy night ; On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; That only night, in all the year. Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; The hall was dressed with holly green ; Forth to the wood did meriy'-men go. To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron’s hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; Power laid his rod of rule aside. And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose i The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of “post and pair. ’ All hailed, with uncontrolled delight And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied. Went roaring up the chimney wide ; The huge hall-table’s oaken face. Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn. By old blue-coated serving-man ; THE HOME CIRCLE. 29 Then tlis grim boar’s head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garbed ranger tell How, when and where the monster fell ; What dogs before his death he tore. And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls. Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin recked ; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie ; Nor failed old Scotland to produce. At such high-tide, her savory goose. Then came the merry maskers in. And carols roared with blithesome din ; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery ; White skirts supplied the masquerade. And smutted cheeks the visors made : But, O, what maskers richly dight Can boast of bosoms half so light ! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. ’T was Christmas broached the mightiest ale ; ’T was Christmas told the merriest tale ; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man’s heart through half the year. Sir Walter Scott. THE OLD HEARTHSTONE. m Y son, thou wilt dream the world is fair. And thy spirit will sigh to roam. And thou must go ; but never, when there. Forget the light of home ! Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray Like the meteor’s flash, ’twill deepen the night When treading thy lonely way ; — .But the hearth of home has a constant flame, .^nd pure as vestal fire — ’Twill burn, ’twill burn f.^rever the same, P'or nature feeds tiie pyre. The sea of ambition is tempest-toss’d. And thy hopes may vanish like foam — When sails are shiver’d and compass lost. Then look to the light of home ! And there, like a star through midnight cloud, Thou’lt see the beacon bright ; For never, till shining on thy shroud. Can be quench’d its holy light. The sun of fame may guild the name. But the heart ne’er felt its ray ; And fashion’s smiles, that rich ones claim. Are beams of a wintry day : How cold and dim those beams would be. Should life’s poor wanderer come ! — My son, when the world is dark to thee. Then turn to the light of home. Sarah J. Hale. THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. '^^’’’^AY down upon de Swanee Ribber, I I Far, far away — Dare’s wha my heart is turning ebber— Dare’s wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation. Sadly I roam ; Still longing for de old plantation. And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary, Eb’rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. Far from de old folks at home. All round de little farm I wandered. When I was young ; Den many happy days I squandered. Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder. Happy was I ; Oh ! take me to my kind old mudder ! Dare let me live and die 1 One little hut among de bushes — One dat I love — Still sadly to my memory rushes. No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a-humming. All round de comb ? When will I hear de banjo tumming Down in my good old home ? Stephen Collins Foster. HOMEWARD BOUND. § RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast. Fling out your field of azure blue ; Let star and stripe be westward cast. And point as Freedom’s eagle flew ! Strain home 1 O lithe and quivering spars 1 Point home my country’s flag of stars ' My mother, in thy prayer to-night There come new words and warmer tears ; On long, long darkness breaks the light, Comes home the loved, the lost for years. Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! Fear not to-night, or storm or sea : The ear of Heaven bends low to her ! He comes to shore who sails with me. The wind-tossed spider needs no token How stands the tree when lightnings blaze ; And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, I know my mother lives and prays. Nathaniel P. Willis, 30 CROWN JEWELS. I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER. REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn. He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day ; But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away 1 I remember, I remember The roses, red and white. The violets, and the lily-cups — Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built. And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday — The tree is living yet 1 I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing. And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then. That is so heavy now. And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow ! I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now ’tis little joy To know I’m farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood. I From a broad window my neighbor, Looks down on our little cot. And watches the “ poor man’s blessing” I cannot envy his lot. He has pictures, books, and music. Bright fountains, and noble trees, Rare store of blossoming roses. Birds from beyond the seas. But never does childish laughter His homeward footsteps greet ; His stately halls ne’er echo To the tread of innocent feet. This child is our “ sparkling picture,” A birdling that chatters and sings. Sometimes a sleeping cherub, (Our other one has wings.) When the glory of sunset opens The highway by angles trod. And seems to unbar the city Whose builder and maker is God — Close to the crystal portal, I see by the gates of pearl. The eyes of our other angel — A twin-born little girl. And I ask to be taught and directed To guide his footsteps aright ; So to live that I may be ready To walk in sandals of light — And hear, amid songs of welcome. From messengers trusty and fleet. On the starry floor of heaven. The patter of little feet. THE FIRESIDE. THE PATTER OF LITTLE FEET with the sun in the morning, Away to the garden he hies. To see if the sleeping blossoms Have begun to open their eyes. Running a race with the wind. With a step as light and fleet. Under my window I hear The patter of little feet. Now to the brook he wanders. In swift and noiseless flight, Splashing the sparkling ripples Like a fairy water-sprite. No sand under fabled river Has gleams like his golden hair. No pearly sea-shell is fairer Than his slender ankles bare. ‘I* F solid happiness we prize. Within our breast this jewel lies ; X And they are fools who roam : I The world has nothing to bestow ; From our own selves our joys must flow. And that dear place— our home. Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need ! For nature’s calls are few : In this the art of living lies. To want no more than may suffice. And make that little do. We’ll therefore relish with content Whate’er kind Providence has sent. Nor aim beyond our power ; For, if our stock be very small, ’Tis prudence to enjoy it all. Nor lose the present hour. THE HOME CIRCLE. 11 To be resigned when ills betide, Patient when favors are denied, And pleased with favors L.iven ; Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go ; Its chequered paths of joy and wo Witli cautious steps we’ll tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear. Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead : While conscience, like a faithful friend. Shall through the gloomy vale attend. And cheer our dying breath ; Shall, when all other comforts cease. Like a kind angel, whisper peace, And smooth the bed of death. Nathaniel Cotton. THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. OW blest has my time been ! what joys have I known. Since wedlock’s soft bondage made Jessy my own ! So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see. And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen. In revels all day with the nymphs on the green ; Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles. And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue, Her wit and good humor bloom all the year through ; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth. And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare. And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair ; In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! To hold it for life, you must find it at home. Edward Moore. BE KIND. E kind to thy father, for when thou wast young. Who loved thee as fondly as he ? He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue. And joined in thine innocent glee. Be kind to thy father, for now he is old. His locks intermingled with gray. His footsteps are feeble, once fearLss and bold ; Thy father is passing away. Be kind to thy mother, for, lo ! on her brow May traces of sorrow be seen ; Oh, well may’st you cherish and comfort her now. For loving and kind hath she been. Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray As long as God giveth her breath ; With accents of kindne.ss then cheer her lone way, E’en to the dark valley of death. Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth, If the smile of thy love be withdrawn ; The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth. If the dew of affection be gone. Be kind to thy brother, wherever you are. The love of a brother shall be An ornament, purer and richer by far. Than pearls from the depths of tlie sea Be kind to thy sister, not many may know The depth of true sisterly love ; The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below The surface that sparkles above. Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours, And blessings thy pathway to crown. Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers. More precious than wealth or renown. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. ‘I’ HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- A 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, 1 must not see her ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. ■ Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; Earth seem’d a desert 1 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. Charles Lamb. 32 CROWN JEWELS. THE WIFE. LL day, like some sweet bird, content to sing In its small cage, she moveth to and fro — And ever and anon will upward spring To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, 1 The munnur’d melody of pleasant thought. Unconscious utter’d, gentle-toned and low. Light household duties, evermore inwrought With placid fancies of one trusting heart That lives but in her smile, and turns From life’s cold seeming and the busy mart, With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns To be refresh’d where one pure altar burns. Shut out from hence the mockery of life. Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting wife. Elizabeth Oakes Smith. HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. OUSEHOLD treasures, household treasures. Gems of worth, say, what are they ? Walls of jasper, doors of cedar, Arras of superb array? Caskets of the costliest jewels. Cabinets of ancient store. Shrines where Art her incense offers. Volumes of profoundest lore? Household treasures, home’s true jewels. Deem I better far than those : Prattling children, blithe and ruddy As the dew-bespangled rose. Tempt me not with gold of Ophir, Wreathe not gems to deck my head ; Winsome hearthlings, home’s fond angels. Are the things I crave instead. Household treasures, household treasures. Gems of worth, say, what are they ? All that wealth or grandeur proffer. Soon, alas ! must know decay ; But, ’midst amaranths unfading. With the rose-stain’d cherubim. Happy children, gone before us. Swell the everlasting hymn. Thomas Greet. A HOME IN THE HEART. H ' ask not a home in the mansions ot pride. Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls ; Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold. And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. But seek for a bosom all honest and true. Where love, once awaken’d, will never depart : Turn, turn to that breast ll’ice the dove to its nest, And you’ll find there’s no home like a home in the heart. Oh ! link but one spirit that’s warmly sincere. That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care ; Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just. And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot, The cheek, searing tear-drops of Sorrow may start ; But a star never dim sheds a halo for him Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. Eliza Cook. FARMER GRAY'S PHOTOGRAPH. ‘1’ WANT you to take a picter o’ me and my old woman here, Jest as we be, if you please, sir— wrinkles, gray I hairs and all ; We never was vain at our best, and we’re going on eighty year. But we’ve got some boys to be proud of, straight an’ handsome and tall ; They are coming home this summer, the nineteenth day of July, Tom wrote me, (Tom’s a lawyer in Boston since forty-eight) ; So we’re going to try and surprise ’em, my old wife and I — Tom, Harry, Zay and Elisha, and the two girls, Jen- nie and Kate. I guess you’ve hearn of Elisha— he preaches in Middle- town, I’m a Methody m 3 'self, but he’s ’Piscopal, he says ; Don’t s’pose it makes much difference, only he wears a gown ; An’ I couldn’t abide (bein’ old and set) what / call them Popish ways. But he’s good, for / brought him up, and the others — Harry ’n’ Zay, They’re merchants down to the city, an’ don’t forget mother ’n’ me ; They’d give us the fat of the land if we’d only come that way. And Jennie and Kate are hearty off, for they married rich, you see. Well, lud, that’s a cur’us fix, sir. Do you screw it into the head ? I’ve hearn of this photography, an’ I reckon it’s scary' work. Do you take the picters by lightnin’ ? La, yes ; so the neighbors said ; It’s the sun that does it, old woman ; ’n’ he never was known to shirk. Wall, yes. I’ll be readin’ the Bible ; old woman, what’ll 1 you do ? 1: iriu^i'ni LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS THE HOME CIRCLE. 33 Jest sit on the other side o’ me, ’n’ I’ll take hold o’ your hand. That’s the way we courted, mister, if it’s all the same to you ; And that’s the way we’re a-goin’, please God, to the light o’ the better land. I never could look that thing in the face, if my eyes was as good as gold. ’Tnin’t over ? Do say ! What, the work is done ! Old woman, that beats the Dutch. f:st think ! we’ve got our picters took, and we nigh eighty year old ; There ain’t many couples in our town of our age that can say as much. You see on the nineteenth of ne.xt July our golden wed- ding comes on — For fifty year in the sun and rain we’ve pulled at the same old cart ; We’ve never had any trouble to speak of, only our poor son John Went wrong, an’ I drove him off, ’n’ it about broke the old woman’s heart — There’s a drop of bitter in every sweet. And my old woman and me Will think of John when the rest come home. Would I forgive him, young sir? He w'as only a boy, and I was a fool for bein’ so hard, you see ; If I could jist git him atween these arms, I’d stick to him like a Durr. And what’s to pay for the sunshine that’s painted my gray old phiz ? Nothin’ ? That’s ^r’us ! You don’t work for the pleasure of wor’ jig, hey ? Old woman, look here ! there’s Tom in that face — I’m blest if the chin isn’t his ! Good God ! she knows him — it’s our son John, the boy that we drove away ! THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. One sleeps where southern vines are dress’d Above the noble slain ; He wraj^t his colors round his breast. On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o’er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann’d ; She faded ’midst Italian flowers — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play’d Beneath the same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they pray’d Around one parent knee ! They that with smiles lit up the hall. And cheer'd with song the hearth — Alas ! for love, if thou wert all. And nought beyond on earth I Felicia Dorothea Hemans. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. ‘jp LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare '©• To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ; X I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; ■ I’ve bedew’d it with tears, and embalm’d it with sighs. ’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my hearth ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell? — a mother sat there j And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. In childhood’s hour I lingered near The hallow’d seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give ; To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide ? She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ; As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. HEY grew in beauty, side by side, They fill’d one home with glee ; Their graves are sever’d, far and wide, ’f By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O’er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight — Where are those dreamers now ? I sat and watch’d her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gra> And I almost worshipp’d her when she smiled, And turn’d from her Bible, to bless her child. Years roll’d on ; but the last one sped — My idol was shatter’d ; my earth-star fled : I learnt how much the heart can bear. When I saw her die in that old arm chair. One, ’midst the forest of the west, By a dark stream is laid — The Indian knows his place of rest. Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep ; He was the loved of all, yet none ’T is past, ’t is past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; ’T was there she nursed me, ’t was there she died •. And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly ; and deem me weak. While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear My soul from a mother’s old arm-chair. Eliza Cook. CROWN ji':wKr,s. THE STREAM OF LIFE. STREAM descending to the sea, Thy mossy banks between, The flovv’rets blow the grasses grow The leafy trees are green. In garden plots the children play. The fields the laborers till. The houses stand on either hand. And thou descendest still. Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover. Though for him all Arabia’s fragrance ascends. The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover The bower where he sat with— wife, children and friends. The dayspring of youtn, still unclouded by sorrow, Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow No warmth from the smile of— wife, children and friends. O life descending into death. Our waking eyes behold. Parent and friend thy lapse attend, Companions young and old. Strong purposes our minds possess. Our hearts affections fill, We toil and earn, we seek and learn. And thou descendest still. O end to which our currents tend. Inevitable sea. To which we flow, what do we know. What shall we guess of thee? A roar we hear upon thy shore. As we our course fulfil ; Scarce we divine a sun shall shine And be above us still. WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. HEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented, (The list of what Fate for each mortal in- tends). At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented. And slipped in three blessings — wife, children and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated. For justice divine could not compass its ends ; The scheme of man’s penance he swore was defeated. For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children and friends. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested. The fund, ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; But the heart issues bills which are never protested. When drawn on the firm of— wife, children and friends. Though valor still glows in his life’s dying embers, The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends, Droi>s a tear of regret as he dying remembers How blessed was his home with — wife, children and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story. Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends. With transport would barter whole ages of glory For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o’er the dead favorite bends ; O’er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish. Bedewed with the tears of— wife, children and friends. Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver. To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavor The glass which I fill to — wife, children and friends. William Robert Spencer. HOME VOICES. •jp AM so home-sick in this summer weather ! Where is my home upon this weary earth ? A The maple trees are bursting into freshness I Around the pleasant place that gave me birth. But dearer far, a grave for me is waiting. Far up among the pine trees’ greener shade ; The willow boughs the hand of love has planted. Wave o’er the hillock where my dead are laid. Why go without me — oh, ye loved and loving? What has earth left of happiness or peace ? Let me come to you, where the heart grows calmer ; Let me lie down where life’s wild stragglings cease Earth has no home for hearts so worn and weary; Life has no second spring for such a year ; Oh ! for the day that bids me come to meet you! And, life in gladness, in that summer hear ! HOME OF THE WORKINGMAN. ESOLVE— and tell your wife of your good reso lution. She will aid it all she can. Her step will be lighter and her hand will be busier all day, expecting the comfortable evening at home when you return. Household affairs will have been well attended to. A place for everything, and everything in its place, will, like some good genius, have made even an humble home the scene of neatness, arrangement and taste. The table will be ready ai the fireside. The loaf will be one of that order which says, by its appearance. You may cut and come again. The cups and saucers will be waiting for supplies The kettle will be singing ; and the children, happy with fresh air and exercise, will be smiling in their glad anticipation of that evening meal when father is at home, and of the pleasant reading afterwards. THE llOMl': CIRCLE. as MY LITTLE WIFE. UR table is spread for two, to-night — No guests our bounty share ; The damask cloth is snowy white, The services elegant and bright, Our china quaint and rare ; My little wife presides. And perfect love abides. The bread is sponge, the butter gold, The muffins nice and hot. What though the winds without blow cold ? The walls a little world infold, And the storm is soon forgot ; In the fire-light’s cheerful glow, Beams a paradise below. A fairer picture who has seen ? Soft lights and shadows blend ; -- The central figure of the scene. She sits, my wife, my queen — Her head a little bent ; And in her eyes of blue I read my bliss anew. I watch her as she pours the tea, With quiet, gentle grace ; With fingers deft, and movements free. She mi-xes in the cream for me, A bright smile on her face ; And, as she sends it up, I pledge her in my cup. Was ever man before so blest? I secretly reflect. The passing thought she must have guessed. For now dear lips on mine are pressed. An arm is round my neck. Dear treasure of my life — God bless her — little wife. GOOD BYE, OLD HOUSE. OOD bye, old house ! the hurry and the bustle Smothered till now all thought of leaving you ; T But the last load has gone, and I’ve a mo- ment. All by myself, to say a last adieu. Good bye, old house ! I shall not soon forget you. The witness of so much eventful time — And walls have ears they say, I beg you cherish Each secret that you may have heard of mine. Strange faces will come in and gaze upon you. Irreverent and careless of each spot That held in sacred keeping household treasures. Ah, well, you need not mind — it matters not. They’ll wonder why that nail was driven yonder In reach of Freddy’s hand, at Christmas time. That he might hang, himself, his little stocking. That notch marked Willie’s height when he was nine. These marks that I have not the heart to trouble, Johnny put there before he went away, Wisliing, meanwhile, that he might make them double ; They meant the days he had at home to stay Dear child ! it was that corner held his coffin When trouble, toil and pain for him were done ; And in that corner, too, I have knelt daily. Striving to find the way that he has won. ’Twas in that corner Margaret was married. And that white spot upon the smoky wall Is where her picture hung, — those three nails yon- der Were driven to hold her sack, and scarf, and shawl. And so, old house, you have for every blemish A strange, peculiar story of your own ; As our poor bodies do when we have left them, And powerless alike to make it known. Good bye, good bye, old house 1 the night is fall- ing. They’ll think I’ve wandered from the path, I guess. One more walk through the rooms, ah ! how they echo ! How strange and lonely is their emptiness ! Millie C. Pomeroy. A MOTHER'S INFLUE^'CE. HEN barren doubt like a late-coming snow Made an unkind December of my spring, That all the pretty flowers did droop for woe. And the sweet birds their love no more would sing •, Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith. Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart ; Fond feeling saved me from that utter scathe, And from thy hope I could not live apart. Now that my mind hath passed from wintry gloom, And on the calm(^d waters once again Ascendant faith circles with silver plume. That casts a charmed shade, not now in pain. Thou child of Christ, in joy I think of thee. And mingle prayers for what we both may be. Arthur Henry Hallam. 36 CROWN JEWELS. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. INGER not long. Home is not home without thee: Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, Gently compel and hasten thy return ! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy stay- ing, Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, though dear. Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here ? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, As evening shadows stretch o’er moor and dell , When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming. And silence hangs on all things like a spell ! How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger. As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still ? Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth me Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull ; For O, I sometimes fear when thou art with me My cup of happiness is all too full. Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling. Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling. Flies to its haven of securest rest ! THANKSGIVING DAY. HE white moon peeps thro’ my window-blind As I’m sitting alone to-night. Thinking of days I’ve left behind "f* In the years that have taken flight. My heart is full of a nameless thrill That my life has been so sweet. And I fain would hurry to Zion’s hill And bow at the Giver’s feet. The year just going has brought me boon As rich as the years gone by ; The skies were clear as the harvest moon When the golden crops were dry ; The grain was garnered abundantly then. For the wintry days ahead. And I thank the Giver of good to men For supplies of daily bread. No fell disease with ghastly shrouds Has come in grim disguise ; No war has spread its baleful clouds Athwart my azure skies ; But the dove of peace — the white-winged dove — Has built in my own roof-tree. And the breezes have floated the banner of love O’er all my land and sea. So now I sing as best I can My glad Thanksgiving song, - To Him who holds me by the hand, And leads me safe along ; I am not worthy his smallest gift, But He giveth large and free, And so a song of praise I lift For His goodness unto me. Thomas Berry Smith. THE THREE DEAREST WORDS. “HERE are three words that sweetly blend, f(S\ That on the heart are graven ; A precious, soothing balm they lend — They’re mother, home and heaven ! They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers. Which, placed on memory’s urn. Will e’en the longest, gloomiest hours To golden sunlight turn ! They form a chain whose every link Is free from base alloy ; A stream where whosoever drinks Will find refreshing joy I They build an altar where each day Love’s offering is renewed ; And peace illumes with genial ray Life’s darkened solitude ! If from our side the first has fled. And home be but a name. Let’s strive the narrow path to tread. That we the last may gain ! Mary J. MucKua NSRRflTl¥ES SND B^^LLSDS. VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. HE king was on his throne, The satraps thronged the hall ; A thousand bright lamps shone O’er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deemed divine, Jehovah’s vessels hold The godless heathen’s wine ! In that same hour and hall. The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand ; V The fingers of a man ; — ' A solitary hand Along the letters ran. And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook. And bade no more rejoice ; All bloodless waxed his look, And tremulous his voice. Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth. And expound the words of fear. Which mar our royal mirth.” Chaldaea’s seers are good, But here they have no skill ; And the unknown letters stood. Untold and awful still. And Babel’s men of age Are wise and deep in lore ; But now they were not sage. They saw, — but knew no more. A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth, — He heard the king’s command. He saw that writing’s truth The lamps around were bright. The prophecy in view : He read it on that night, — The morrow proved it true. * Belshazzar’s grave is made. His kingdom passed away. He in the balance weighed, Is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state ; His canopy, the stone ; The Mede is at his gate ! The Persian on his throne ! ” Lord Byron. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. NDER a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp and black and long ; His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, — He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face. For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night. You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge With measured beat and slow. Like a sexton ringing the village bell. When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school. Look in at the open door ; T.iey love to see the flaming forge. And hear the bellows roar. And catch the burning sparks that fly Like cliaff from the threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church. And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach ; He hears his daughter’s voice. Singing in the village choir. And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice, Singing in Paradise 1 He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing. Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin. Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done. Has earned a night’s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of fife Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (37) 38 CROWN JEWELS. YOUNG LOCHINVAR, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best ; And save his good broadsword he weapon had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, Tliere never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone. He swam the Esk River where ford there was none ; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate. The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war. Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, ’Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all ! Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword, — For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word, — “ O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war. Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” ” I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied : Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide ! And now am I come, with this lost love of mine. To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ! There be maidens in Scotland more lovely by for. That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar ! ” The bride kissed the goblet ; the knight took it up. He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup ! She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh. With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — “ Now tread we a measure ! ” said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face. That never a hall such a galliard did grace ! While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, Aud the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume. And the bride-maidens whispered, “ ’T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin- var ! ” One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. So light to the saddle before her he .sprung. “She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow!” quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; There wa;- racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see ! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Sir Walter See rx. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. FT in the stilly night. Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears. Of boyhood’s years, The words of love then sroken ; The eyes that shone. Now dimmed and gone. The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night. Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the ligE. Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so linked together. I’ve seen around me fall. Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted. Whose lights are fled. Whose garlands dead. And all but he departed ! Thus in the stilly night. Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moork. AULD-LANG SYNE HOULD auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to min’ ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days o’ lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne 1 We twa hae run about the braes. And pu’t the gowans fine ; But we’ve wandered mony a weary iocA, Sin’ auld lang syne, For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne ! W^e twa hae paidl’t i’ the bum, Frae mornin’ sun till dine ; But seas between us braid hae roared. Sin’ auld lang syne. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. an For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne ! And here’s a hand, my trusty here. And gie’s a hand o' thine , And we’ll tak a right guid willie-waught. For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne ! And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup. As sure as I’ll be mine ; And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne. We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet. For auld lang syne ! Robert Burns. THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER. m ANY a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though “lying low,’’ How near New York their schooners ran. They greased the lead before it fell, ^ And then by sounding, through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck so well, They always guessed their reckoning right. A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim. Could tell, by tasting, just the spot. And so below he’d “douse the glim,” — After of course, his “ something hot.” Snug in his berth, at eight o’clock. This ancient skipper might be found ; No matter how his craft would rock. He slept, — for skippers’ naps are sound. The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He’d up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead. One night ’twas Jotham Marden’s watch. A curious wag, — the pedlar’s son ; And so he mused, (the wanton wretch !) “To-night I'll have a grain of 'We’re all a set of stupid fools. To think the skipper knows, by tasting, What ground he’s on ; Nantucket schools Don’t teach such stuff, with all their basting ! ” And so he took the well-greased lead. And rubbed it o’er a box of earth That stood on deck, — a parsnip bed. And then he sought the skipper’s berth. “Where are we now, sir? Please to taste ’ The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, • And opened his eyes in wondrous haste. And then upon the floor he sprung ! The skipper stormed, and tore his hair. Thrust on his boots, and roared to Harden, “ Nantucket’s sunk, and here we are Right over old Harm Hackett’s garden ! ” James Thomas Fields. ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES I. AT NIGHT IN ST. GEORGE’S CHAPEL, WINDSOR. HE castle clock had toll’d midnight. With mattock and with spade — And silent, by the torches’ light— "f* His corpse in earth we laid. The coffin bore his name ; that those Of other years might know. When earth its secret should disclose. Whose bones were laid below. “ Peace to the dead ! ” no children sung, - Slow pacing up the nave ; No prayers were read, no knell was rung. As deep we dug his grave. We only heard the winter’s wind. In many a sullen gust. As o’er the open grave inclined. We murmured, “ Dust to dust ! ” A moonbeam from the arch’s height. Stream’d, as we placed the stone. The long aisles started into light And all the windows shone. We thought we saw the banners then That shook along the walls, Whilst the sad shades of mailed men Were gazing on the stalls. ’T is gone ! — Again on tombs defaced Sits darkness more profound ; And only by the torch we traced The shadows on the ground. And now the chilling, freezing air Without blew long and loud ; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer, Where he slept in his shroud. We laid the broken marble floor, — No name, no trace appears 1 And when we closed the sounding door. We thought of him with tears. William Lisle Bowles, 40 CROWN JEWELS. THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY AND EVERYBODY. EST men suspect your tale untrue^ Keep probability in view. The traveler, leaping o er those bounds. The credit of his book confounds. Who with his tongue hath armies routed Makes even his real courage doubted : But flattery never seems absurd ; The flattered always takes your word : Impossibilities seem just ; They take the strongest praise on trust. Hyperboles, though ne’er so great. Will still come short of self-conceit. So very like a painter drew. That every eye the picture knew f He hit complexion, feature, air, So just, the life itself was there. No flattery with his colors laid, To bloom restored the faded maid ; He gave each muscle all its strength, The mouth, the chin, the nose’s length. His honest pencil touched with truth. And marked the date of age and youth. He lost his friends, his practice failed ; Truth should not always be revealed ; In dusty piles his pictures lay. For no one sent the second pay. Two bustos, fraught with every grace, A Venus’ and Apollo's face. He placed in view ; resolved to please. Whoever sat, he drew from these. From these corrected every feature. And spirited each awkward creature. All things were set ; the hour was come, His pallet ready o’er his thumb. My lord appeared ; and seated right In proper attitude and light. The painter looked, he sketched the piece. Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece, Of Titian’s tints, of Guido’s air ; “ Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there Might well a Raphael’s hand require, To give them all their native fire ; The features fraught with sense and wit. You’ll grant are very hard to hit ; But yet with patience you shall view As much as paint and art can do. Observe the work.” My lord replied : "Till now I thought my mouth was wide ; Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; Dear sir, for me, ’t is far too young.” “ Oh ! pardon me,” the artist cried, "In this the painters must decide. The piece even common eyes must strike, I warrant it extremely like.” ; My lord examined it anew ; No looking-glass seemed half so true. A lady came ; with borrowed grace He from his Venus formed her face. Her lover praised the painter’s art ; So like the picture in his heart ! To every age some charm he lent ; Even beauties were almost content. Through all the town his art they praised ; His custom grew, his price was raised. Had he the real likeness shown. Would any man the picture own ? But when thus happily he wrouglit. Each found the likeness in his thought. John Gay. LITTLE NELL’S FUNERAL. ND now the bell — the bell She had so often heard by night and day. And listened to with solemn pleasure. E’en as a living voice — Rung its remorseless toll for her. So young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life. And blooming youth, and helpless infancy. Poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength And health, in the full blush Of promise, the mere dawn of life- To gather round her tomb. Old men were there, Whose eyes were dim And senses failing— Grandames, who might have died ten years ago. And still been old— the deaf, the blind, the lame. The palsied. The living dead in many shapes and forms. To see the closing of this early grave. What was the death it would .shut in. To that which still could crawl and keep above it! Along the crowded path they bore her now ; Pure as the new fallen snow That covered it ; whose day on earth Had been as fleeting. Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot. She passed again, and tlie old church Received her in its quiet shade. They carried her to one old nook. Where she had many and many a time sat musing. And laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through The colored window — a window where the boughs Of trees were ever rustling In the summer, and where the birds Sang sweetly all day long. Charles Dickens. UBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITT OP ILLINOIS NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 41 COMIN’ THROUGH THE RYE. f TN a body meet a body Cornin’ through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry ? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne’er a ane hae I ; Yet a’ the lads they smile at me W’hen coinin’ through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo’e mysel’ ; But whaur his hame, or what his name, 1 dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body Cornin’ frae the town, Gin a body greet a body. Need a body frown ? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne’er a ane hae I ; Yet a’ the lads they smile at me When cornin’ through the rye. THE VAGABONDS. E are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger ’s my dog : — -come here, you scamp ! Jump for the gentlemen — mind your eye ! Over the table — look out for the lamp ! — The rogue is growing a little old ; Five years we’ve tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold. And ate and drank — and starved together. We’ve learned what comfort is, I tell you ! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there’s been frozen,) Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. And Roger and I set up for kings ! No, thank ye, sir — I never drink ; Roger and I are exceedingly moral — Aren’t we, Roger ? — see him wink ! — Well, something hot, then — we won’t quarrel. He’s thirsty, too — see him nod his head ? What a pity, sir, that dogs can’t talk ! He understands every word that’s said — And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. The truth is, sir, now I reflect, Pve been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I’ve not lost the respect (Here’s to you, sir, !) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; And this old coat, with its empty pockets. And rags that smell of tobacco and gin. He’ll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. There isn’t another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster. So fond, so faitliful, and so forgiving, To such a miserable, thankless master ! No, sir ! — see him wag his tail and grin ! By George ! it makes my old eyes water ! That is, there’s something in this gin That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! We’ll have some music, if you’re willing. And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, sir If Shall march a little — Start you villain ! Stand straight ! ’Bout face ! Salute your officer ! Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take your rifle ! (Some dogs have arms, you see !) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle. To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes When he stands up to hear his sentence. Now tell us how many drams it takes To honor a jolly new acquaintance. Five yelps — that’s five ; he’s mighty knowing ' The night’s before us, fill the glasses ! — Quick, sir ! I’m ill — my brain is going ! Some brandy ! — thank you ' — there ! — it passes ! Why not reform ? That’s easily said ; But I’ve gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread. And scarce remembering what meat meant. That my poor stomach’s past reform ; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I’d sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think ? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl’s love — but I took to drink ; — The same old story ; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features — You needn’t laugh, sir ; they were not then Such a burning libel on God’s creatures ; I was one of your handsome men. If you had seen her, so fair and young. Whose head was happy on this breast ! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn’t have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog. Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog ! She’s married since — a parson’s wife : ’Twas better for her that we should part — Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart 42 CROWN JEWELS. I have seen her? Once : I was weak and spent, On the dusty road, a carriage stopped : But little she dreamed, as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! You’ve set me talking, sir; I’m sorry ; ^ It makes me wild to think of the change ! What do you care for a beggar’s story ! Is it amusing? you find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me ! ’Twas well she died before — Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below ? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain ; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden. Aching thing, in place of a heart? He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could. No doubt remembering things that were — A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food. And himself a sober, respectable cur. I’m better now ; that glass was warming, — You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street. — Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free. And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; — The sooner, the better for Roger and me ! John T. Trowbridge. OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. VER the hill to the poor-house I’m trudgin’ my weary way — I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray— I, who am smart an’ chipper, for all the years I’ve told. As many another woman, that’s only half as old. Over the hill to the poor-house — I can’t make it quite clear ! Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so horrid queer ! Many a step I’ve taken a-toilin’ to and fro. But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. What is the use of heapin’ on me a pauper’s shame? Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout, But charity ain’t no favor, if one can live without. I am willin’ and anxious an’ ready any day. To work for a decent livin’, an’ pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an’ more to. I’ll be bound. If any body only is willin’ to have me round. Once I was young and lian’some- -I was, upon my soul — Once my cheeks were roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can’t remember, in them days, of bearin’ peo- ple say. For any kind of reason, that I was in their way. ’Taint no use of boastin’, or talkin’ over free. But many a house an’ home was open then to me ; Many a han’some offer I had from likely men. And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart. But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part ; For life was all before me, an’ I was young an’ strong. And I worked the best that I could in tryin’ to get along. And so we worked together : and life was hard but gay, With now an’ then a baby, for to cheer us on our way ; Till we had half a dozen, an’ all growed lean an’ neat. An’ went to school like others, an’ had enough to eat. So we worked for the child’r’n, and raised ’em every one ; Worked for ’em summer and winter, just as we ought to ’ve done, Only perhaps we humored ’em, which some good folks condemn. But every couple’s child’rn’s a heap the best to them. Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones ! — I’d have died for my daughters, I’d have died for my sons ; And God He made that rule of love ; but when we’re old and gray. I’ve noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way. Strange, another thing; when our boys an’ girls was grown. And when, exceptin’ Charlej’, they’d left u§ there alone ; When John he nearer an’ nearer come, an’ dearer seemed to be. The Lord of Hosts he came one day an’ took him away from me. Still I was bound to struggle; an’ never to cringe or fall- still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown. Till at last he went a courtin’, and brought a wife from town. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 43 She was somewhat dressy, an’ hadn’t a pleasant smile — She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o’ style ; But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know ; But she was hard and proud, an’ I couldn’t make it go. She had an edication, an’ that was good for her ; But when she twitted me on mine ‘twas carryin’ things too fur; An’ told her once ‘fore company fan’ it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or ‘et a ‘rith- metic. So ’twas only a few days before the thing was done — They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage for one family will do. But I have never seen a house that was big enough for two. An’ I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye. An’ it made me independent, an’ then I didn’t try ; But I was terribly staggered, an’ felt it like a blow. When Charley turned ag’in me, an’ told me I could go. I went to live with Susan, but Susan’s house was small. And she was always a-hintin’ how snug' it was for us all ; And what with her husband’s sister, and what with child’rn three, Twas easy to discover that there wasn’t room forme. An’ then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I’ve got, For Thomas’ buildings ’d cover the half of an acre lot ; But all the child’rn was on me— I couldn’t stand their sauce — And Thomas said I needn’t think I was cornin’ there to boss. An’ then I wrote to Rebecca — my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty miles at best ; And one of ’em said twas too warm there, for any one so old, And t’other had an opinion the climate was too cold. So they have shirked and slighted me, an’ shifted me about — So they have well nigh soured me, an’ wore my old heart out ; But still I’ve borne up pretty well, an’ wasn’t much put down. Till Charley went to the poor master, an’ put me on the town. Over the hill to the poor-house — my child’rn dear, good-bye ! Many a night I’ve watched you when only God was nigh ; And God ’ll judge between us ; but I will al’ays pray That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. Will M. Carleton. SONG. LADY, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestry — There ’s living roses on the bush. And blossoms on the tree. Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet ; Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet. ’T is like the birthday cf the world. When earth was born in bloom ; The light is made of many dyes. The air is all perfume ; There ’s crimson buds, and white and blue — The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell. And sown the earth with flowers. There ’s fairy tulips in the east — The garden of the sun ; The very streams reflect the hues. And blossom as they run ; While morn opes like a crimson rose. Still wet with pearly showers ; Then, lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers. Thomas Hood. IN THE SUMMER TWILIGHT. ‘jr N the summer twilight, '©• While yet the dew was hoar, A I went plucking purple pansies ' Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea. And, “Come,” I sang, “ my true love. Come hasten home to me !” But the sea it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon. And the young moon dropped from heaven. And the lights hid, one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea. And, “Wait,” cried the night and wind and storm — “ Wait till I come to thee.” Harriet Prescott Spofford. CROWN JEWELS. LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry ! And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry.” “ Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” ‘‘O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle. And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. “ And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather. “His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover? ” Out spoke the hardy Highland wight: “ I’ll go, my chief— I’m ready; It is not for your silver bright. But for your winsome lady. “ And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry : So, though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the storm grew loud apace. The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind. And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode arm^d men — Their trampling sounded nearer. “O, haste thee, haste !” the lady cries, “ Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.” The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her — When, O, too strong for human hand. The tempest gathered o’er her ! And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fa.st prevailing : Lord Ullan reached that fatal shore; His wrath was changed to wailing. For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade. His child he did discover ; One lovely hand she stretched for aid. And one was round her lover. ‘Come back ! come back ! ” he cried in grief, “Acro.ss this stormy water; And I’ll forgive your Highland chief. My daughter! — O, my daughter ! ” ’T was vain the loud waves lashed the shor^, Return or aid preventing ; The waters wild went o’er his child: And he was left lamenting. Thomas Campbell, THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. TOP ! for thy tread is on an empire’s dust ; An earthquake’s spoil is sepulchred below ; Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ? Nor column trophied for triumphal .show? None ; but the moral’s truth tells simpler .so. As the ground was before, thus let it be. How that red rain hath made the harvest grow And this all the world has gained by thee. Thou first and last of fields, king-making victory ? There was a sound of revelry by night. And Belgium’s capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry ; and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men : A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell. Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again. And all went merry as a marriage-bell. But hush 1 hark 1 a deep sound strikes like a rising kneli ! Did ye not hear it ? No ; ’twas but the wind. Or the car rattling o’er the stony street : On with the dance 1 let joy be unconfined I No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet !— But hark I that heavy sound breaks in once more. As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. Arm ! arm 1 it is, it is the cannon’s opening roar ! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sat Brunswick’s fated chieftian ; he did hear That sound the first amid the festival. And caught its tone with death’s prophetic ear : And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier. And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell ; He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell ! Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro. And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated : who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. Since upon night so sweet such awful moi n could rise ? And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car. Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 4 :^ And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star ; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb. Or whispering, with white lips, “ The foe ! they come ! they come!” Last noon beheld them full of lusty life. Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay. The midnight brought the signal sound of strife. The morn the marshaling in arms — the day Battle’s magnificently stem array 1 The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay. Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent. Rider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! Lord Byron. THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. *¥* AM a pebble ! and yield to none I” • • Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ; — A “Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; ^ I am abiding, while ages flee. The pelting hail and the drizzling rain Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; And the tender dew has sought to melt Or touch my heart ; but it was not felt. There’s none can tell about my birth. For I’m old as the big, round earth. The children of men arise, and pass Out of the world, like the blades of grass ; And many a foot on me has trod. That’s gone from sight, and under the sod. I am a Pebble ! but who art thou. Rattling along from the restless bough 1” The Acorn was shock’d at this rude salute. And lay for a moment abash’d and mute ; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low. But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort. At length she said, in a gentle tone, “ Since it has happen’d that I am thrown From the lighter element where I grew, Down to another so hard and new. And beside a personage so august, Abased, I will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun. Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel. Has ever subdued, or made to feel !” And soon in the earth she sank away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an infant oak 1 And, as it arose, and its branches spread. The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said, “ A modest Acorn — never to tell What was enclosed in its simple shell ! That the pride of the forest was folded up In the narrow space of its little cup ! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth. Which proves that nothing could hide her worth ! And, oh ! how many will tread on me. To come and admire the beautiful tree. Whose head is towering toward the sky. Above such a worthless thing as I ! Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to j ear. But never from this shall a vaunting word From the humbled Pebble again be heard. Till something without me or within Shall show the purpose for which I’ve been?” The Pebble its vow could not forget. And it lies there wrapt in silence yet. Hannah F. Gould. A HUNTING WE WILL GO. KE dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn : The hounds all join in glorious cry. The huntsman winds his horn, And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay ; “ My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows ; You cannot hunt to-day.” Yet a hunting we will go. Away they fly to ’scape the rout. Their steeds they soundly switch ; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out. And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a hunting we will go. Sly Reynard now like lightning flies. And sweeps across the vale ; And when the hounds too near he spies. He drops his bushy tail. Then a hunting we will go. At last his strength to faintness worn. Poor Reynard ceases flight ; Then hungry, homeward we return. To feast away the night. When a hunting we did go Ye jovial hunters, in the morn Prepare then for the chase ; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace. When a hunting we do go. Henry Fieli'INg. 4G CROWN JEWELS. MAUD MULLER. m AUD Muller, on a summer’s day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. T Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town. White from its hill-slope looking down. The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast — A wish, that she hardly dared to own. For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane. Smoothing his horse’s chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid. And ask a draught from tlie spring that ficAved Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. And filled for him her small tin-cup. And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare and her tattered gown. “Thanks !” said the Judge, “ a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed.’’ He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees. Of the binging birds and the humming bees ; Then talked of the haying and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown. And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. Maud Muller looked and sighed : “Ah, me 1 That I the Judge’s bride might be ! “He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; My brother should sail a painted boat. “ I’d dress my mother so grand and gay. And the baby should have a new toy each day. “And I’d fi-ed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door.’’ The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing still. “ A form more fair, a face more sweet. Ne’er hath it been my lot to meet. “And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. “Would she were mine, and I to-day. Like her, a harvester of hay : “No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs. Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, “ But low of cattle, and song of birds. And health, and quiet, and loving words.” But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on. And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon. When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; And the young girl mused beside the well. Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower. Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth’s bright glow. He watched a picture come and go : And sweet Maud Muller’s hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red. He longed for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, “Ah, that I were free again ! Free as when I rode that day. Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.” She wedded a man unlearned and poor. And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. Left their traces on heart pnd brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, And, gazing down with timid grace. She felt his pleased eyes read her face. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 47 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned. The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o’er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, “ It might have been.” Alas for maiden, alas forjudge. For rich repiner and household drudge 1 God pity them both, and pity us all. Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; For all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these : ” It might have been ! ” Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in the hereafter, ancels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! John G. Whittier. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, ^ There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away. And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com- rade’s hand. And he said, “I nevermore shall see my own, my na tive land ; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine. For I was born at Bingen— fair Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done. Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the set- ting sun ; And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars — The death-wounds on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline — And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. “Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age ; Fori was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child .My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate’er they would, but kept my father's sword ; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine. On the cottage wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine. “Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head. When troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread. But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die ; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name. To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame. And to hang the old sword in its place ( my father’s sword and mine ), For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine. "There’s another — not a sister; in the happy days gone by You’d have known her by the merriment that spark- led in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for idle scorn- ing— 0 friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ! Tell her the last night of my life ( for, ere the moon be ^ risen. My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison ) 1 dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun light shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear. The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet • and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 48 CROWN JEWELS. The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remem- bered walk ! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — But we ll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhine.” His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak — His eyes put on a dying look— he sighed, and ceased to speak ; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled— The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ; V'es, calmly on the dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shown on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. Caroline Elizabeth Norton. THE SANDS OF DEE. 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 dark wi’ foam. And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand. And o'er and o’er the sand. And round and round the sand. As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land, — And never home came she. ‘‘ O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress o’ golden hair, A drowned maiden’s hair Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee.” They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam. To her grave beside the sea ; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee ! Charles Kingsley. A NAME IN THE SAND LONE I walk’d the ocean strand ; A p'early shell was in my hand ; I stoop d and wrote upon the sand My name — the year — the day. As onward from the spot I pass’d, One lingering look behind I cast: A wave came rolling high and fast, And wash’d my lines away. And so, methought, ’twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me : A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place "Y'^here I have trod the sandy shore Of Time, and been to be no more, Of me — my day — the name I bore. To leave nor track nor trace. And yet, with Him who counts the sands, And holds the waters in his hands, I know a lasting record stands. Inscribed against my name. Of all this mortal part has wrought , Of all this thinking soul has thought : And from these fleeting moments caught For glory or for shame. Hannah F. Gould. OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. [Sequel to “ Over the Hill to the Poor-House.” ] VER the hills to th e poor-house sad paths have \/T1 been made to-day. For sorrow is near, such as maketh the heads of the young turn gray. Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered breath — The sorrow that leads to the chamber whose light has gone out in death. To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and Charley, word sped That mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps when they heard, might be dead ; But e’en while they wrote she was praying that some of her children might come To hear from her lips their last blessing before she should start for her home. To Susan, poor Susan ! how bitter the agony brought by the call. For deep in her heart for her mother wide rooms had been left after all ; And now, that she thought, by her fireside one place had been vacant for years — And while “o’er the hills she was speeding her path might be traced by her tears, NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 49 Rebecca? she heard not the tidings, but those who bent over her knew That led by the Angel of Death, near the waves of the river she drew ; Delirious, ever she told them her mother was cooling her head. While, weeping, they thought that ere morning both mother and child might be dead. And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was quiv’ring in aspen-like grief, While waves of sad mem’ry surged o’er him like bil- lows of wind o’er the leaf ; ■‘Too late,” were the words that had humbled his cold, haughty pride to the dust. And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, crowned loving forgiveness with trust. Bowed over his letters and papers, sat Thomas, his brow lined by thought. But little he heeded the markets or news of his gains that they brought ; His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new purpose seemed born in his eye. And Thomas went ‘‘over the hills,” to the mother that shortly must die. To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the mother’s message that morn. And he was away ‘‘o’er the hills” ere the sunlight blushed over the corn ; And, strangest of all, by his side, was the wife he had ‘‘brought from the town,” And silently wept, while her tears strung with diamonds her plain mourning gown. For each had been thinking, of late, how they missed the old mother’s sweet smile. And wond’ring how they could have been so blind and unjust all that while ; They thought of their harsh, cruel words, and longed to atone for the past. When swift o’er the heart of vain dreams swept the presence of death’s chilling blast. So into the chamber of death, one by one, these sad children had crept, As they, in their childhooa, had done, when mother was tired and slept— And peace, rich as then, came to each, as they drank in her blessing, so deep. That, breathing into her life, she fell back in her last blessed sleep. And when “ o’er the hills from the poor-house,” that mother is tenderly borne. The life of her life, her loved children, tread softly, and silently mourn. For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as the ocean is deep, And into our lives, with sweet healing, the balm of their bruising majf creep. 4J For swift come the flashings of temper, and torrents of words come as swift. Till out ’mong the tide-waves of anger, how often we thoughtlessly drift! And heads that are gray with life’s ashes, and feet that walk down ’mong the dead. We send ‘‘ o’er the hills to the poor-house ” for love, and, it may be, for bread. Oh ! when shall we value the living while yet the keen sickle is stayed. Nor slight the wild flower in its blooming, till all its sweet life is decayed ? Yet often the fragrance is richest, when poured from the bruised blossom’s soul, And ‘‘ over the hills from the poor-house ” the rarest of melodies roll. May Mignonette. MONA’S WATERS. H ' Mona’s waters are blue and bright When the sun shines out like a gay young lover ; But Mona’s waves are dark as night When the face of heaven is clouded over. The wild wind drives the crested foam Far up the steep and rocky mountain. And booming echoes drown the voice. The silvery voice, of Mona’s fountain. Wild, wild against that mountain’s side The wrathful waves were up and beating. When stern Glenvarloch’s chieftain came ; With anxious brow and hurried greeting He bade the widowed mother send (While loud the tempest’s voice was raging) Her fair young son across the flood. Where winds and waves their strife were waging. And still that fearful mother prayed, ‘‘ Oh ! yet delay, delay till morning. For weak the hand that guides our bark, Though brave his heart, all danger scorning.' Little did stern Glenvarloch heed ; ‘‘ The safety of my fortress tower Depends on tidings he must bring From Fairlee bank, within the hour. ‘‘See’st thou, across the sullen wave, A blood-red banner wildly streaming? That flag a message brings to me Of which my foes are little dreaming. The boy must put his boat across, (Gold shall repay his hour of danger,) And bring me back, with care and speed. Three letters from the light-browed stranger.’' The orphan boy leaped lightly in ; Bold was his eye and brow of beauty. And bright his smile as thus he spoke . ‘‘ I do but pay a vassal’s duty ; 50 CROWN JEWELS. Fear not for me O mother dear ! See how the boat the tide is spurning ; The storm will cease, the sky will clear, And thou wilt watch me safe returning.” His bark shot on — now up, now down, Over the waves — the snowy crested ; Now iike a dart it sped along, Now like a white- winged sea bird rested ; And ever when the wind sank low. Smote on the ear that woman’s wailing, As long she watched, with streaming eyes. That Oagile bark’s uncertain sailing. He reached the shore — the letters claimed ; Triumphant, heard the stranger’s wonder That one so young should brave alone The heaving lake, the rolling thunder. And once again his snowy sail Was seen by her — that mourning mother ; And once she heard his shouting voice — That voice the waves were soon to smother. Wild burst the wind, wide flapped the sail, A crashing peal of thunder followed ; The gust swept o’er the water’s face, And caverns in the deep lake hollowed. The gust swept past, the waves grew calm. The thunder died along the mountain ; But where was he who used to play, On sunny days, by Mona’s fountain ? His cold corpse floated to the shore. Where knelt his lone and shrieking mother ; And bitterly she wept for him. The widow’s son, who had no brother ! She raised his arm — the hand was closed ; With pain his stiffened fingers parted. And on the sand three letters dropped ! — His last dim thought — the faithful-hearted. Glenvarloch gazed, and on his brow Remorse with pain and gnef seemed blending ; A purse of gold he flung beside That mother, o’er her dead child bending. Oh ! wildly laughed that woman then, “ Glenvarloch ! would ye dare to measure The holy life that God has given Against a heap of golden treasure ? "Ye spumed my prayer, for we were poor ; But know, proud man, that G6d hath power To smite the king on Scotland’s throne. The chieftain in his fortress tower. Frown on ! frown on ! 1 fear ye not ; We’ve done the last of chieftain’s bidding, And cold he lies, for whose young sake I used to bear your wrathful chiding. “ Will gold bring back his cheerful voice. That used to win my heart from sorrow ? Will silver warm the frozen blood. Or make my heart less lone to-morrow ? Go back and seek your mountain home. And when ye kiss your fair-haired daughter. Remember him who died to-night Beneath the waves of Mona’s water.” Old years rolled on, and new ones came — Foes dare not brave Glenvarloch's tower ; But naught could bar the sickness out That stole within fair Annie’s bower. The o’erblown floweret in the sun Sinks languid down, and withers daily. And so she sank — her voice grew faint. Her laugh no longer sounded gaily. Her step fell on the old oak floor As noiseless as the snow-shower’s drifting ; And from her sweet and serious eyes They seldom saw the dark lid lifting. “ Bring aid ! Bring aid !” the father cries ; " Bring aid !” each vassal’s voice is cnang ; “ The fair-haired beauty of the isles. Her pulse is faint — her life is flying !' ’ He called in vain ; her dim eyes turned And met his own with parting sorrow, For well she knew, that fading girl. That he must weep and wail the morrow Her faint breath ceased ; the father bent And gazed upon his fair-haired daughter. What thought he on } The widow’s son. And the stormy night by Mona’s water. r THE WRECK OP THE HESPERUS ‘I* T was the schooner Hesperus, That sail’d the wintry sea ; X And the skipper had taken his little daughter ' To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax. Her cheeks like the dawn of day ; And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds. That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm. With his pipe in his mouth. And watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke, now west, now south. Then up, and spake an old sailor, Had sail’d the Spanish Main — “ I pray thee, put into yonder port. For I fear a hurricane. " Last night the moon had a golden ring. And to-night no moon we see,” The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laugh’d he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast ; The snow fell hissing in the brine. And the billows froth’d like yeast. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 51 Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shudder’d, and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leap’d her cable’s length. Come hither, come hither, mv little daughter. And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.” He wrapp’d her warm in his seaman’s coat, Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar. And bound her to the mast. •• O father, I hear the church-bells ring ! O say, what may it be ?” •• Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast,” And he steer’d for the open sea. “ O father, I hear the sound of guns ! O say, what may it be ?” Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea !” '* O father, I see a gleaming light ! O say, what may it be ?” But the father answer’d never a word — A frozen corpse was he ! Lash’d to the helm all stiff and stark. With his face to the skies, The lantern gleam’d thro’ the gleaming snow On his fix’d and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasp’d her hands and prayed. That sav6d she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who still’d the waves. On the lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear. Through the whistling sleet and snow. Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept. Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. And ever, the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks, and the hard sea-sand. At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lash’d close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast. The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight, and the snow ; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman’s Woe ; Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. AFTER BLENHEIM. T was a summer evening. Old Kaspar’s work was done. And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun ; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round. Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found ; He came to ask what he had found. That was so large and smooth and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy. Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, “ ’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he, “ Who fell in the great victory. “ I find them in the garden. For there s many hereabout ; And often when I go to plough. The ploughshare turns them out. For many thousand men,” said he, “Were slain in that great victory.” The breakers were right beneath her bows. She drifted a dreary wreck. And a whooping billow swept the crew. Like icicles, from her deck. She struck, where the white and fleecy waves Look’d soft as carded wool ; But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheath’d in ice. With the masts, went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — Ho ! ho ! the breakers roar’d. “Now tell us what ’twas all about,” Young Peterkin he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes ; “ Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.” “It was the English,” Kaspar cried, “ Who put the French to rout ; But what they fought each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said,” quoth he, . “ That ’twas a famous victory. iprtMtV ■ RSirf OF 52 CROWN JEWELS. “ My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ; They burnt his dwelling to the ground. And he was forced to fly ; So with his wife and child he fled. Nor had he where to rest his head. “With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide. And many a childing mother then And newborn baby died ; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. “They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun ; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. “Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won, And our good Prince Eugene.” “Why ’twas a very wicked thing !” Said little Wilhelmine. “ Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he, “ It was a famous victory. “ And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.” “ But what good came of it at last?” Quoth little Peterkin. “ Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “ But 'twas a famous victory.” Robert Southey. .ALONZO THE BRAVE AND THE FAIR IMOGINE. WARRIOR so bold, and a virgin so bright. Conversed as they sat on the green ; They gazed on each other with tender delight ; Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight — The maiden’s, the Fair Imogine. “ And, oh !” said the youth, “since to-morrow I go To fight in a far distant land. Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow. Some other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier suitor your hand !” “ Oh ! hush these suspicions,” Fair Imogine said, “ Offensive to love and to me ; For, if you be living, or if you be dead, I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead Shall husband of Imogine be. “ If e’er I, by lust or by wealth led aside. Forget my Alonzo the Brave, God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride. Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side. May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride, And bear me away to the grave !” To Palestine hasten’d the hero so bold. His love she lamented him sore ; But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, behold 1 A baron, all cover’d with jewels and gold. Arrived at Fair Imogine’s door. His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain. Soon made her untrue to her vows ; He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder’d her brain ; He caught her affections, so light and so vain. And carried her home as his spouse. And now had the marriage been blest by the priest ; The revelry now was begun ; The tables they groan’d with the weight of the feast. Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased. When the bell at the castle toll’d — one. Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found A stranger was placed by her side : His air was terrific ; he utter’d no sound— He spake not, he moved not, he look’d not around — But earnestly gazed on the bride. His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height. His armor was sable to view ; All pleasure and laughter were hush’d at his sight ; The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright ; The lights in the chamber burn’d blue ! His presence all bosoms appear’d to dismay ; The guests sat in silence and fear ; At length spake the bride — while she trembled — “ I pray. Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay. And deign to partake of our cheer.” The lady is silent ; the stranger complies — His vizor he slowly unclosed ; Oh, God ! what a sight met Fair Imogine’s eyes ! What words can express her dismay and surprise When a skeleton’s head was exposed ! All present then utter’d a terrified shout. All turn’d with disgust from the scene ; The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out. And sported his eyes and his temples about. While the spectre address’d Imogine : “ Behold me, thou false one, behold me !” he cried, “ Remember Alonzo the Brave ! God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride. My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side ; Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride, And bear thee away to the grave !” Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound. While loudly she shriek’d in dismay ; Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawning ground. Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found Or the spectre that bore her away. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 63 Not long lived the baron ; and none, since that time, To inhabit the castle presume ; For chronicles tell that, by order sublime. There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom. At midnight, four times in each year does her sprite, W'hen mortals in slumber are bound. Array’d in her bridal apparel of white. Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around ! While they drink out of skulls newly tom from the grave. Dancing round them the spectres are seen ; Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl : “To the health of Alonzo the Brave, And his consort, the Fair Imogine !’’ Matthew Gregory Lewis. OLD GRIMES. His neighbors he did not abuse — Was sociable and gay ; He wore large buckles on his shoes. And changed them every day. His knowledge, hid from public gaze. He did not bring to view, Nor make a noise town-meeting days, As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune’s chances. But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran ; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. Albert G. Greene. THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. LD Grimes is dead, that good old man— - We ne’er shall see him more ; He used to wear a long black coat. All buttoned down before. The incidents here woven into verse relate to William Scott, a young soldier from the State of Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death. His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were tnie ; His hair was some inclined to gray — He wore it in a queue. Whene’er he heard the voice of pain, ' His breast with pity burned ; The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned. Kind words he ever had for all ; He knew no base design ; His eyes were dark and rather small. His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind. In friendship he was true ; His coat had pocket-holes behind. His pantaloons were blue. Unhanned, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o’er. And never wore a pair o’ boots For thirty years or more. But good Old Grimes is now at rest. Nor fears misfortune’s frown ; He wore a double-breasted vest — The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find. And pay it its desert ; He had no malice in his mind, No ruffles on his shirt. f ’^^f~’WAS in the sultry summer-time, as wear’s red records show. When patriot armies rose to meet a fratri- cidal foe — When, from the North and East and West, like the up- heaving sea. Swept forth Columbia’s sons, to make our country truly free. Within a prison’s dismal walls, where sh.adows voi’en decay — In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay ; Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish breath, He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit’s death. Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care. He roamed at will, and freely drew his native moun- tain air — Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a woodland font. And waving elms, and grassy slopes, give beauty to Vermont. Where, dwelling in a humble cot, a tiller of the soil — Encircled by a mother’s love, he shared a father’s toil — Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering coun- try’s cry Fired his young heart with fervent zeal, for her to live or die j 64 CROWN JEWELS. Then left he all : a few fond tears, hy firmness half con- cealed, A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field - The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes war’s hot breath. Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose hus- bandman is death ! Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard; But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard. He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning found His prostrate form — a sentinel asleep upon the ground. So in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod. Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God; Yet, Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes. And though betray’d to ruthle.ss foes, forgiving, bade them rise. But God is love — and finite minds can faintly com- prehend How gentle mercy, in His rule, may with stern justice blend ; And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify. While war’s inexhorable law decreed that he must die. ’Twas night. — In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow, A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro ; Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent ; On brothers armed in deadly strife : — i< was the Presi- dent. The woes of thirty millions filled his bivdened heart with grief. Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief ; And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry Of that poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doomed to die. ’Twas morning. — On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flashed back, from lines of burnished arms, the sun’s effulgent blaze ; While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge A sad procession, o’er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge. And in the midst, with faltering steps, and pale and anxious face, In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place, A youth — led out to die ; — and yet, it was not death, but shame That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly frame. Still on, before the marshall’d ranks, the train pursued its way Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay — His coffin ; and with reeling brain, despainng — deso- late — He took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate. Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air ; He saw his distant mountain home ; he saw his mother there ; He saw his father bowed in grief, thro’ fast-declining years; He saw a nameless grave ; and then, the vision closed — in tears. Yet once again. In double file advancing, then, he saw Twelve comrades sternly set apart to execute the law — But saw no more , his senses swam — deep darkness settled round — And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley’s sound. Then suddenly was heard the noise of steed and wheels approach. And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach, On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was bent. Till, halting, ’mid the lines was .seen the nation’s Presi- dent. He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair ; .•\nd from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air ; The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubi- lee. And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made him free. ’Twas spring — within a verdant vale, where War- wick’s crystal tide Reflected, o’er its peaceful breast, fair fields on eithei side— Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitude — Two threatening: armies, facp to face in fierce defi- ' ance stooa. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 65 Two threatening armies ' One invoked by injured Liberty — Which bore above its patriot ranks the Symbol of the Free ; And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaunting flag of bars, A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom’s Stripes and Stars. A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense and dun, proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun ; And shot and shell, athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped, To strew among ihe living lines the dying and the dead. Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command, “ Charge I soldiers, charge!” and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band. Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the flood. And upward o’er the rising ground, they marked their way in blood. The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his post — While, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host ' Then turning as the rallying ranks, with murd’rous fire replied, They bore the fallen o’er the field, and through the purple tide j The fallen ! And the first who fell in that unequal strife. Was he whom mercy sped to save when justice claimed his life— The pardon’d soldier ' And while yet the conflict raged around, While yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound — While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death be- dimmed his eye — He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to die ; And in his last expiring breath, a prayer to heaven was sent, That God, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President. Francis De Haes Janvier. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELlN. AMELIN Town s in Brunswick. By famous Hanover City -, ] The river Weser, deep and wide, I Washes its wall on the southern side ; A pleasanter spot you never spied, But when begins my ditty. Almost five hundred years ago. To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity. Rats ! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats. And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats. Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats. And even spoiled the women’s chats. By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking : “ 'Tis clear,” cried they, “ our Mayor’s a noddy ; And as for our Corporation — shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can’t or won’t determine What’s best to nd us of our vermin !” At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sate in council — At length the Mayor broke silence : “ For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell ; I wish I were a mile hence ! It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain — I’m sure my poor head aches again. I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain. 0 for a trap, a trap, a trap !” Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? ” Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “ what’s that?” “ Come in 1” — the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; And in did come the strangest figure , He advanced to the council-table ; And, “ Please your honor,” said he, “I’m able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun. That creep or swim or fly or run. After me so as you never saw ' Yet,” said he, “ poor piper as I am. In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats ; 1 eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; And as for what your brain bewilders — If I can rid your town of rats. Will you give me a thousand guilders “ One^ fifty thousand was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 50 CROWN JEWELS. Into the street the piper slept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while ; Then, like a musical adept. To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled. Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. You heard as if an army muttered ; And the muttering grew to a gnimbling ; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawiij' rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins. Cocking tails and pricking whiskers ; Families by tens and dozens. Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing. And step for step they followed dancing. Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished Save one who, stout as Julius Cccsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was : “At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. And putting apples, wondrous ripe. Into a cider-press’s gripe — And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards. And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks. And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, “ O rats, rejoice ’ The world is grown to one vast drysaltery i So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon. Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. Already staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me. Just as methought it said, ‘ Come, bore me 1 I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’’ You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; “ Go,’’ cried the Mayor, “and get long poles ! Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! Consult with carpenters and builders. And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats !’’ — when suddenly, up the face Of the piper perked in the market place. With a “First if you please, my thousand guilders !’’ A thousand guilders 1 the Mayor looked blue ; So did the Corporation too. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow 1 “ Beside,’’ quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, “ Our business was done at the river’s brink ; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke ; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well .know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; A thousand guilders 1 Come, take fifty !” The piper’s face fell, and he cried, “ No trifling ! I can’t wait ! beside. I’ve promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the head cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in. For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen. Of a nest of scorpions no survivor— a With him I proved no bargain-driver ; With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion.’’ “ How?’’ cried the Mayor, “d’ ye think I’ll brook Being worse treated than a cook ? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst. Blow your pipe there till you burst !’’ Once more he slept into the street ; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane ; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet, Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling ; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering. Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering , And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering. Out came the children running : All the little boys and girls. With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls. And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood. Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by. And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the piper’s back. But how the Mayor was on the rack. And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. sr As the piper turned from the High street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! However, he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed. And after hini the children pressed ; Great was the joy in every breast. “He never can cross that mighty top ! He’s forced to let the piping drop. And we shall see our children stop !” When lo, as they reached the mountain’s side, A wondrous portal opened wide. As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; And the piper advanced and the children followed And when all were in, to the very last. The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all? No! One was lame. And could not dance the whole of the way ; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, “ It’s dull in our town since my playmates left, I can’t forget that I’m bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see. Which the piper also promised me ; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand. Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew. And flowers put forth a fairer hue. And everything was strange and new ; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here. And their dogs outran our fallow deer. And honey-bees had lost their stings. And horses were born with eagles’ wings , And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured. The music stopped and I stood still. And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will. To go now limping as before. And never hear of that country more !’’ Robert Browning. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 'll' SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he ; "§• I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all A three ; I “Good speed I ’’ cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, “Speed ! ’’ echoed the wall to us galloping through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest. And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other : we kept the great pace Neck and neck, stride by stride, never changing our place. I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight. Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, Re-buckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit ; Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. ‘Twas moonset at starting, but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see. At Diiffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime ; So Joris broke silence with “Yet there is time.’’ At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one To stare through the mist at us galloping past. And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last, With resolute shoulders each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye’s black intelligence — ever that glance O’er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned, and cried Joris, “Stay spur I Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her. We’ll remember at Aix; ’’ — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees. And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank. As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky , The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, ’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff. Till over by Dalhelm a dome-spire sprang white. And “Gallop,’’ gasped Joris, “for Aix is m sight'” “ How they’ll greet us ! ” — and all in a moment h's roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone, And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate. With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim. And with circles of red for his eye-sockets rim. Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall. Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all. Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear. Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer ; 58 CROWN JEWELS. Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise bad or good. Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember, is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground. And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. As 1 poured down his throat our last measures of wine. Which, (the burgesses voted by common consent,) Was no m.ore than his due who brought good news from Ghent. Robert Browning. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT, LOWLY England’s sun was setting o’er the hill- tops far away. Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day. And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair — He with iootsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair ; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white. Struggling to keep back the murmur — “Curfew must not ring to-night.” ‘ .Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old. With its turrets tall and gloomy, with its walls dark, damp and cold, “ I’ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die. At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh ■ Cromwell will not come till sunset,” and her lips grew strangely white As she breathed the husky whisper — “ Curlew must not ring to-night.” “Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart — ■ ' Long, long years I’ve rung the Curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower , Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I m old 1 will not falter — Curfew, it must ring to-night.” Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, As within her secret bosom Bessie made a solemn vow She had listened while the judges read without a tear or ' sigh : ' “At the ringing of the Curfew, Basil Underwood die.” And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyef grew large and bright ; In an undertone she muimured : — “Curfew must not ring to-night.” With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door, Left the old man threading slowly paths so oft he’d trod before ; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro. As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray of light. Up and up- her white lips saying ; — “Curfew must not ring to-night.” She has reached the topmost ladder: o’er her hangs the great, dark bell ; Awlui is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell. Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging— ’tis the hour of Curfew now. And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light. As she springs, and grasps it firmly — “Curfew shall not ring to-night 1 ” Out she swung — far out •, the city seemed a speck of light below. There ’twixt heaven and earth suspended as the bell swung to and fro, And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, Sadly thought, “That twilight Curfew rang young Basil’s uneral knell.” Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white, Said to hush her heart’s wild throbbing “ Curfew shall not ring to night” It was o’er, the beli ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the dark old ladder where for hundred years before Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun Crimson all the sky with beauty; aged sires, with heads of white. Tell the eager, listening children. “Curfew did not ring that night” NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 59 O’er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie sees him, and her brow, Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn ; And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn. Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light ; “Go ! your lover lives,” said Cromwell, “Curfew shall not ring to-night.’ Wide they flung the massive portal ; led the prisoner forth to die — All his bright young life before him. ’Neath the dark- ening English sky Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet : Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet. In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white. Whispered, “ Darling, you have saved me — Curfew will not ring to-night ! ” Rose Hartwick Thorpe. THE MISER WHO LOST HIS TREASURE. Tr T’S use that constitutes possession wholly ; ’©• I ask those people who’ve a passion For heaping gold on gold, and saving solely, I How they excel the poorest man in any fashion? Diogenes is quite as rich as they. True misers live like beggars, people say ; The man with hidden treasure .(Esop drew Is an example of the thing I mean. In the next life he might be happy, true ; But very little joy in this he knew ; By gold the miser was so little blessed. Not its possessor, but by it possessed ; He buried it a fathom underground ; His heart was w'ith it; his delight To ruminate upon it day and night ; A victim to the altar ever bound. He seemed so poor, yet not one hour forgot The golden grave, the concentrated spot ; Whether he goes or comes, or eats or drinks. Of gold, and gold alone, the miser thinks. At last a ditcher marks his frequent walks. And muttering talks. Scents out the place, and clears the whole. Unseen by any spies. On one fine day the miser came, his soul Glowing with joy ; he found the empty nest ; Burst into tears, and sobs, and cries. He frets, and tears his thin gray hair ; He’s lost what he had loved the best. A startled peasant passing there Inquires the reason of his sighs, “ My gold I my gold ! they’ve stolen all.” “ Your treasure ? what was it, and where ?” “ Why, buried underneath this stone.” (A moan !) “Why, man, is this a time of war ? Why should you bring your gold so far? Had you not better much have let The wealth Hein a cabinet, Where you could find it any hour In your own power ?” “What ! every hour ? a wise man knows Gold comes, but slowly, quickly goes ; I never touched it.” “ Gracious me !”. Replied the other, “ why, then, be So wretched ? for if you say true, You never touched it, plain the case ; Put back that stone upon the place, ’Twill be the very same to you.” THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. The fifth of May came amid wind and rain. Napoleon’s passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strile more terrible than the elements around. The words " tele d'armee," (head of the army,) the last which escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a heavy fight. About ele\ en minutes before six in the evening, Napoleon expired. ILD was the night, yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier’s pillow ; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the wrathful billow. A few fond mourners were kneeling by. The few that his stern heart cherished ; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye. That life had nearly perished. They knew by his awful and kingly look. By the order hastily spoken. That he dreamed of days when the nations shook. And the nations’ hosts were broken. He dreamed that the Frenchman’s sword still slew, And triumphed the Frenchman’s “eagle And the struggling Austrian fled anew. Like the hare before the beagle. The bearded Russian he scourged again, The Prussian’s camp was routed. And again, on the hills of haughty Spain, His mighty armies shouted. Over Egypt’s sands, over Alpine snows. At the pyramids, at the mountain. Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows, And by the Italian fountain. On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams Dash by the Switzer’s dwelling. He led again, in his dying dreams. His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 60 CROWN JEWELS Again Marengo’s field was won, And Jena’s bloody battle ; Again the world was overrun, Made pale at his cannons’ rattle. He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story ; In the rocky land they placed his clay, “And ‘eft him alone with his glory.’’ Isaac McLellan. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war’s alarms; But a cannon ball took off his legs. So he laid down his arms ! Now as they bore him off the field. Said he, “ Let others shoot. For here I leave my second leg. And the Forty-second Foot !’’ The army-surgeons made him limbs : Said he — “They’re only pegs ; But there’s as wooden members quite As represent my legs !’’ Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray ! So he went to pay her his devours When he’d devoured his pay. But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff ; And when she saw his wooden legs. Began to take them off ! “O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat. Should 'oe more uniform !’’ Said she, “ I loved a soldier once. For he was blithe and brave ; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave ! ' Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow. But then you know, you stand upon Another footing now !’’ • ‘O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! For all your cheering speeches. At duty’s call I left my legs In Badajos’s breaches!" ‘Why, then,’’ said she, “you’ve lost the feet Of legs in war’s alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms I’’ “O, false and fickle Nelly Gray ; I know why you refuse : — Though I’ve no feet — some other man Is standing in my shoes ! ‘ I wish I n’er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! For you will be my death : — alas ! You will not be my Nell !" Now when he went from Nelly Gray. His heart so heavy got — And life was such a burthen grown. It made him take a knot ! So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine. And, for his second time in life. Enlisted in the Line ! One end he tied around a beam. And then removed his pegs. And, as his legs were off— of course. He soon was off his legs ! And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town — For though distress had cut him up. It could not cut him down ! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died — And they buried Ben in four cross-roads. With a stake in his inside ! Thomas Hoon THE MISER’S WILL ' HIS tale is true, for so the records show ; ’Twas in Germany, not many years ago : / Young Erfurth loved. But ere the wedding ^ day His dearest friend stole with his bride away, The woman false that he had deemed so true. The friend he trusted but an ingrate, too ; What wonder that, his love to hatred grown. His heart should seem to all mankind a stone? .'\11 kindred ties he broke, himself be banned. And sought a solitude in stranger land. Grief finds relief in something found to do, The mind must find some object to pursue ; And so, ere long, his being was controlled By sole, debasing, longing greed for gold. How soon his little multiplied to much ! His hand seemed gifted with a Midas touch; Yet still he kept himself unto himself, None seeing but for increase of his pelt. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 61 Death came at last ; discovering ere he died, His heart had yet one spot unpetrified ; For, on his bed, his hand upon it still. There, open, lay the poor old miser’s will. The will was read ; there to his brothers three He left to each a thousand marks ; and he. The friend who caused him all his grief and shame. Was, with his free forgiveness, left the same ; But none of these, to whom such wealth he gave Should follow his remains unto the grave On pain of forfeit. ’Neath his pillow pressed Was found a letter, sealed ; and thus addressed : “To my dear native city of Berlin.” The brothers heard, and thought it was no sin To stay away; besides, his absence long Had quenched the love not ever over-strong. What did the faithless friend ? He knelt in tears. Looked back in anguish o’er the vanished years. Saw once again their happy boynood’s time. Their manhood’s friendship, his repented crime. “Oh, my wronged Erfurth, now in death so cold. I’ve your forgiveness, care I for your gold ?” And, at the funeral, striving to atone, The single mourner there, he walked alone. The letter, opened at the Mayor’s will. Was found to hold the miser’s codicil, Wherein he gave his hoarded gold and lands To him that disobeyed the will’s commands. Should such there be — whose heart knew love or pity— Or, failing, all went to his native city. And so the friend who stole his bride away ; Who turned to night his joyous morn of day. Humbly repentant, when his victim died. Received his pardon and his wealth beside. George Birdseye. THE TALE OF A TRAMP. ET me sit down a moment ; A stone’s got into my shoe. Don’t you commence your cussin’ — I ain’t done nothin’ to you. Yes, I’m a tramp — what of it ? Folks say we ain’t no good — Tramps have got to live, I reckon. Though people don’t think we should. Once I was young and handsome ; Had plenty of cash and clothes — That was before I got to tipplin’. And gin got in my nose. Way down in the Lehigh Valley Me and my people grew ; I was a blacksmith. Captain, Yes, and a good one, too. Me and my wife, and Nellie — Nellie was just sixteen. And she was the pootiest cretur The Valley had ever seen. Beaux ! Why she had a dozen. Had ’em from near and fur ; But they was mostly farmers— None of them suited her. But there was a city chap. Handsome, young and tall — Ah ! curse him ! I wish I had him To strangle against yonder wall 1 He was the man for Nellie — She didn’t know no ill ; Mother, she tried to stop it. But you know young girls’ will. Well, it’s the same old story — Common enough, you say — But he was a soft-tongued devil. And got her to run away. More than a month, or later. We heard frum the poor young thing-s He had run away and left her Without any weddin’-ring ! Back to her home we brought her, Back to her mother’s side ; Filled with a ragin’ fever. She fell at my feet and died ! Frantic with shame and sorrow. Her mother began to sink. And died in less than a fortnight ; That’s when I took to drink. Come, give me a glass now. Colonel, And I’ll be on my way. And 1 11 tramp till I catch that scoundrel. If it takes till the judgment day. LITTLE GOLDEN-HAIR. ITTLE Golden-hair was watching, in the win- dow broad and high. For the coming of her father, who had gone the foe to fight ; He had left her in the morning, and had told her not to cry. But to have a kiss all ready when he came to her at night. She had wandered, all the day. In her simple childish way. And had asked, as time went on. Where her father could have gone. She had heard the muskets firing, she had counted every one. Till the number grew so many that it was too great a load ; 62 CROWN JEWELS. Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound of shot or gun, And she gazed with wistful waiting down the dusty Concord road. Little Golden-hair had listened, not a single week be- fore. While the heavy sand was falling on her mother’s coffin-lid ; And she loved her father better for the loss that then she bore. And thought of him and yearned for him, whatever else she did. So she wondered all the day What could make her father stay. And she cried a little too, As he told her not to do. And the sun sunk slowly downward and went grand- ly out of sight. And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be be- stowed ; But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight grew to night, And she looked, and looked, and listened, down the dusty Concord road. Then the night grew light and lighter, and the moon rose full and round. In the little sad face peering, looking piteously and mild ; Still upon the walks of gravel there was heard no welcome sound, And no father came there, eager for the kisses of his child. Long and sadly did she wait. Listening at the cottage-gate ; Then she felt a quick alarm. Lest he might have come to harm. With no bonnet but her tresses, no companion but her fears, And no guide except the moonbeams that the path- way dimly showed. With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her tears. And alone she bravely started down thedustv Con- cord road. And for many a m.ile she struggled, full of weariness and pain. Calling loudly for her father, that her voice he might not miss ; Till at last, among a number of the wounded and the slain. Was the white face of the soldier, waiting for his daughter’s kiss. Softly to his lips she crept. Not to wake him as he slept; Then, with her young heart at rest, Laid her head upon his breast. And upon the dead face smiling, with the living one near by. All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams gently flowed ! One to live a lonely orphan, one beneath the sod to lie— They found them in the morning on the dusty Con- cord road. Will M. Carleton. THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY." AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but stay. I’ll tell you what happened, without delay — Scaring the parson into fits. Frightening people out of their wits — Have you ever heard of that, I say ? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, Georgius Secundus was then alive — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock’s army was done so brown. Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible earthquake-day That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill. In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will — Above or below, or within or without — And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but does’nt wear out. But the deacon swore— (as deacons do. With an “ I dew vum ” or an “ I tell yeou,”) — He would build one shay to beat the taown ’N’ the keounty ’n’ all the kentry raoun’ ; ^ It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown ^ " Fur,” said the deacon, “ ’t’s mighty plain That the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain ’N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain. Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest.” So the deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That could n’t be split, nor bent, nor broke — NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 63 That was fo» spokes, and floor, and sills ; He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs from logs from the “ Settler’s ellum,” Last of its timber — they couldn't seii 'em — Never an ax had seen their chips. And the wedges flew from between their iips. Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too. Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide. Found in the pit where the tanner died. That was the way he “ put her through.” “ There ! ” said the deacon, “ naow she’ll dew ! ” Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray. Deacon and deaconess dropped away. Children and grandchildren — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay. As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen hundred — it came, and found The deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — “ Hahnsum kerridge ” they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came — Running as usual — much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive ; And then came fifty — and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth. So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large : Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.) First of November — the earthquake day. — There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay — But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn’t be — for the Deacon’s ar;- Had made it so like in every part Tliat there wasn’t a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. And the floor was just as strong as the sills. And the panels just as strong as the floor. And the whipple-tree neither less nor more. And the back crossbar as strong as the fore. And spring, and axle, and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a douot In another hour it will be worn our ! First of November, ’Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawl; by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. “ Huddup ! ” said the parson.— Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday text — Had got to “fifthly,” and stopped perplexed At what the— Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still. Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill. — First a shiver, and then a thrill. Then something decidedly like a spill — And the parson was sitting upon a rock. At half-past nine by the meet’n’-house clock — J ust the hour of the earthquake shock I What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around ! The poor old chaise in a heap or mound. As if it had been to the mill and ground ! You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce. How it went to pieces all at once — All at once, and nothing first- just as bubbles do when they burst. — End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That’s all I say. Oliver Wendell Hol.mes. THE DRUMMER-BOY’S BURIAL ✓"^LLday long the storm of battle through the I startled valley swept ; All night long the stars in heaven o’er the slain sad vigils kept. O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night 1 O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light ! One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke. But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day. And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay. Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer. For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air. But the foeman held possession of the hard-won battle- plain. In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. 64 CROWN JEWELS. Once again the night dropped round them— niglit so holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest. Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep ; E’en his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep. For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face. And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless re- pose, Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes. And the broken drum beside him all his life’s short story told : How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o’er him rolled. Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low. Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet’s murmuring flow ? Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round. As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground. Came two little maidens — sisters — with a light and hasty tread. And a look upon tlieir faces, half of .sorrow, half of dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial soli- tude. They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe’s scanty store. And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears. For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lam- bent flame. For their saintly hearts yearned o’er it in that hour of sorest need, A.nd they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o’er, And the form that lay before them its unwonted gar- ments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out. And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done. And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun. Gently then those little maidens — they were children of our foes — Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed re pose. LOVE Rm FRIENDSHIP. THOU’RT ALL THE WORLD TO ME. EAVEN hath its crown of stars, the earth Her glory- robe of flowers — ^^The sea its gems — the grand old woods Their songs and greening showers : The birds have homes, where leaves and blooms In beauty wreathe above; High yearning hearts, their rainbow-dream — And we, sweet ! we have love. We walk not with the jewell’d great. Where love’s dear name is sold ; I Yet have we wealth we would not give For all their world of gold I We revel not in corn and wine, Yet have we from above Manna divine, and we’ll not pine, While we may live and love. Cherubim, with clasping wings. Ever about us be, And, happiest of God’s happy things. There’s love for you and me ! Thy lips, that kiss to death, have turn’d I ife’s water into wine ; The sweet life melting through thy looks. Hath made my life divine. All love’s dear promise hath been kept. Since thou to me wert'given ; A ladder for my soul to climb. And summer high in heaven. I know, dear heart ! that in our lot May mingle tears and sorrow : But, love’s rich rainbow’s built from tears To-day, with smiles to-morrow. The sunshine from our sky may die. The greenness from life’s tree. But ever, ’mid the warring storm, Thy nest shall shelter’d be. The world may never know, dear heart ! What I have found in thee ; But, though naught to the world, dear heart ! Thou’rt all the world to me. Gerald Massey. THE QUEEN. ES, wife. I’d be a throned king, That you might share my royal seat, That titled beauty I might bring, And princes’ homage to your feet. How quickly, then, would nobles see Your courtly grace, your regal mien ; Even duchesses all blind should be To flaw or speck in you, their queen. Poor wish ! O, wife, a queen you are, To those feet many a subject brings A truer homage, nobler far Than bends before the thrones of ki,igs. You rule a realm, wife, In this heart. Where not one rebel fancy’s seen, Where hopes and smiles, how joyous ! start To own the sway of you, their qu.^en. How loyal are my thoughts by day ! How faithful is each dream of ntght ! Not one but lives but to obey Your rule — to serve you, i:s de'ight ; My hours — each instant — every breath Are, wife, as all have ever beet ,, Your slaves, to serve you unto death; O wife, you are indeed a queen ! William Cox Bennett. THE VALE OF AVOCA. f~' HERE is not in this wide world a valley so ^ sweet As that vale, in whose bosom the bright ^ waters meet ; O, the last ray of feeling and life must depart Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart' Yet it was not that Nature had shed o’er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; ’Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill — O, no ! it was something more exquisite still. ’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made ev’ry dear scene of enchantment more dear. And who felt how the best charms of nature improve. When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet Vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best ; Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease. And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace, Thomas Moore. 6J f66) CROWN JEWELS. 6G ANNABEL LEE. T was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden tliere lived, whom you may know ' By the name of Annabel Lee ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child, and she was a child. In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee — With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago. In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee ; So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, To snut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven. Went envying her and me. Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know. In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of the cloud by night. Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above. Nor the demons down under the sea. Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side Of my darling — my darling — my life and my bride In the sepulchre there by the sea. In her tomb by the sounding sea. Edgar Allen Poe. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Composed by Burns on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell. HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov’st to greet the early morn. Again thou usher’st in the day T My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget — Can I forget the hallowed grove. Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah 1 little thought we ’t was our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O’erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar. Twined amorous round the raptured s#ene ; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray — Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care 1 Time but the impression stronger makes. As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See’st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear’st thou the groans that rend his breast ? Robert Burns, THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL HE topsails shiver in the wind, The ship she casts to sea ; But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, “f Are, I\Iary, moor’d by thee : For though thy sailor’s bound afar ; Still love shall be his leading star. Should landmen flatter when we’re sailed, O doubt their artful tales ; No gallant sailor eved fail’d. If Cupid fill’d his sails: Thou art the compass of my soul. Which steers my heart from pole to polr„ Sirens in ev’ry port we meet. More fell than rocks and waves ; But sailors of the British fleet Are lovers, and not slaves ; No foes our courage shall subdue. Although we’ve left our hearts with you. These are our cares ; but if you’re kind. We’ll scorn the dashing main, The rocks, the billows, and the wind. The powers of France and Spain. Now Britain’s glory rests with you. Our sails are full — sweet girls, adieu ! Edward Thompson. LIBRARY Of THE UNIVERSITY OF ULINOIS LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. APOSTROPHE TO LOVE. AIL, holy love, thou word that sums all bliss. Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most Thougivest ! spring-head of all felicity. Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God ! Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love ! On earth mysterious, and mysterious still In Heaven ! sweet chord that harmonizes all The harps of Paradise ! Hail, love ! first love, thou word that sums all bliss ! The sparkling cream of all time’s ble.ssedness ; The silken down of happiness complete 1 Discerner of the ripest grapes of joy. She gathereth, and selecteth with her hand, All finest relishes, all fairest sights. All rarest odors, all divinest sounds. Ail thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul ; And brings the holy mixture home, and fills The heart with all superlatives of bliss. Robert Pollok. THE SAILOR’S RETURN. OOSE every sail to the breeze. The course of my vessel improve ; I’ve done with the toils of the seas, Ye sailors, I’m bound to my love. Since Emma is true as she’s fair, My griefs I fling all to the wind : ’Tis a pleasing return for my care, My mistress is constant and kind. My sails are all fill’d to my dear ; What tropic bird swifter can move ? Who, cruel shall hold his career That returns to the nest of his love? Hoist every sail to the breeze. Come, shipmates, and join in the song; Let’s drink, while the ship cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along. Edward Thompson. YES OR NO. ES,” I answered you last night ; \|^ “No,” this morning, sir, I say. Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. When the viols played their best, Lamps above, and laughs below, “ Love me ” sounded like a jest. Fit for “ yeS ” or fit for “ no.” Call me false or call me free. Vow, whatever light may shine. No man on your face shall see Any grief for change on mine. Yet the sin is on us both ; Time to dance is not to woo ; Wooing light makes fickle troth, Scorn of me recoils on you. Learn to win a lady’s faith Nobly, as the thing is high. Bravely, as for life and death. W’ith a loyal gravity. Lead her from the festive boards. Point her to the starry skies. Guard her, by your truthful words. Pure from courtship’s flatteries. By your truth she shall be true. Ever true, as wives of yore ; And her “ yes,” once said to you, Shall be yes forevermore. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. THE HEART’S DEVOTION. ''ELL him, for years I never nursed a thought That was not his ; — that on his wandering way Daily and nightly, poured a mourner’s prayers, 'f' Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share His lowliest lot — walk by his side, an outcast — Work for him, beg with him — live upon the light Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown The Bourbon lost. Edw'ard Bulwer Lvtton. NOTOURS THE VOWS. 1(1% OT ours the vows of such as plight I I Their troth in sunny weather, J While leaves are green, and skies are bright To walk on flowers together. But we have loved as those who tread The thorny path of sorrow. With clouds above, and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. That thorny path, those stormy skies. Have drawn our spirits nearer ; And rendered us, by sorrow’s ties. Each to the other dearer. Love, born In hours of joy and mirth, Y'ith mirth and joy may peri.^h ; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish. It looks beyond the clouds of time. And through death’s shadow portal Made by adversity sublime. By faith and hope immortal. Bernard 3.*j» -on. 88 ^ CROWN HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. AD 1 a heart for falsehood framed, I ne’er could injure you ; For though your tongue no promise claimed. Your charms would make me true : To you no soul shall bear deceit. No stranger offer wrong ; But friends in all the aged you’ll meet. And lovers in the young. For when they learn that you have blest Another with your heart, They’ll bid aspiring passion rest. And act a brother’s part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit. Nor fear to suffer wrong ; For friends in all the aged you’ll meet. And brothers in the young. Richard Brinsley Sheridan, THE MINSTREL’S SONG IN ELLA. SING unto my roundelay ! O, drop the briny tear with me ! J Dance no more at holiday. Like a running river be. . My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night. White his neck as the summer snow. Ruddy his face as the morning light ; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle’s note. Quick in dance as thought was he ; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; O, he lies by the willow-tree 1 My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Hark ! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below ; Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See ! the white moon shines on high ; Whiter is my true-love’s shroud. Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. JE’''’ELS My love is dead, Gone to his death bed. All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love’s grave, Shall the garish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed. Ail under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn Drain my heart’s blood all av : Life and all its good I scorn. Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Thomas Chatterton THE HARE-BELL. § Y sylvan waves that westward flow A hare-bell bent its beauty low. With slender waist and modest brow. Amidst the shades descending. A star look’d from the paler sky — The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh Forgot that love may look too high. And sorrow without ending. By casement hid, the flowers among, A maiden lean’d and listen’d long ; It was the hour of love and song. And early night-birds calling : A barque across the river drew — The rose was glowing through and through The maiden’s cheek of tremlsling hue. Amidst the twilight falling. She saw no star, she saw no flower — Her heart expanded to the hour ; She reck’d not of her lowly dower Amidst the shades descending. With love thus fix’d upon a height. That seem’d so beauteous to the sight. How could she think of wrong and blight. And sorrow without ending. The hare-bell droop’d beneath the dew. And closed its eye of tender blue ; No sun could e’er its life renew. Nor star, in music calling. Tlie autumn leaves were early shed ; But earlier on her cottage bed The maiden’s loving heart lay dead. Amidst the twilight falling ! Charles Swain LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 09 FORSAKEN. EVER any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive — Bitterly we recimbrace. Single still. Was it something said. Something done. Vexed him? was it touch of hand. Turn of head ? Strange ! that very way Love begun. I as little understand Love’s decay. When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sang — Sweetly too. If I spoke a word. First of all Up his cheek the color sprang, Then he heard. Sitting by my side. At my feet. So he breathed the air I breathed. Satisfied ! I, too, at love’s brim Touched the sweet. I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. “Speak — I love thee best ! ” He e.xclaimed — “ Let thy love my own foretell.” I confessed : Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed. Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine ! ” Was it wrong to own. Being truth? Why should all the giving prove His alone ? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth — Since my lover gave me love, I gave these. That was all I meant, — To be just. And the passion I had raised To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust. If I gave him what he praised. Was it strange ? Would he lov’d me yet. On and on. While I found some way undreamed — Paid my debt ! Gave more life and more. Till, all gone. He should smile — “She never seemed Mine before. “What — she felt the while. Must I think ? Love’s so different with us men,” He should smile. “ Dying for my sake — White and pink ! Can’t we touch these bubbles then, But they break?” Dear, the pang is brief. Do thy part. Have thy pleasure. How perplext Grows belief! Well, this cold clay clod Was man’s heart Crumble it —and what comes next ? Is it God? Robert Browning. ABSENT STILL AY, in melting purple dying ; Blossoms, all around me sighing ; P'ragrance, from the lilies straying ; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; Ye but waken my distress ; I am sick of loneliness 1 Thou, to whom I love to hearken. Come, ere night around me darken ; Though thy softness but deceive me. Say thou’rt true, and I’ll believe thee; Veil, if ill, thy soul’s intent. Let me think it innocent ! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; All I ask is friendship’s pleasure ; Let the shining ore lie darkling — Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; Gifts and gold are naught to me, I would only look on thee ! Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me . Let these eyes again caress thee. Once in caution, I could fly thee ; Now, I nothing could deny thee. In a look if death there be. Come, and I will gaze on thee ! Maria Gowen Brooks. 70 CROWN JEWELS. Q THE SMACK IN SCHOOL DISTRICT school, not far away ’Mid Berkshire hills, one winter’s day. Was humming with its wonted noise Of three-score mingled girls and boys, Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master’s downward look Was fastened on a copy-book ; When suddenly, behind his back. Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! As ’twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss ! “ What’s that ?” the startled master cries ; “That, thir,’’ a little imp replies, “ Wath William Willith, if you pleathe — ' I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe !’’ With frown to make a statue thrill. The master thundered, “ Hither, Will !” Like wretch o’ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back. Will hung his head in fear and shame. And to the awful presence came — A great, green, bashful simpleton. The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The threatener faltered — “ I’m amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be guilty of an act so rude ! Before the whole set school to boot — What evil genius put you to’t.?’’ “ ’Twas she herself, sir,’’ sobbed the lad, “ I did not mean to be so bad ; But when Susannah shook her curls. And whispered I was ’fraid of girls. And dursn’t kiss a baby’s doll, I couldn’t stand it, sir, at all. But up and kissed her on the spot ! 1 know — boo-hoo — I ought to not. But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo — I thought she kind o’ wished me to ! ’’ W. P. Palmer. FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME. CrXLY to the desert, fly with me. Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; X But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love or thrones without ? Our rocks are rough, but smiling there The acacia waves her yellow hair. Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. Our sands are bare, but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope A'^ gracefully and gayly springs As o’er the marble courts of kings. Then come— thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia-tree, The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. Oh ! there are looks and tones that da*^ An instant sunshine through the heart. As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure k though life had sought ; As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs. And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before as then. So came thy very glance and tone, When first on me they breathed and shone ; New, as if brought from other spheres. Yet welcome as if loved for years. Thomas Moore. THE QUIVER. ESTUS. Lady ! I will not forget my trust. {Apart) The breeze which curls the lakes’s bright lip but lifts A purer, deeper, water to the light : The ruffling of the wild bird’s wing but wakes A warmer beauty and a downier depth. That startled shrink, that faintest blossom-blush Of constancy alarmed ! — Love ! if thou hast One weapon in shining armory, The quiver on thy shoulder, where thou keep’st Each arrowy eye-beam feathered with a sigh ; — If from that bow, shaped so like Beauty’s lip, Strung with its string of pearls, thou wilt twang forth But one dart, fair into the mark I mean — Do it, and I will worship thee for ever : Yea, I will give thee glory and a name Known, sunlike in all nations- Heart be still ! Philip James Bailey.- m' OTHELLO’S DEFENCE. OST potent, grave, and reverend signiors. My very noble and approved good masters. That I have ta’en away ti»is old man’s daugh- ^ ter. It is most true ; true, I have married her ; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my s*)eech. And little bless’d with the set phrase of peace. For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith. Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field : And little of this great world can I speak. More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience. I will axound unvarnished tale deliver lovp: and friendship. 71 or my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, (For such proceeding I am charged withal,) 1 won his daughter with. Her father loved me, oft invited me ; Still questioned me the story of my life, From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes, T hat I have passed. I ran it through, even from my boyish days, ■''o the very moment that he bade me tell it ; Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents, by flood and field ; '■./f hairbreadth ’scapes in the imminent deadly breach ; Of being taken by th» insolent foe, And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel’s history ; Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven. It was my hint to speak, such was the process : And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; Which ever as she could with haste despatch. She’d come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse : which, I observing. Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That- 1 would all my pilgrimage dilate. Whereof by parcels she had something heard. But not intentively : I did consent ; And often did beguile her of her tears. When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer’d. My story being done. She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore — in faith, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange, ’Twas pitiful, ’twas wondrous pitiful : — She wished she had not heard it ; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man ; she thank’d me ; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used ; Here comes the lady, let her witness it. William Shakspeare. FRIENDSHIP. *jr NVIDIOUS grave ! — how dost thou rend in sunder '©• Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! A A tie more stubborn far than nature’s band. ' Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ; Sweetener of life, and solder of societj', I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labors of thy love. And the warm efforts of the gentle heart. Anxious to please. — Oh ! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander'd heedless on. Hid from the vulgar eye, and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-cover’d bank. Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood, Sweet murmuring ; methought the shrill-tongued thrush Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird Mellow’d his pipe, and soften’d every note : The eglantine smell’d sweeter, and the rose Assumed a d3'e more deep ; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury Of dress Oh ! then, the longest summer’s day Seem’d too, too much in haste ; still the full heart Had not imparted half : ’twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed. Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! Robert Blair. EUPHROSYNE. MUST not say that thou wert true, Yet let me say that thou wert fair. And they that lovely face who view. They will not ask if truth be there. Truth — what is truth ! Two bleeding hearts Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts. Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear : Their lot was but to weep and moan. Ah, let them keep their faith sincere. For neither could subsist alone ! But souls whom some benignant breath Has charm’d at birth from bloom and care. These ask no love — these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are. The world to them may homage make. And garlands for their forehead weave , And what the world can give, they take — But they bring more than they receive. They smile upon the world ; their ears To one demand alone are coy. They will not give us love and tears — They bring us light, and warmth, and joy. On one she smiled and he was blest ! She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! But ’twas not love that heaved his breast, Fair child ! it was the bliss within. Matthew Arnold. 72 CROWN JEWELS. THEY SIN WHO TELL US LOVE CAN DIE. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. HEY sin who tel! us love can die With life all other passions fly — All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell : Earthly, these passions of the earth, They perish where they had their birth ; But love is indestructible. Its holy flame for ever burneth ; From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. Too oft on earth a troubled guest. At times deceived, at times oppressed. It here is tried and purified. Then hath in heaven its perfect rest. It soweth here with toil and care. But the harvest-time of love is there. Robert Southey. “F ’M sitting on the stile, Mary, •©• Where we sat side by side A On a bright May morning, long ago, I When first you were my bride ; The corn was springing fresh and green. And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day as bright as then ; The lark’s loud song is in my ear. And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath warm on my cheek ; And I still keep listening for the words You never more will speak. TO HIS WIFE. H ! hadst thou never shared my fate, More dark that fate would prove. My heart were truly desolate Without thy soothing love. But thou hast suffer’d for my sake. Whilst this relief I found, Like fearless lips that strive to take The poison from a wound. My fond affection thou hast seen. Then judge of my regret, To think more happy thou hadst been If we had never met. And has that thought been shared by thee ? Ah, no ! that smiling cheek Proves rnore unchanging love for me Than labor’d words could speak. But there are true hearts which the sight Of sorrow summons forth ; Though known in days of past delight. We know not half their worth. How unlike some who have profess’d So much in friendship’s name. Yet calmly pause to think how best They may evade her claim. But ah ! from them to thee I turn. They’d make me loathe mankind. Far better lessons I may learn From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home, I feel they cannot take ; We’ll pray for happier years to come. For one-another’s sake. Thomas Haynes Bayly. ’Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near — The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between them, Mary, And my step might break your rest — For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I’m very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends : But, oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary — My blessing and my pride ; There’s nothing left to care for now. Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on. When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm’s young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip. And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Tho’ you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smilo When your heart was fit to break — When the hunger pain was gnawing there. And you did it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore — Oh ! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can’t reach you more ! I’m bidding you a long farewell, Mv Mary — kind and true ! But I’ll not forget you darling. In the land I’m going to ; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 73 They say there’s bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there — But I’ll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair. And often in those grand old woods I’ll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And I II think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side. And the springing corn, and the bright May morn When first you were my bride. Helen Selina Sheridan. THE FICKLENESS OF PHYLLIS. E shepherds, give ear to my lay, An^ take no more heed of my sheep ; They have nothing to do but to stray ; I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove ; She was fair — and my passion begun ; She smiled — and I could not but love ; She is faithless — and I am undone. Perhaps I was void of all thought : Perhaps it was plain to foresee. That a nymph so complete would be sought. By a swain more engaging than me. Ah 1 love every hope can inspire ; It banishes wisdom the while ; And the lip of the nymph we admire Seems for ever adorn’d with a smile. She is faithless, and I am undone ; Ye that witness the woes I endure. Let reason instruct you to shun What it cannot in.struct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain Amid nymphs of a higher degree : It is not for me to explain How fair, and how fickle they be. Alas 1 from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain : The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear’d for her pleasure in vain. In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose, The sound of a murmuring stream. The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be Corydon’s theme. High transports are shown to the sight. But we are not to find them our own ; Fate never bestow’d such delight. As I with my Phyllis had known. 0 ye woods, spread your branches apace ; To your deepest recesses I fly ; 1 would hide with the beasts of the chase ; I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove With the same sad complaint it begun ; How she smiled — and I could not but love ; Was faithless — and 1 am undone 1 William Shenstone. LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM. THE days are gone, when beauty bright My heart's chain wove ; J When my dream of life, from morn till night. Was love, still love. New hope may bloom. And days may come. Of milder, calmer beam ; But there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream. Thomas Moore. MAID OF ATHENS. AID of Athens, ere we part, Give, O, give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast. Keep it now, and take the rest ! Hear my vow before I go. By those tresses unconfined. Woo’d by each AJgean wind ; ' By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge ; By those wild eyes like the roe ; By that lip I long to taste ; By that zone-encircled waist ; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well ; By love’s alternate joy and woe. Maid of Athens ! I am gone. Think of me, sweet, when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul. Can I cease to love thee ? No 1 Lord Byron. FIRST LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS. (J^MRST-LOVE will with the heart remain When its hopes are all gone by ; A As frail rose blossoms still retain Their fragrance when they die : And joy’s first dreams will haunt the mind With the shades ’mid which they sprung, As summer leaves the stems behind On which spring’s blossoms hung. John Clare, 74 CROWN JEWELS. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP ' HE birds, when winter shades the sky, Fly o’er the seas away. Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, And summer breezes play ; And thus the friends that flutter near While fortune’s sun is warm Are startled if a cloud appear. And fly before the storm. But when from winter’s howling plains Each other warbler’s pa-.t. The little snow bird still remains. And chirrups midst the blast. Love, like that bird, when friendship’s throng With fortune’s sun depart. Still lingers with its cheerful song, And nestles on the heart. William Leggett. THE HEAVENLY FLAME. OVE is the root of creation ; God’s essence. Worlds without number Lie in his bosom like children ; He made them for His purpose only — Only to love and to be loved again. He breathed forth His spirit Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven ; Quench, O quench not that flame ! it is the breath of your being. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. BILL MASON'S BRIDE. ■•'^ALF an hour till train time, sir, 1^ J An’ a fearful dark time, too ; A A Take a look at the switch lights, Tom, ^ Fetch in a stick when you’re through. “ On time ?” well, yes, I guess so — l.eft the last station all right — SheTt come round the curve a flyin’ ; Bill Mason comes up to-night. Yon know Bill? No! He’s engineer, Been on the road all his life — I’ll never forget the mornin’ He married his chuck of a wife. ’Twas the summer the mill hands struck — Jusi off work, every one ; They kicked up a row in the village And killed old Donevan’s son. Bill liadn’t been married mor’n an hour. Up conies a message from Kress, Orderin’ Bill to go up there. And bring down the night express. He left his gal in a hurry, And went up on Number One, Thinking of nothing but Mary, And the train he had to run. And Mary sat down by the window To wait for the night express ; And, sir, if she hadn’t a’ done so, She’d been a widow, I guess. For it must a’ been nigh midnight When the mill hands left the Ridge— They come down — the drunken devils 1 Tore up a rail from the bridge. But Mary heard ’em a workin’ And guessed there was somethin’ wrong — And in less than fifteen minutes, Bill’s train it would be along. She couldn’t come here to tell us. A mile — it wouldn’t a’ done — So she just grabbed up a lantern. And made for the bridge alone. Then down came the night express, sir. And Bill was makin’ her climb ! But Mary held the lantern, A-swingin’ it all the time. Well ! by Jove ! Bill saw the signal. And he stopped the night express. And he found his Mary cryin’. On the track, in her wedding dress ; Cryin’ an’ laughin’ for joy, sir. An’ holdin’ on to the light — Hello ! here’s the train — good-bye, sir. Bill Mason’s on time to-night. F. Bret Harts. BEDOUIN SONG. (^TJ^ROM 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 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. Try 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 ! 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 ! Bayard Taylor. TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. IS the last rose of summer Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions 'f' Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred. No rosebud is nigh. To reflect back her blushes. Or give sigh for sigh ! I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one. To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping. Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow. When friendships decay. And from love’s shining circle The gems drop away ! When true hearts lie wither’d. And fond ones are flown. Oh ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? Thomas Moore. Said softly — This is she whom thou didst choose ; And thenceforth ever, through the morn of life. Thou wert my playmate — thou my only joy. Thou my chief sorrow when I saw thee not. — And when my daily consciousness of life Was born and died — thy name the last went up, Thy name the first, before our Heavewly Guide, For favor and protection. All the flowers Whose buds I cherish’d, and in summer heats Fed with mock showers, and proudly show’d theii bloom, For thee I rear’d, because all beautiful And gentle 'things reminded me of thee : Yea, and the morning, and the rise of sun. And the fall of evening, and the starry host. If aught I loved, I loved because thy name Sounded about me when I look’d on them. Dean Alford. THE PARTING KISS. NE kind wish before we part, Drop a tear and bid adieu : Though we sever, my fond heart. Till we meet, shall pant for you. Yet, yet weep not so, my love. Let me kiss that falling tear ; Though my body must remove. All my soul will still be here. All my soul, and all my heart, And every wish shall pant for you ; One kind kiss, then, ere we part, Drop a tear, and bid adieu. Robert Dodsley. NO HEART WITHOUT ITS MATE. •^ ■’HE bard has sung, God never form’d a soul |(T\ Without its own peculiar mate, to meet Its wandering halfi when ripe to crown the « whole Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete ! Biu thousand evil things there are that hate To look on happiness : these hurt, impede. And, leagued with time, space, circumstance and fate. Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine, and pant, and bleed. GENTLEST GIRL ENTLEST girl. Thou wert a bright creation of my thought. In earliest childhood — and my seeking soul Wander d ill-satisfied, till one blest day Thine image pass’d athwart it — thou wert then A young and happy child, sprightly as life ; Yet not so bright or beautiful as that Mine inward vision ; —but a whispering voice And as the dove to far Palmyra flying From where her native founts of Antioch beam. Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing. Lights sadly at the desert’s bitter stream ; So many a soul, o’er life’s dreary desert faring. Love’s pure congenial spring unfound, unquaflT’d, Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty, and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. Maria Brooks. 76 CROWN JEWELS. O.M AN OLD WEDDING-RING The Device — Two hearts united. The Motto.— D ear love of mine, my heart is thine, LIKE that ring — that ancient ring, ■@* Of massive form, and virgin gold, X As firm, as free from base alloy I As were the sterling hearts of old. I like it — for it wafts me back. Far, far along the stream of time, To other men, and other days. The men and days of deeds sublime. Pledge of devoted faithfulness. Of heartfelt, holy love, t!ie token : What varied feelings round it cling ! - For these, ! like that ancient ring. George Washington Doane. EDWIN AND ANGELINA. *^”’URN, gentle hermit of the dale, ^ ^ guide my lonely way V|i/ To where yon taper cheers the vaie ''f With hospitable ray. But most I like it, as it tells The tale of well-requited love ; How youthful fondness persevered. And youthful faith disdain’d to rove — How warmly /le his suit preferr’d. Though s/ie, unpitying, long denied, Till, soften’d and subdued at la t. He won his “fair and blooming bride.” — How, till the appointed day arrived. They blamed the lazy-footed hours — How, then, the white-robed maiden train Strew’d their glad way with freshest flowers — And how, before the holy man. They stood, in all their youthful pride. And spoke those words, and vow’d those vows, Which bind the husband to his bride : I like its simple poesy, too, “ Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !” Thine, when the dark storm howls along. As when the cloudless sunbeams shine, *■' This heart is thine, mine own dear love !” Thine, and thine only, and forever: Thine, till the springs of life shall fail ; Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. Remnant of days departed long. Emblem of plighted troth unbroken. For here forlorn and lost I tread. With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds immeasurably spread. Seem lengthening as I go.” “ Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries, •“ To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder phantom only flies To lure thee to thy doom. Here, to the houseless child of want, My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant I give it with good will. Then turn to-night, and freely sharfi Whate’er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity them. But from the mountain’s grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied. And water from the spring. Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong : Man wants but little here below. Nor wants that little long.” Soft, as the dew from heaven descendsy His gentle accents fell ; The modest stranger lowly bends. And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure. The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighboring poor, And strangers led astray. Around, in sympathetic mirth. Its tricks the kitten tries ; The cricket cherubs in the hearth The crackling faggot flies. All this it tells ; the plighted troth — The gift of every earthly thing— The hand in hand — the heart in heart- For this I like that ancient ring. I like its old and quaint device ; “Two blended hearts” — though time may wear them. No mortal change, no mortal chance, “Till death,” shall e’er in sunder tear them. Year after year, ’neath sun and storm. Their hope in heaven, their trust in God, • In changeless, heartfelt, holy, love, These two the world’s rough pathway trod. Age might impair their youthful fires. Their strength might fail, ’mid life’s bleak weather. Still, hand in hand, they travell’d on — Kind souls ! they slumber now together. I.OVE AND FRIr:NDSIIIP. 77 But nothing could a charm impart, To soothe the stranger's woe ; B'or grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit spied. With answering care opprest : And whence, unhappy youth,” he cried, “The sorrows of thy breast? k’rom better habitations spurn’d. Reluctant dost thou rove ? Or grieve for friendship unretum’d, Or unregarded love? Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things Hore trifling still than they. And what is friendship but a name : A charm that lulls to sleep ! A shade that follows wealth or fame, And leaves the wretch to weep. And love is still an emptier sound, The modern fair-one’s jest. On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle’s nest. For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex,” he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray’d. Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view. Like colors o’er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast. Alternate spread alarms ; The lovely stranger stands confess’d A maid in all her charms. *' And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn,” she cried, “Whose feet unhallow’d thus intrude Where heaven and you reside. But let a maid thy pity share. Whom love has taught to stray : Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark’d as mine ; He had but only me. To win me from his tender arms. Unnumber’d suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms And felt, or feign’d, a flame. Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove : Amongst the rest young Edwin be'' ’dl, But never talk’d of love. In humblest, simplest habit clad, No wealth nor power had he : Wisdom and worth were all He had ; But these were all to me. The blossom opening to the day. The dews of heaven refined. Could naught of purity display. To emulate his mind. The dew, the blossoms of the tree. With charms inconstant sliine ; Their charms were his ; bet 'v -^e to mfr, Their constancy was mine. For still I tried each fickle art. Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch’d my heart I triumph’d in his pain. Till quite dejected with my scorn, He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn. In secret, where he died ! But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. And well my life shall pay : I’ll seek the solitude he sought. And stretch me where he lay. And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, I’ll lay me down and dij : ’T*vas so for me that Edwin did. And so for him will I.” “Forbid it. Heaven !” the hermit cried. And clasp’d her to his breast : The wondering fair one turn’d to chide; ’Twas Edwin's self that prest ! “Turn, Angelina, ever dear. My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long lost Edwin here. Restored to love and thee. Thus let me hold thee to my heart. And every care resign ; And shall we never, never part. My life — my all that’s mine ? No, never from this hour to part. We’ll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart. Shall break thy Edwin s too.” OuvER Goldsmii j, 78 CROWN JEWELS. ALL FOR LOVE. TALK not to me of a name great in story ; The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and- tvventy Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? ’Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? | 0 Fame ! — if I e’er took delight in thy praises, ’Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases. Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; V\’hen it sparkled o’er aught that was bright in my story, 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. Lord Byron. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. VER the mountains. And under the waves, Over the fountains. And under the graves. Under floods which are deepest. Which Neptune obey. Over rocks which are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie, Where there is no place For the receipt of a fly. Where the gnat dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay. If Love come he will enter. And find out the way. If that he were hidden. And all men that are. Were strictly forbidden That place to declare : Winds that have no abidings. Pitying their delay. Would come and bring him tidings. And direct him the way. If the earth should part him. He would gallop it o’er ; If the seas should o’erthwart him. He would swim to the shore. Should his love become a swallow, Through the air to stray. Love will lend wings to follow. And will find out the way. There is no striving To cross his intent. There is no contriving His plots to prevent ; The letter his heart’s vows stating. No closed gates delay From the hand that is waiting ; Love will find out the way. WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. B e have been friends together. In sunshine and in shade ; Since first beneath the chestnut trees In infancy we play’d. But coldness dwells within thy heart — A cloud is on thy brow ; We have been friends together — Shall a light word part us now ? We have been gay together ; We have laugh'd at little jests ; For the fount of hope was gushing. Warm and joyous, in our breasts. But laughter now hath fled thy lip. And sullen glooms thy brow ; We have been gay together — Shall a light word part us now ? We have been sad together — We have wept, with bitter tears. O’er the grass-grown graves, where slumber’d The hopes of early years. The voices which are silent there Would bid thee clear thy brow ; We have been sad together — O ! what shall part us now ? Caroline Elizabeth Norton. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. F all the girls that are so smart. There’s none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land. Is half so sweet as Sally : She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage'nets. And through the streets does cry ’em. Her mother she sells laces long, To such as please to buy ’em : But sure such folks could ne’er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that’s in the week, I dearly love but one day ; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 79 And that’s the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday ; For then I’m dress’d all in my best, To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And ofter am I blamed, Because I leave him in the lurch, As soon as text is named ; I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Henry Carey. AMYNTA Y sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook; No more for Amynta fresh garland I wove ; For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ? Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook re- store. And I’ll wander from love and Amynta no more. Through regions remote in vain do I rove, And bid the wide ocean secure me from love ! Oh, fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well-founded, a passion so true ! Alas ! ’tis too late at thy feet to repine ; Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain. The moments neglected return not again. Sir Gilbert Elliot. BEN BOLT. ON’T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt ? Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown, Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown ? In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a comer obscure and alone. They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey. And Alice lies under the stone. Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, , Together we’ve lain in the noonday shade. And listen'd to Appleton’s mill : The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Bfen Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in, And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze, Has follow’d tlie olden din. Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Which nigh by the door-step stood ? The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek in vain ; And where once the lords of the forest waved. Grows grass and the golden grain. A.nd don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim. And the shaded nook in the running brook. Where the children went to swim ? Grass grows on the master’s grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry. And of all the boys who were schoolmates then. There are only you and I. There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new : But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth, There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends — yet I hail Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale. Thomas Dunn English. LUCY. HE dwelt among the untrodden ways. Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise. And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone. Half hidden from the eye ; Fair as a star when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could knov/ When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and oh. The difference to me ! William Wordsworth, PEARLY TEARS. OT what the chemists say they be. Are pearls — they never grew ; They come not from the hollow sea, They come from heaven in dew. Down in the Indian Sea it slips. Through green and briny whirls, Where great shells catch it in their lips, And kiss it into pearls. If dew can be so beauteous made. Oh, why not tears, my girl ? Why not your tears ? Be not afraid — I do but kiss a pearl. Richard Henry Stoddard 80 CROWN JEWELS. THE TIME OF ROSES. T was not in the winter ’ Our loving lot was cast ; ' It was the time of roses — We plucked them as we passed ! That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet ; Oh no ! — the world was newly crowned 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 plucked them as we passed 1 What else could peer my glowing cheek, That tears began to stud ? And when I asked the like of love, You snatched a damask bud — And oped it to the dainty core, Still blowing to the last ; It was the time of roses — We plucked them as we passed ! Thomas Hood. LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY. fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix forever *1* With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine In one another ’s being mingle — Why not I with thine ? See the mountains kiss high heaven. And the waves clasp one another ; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother ; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea — What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? Percy Bysshe Shelley. NO JE\A./ELLED BEAUTY IS MY LOVE. O jewelled beauty is my love, Yet in her earnest face There’s such a world of tenderness. She needs no other grace. Her smiles and voice around my life In light and music twine. And dear, oh 1 very dear to me Is this sweet love of mine. Oh joy ! to know there’s one fond heart Beats ever true to me ; It sets mine leaping like a lyre, In sweetest melody ; My soul up-springs, a deity ! To hear her voice divine ; And dear, oh ! very dear to me Is this sweet love of mine. If ever I have sighed for wealth, ’Twas all for her, I trow ; And if I win fame’s victor-wreath, I’ll twine it on her brow. There may be forms more beautiful, And souls of sunnier sliine, But none, oh ! none so dear to me As this sweet love of mine. Gerald Massey. THE LOW-BACKED CAR. HEN first I saw sweet Peggy, ’Twas on a market day : A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass, And decked with flowers of spring. No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his owldpoll, And looked after the low-backed car. In battle’s wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death in warlike cars ; While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eye. That knock men down in the market town As right and left they fly ; While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far — For the doctor’s art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggy round her car, sir. Has strings of ducks and geese. But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these ; While she among her poultry sits. Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love 1 While she sits in her low-backed car. The lovers come near and far. And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin’. As she sits in her low-backed car. T M library OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 81 O, I’d rather own that car, sir, Witli Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride ; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste — Wlhle Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist. While we drove in the low-backed car, To be married by Father Mahar ; O, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh — Though it beat in a low-backed car ! Samuel Lover. IF I HAD KNOWN. F I had known, oh, loyal heart, When, hand to hand, we said farewell. How for all time our paths would part. What shadow o’er our friendship fell, I should have clasped your hands so close In the warm pressure of my own, That memory still would keep its grasp — If I had known. If I had known, when far and wide We loitered through the summer land. What Presence wandered by our side, And o’er you stretched its awful hand, I should have hushed my careless speech. To listen, dear, to every tone That from your lips fell low and sweet — If I had known. If I had known, when your kind eyes Met mine in parting, true and sad — Eyes gravely tender, gently wise. And earnest, rather, more than glad — How soon the lids would lie above. As cold and white as sculptured stone, I should have treasured every glance — If I had known. If I had known how, from the strife Of fears, hopes, passions, here below. Unto a purer, higher life That you were called, oh ! friend, to go, I should have stayed my foolish tears. And hushed each idle sigh and moan. To bid you last a long godspeed — If I had known. If I had known to what strange place. What mystic, distant, silent shore, You calmly turned your steadfast face. What time your footsteps left my door, I should have forged a golden link To bind the hearts so constant grown. And kept it constant ever there — If I had known. If I had known that until Death Shall with his finger touch my brow, And still the quickening of the breath That stirs with life’s full meaning now. So long my feet must tread the way Of our accustomed paths alone, I should have prized your presence more — If I had known. If I had known how soon for you Drew near the ending of the fight. And on your vision, fair and new. Eternal peace dawned into sight, I should have begged, as love’s last gift. That you, before God’s great white throne, Would pray for your poor friend on earth — If I had known. WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. HEN sparrows build and the leaves brea^ forth. My old sorrow wakes and cries. For I know there is dawn in the far, far north. And a scarlet sun doth rise ; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads. And the icy fount runs free ; And the bergs begin to bow their heads. And plunge and sail in the sea. Oh, my lost love, and my own, own love. And my love that loved me so ! Is there never a chink in tlie world above Where they listen fur wi rds from below ? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore ; I remembered all that 1 said ; And thou wilt hear me no more — no more Till the sea gives up her dead. Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and the snow ; Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail, And the end I could not know. How could I tell I should love thee to-day. Whom that day I held not dear? How could I tell I should love thee away When I did not love thee a-near ? We shall walk no more through the sodden plaitv With the faded bents o’erspread ; We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o’erhead ; We shall part no more in the wind and rain Where thy last farewell was said ; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead. Jean Ingelow. 6J 82 CROWN JEWELS. SEVERED FRIENDSHIP. LAS ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above ; And life is thorny ; and youth is vain , And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine. With Roland and Sir Leoline. Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart’s best brother : They parted— ne’er to meet again ! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining — They stood aloof, the scars remaining. Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; A dreary sea now flows between ; But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. Shall wholly do away, I ween. The marks of that which once hath been. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. RORY O’MORE; OR, ALL FOR GOOD LUCK. OUNG Rory O’More courted Kathleen bawn~ He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn ; He wished in his heart pretty Kathleen to please. And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. “ Now, Rory, be aisy ! ” sweet Kathleen would cry. Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye — “With your tricks, I don’t know, in troth, what I’m about ; Faith ! you’ve tazed me till I’ve put on my cloak inside out.’’ “Och ! jewel,” says Rory, “That same is the way Ye’ve thrated my heart for this many a day ; And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O’More. “ Indeed, then,” says Kathleen, “don’t think of the like. For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike ; The ground that I walk on he loves. I’ll be bound — ” “Faith!” says Rory, “I’d rather love you than the ground.” “ Now, Rory, I’ll cry if you don’t let me go ; Sure I dream every night that I’m hating you so I ” “Och ! ” says Rory, “that same I’m delighted to hear. For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. So, jewel, keep dhraming that same till ye die, And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie ! And ’tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure I Since ’tis all for good luck,” says bold Rory O More. “ Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you’ve tazed me enough ; Sure I’ve thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff ; And I’ve made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste— So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste.” Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck. So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light. And he kissed her sweet lips — don’t you think he was right ? “Now, Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no more — That’s eight times to day that you’ve kissed me be fore.” “Then here goes another,” says he, “ to make sure ! For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O More. Samuel Lover. THE PLEDGE OF LOVE. OMEO — If I profane with my unw'orthy hand [7b Juliet. This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this — My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand. To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Juliei — Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch. And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss. Romeo — Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too ? Juliet — Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Rotneo—Oxhcn, dear saint, let lips do what hands do ; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to de.spair. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. Romeo — Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my.sin is purg’d. [Kissing her. Juliet — Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Romeo — Sin from my lips ? O trespass sweetly urged ! Give me my sin again. Juliet — You kiss by the book. Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie. And young affection gapes to be his heir ; That fair, which love groan’d for, and would die. With tender Juliet match’d, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov’d, and loves again. Alike bewitched by the charm of looks ; But to his foe suppos’d he must complain. And she steal love’s sweet bait from fearful hooks . Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers used to swear ; And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new-beloved any where ; But passion lends them pow’r, time means to meet, Temp’ring extremities with extreme sweet. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 83 A MILKMAID’S SONG. P ULL, pull ! and the pail ts full, And milking’s done and over. Who would not sit here jnder the tree ? What a fair, fair thing’s a green fitid to see ! Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! I have set my pail on the daisies ! It seems so light — can the sun be set? The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet, I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! Harry is near, Harry is near, My heart’s as sick as if he were here. My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet, He hasn’t uttered a word as yet. But the air’s astir with his praises. My Harry ! The air’s astir with your praises. He has scaled the rock by the pixy’s stone. He’s among the kingcups — he picks me one, I love the grass that I tread upon When I go to my Harry ! He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knoll, There’s never a faster foot I know. But still he seems to tarry. O Harry ! O Harry ! my love, my pride. My heart is leaping, my arms are wide ! Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, Roll up, and bring my Harry ! They may talk of glory over the sea. But Harry’s alive, and Harry’s for me. My love, my lad, my Harry ! Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow, What cares Dolly, whether or no, While I can milk and marry ? Right or wrong, and wrong or right. Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight. But I’ll bring my pail home every night To love, and home, and Harry ! We 11 drink our can, we’ll eat our cake. There’s beer in the barrel, there’s bread in the bake. The world may sleep, the world may wake. But I shall milk and marry. And marry, I shall milk and marry. Sydney Dobell. FETCHING WATER FROM THE WELL. ARLY on a sunny morning, while the lark was ^ singing sweet, ^ * Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds of lightly tripping feet. ’Twas a lowly cottage maiden going — why, let young hearts tell— With her homely pitcher laden, fetching water from the well. Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the quiet lane. And the breezes of the morning moved them to and fro again. O’er the sunshine, o’er the shadow, passed maiden of the farm, W'ith a charmed heart within her, thinking of no ill nor harm. Pleasant, surely, were her musings, for the nodding leaves in vain Sought to press their brightening image on her ever busy brain. Leaves and joyous birds went by her, like a dim, half waking dream ; And her soul was only conscious of life’s gladdest sum- mer gleam. At the old lane’s shady turning lay a well of water bright. Singing, soft, its hallelujah to the gracious morning light. Fern-leaves, broad and green, bent o’er it where its silvery droplets fell. And the fairies dwelt beside it, in the spotted foxglove bell. Back she bent the shading fern-leaves, dipt the pitcher in the tide — Drew it, with the dripping waters flowing o’er its glazdd side. But before her arm could place it on her shiny, wavy hair. By her side a youth was standing ! — Love rejoiced to see the pair ! Tones of tremulous emotion trailed upon the morning breeze. Gentle words of heart-devotion whispered ’neath the ancient trees. But the holy, blessed secrets it becomes me not to tell ■ Life had met another meaning, fetching water from the well I Down the rural lane they sauntered. He the burden- pitcher bore ; She, with dewy eyes down-looking, grew more be.iu- teous than before ! When they neared the silent homestead, up he raised the pitcher light ; Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of wave- lets bright : Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of him she’d bear. Calling every burden blessed, if his love but lighted there. Then, still waving benedictions, further, further off he drew. While his shadow seemed a glory that across the path way grew. Now about her household duties silently the maiden went. And an ever-radiant halo o’er her daily life was blent. Little knew the aged matron as her feet like music fell, What abundant treasure found she fetching water from tlie well ! 84 CROWN JEWELS. KITTY OF COLERAINE. S beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttermilk watered the plain. “O, what shall I do now — ’t was looking at you now ! Sure, sure, such a pitcher I’ll ne’er meet again! ’Twas the pride of my dairy ; O Barney M'Cleary ! You’re sent as a^lague to the girls of Coleraine.” I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain. A kiss then I gave her ; and ere I did leave her. She vowed for such pleasure she’d break it again. ’Twas hay-making season — I can’t tell the reason — Misfortunes will never come single, ’t is plain ; For very soon after poor Kitty’s disaster Not a buttermilk pitcher was whole in Coleraine. SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. GREW assured, before I asked. That she’d be mine without reserve. And in her unclaimed graces basked At leisure, till the time should serve — With just enough of dread to thrill The hope, and make it trebly dear : Thus loath to speak the word, to kill Either the hope or happy fear. Till once, through lanes returning late. Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; And ere we reached her father s gate, We paused with one presentient mind ; And in the dim and perfumed mist Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free. And very women, loved to assist A lover’s opportunity. Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word ; To faint and frail cathedral chimes Spake time in music, and we heard The chafers rustling in the limes. Her dress, that touched me where I stood ; The warmth of her confided arm ; Her bosom’s gentle neighborhood ; Her pleasure in her power to charm ; Her look, her love, her form, her touch ! The last seemed most by blissful turn — Blissful but that it pleased too much. And taught the wayward soul to yearn. It was as if a harp with wires Was traversed by the breath I drew ; And O, sweet meeting of desires I She, answering, owned that she loved too. Coventry Patmore. THE LOVER’S COMING. LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover. Dark, dark was the burden, I saw not the gate, •J* “Now, if there be footsteps, becomes, 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. “Your night-moths that hover where 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 conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night.” By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover ; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; But I’ll love him more, more Than e’er wife loved before. Be the days dark or bright. Jean Ingelow. SUMMER DAYS. ‘I’ N summer, when the days were long. We walked together in the wood : Our heart was light, our step was strong ; I Sweet flutterings were there in our blood. In summer, when the days were long. We strayed from morn till evening came ; We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; We walked mid poppies red as flame. Or sat upon the yellow downs ; And always wished our life the same. In summer, when the days were long, We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook ; And still her voice flowed forth in song. Or else she read some graceful book, In summer, when the days were long. And then we sat beneath the trees. With shadows lessening in the noon ; And in the sunlight and the breeze. We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o’er the leas. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 85 In summer, when the days were long, On dainty chicken, snow-white bread. We feasted, with no grace but song ; We plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red. In summer, when the days were long. We loved, and yet we knew it not — for loving seemed like breathing then ; We found a heaven in every spot ; Saw angels, too, in all good men ; And dreamed of God in grove and grot. In summer, when the days are long. Alone I wander, muse alone. I see her not ; but that old song Under the fragrant wind is blown. In summer, when the dajs are long. Alone I wander in the wood : But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; And half I see, so glad and good. The honest daylight of her eyes. That charmed me under earlier skies. Thy vows are all broken. And light is thy fame ; I hear tliy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o’er me — Why w'ert thou so dear? They know not 1 knew thee. Who knew thee too well. Long, long, shall I rue thee Too deeply to tell. In secret we met — In silence I grieve. That thy heart could forget. Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years. How should I greet thee ? — In silence and tears. Lord Byron. In summer, when the days are long, I love her as we loved of old. My heart is light, my step is strong ; Tor love brings back those hours of gold, In summer, when the days are long. MEETING. gray sea, and the long black land ; |(T\ And the yellow half-moon large and low ; V 41 / And the startled little waves, that leap 'f In fiery ringlets from their sleep. As I gain the cove with pushing prow. And quench its speed in the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross, till a farm appears ; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 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. Robert Browning. WHEN WE TWO PARTED. HEN w’e two parted In silence and tears. Half broken-hearted. To sever for years. Pale grew thy cheek and cold. Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow — It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. FORGET THEE? w ORGET thee?” — If to dream by night, and muse on thee by day. If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet’s heart can pay. If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven’s protecting power. If winged thoughts that flit to thee — a thousand in an hour. If busy fancy blending thee with all my future lot — If this thou call’st “ forgetting, ” thou indeed shalt be forgot ! ‘‘Forget thee?” — Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune ; Forget thee? ” — Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon ; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re- freshing dew ; Thyself forget thine ‘‘own dear land,” and its ‘‘ mountains wild and blue ; ’ Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot;— When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot 1 Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free. For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me ; Yet, while that heart is still unwon, O, bid not mine to rove. But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love ; If these, preserved for patient ‘years, at last avail me jiot, 1 Forget me then ; — but ne’er believe that thou canst be I forgot ! 1 John Moultrie. 86 CROWN JEWELS. GENEVIEVE, LL 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 I lay Beside the ruined tower. The moonsl^ine stealing o’er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy. My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man. The statue of the armed knight ; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. 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 played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed 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 listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face. But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight. And that he crossed the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night ; 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 Ipoked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a fiend. This miserable knight ! And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land ; And how she wept, and clasped his knees; And how she tended him in vain ; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; And that she nursed him in a cave, And how his madness went away. When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ; — His dying words— but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty. My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity ! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 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 cherished long. She wept with pity and delight. She blushed with love, and virgin shame,* And like a murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, — she stepped aside. As conscious of my look she stept — Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms. She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. ’T was partly love, and partly fear. And partly 't was a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride. Samuel Taylor Coleridge THE COURTIN’. ^K.OD makes sech nights, all white an’ still Fur ’z you can look or listen, “4^ Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, T All silence an’ all gliste Zekel crep’ quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru’ the winder, LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. An’ there sot Huldy all alone, ’Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled 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 among ’em rusted Tlie old queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemea warm from floor to ceilin’ ; An’ she looked full ez rosy agin, Ez the apples she was peelin’. ’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look On such a blessed creetur, A dogrose 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 He’d sparked 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 curled maple. The side she breshed felt full o’sun Ez a south slope in Ap’il. She thought no v’ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made “ Ole Hundred” ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. An’ she’d blush scarlet, right in prayer, When her new meetin’ bunnet Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair O’ blue eyes sot upon it. She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu, A raspin’ on the scraper — All-ways to once her feelin’s flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin’ o’ Titered on the mat. Some doubtfle o’ the sekle, His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An’ on her apples kep’ to work, Parin’ away like murder. “You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?’' “Wall .... no .... I come designin’ — ” “To see my Ma.? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” To say why gals act so or so. Or don’t ’ould be presumin’ ; Mebby to mean yes an’ say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot 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, “ Pd better call agin Says she “ Think likely. Mister That last word pricked him like a pin, An’ .... Wal, he up an’ kist her. When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes. All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips An’ teary roun’ the lashes. For she was jes’ the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary. Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood dost roun’ her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin’. Till mother see how metters 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. James Russell Lowell. CONSTANCY y^^T setting day and rising mom. With soul that still shall love thee. I’ll ask of Heaven thy safe return. With all that can improve thee. I’ll visit aft the birken bush. Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush. Whilst round thou didst infold me To all our haunts I will repair. By greenwood shaw or fountain ; Or where the summer day I’d share With thee upon yon mountain ; There will I tell the trees and flowers. From thoughts unfeigned and tender. By vows you’re mine, by love is yours A heart which cannot wander. Allan Ramsav. 88 CROWN JEWELS. GONE BEFORE. |p F still they kept their earthly place, I' The friends 1 held in my embrace, l» And gave to death, alas ! ' Could I have learned that clear, calm faith That looks beyond the bounds of death. And almost longs to pass ? Sometimes I think, the things we see Are shadows of the things to be ; That what we plan we build ; That every hope that hath been crossed, And every dream we thought was lost In heaven shall be fulfilled ; That even the children of the brain Have not been born and died in vain. Though here unclothed and dumb ! But on some brighter, better shore, They live, embodied evermore. And wait for us to come. And when on that last day we rise. Caught up between the earth and skies. Then shall we hear our Lord Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death. Henceforth, according to thy faith. Shall be thy faith’s reward. Phcebe Cary. HAPPY MATCHES. 9 ) AY, mighty Love, and teach my song. To whom thy sweetest joys belong. And who the happy pairs \Vhose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands. To soften all their cares. Not the vHld herd of nymphs and swains Thai, thoughtless fly into thy chains As custom leads the way : If there be bliss without design. Ivies and oaks may grow and twine. And be as blest as they. Not sordid souls of earthly mould, W’ho, drawn by kindred charms of gold, To dull embraces move : So two rich mountains of Peru May ru.sh to wealthy marriage too. And make a world of love. Not the mad tribe that hell inspires With wanton flames ; those raging fircs The purer bliss destroy ; On yEtna’s top let furies wed. And sheets of lightning dre.ss the bed T’ improve the burning joy. Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms None of the melting passions warms. Can mingle hearts and hands : Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like Stoic souls. With osiers for their bands. Not minds of melancholy strain. Still silent, or that still complain. Can the dear bondage bless ; As well may heavenly concerts spring From two old lutes with ne’er a string, Or none besides the bass. Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould. The rugged and the keen : Samson’s young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell. With firebrands tied between. Nor let the cruel fetters bind A gentle to a savage mind ; For love abhors the sight ; Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, For native rage and native fear Rise and forbid delight. Two kindest souls alone must meet, ’Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their m.utual loves : Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentle.st birds alone. And cupids yoke the doves. Isaac Watts. THE DEAD FRIEND. HE path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well. Through four sweet years arose and fell, 'f From flower to flower, from snow to snow. But where the path we walked began To slant the fifth autumnal slope. As we descended, following hope, There sat the shadow feared of man ; Who broke our fair companionship. And spread his mantle dark and cold. And wrapped thee formless in the fold. And dulled the murmur on thy lip. When each by turns was guide to each, And fancy light from fancy caught. And thought leapt out to wed with tboughr Ere thought could wed itself with speech ; And all we met was fair and good. And all was good that time could bring. And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood ; I know that this was life — the track Whereon with equal feet we fared ; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 80 But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air ; I loved the weight I had to bear Because it needed help of love. Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain. And part it, giving half to him. But I remained, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were litttle worth, To wander on a darkened earth. Where all things round me breathed of him. O friendship, equal-poised control, O heart, with kindliest motion warm, 0 sacred essence, other form, 0 solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! Yet none could better know than I How much of act at human hands The sense of human will demands. By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, 1 felt and feel, though left alone. His being working in mine ov/n. The footseps of his life in mine. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met ; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. 1 woo your love : I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch ; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had mastered time ; Which masters time, indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears : The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this. 0 days and hours, your w'ork is this. To hold me from my proper place A little while from his embrace. For fuller gain of after bliss. That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; And unto meeting when we meet, Delight a hundred fold accrue. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mists, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell. And dream my dream, and hold it true ; For though my lips may breathe adieu, 1 cannot think the thing farewell. ^FRED Tennyson. A BENEDICTION. OD’S love and peace be with thee, where Soe’er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! Whether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms. Or, out among the woodland blooms, It freshens o’er thy thoughtful face. Imparting, in its glad em irace. Beauty to beauty, ^r^ce to grace ! Fair nature’s bookTogether read. The old wood-paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead — The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine — All keep thy memory fresh and green. If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gracious heavens will heed from me. What should, dear heart, its burden be ? The sighing of a shaken reed — What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need ? God’s love — unchanging, pure and true — The Paraclete white-shining through His peace — the fall of Hermon’s dew ! With such a prayer, on this sweet day. As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away ! John Greknleaf Whittier TO A FRIEND. RUDDY drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs ; The world uncertain comes and goes. The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled — And, after many a year. Glowed unexhausted kindliness, Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again ; O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched. Through thee the rose is red ; All things through thee take nobler form And look beyond the earth ; The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 90 CROWN JEWELS. JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON. ER Judah’s land thy thunders broke, O Lord! ^ 1 The chariots rattled o’er her sunkt n gate, Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian’s sword, Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; And heaps her ivory palaces became. Her princes wore the captive’s garb of shame, Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame, For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. O’er Judah’s land thy rainbow. Lord, shall beam, And the sad city lift her crownless head. And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam In streets where broods the silence of the dead. The sun shall shine on Salem’s gilded towers. On Carmel’s side our maidens cull the flowers To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers. And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children home ; He that went forth a tender prattling boy Yet, ere he die, to Salem’s streets shall come ; And Canaan’s vines for us their fruit shall bear. And Hermon’s bees their honeyed stores prepare. And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Wiieie o’er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome. Henry Hart Milman. The emerald mild, the ruby gay ; Talk of my gem, Anne.Hathaway ! She hath a way, with her bright eye. Their various lustres to defy — The jewels she, and the foil they. So sweet to look Anne hath a way ! She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. THE WIDOW’S WOOER. E WOOS me with those honeyed words That women love to hear. Those gentle flatteries that fall So sweet on every ear. He tells me that my face is fair, Too fair for grief to shade : My cheek, he says, was never meant Ip sorrow’s gloom to fade. He stands beside me, when I sing The songs of other days, And whispers, in love’s thrilling tones. The words of heartfelt praise ; And often in my eyes he looks. Some answering love to see — In vain ! he there can only read The faith of memory. ANNE HATHAWAY. B OULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng. With love’s sweet notes to grace your song. To pierce the heart with thrilling lay. Listen to mine Anne Hathaway ! She hath a way to sing so clear, PhcEbus might wondering stop to hear. To melt the sad, make blithe the gay. And nature charm, Anne hath a way ; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To breathe delight Anne hath a way. When envy’s breath and rancorous tooth Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray. To soothe the heart Anne hath a way ; She hath a way to chase despair. To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day. Thou know’st, fond heart, Anne hath a way ; She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. Talk not of gems, the orient list. The diamond, topaz, amethyst, He little knows what thoughts awake With every gentle word ; How, by his looks and tones, the founts Of tenderness are stirred. The visions of my youth return, Joys far too bright to last ; And while he speaks of future b’isj;, I think but of the past. Like lamps in eastern sepulcnret. Amid my heart’s deep gloom. Affection sheds its holiest light Upon my husband s tomb. And, as those lamps, it brought once more To upper air, grow dim. So my souks love is cold and dead, Unless it glow for him. Emma C. Embcry. ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. f PEEN be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee. Nor named thee but to praise, 'Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep. And long, where thou art lying. Will tears the cold turf steep. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 91 When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are. laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth. And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thine hand in mine, Who shared the joy and sorrow, Whose weal and wo were thine — It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow ; But I’ve in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. Fitz Greene Halleck. THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. *11^ F stores of dry and learned lore we gain, We keep them in the memory of the brain ; «l» Names, things, and facts — whate’er we knowledge 1 call— There is the common ledger for them all ; And images on this cold surface traced Make slight impression, and are soon effaced. But we’ve a page, more glowing and more bright. On which our friendship and our love to write ; That these may never from the soul depart. We trust them to the memory of the heart. There is no dimming, no effacement there ; Each new pulsation keeps the record clear ; Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill. Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still. Daniel Webster. ROBIN ADAIR. HAT’S this dull town to me ? Robin’s not near — He whom I wished to see. Wished for to hear ; Where’s ail the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth, O, they’re all fled with thee, Robin Adair ! ‘What made the assembly shine? Robin Adair : What made the ball so fine ? Robin was there : What, when the play was o’er. What made my heart so sore ? O, it was parting with Robin Adair 1 But now thou art far from me, Robin Adair ; But now I never see Robin Adair ; Yet him I loved so well Still in my heart shall dwell O, I can ne’er forget Robin Adair ! Welcome on shore again, Robin Adair ! Welcome once more again, Robin Adair ! I feel thy trembling hand ; Tears in thy eyelids stand. To greet thy native land, Robin Adair. Long I ne’er saw thee, love, Robin Adair ; Still I prayed for thee, love, Robin Adair ; When thou wert far at sea, Many made love to me. But still I thought on thee, Robin Adair. Come to my heart again, Robin Adair ; Never to part again, Robin Adair; And if thou still art true, I will be constant too, And will wed none but you, Robin Adair ! Lady Caroline Keppel. THE MAID’S REMONSTRANCE. EVER wedding, ever wooing. Still a lovelorn heart pursuing. Read you not the wrong you’re doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing. Wed, or cease to woo. Rivals banished, bosoms plighted Still our days are disunited ; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears, Damped and wavering and benighted Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing. Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing. Soon you’ll make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing, Not with age, but woe ! Thomas Campbell. 92 CROWN JEWELS. NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. HERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of springtime sung ! The garden’s brightest glories by summer suns are nursed. But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first ! There is no place like the old place where you and I were born ! Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn, From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore. Where the dear eyes glistened o’er us that will look on us no more ! There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise ; Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold. But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride ; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we’re fading side by side, There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is gone. There are no times like the old times — they shall never be forgot ! There is no place like the old place— keep green the dear old spot ! There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven prolong their lives ! There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our loving wives ! THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL. HE maiden sat at her busy wheel. Her heart was light and free, And ever in cheerful song broke forth "f Her bosom’s harmless glee : Her .song was in mockery of love, And oft I heard her say, “The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day.” I looked on the maiden’s rosy cheek, And her lip so full and bright, And I sighed to think that the traitor love Should conquer a heart so light: But she thought not of the future days of woe. While she carolled in tones so gay — “The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day.” A year passed on, and again I stood By the humble cottage door ; The maiden sat at her busy wheel. But her look was blithe no more ; The big tear stood in her downcast eye, And with sighs I heard her say, “The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day.” Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye And made her cheek so pale : The maid had forgotten her early song. While she listened to love’s soft talc ; She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, It had wasted her life away — And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, Had charmed but for a day. Emm.\ C. Emeury. AFTON WATER. (.-’^'’LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; A Flow gently. I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise ; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen. Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear ; I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills. Far marked with the courses of clear-winding rills ! There dally I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my ej’e. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blov/ ! There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave. As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave ! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Robert Burns. LOVE AXD FRIENDSHIP. 93 THE WAKEFUL HEART. READ lightly, love, when over my head, Beneath the daisies lying, And tenderly press the grassy bed Where the fallen rose lies dying. Dreamless I sleep in the quiet ground, Save when, your foot-fall hearing. My heart awakes to the old-loved sound And beats to the step that’s nearing. Bright shone the moon, last eve, when you came — Still dust for dust hath feeling — The willow-roots whispered low the name ’ Of him who weeps while kneeling. The lily-cup holds the falling tears, The tears you shed above me ; And I know through all these silent years There’s some one still to love me. Oh, softly sigh ; for I hear the sound And grieve me o’er your sorrow ; But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound — I’ll give it back to-morrow. Whisper me, love, as in moments fled, While I dream your hand mine taketh ; For the stone speaks false that says, “She's dead;’’ “ I sleep, but my heart awaketh.’’ Dennar Stewart. MINNIE ADAIR. I thought her so pretty and called her my own, j As the rich sunlight played in and out of ^ her curls. As her little white feet ’mid the violets shone, And her clear laughter rippled through rubies and pearls. Through June’s golden mazes Of pansies and daisies We wandered and warbled our songs on the air ; O, the birds, a whole tree full, Were never more gleeful Than I and my sweet little Minnie Adair ! They come now and tell me that you’re to be wed, That rank has encircled your brow with its rays, but when in your beautiful palace you tread, With many to flatter you, many to praise. Shall June’s golden mazes Of pansies and daisies, And the bare-footed playmate who thought you so fair — Who wept at your sadness. And shared in your gladness — Be lost in their splendor, O Minnie Adair? Lyman Goodman. 1 SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME. HOUGH, when other maids stand by, I may deign thee no reply. Turn not then away, and sigh- - Smile and never heed me ! If our love indeed, be such. As must thrill at every touch. Why should others learn as much ? — Smile, and never heed me ! Even if, with maiden pride, I should bid thee quit my side. Take this lesson for thy guide — Smile, and never heed me ! But when stars and twilight meet, And the dew is falling sweet. And thou hear’st my coming feet — Then — thou then — mayst heed me I Charles Swain. THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL. N Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn. Whose charms all other maids surpass— A rose without a thorn. This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet. Has won my right good-will ; I’d crowns resign to call her mine. Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air. And wanton through the grove, O, whisper to my charming fair, I die for her I love. How happy will the shepherd be Who calls this nymph his own ? O, may her choice be fixed on me ! Mine’s fixed on her alone. James Upton, UNITED LIVES. SAD are they who know not love. But, far from passion’s tears and smilas. y Drift down a moonless sea, and pass The silver coasts of fairy isles. And sadder they whose longing lips Kiss empty air, and never touch The dear warm mouth of those they love; Waiting, wasting, suffering much ! But clear as amber, sweet as musk, Is life to those whose lives unite ; They walk in Allah’s smile by day. And nestle in his heart by night. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 94 CROWN JEWELS. OH ! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE. H ! tell me not of lofty fate, Of glory’s deathless name ; The bosom love leaves desolate Has naught to do with fame. Vainly philosophy would soar— Love’s height it may not reach; The heart soon learns a sweeter lore Than ever sage could teach. Man’s sterner nature turns away To seek ambition’s goal ! Wealth’s glittering gifts, and pleasure’s ray. May charm his weary soul ; But woman knows one only dream — That broken, all is o’er ; For on life’s dark and sluggish stream Hope’s sunbeam rests no more. Emma C. Embury. SOMEBODY. OMEBODY’S courting somebody, Somewhere or other to night ; Somebody’s whispering to somebody, Somebody’s listening to somebody. Under this clear moonlight. Near the bright river’s flow, Running so still and slow. Talking so soft and low. She sits with somebody. Pacing the ocean’s shore. Edged by the foaming roar. Words never used before Sound sweet to somebody. Under the maple tree. Deep though the shadow be. Plain enough they can see. Bright eyes has somebody. No one sits up to wait. Though she is out so late. All know she’s at the gate. Talking with somebody. Tiptoe to parlor door ; Two shadows on the floor ! Moonlight, reveal no more — THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT TO MEMORY DEAR. WEETHEART, good bye ! That flut’ring sail Is spread to waft me far from thee ; And soon, before the farth’ring gale My ship shall bound upon the sea. Perchance, all des’late and forlorn. These eyes shall miss thee many a year ; But unforgotten every charm— Though lost to sight, to memory dear. Sweetheart, good bye ! one last embrace ! Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever 1 Yet in this heart’s most sacred place Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever ; And still shall recollection trace. In fancy’s mirror, ever near. Each smile, each tear, that form, that fact — Though lost to sight, to memory dear. Thomas Moore. EVENING SONG. OOK off, dear Love, across the r.aliow sands. And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea ; How long they kiss in sight of all the lands — Ah ! longer, longer we. Now in the sea’s red vintage melts the sun. As Egypt’s pearl dissolved in rosy wine. And Cleopatra night drinks all. ’Tls done. Love, lay thine hand in mine. Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart : Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighled sands ; O night ! divorce our sun and sky apart — Never our lips, our hands. Sidney Lanier. A MAIDEN’S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND. ^^ENTEEL in personage, f Conduct and equipage. Noble by heritage, y Generous and free : Brave, not romantic ; Learned, not pedantic ; Frolic, not frantic ; This must he be. Susy and somebody. Two, sitting side by side. Float with the ebbing tide, "Thus, dearest, may we glide Through life,” says somebody. Somewhere, somebody Makes love to somebody. To-night. Honor maintaining. Meanness disdaining. Still entertaining. Engaging and new. Neat, but not finical ; Sage, but not cynical ; Never tyrannical. But ever true. Henry Carey, LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 9 NEW LOVELINESS. £ stars that look at me to-night, How beautiful you seem ! For I have found my spirit’s light, The seraph of my dream. Oh ! never half so bright before Have I beheld you shine. For heaven itself looks lovelier. To lover’s eyes like mine ! Alas ! I fear when midnight vyaits To catch my voice, in vain The list’ners at your golden gates Will hear some other twain, Whose hearts like ours, in melody. Will sadly throb and sigh. To see how calmly you behold E’en lovers kiss, and — die ! Edward Pollock. SWEET AND LOW. WEET and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea. Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea ! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow. Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. Father will come to thee soon : Rest, rest on mother’s breast. Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe in the nest. Silver sails all out of the west. Under the silver moon ; Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep. Alfred Tennyson. TO A SISTER. ES. dear one, to the envied train Of those around thy homage pay ; But wilt thou never kindly deign To think of him that’s far away? Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile. For many years I may not see ; But wilt thou not sometimes the while. My sister dear, remember me ? But not in fashion’s brilliant hall. Surrounded by the gay and fair. And thou the fairest of them all — O, think not, think not of me there. But when the thoughtless crowd is gone. And hushed the voice of senseless glee, And all is silent, still and lone. And thou art sad, remember me. Remember me — but, loveliest, ne’er When, in his orbit fair and high. The morning’s glowing charioteer Rides proudly up the blu.shing sky ; But when the waning moonbeam sleeps At moonlight on that lonely lea. And nature’s pensive spirit weeps In all her dews, remember me. Remember me — but choose not, dear, The hour when, on the gentle lake. The sportive wavelets, blue and clear, Soft rippling, to the margin break ; But when the deaf’ning billows foam In madness o’er the pathless sea. Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam Across them, and remember me. Remember me — but not to join If haply some thy friends should praise ; ’Tis far too dear, that voice of thine To echo what the stranger says. They know us not — but shouldst thou meet Some faithful friend of me and thee. Softly, sometimes, to him repeat My name, and then remember me. Remember me — not, I entreat. In scenes of festal week-day joy. For then it were not kind or meet. Thy thought thy pleasure should alloy, But on the sacred, solemn day. And, dearest, on thy bended knee. When thou for those thou lovs’t dost pray. Sweet spirit, then remember me. Edward Everett. THE RING’S MOTTO. LOVER gave the wedding-ring Into a goldsmith’s hand. “Grave me,’’ he said, “a tender thought Within the golden band.” The goldsmith graved With careful art — “Till death us part.” The wedding-bells rang gladly out. The husband said. “ O wife, Together we shall share the grief, The happiness of life. I give to thee My hand, and heart, Till death us part.” ’Twas she that lifted now his hand, (O love, that this should be !) Then on it placed the golden band. And whispered tenderly ; “Till death us join, Lo, thou art mine And I am thine ! 96 CROWN JEWELS. "And when death joins we never more Shall know an aching heart, The bridal of that better love Death has no power to part ; That troth will be For thee and me Eternity.” So up the hill and down the hill Through hfty changing years, They shared each other’s happiness. They dried each other’s tears. Alas ! Alas ! That death’s cold dart Such love can part ! But one sad day — she stood alone Beside his narrow bed ; She drew the ring from off her hand, And to the goldsmith said ; “ Oh, man who graved With careful art, ‘ Till death us part,’ " Now grave four other words for me — ‘ Till death us join.’ ” He took The precious golden band once more. With solemn, wistful look. And wrought with care, For love, not coin, “Till death us join.” TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON, HEN love with unconfinSd wings Hovers within my gates. And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered with her eye. The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups pass swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned. Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep. When healths and draughts go free. Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When, linnet-like confined. With shriller throat shall sing The mercy, sweetness, majesty And glories of my King ; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, The enlarged winds that curl the flood, Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make. Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage : If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above. Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace. THE D^s" FIXED. ✓T^T last the happy day is named, I For hearts to be united. And on that day will be fulfilled The vows that have been plighted ; The letter comes with eager haste, To give the information. And underneath the broken seal Is found an invitation. • Three maidens fair the message scan — Its lines with meaning freighted — And, more than outward looks suggest. Their breasts are agitated ; Each hoped to win that promised hand. And change her single station. And each who sought receives at last. Receives — the invitation ! Henry D.avenporp. THE SHEPHERD’S LAMENT. Q H, the poor shepherd’s mornful fate. When doomed to love and doomed to Ian guish. To bear the scornful fair one’s hate. Nor dare disclose his anguish ! Yet eager looks and dying sighs My secret soul discover. While rapture, trembling through mine eyes. Reveals how much I love her. The tender glance, the reddening cheek, O’erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak A thousand various wishes. For, oh ! that form so heavenly fair. Those lanquid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush and modest air. So fatally beguiling ; Thy every look, and every grace. So charm, whene’er I view thee. Till death o’ertake me in the chase. Still will my hopes pursue thee. Then, when my tedious hours are past. Be this last blessing given. Low at thy feet to breathe my last. And die in sight of heaven. William Haml.ton. B M ¥ D T i ® LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 97 LADY BARBARA. ARL GAWAIN wooed the Lady Barbara, }iigh-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold ! ’Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer shaw, In soft green light his passion he has told. When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold. The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear Framed passion-trembled ditties manifold ; Silent she sat his amorous breath to hear, With calm and steady eyes ; her heart was otherwhere. He sighed for her through the summer weeks ; Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs Bore glorious apples with smooth, shining cheeks, Earl Gawain came and whispered, Lady, rouse 1 Thou art no vestal held in holy vows ; Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath.” Her father’s blood leapt up into her brows — He who, exulting on the trumpet’s breath. Came charging like a star across the lists of death. Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke : And then she sat, her hands clasped round her knee : Like one far-thoughted was the lady’s look. For in a morning cold as misery She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea ; Before the north ’t was driven like a cloud ; High on the poop a man sat mournfully : The wind was whistling through mast and shroud. And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud : — ” Didst look last night upon my native vales. Thou Sun ! that from the drenching sea hast clomb ? Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails. Upon the salt sea must I ever roam. Wander forever on the barren foam ? O, happy are ye, resting mariners ! 0 Death, that thou wouldst come and take me home ! A hand unseen this vessel onward steers. And onward I must float through slow, moon-measured years. “Ye winds ! when like a curse ye drove us on, Frothing the waters, and along our way. Nor cape nor headland through red mornings shone. One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray. One howled, ‘ Upon the deep we are astray.’ On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight. In one short hour my hair was stricken gray. For all the crew sank ghastly in my sight. And we went driving on through the cold, starry night. “ Madness fell on me in my loneliness. The sea foamed curses, and the reeling sky Became a dreadful face which did oppress Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. It fled, when I burst forth into a cry — A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep ; 1 hid, but in all corners they did pry, 7J And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap ; They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep. “Strange constellations burned above my head. Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew. Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled, As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through. Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue.” The lady sighed, “Far, far upon the sea. My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! The wind blows shrill between my love and me.” Fond heart ! the space between was but the apple-tree. There was a cry of joy ; with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest ; Like washing water on the figured .sands. His being came and went in sweet unrest. As from the mighty shelter of his breast The Lady Barbara her head uprears With a wan smile, “Methinks I’m but half blest; Now when I’ve found thee, after weary years, I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am with tears.” Alexander Smith. ATALANTA’S RACE. ATALANTA VICTORIOUS. ND there two runners did the sign abide Foot set to foot — a young man slim and fair. Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs often tried In places where no man his strength may spare ; Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair A golden circlet of renown he wore. And in his hand an olive garland bore. But on this day with whom shall he contend ? A maid stood by him like Diana clad When in the woods she lists her bow to b'-nd. Too fair for one to look on and be glad. Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had. If he must still behold her from afar ; Too fair to let the world live free from war. She seemed all earthly matters to forget • Of all tormenting lines her face was clear. Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set. Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near : But her foe trembled as a man in fear. Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. Now through the hush there broke the trumpet’s clang. Just as the setting sun made eventide. Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang. And swiftly were they running side by side ; But silent did the thronging folk abide Until the turning-post was reached at last. And round about it still abreast they passed. CROWN JEWELS. But when the people saw how close they ran, When half-way to the starting-point they were, A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear ; And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel. And bliss unhoped for o’er his heart did steal. But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around. And even then he felt her past him bound. Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep, For no victorious joy her red lips smiled. Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep. Though some divine thought softened alt her face As once more rang the trumpet through the place. But her late foe stopped short amidst his course. One moment gazed upon her piteously, Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade. Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence now, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace. And he to hers upturned his sad white face ; Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. ATALANTA CONQUERED. Now has the lingering month at last gone by. Again are all folk round the running place, Nor other seems the dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o’er the smooth course ready for the race ; For now, beheld of all, Milanion Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. But yet — what change is this that holds the maid? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye More than disdain of the sharp shearing blade. Some happy hope of help and victory? The others seemed to say, “We come to die, Look down upon us for a little while. That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile.’’ But he — what look of mastery was this He cast on her ? why were his lips so red ? Why was his face so flushed with happiness ? So looks not one who deems himself but dead, E’en if to death he bows a willing head ; So rather looks a god well pleased to find Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. Why must she drop her lids before his gaze, And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise. And wish that she were clad in other guise? Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard. Some lover’s song, some answering maiden’s word ? What makes these longings, vague, without a name, And this vain pity never felt before. This sudden languor, this contempt of fame. This tender sorrow for the time past o’er. These doubts that grow each minute more and more? Why does she tremble as the time grows near. And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? But while she seemed to hear her beating heart. Above their heads the trumpet 'olast rang out. And forth they sprang ; and she must play her part ; Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt. Though slackening once, she turned her head about, But then she cried aloud arid faster fled Than e’er before, and all men deemed him dead. But with no sound he raised aloft his hand. And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; Then trembling she her feet together drew. And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy ; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. - Then from the course with eager steps she ran. And in her colorless bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold. And mindful of her glory waxing cold. Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit. Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear. She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. And o’er her shoulder from the quiver fair. Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes Unnoticed, as amidst the people’s cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, Who now the turning-post had well nigh won. Just as he sets his mighty hand on it. White fingers underneath his own w<-ne laid, And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit. Then he the second fruit cast by the maid ; But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. OU Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see. And in her garment’s hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o’er the course, and little doubt had she To win the day, though now but scanty space Was left betwixt him and the winning place. Short was the way unto such winged feet. Quickly she gained upon him till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet, And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bliss fulfil, That in her hand it lay ere it was still. Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Once more, an unblest, woful victory — And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is ? Why do her gray eyes grow dim ? Why do these tremors run through every limb ? She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find. Else must she fall. Indeed, and findeth this, A strong man’s arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss. So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss : Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. William Morris. PLACE YOUR HAND IN MINE, WIFE. ? ’ IS five-and-twenty years to-day. Since we were man and wife — And that’s a tidy slice, I say, 'f From anybody’s life. And if we want, in looking back, To feel how time has flown. There’s Jack, you see, our baby Jack, With whiskers of his own. Place your hand in mine, wife — We’ve loved each other true ; And still, in shade or shine, wife. There’s love to help us through. It’s not been all smooth sailing, wife — Not always laughing May ; Sometimes it’s been a weary strife To keep the wolf away. We’ve haa our little tiffs, my dear ; We’ve often grieved and sighed ; One lad has cost us many a tear ; Our little baby died. But, wife, your love along the road Has cheered the roughest spell ; You’ve borne your half of every load, And often mine as well. I’ve rued full many a foolish thing Ere well the step was ta’en ; But, oh ! I’d haste to buy the ring And wed you o’er again. ’Twas you who made me own the Hand That’s working all along. In ways we cannot understand. Still bringing right from wrong. You’ve kept me brave, and kept me true ; You’ve made me trust and pray ; My gentle evening star were you. That blessed the close of day. Place your hand in mine, wife — We’ve loved each other true ; And still, in shade or shine, wife. There’s love to help us through. Frederick Langbridgk. THE LITTLE MILLINER. y girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, A soft hand, like a lady’s, small and fair, A sweet face pouting in a white straw bon- net, A tiny foot, and little boot upon it ; And all her finery to charm beholders Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. The plain stuff-gown and collar white as snow, And sweet red petticoat that peeps below. But gladly in the busy town goes she. Summer and winter, fearing nobody; She pats the pavement with her fairy feet. With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street ; And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold, A lucky sixpence and a thimble old. We lodged in the same house a year ago : She on the topmost floor, I just below — She, a poor milliner, content and wise, I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise ; And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love The little angel on the floor above. For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirred. Her chamber door would open, and I heard — And listening, blushing, to her coming down. And palpitated with her rustling gown, And tingled while her foot went downward slow. Creaked like a cricket, passed, and died below ; Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly, I saw the pretty shining face go by, Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet — A sunbeam in the quiet morning street. And every night when in from work she tript, Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt, That I might hear upon the narrow stair Her low “Good evening,” as she passed me there. And when her door was closed, below sat I, And hearkened stilly as she stirred on high — 100 CROWN JEWELS. Watched the red firelight shadows in the room, Fashioned her face before me in the gloom, And heard her close the window, lock the door, Moving about more lightly than before. And thought, “ She is undressing now !” and, oh ! My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow ! And I made pictures of her — standing bright Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white, Unbinding in a knot her yellow hair. Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer ; Till, last, the floor creaked softly overhead, ’Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed — And all was hushed. Yet still I hearkened on. Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone ; And saw her slumbering with lips apart. One little hand upon her little heart. The other pillowing a face that smiled In slumber like the slumber of a child. The bright hair shining round the small white ear, The soft breath stealing visible and clear. And mixing with the moon’s, whose frosty gleam Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. How free she wandered in the wicked place. Protected only by her gentle face ! She saw bad things — how could she choose but see ? — She heard of wantonness and misery ; The city closed around her night and day, But lightly, happily, she went her way. Nothing of evil that she saw or heard Could touch a heart so innocently stirred — By simple hopes that cheered it through the storm. And little flutterings that kept it warm. No power had she to reason out her needs. To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds ; But she was good and pure amid the strife By virtue of the joy that was her life. Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall. Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall,' She floated, pure as innocent could be. Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea. Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro, I'earless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow, While the clouds gather, and the waters roar. And mighty ships are broken on the shore. All winter long, witless who peeped the while, Sl'.e sweetened the chill mornings with her smile ; When the soft snow was falling dimly white. Shining among it with a child’s delight. Bright as a rose, though nipping winds might blow, And leaving fairy footprints in the snow 1 ’Twas when the spring was coming, whenthesnow Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow. And girls were selling violets in the town. That suddenly a fever struck me down. The world was changed, the sense of life was pained. And nothing but a shadow-land remained ; 1 )epth came in a dark mist and looked at me, I fv.lt his breathing, though I could not see, But heavily I lay and did not stir. And had strange images and dreams of her. Then came a vacancy ; with feeble breath, I shivered under the cold touch of death, And swooned among strange visions of the dead. When a voice called from heaven, and he fled ; And suddenly I wakened, as it seemed. From a deep sleep wherein I had not dreamed. And it was night, and I could see and hear. And I was in the room I held so dear. And unaware, stretched out upon my bed. I hearkened for a footstep overhead. But all was hushed. I looked around the room, And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. The wall was reddened by a rosy light, A faint fire flickered, and I knew ’t was night. Because below there was a sound of feet Dying away along the quiet street — When, turning my pale face and sighing low, I saw a vision in the quiet glow : A little figure in a cotton gown. Looking upon the fire and stooping down. Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side — Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see. Her little hands clasped tight around her knee, The firelight gleaming on her golden head. And tinting her white neck to rosy red. Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure. With childish fear and yearning half demure. O sweet, sweet dream ! I thought and strained mine eyes. Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs. Softly she stooped, her dear face sweetly fair. And sweeter since a light like love was there. Brightening, watching, more and more elate. As the nuts glowed together in the grate. Crackling with little jets of fiery light. Till side by side they turned to ashes w'hitc — Then up she leapt, her face cast oflf its fear For rapture that itself was radiance clear. And would have clapped her little hands in glee. But, pausing, bit her lips and peeped at me, And met the face that yearned on her so whitely. And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brighily. While, raised on elbow, a? she turned to flee, “ Polly I” I cried— and grew as red as she ! It was no dream! for soon _ my, thoughts were clear. And she could tell me all, and I could hear : Hqw in my sickness friendless I had lain; How the hard people pitied not my pain ; How, in despite of what bad people said. She left her labors, stopped beside my bed. And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die; How, in the end, the danger passed me by ; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 101 How she had sought to steal away before The sickness passed, and I was strong once more. By fits she told the story in mine ear, And troubled at the telling with a fear Lest by my cold man’s heart she should be chid. Lest I should think her bold in what she did ; Bi;t, lying on my bed, I dared to say. How I had watched and loved her many a day. How dear she was to me, and dearer still For that strange kindness done while I was ill. And how I could but think that Heaven above Had done it all to bind our lives in love. And Polly cried, turning her face away. And seemed afraid, and answered “yea ’’ nor “ nay ; Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs. Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes. And seemed in act to fling her arms about My neck; then, blushing, paused, in fluttering doubt ; Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing — That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing. Ah ! ne'er shall I forget until I die. How happily the dreamy days went by. While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats. Hearkening the pleasant murmur from the streets. And Polly by me like a sunny beam. And life all changed, and love a drosy dream ! ’Twas happiness enough to lie and see The little golden head bent droopingly Over its sewing, while the still time flew. And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew ! And then, when I was nearly well and strong. And she went back to labor all day long. How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes. And hear the distant murmurs and the cries. And think how pure she was from pain and sin — And how the summer days were coming in ! Then, as the sunset faded from the room. To listen for her footstep in the gloom. To pant as it came stealing up the stair. To feel my whole life brighten unaware When the soft tap came to the door, and when The door was open for her smile again ! Best, the long evenings ! — when, till late at night. She sat beside me in the quiet light, And happy things were said and kisses won. And serious gladness found its vent in fun. Sometimes I would draw close her shining head. And pour her bright hair out upon the bed. And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold. While “here,” I cried, “ I count my w'ealth in gold !’ Once, like a little sinner for transgression. She blushed upon my breast, and made confession : How, when that night I woke and looked around, I found her busy with a charm profound— One chestnut was herself, my girl confessed. The other was the person she loved best. And if they burned together side by side. He loved her, and she would become his bride; And burn indeed they did, to her delight — And had the pretty charm not proven right? Thus much, ar.d more, with timorous joy, she said, While her confessor, too, grew rosy red — And close together pressed two blissful faces. As I absolved the sinner, with embraces. And here is winter come again, winds blow. The houses and the streets are white with snow ; And in the long and pleasant eventide. Why, what is Polly making at my side? What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand. We bought together lately in the Strand ! What but a dress to go to church in soon. And wear right queenly ’neath a honeymoon ! And who shall match Irer with her new straw bonnet, I ler tiny foot and little boot upon it ; Embroidered petticoat and silk gown new. And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do? And she will keep, to charm away all ill. The lucky sixpence in her pocket still ; And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather. To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ! Robert Buchanan. THE EXCHANGE. E pledged our hearts, my love and I — I in my arms the maiden clasping; I could not tell the reason why. But, O, I trembled like an aspen ! Her father’s love she bade me gain ; I went, and shook like any reed ! I strove to act the man — in vain ! We had exchanged our hearts indeed. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER. •■jlp T is the miller’s daughter, ■L* And she is grown so dear, so dear, A That I would be the jewel I That trembles at her ear ; For, hid in ringlets day and night. I’d touch her neck so warm and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist. And her heart would beat against me In sorrow and in rest : And I should know if it beat right. I’d clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace. And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom. With her laughter or her sighs : And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. Alfred Tennyson. :02 CROWN JEWELS. THE LOVE-KNOT. YING her bonnet under her chin, f(^\ She tied her raven ringlets in. But not alone in the silken snare Did she catch her lovely floating hair, For, tying her bonnet under her chin. She tied a young man’s heart within. One, two, three stars along uklcs Begin to wink their golden e>-»o — I’ll leave my threads all knots and ties. O moon, so red ! O moon, so red ! Sweetheart of night, go straight to bed ; Love’s light will answer in your stead. A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands — Stop trembling, little foolish hands. And stop the bands, and stop the bands ■ Alice Cary 0, DO NOT WANTON WITH THOSE EYES DO not wanton with those eyes, f ^ J Lest I be sick with seeing ; J Nor cast them down, but let them rise. Lest shame destroy their being. O, be not angry with those fires. For then their threats will kill me ; Nor look too kind on my desires. For then my hopes will spill me. O, do not steep them in thy tears. For so will sorrow slay me ; Nor spread them as distract with fears ; Mine own enough betray me. Ben Jonson. A NYMPH’S REPLY. TP F all the world and love were young. And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, X These pretty pleasures might me move I To live with thee, and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold, When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; And Philomel becometh dumb. The rest complain of cares to come. They were strolling together up the hill. Where the wind came blowing merry and chill ; | Amd it blew the curls a frolicsome race, All over the happy peach-colored face. Till scolding and laughing, she tied them in. Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. And it blew a color, bright as the bloom | Of the pinkest fuchsia’s tossing plume. All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl That ever imprisoned a romping curl. Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin. Tied a young man’s heart within. Steeper and steeper grew the hill, Madder, merrier, chiller still, Tlie western wind blew down, and played The wildest tricks with the little maid. As, tying her bonnet under her chin. She tied-a young man’s heart within. O western wind, do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair? To gladly, gleefully, do your best , To blow her against the young man’s breast, . Where he has gladly folded her in, And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin ? O Ellery 'Vane, you little thought. An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you. After the sun had dried the dew. What terrible danger you’d be in. As she tied her bonnet under her chin. Nora Perry. A SPINSTER'S STINT. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields _^To wayward winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall. Is fancy’s spring, but sorrow’s fall. IX skeins and three, six skeins and three ! Good mother, so you stinted me. And here they be — ay, six and three ! Stop, busy wheel ! stop, noisy wheel ! Long shadows down my chamber steal. And warn me to make haste and reel. ’T is done — the spinning work complete, O heart of mine, what makes you beat So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet? I must have wheat and pinks, to stick My hat from brim to ribbon, thick — Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick ! Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten, In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds. Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed. Had joys no date, nor age no need. Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. Sir Walter Raleigk LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 103 U BLEST AS THE IMMORTAL GODS. I LEST as the immortal gods is he, . The youth who fondly sits by thee, ' And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile. ’T was this deprived my soul of rest. And raised such tumults in my breast : For while I gazed, in transport tost. My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame ; O’er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; My ears with hollow murmurs rung ; In dewy damps my limbs were chilled ; My blood with gentle horrors thrilled : My feeble pulse forgot to play — I fainted, sunk, and died away. From the Greek of Sappho, by Ambrose Phillips. THE WHISTLE. OU have heard,” said a youth to his sweet, heart, who stood. While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at day- light’s decline — ' ifou have heard of the Danish boy’s whistle of wood ? I wish that the Danish boy’s whistle were mine.” “■ And what would you do with it? — tell me,” she said. While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. ” I would blow it, ’ he answered ; ‘‘and then my fair maid W'ould fly to my side, and would here take her place.” ” Is that all you wish it for? That may be yours Without any magic,” the fair maiden cried : A favor so slight one’s good nature secures ;” And she playfully seated herself by his side. ” I would blow it again,” said the youth, ‘‘and the charm Would work so, that not even modesty’s check Would be able to keep from my neck your fine arm She smiled — and she laid her fine arm round his neck. ” Yet once more iVould I blow, and the music divine Would bring me the third time an exquisite bliss ; You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine. And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss.” The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, ‘‘ What a fool of yourself with your whistle you’d make ! For only consider, how silly ’t would be To sit there and whistle for — what you might take !” Robert Story. A MAIDEN with A MILKING-PAIL. HAT change has made the pastures sweet. And reached the daisies at my feet. And cloud that wears a golden hem ? This lovely world, the hills, the sward — They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them. And here’s the field with light aglow : How fresh its boundary lime-trees show ! And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea. Below the level browsing line. 1 see the pool more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh. Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday A maiden with a milking-pail. There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist. The other lifted to her pail — She, rosy in the morning light. Among the water-daisies white, Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod : I leaned upon the gate to see. The sweet thing looked, but did not speak ; A dimple came in either cheek. And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate. And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes — Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes I Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among w’hite-headed majesties 1 I said, “ A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold. Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale.” But high she held her comely head ; I cannot heed it now,” she said, ‘‘For carrying of the milking-pail.” She laughed. What good to make ado ? I held the gate, and she came through. And took her homeward path anon. 104 CROWN JEWELS. From the dear pool her face had fled ; It rested on my heart instead, Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content. So sweet and stately, on she went. Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more, And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail. II. For hearts where wakened love doth lurk. How fine, how blest a thing is work ! For work does good when reasons fail — Good ; yet the axe at every stroke The echo of a name awoke— Her name is Mary Martindale. I’m glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men. A bird Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; And I know not — but I can say I felt as shamefaced all that day As if folks heard her name right well. And when the west began to glow I went —I could not choose but go — To that same dairy on the hill ; And while sweet Mary moved about Within, I came to her without. And leaned upon the window-sili. The garden border where I stood Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. I spoke — her answer seemed to fail. I smelt the pinks — I could not see. The dusk came down and sheltered me, And in the dusk she heard my tale. And what is left that I should tell ? I begged a kiss — I pleaded well : The rosebud lips did long decline ; But yet, I think — I think ’t is true — That, leaned at last into the dew. One little Instant they were mine ! O life ! how dear thou hast become ! She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb ! But evening counsels best prevail. Fair shine the blue that o’er her spreads. Green be the pastures where she treads. The maiden with the milking-pail ! Jean Ingeuow. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. T. AGNES’ EVE — ah, bitter chill it was 1 The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath. Like pious incense from a censer old. Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan. Along the chapel isle by slow degrees ; The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze, Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat’ries, He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door. And scarce three steps, ere music’s golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; But no — already had his death-bell rung ; The Joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes’ Eve : Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul’s reprieve. And all night kept awake, for sinners’ sake to grieve. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft ; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide. From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft. The silver, snarling trumpets ’gan to chide ; The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : The carved angels, ever eager eyed. Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests. With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array. Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away ; And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there. Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. On love, and winged St. Agnes’ saintly care. As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes’ eve. Young virgins might have visions of delight. And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night. If ceremonies due they did aright ; As, supperless to bed they must retire. And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; The music, yearning like a god in pain. She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 105 Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired, not cooled by high disdain. But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; She sighed for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. Hoodwinked with fairy fancy; all amort Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire. She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors. Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors. Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours. That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, love’s feverous citadf 1 ; For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage ; not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, S'luffling along with ivory-headed wand. To where he stood, hid from the torch’s flame. Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland. He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, “ Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! “ Get hence ! get hence ! there’s dwarfish Hildebrand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land ; Then there’s that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — alas me ! flit ! Flit like a ghost away ! ” “Ah, gossip dear, We’re safe enough ; herfe in this arm-chair sit. And tell me how — ’’ “Good saints! not here, not here ; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.” He followed through a lowly arched way. Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; And as she muttered, “ Well-a— well-aday 1” He found him in a little moonlight room. Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. “ Now tell me where is Madeline,” said he, “ O, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see. When they St. Agnes’ wool are weaving piously.” “St. Agnes! Ah ! it is St. Agnes’ Eve — Yet men will murder upon holy days ; Thou must hold water in a witch’s sieve. And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays. To venture so. It fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes eve ! God’s help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night ; good angels her deceive ! But let me laugh awhile. I’ve mickle time to grieve.” Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look. Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady’s purpose ; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose. Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot ; then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : “ A cruel man and impious thou art ! Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem. ” “ 1 will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! ” Quoth Porphyro ; “ O, may I ne’er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer. If one of her soft ringlets I displace. Or look with ruffian passion in her face : Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment’s space. Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen’s ears. And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears.” “ Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing. Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never missed.” Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. Even to Madeline’s chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied, 106 CROWN JEWELS. And win perhnps that ni^ht a peerless bride, While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met. Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt. “ It shall be as thou wishest,” said the dame ; ‘All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour frame Mer own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer The while. Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. Or may I never leave my grave among the dead.” So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover’s endless minutes slowly passed ; The dame returned, and whispered in his ear To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden’s chamber, silken, hushed and chaste , Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair. When Madeline. St. Agnes’ charmed maid, Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; VV’ith silver taper’s light, and pious care. She turned, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare. Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ! She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove, frayed and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died ; She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, P.iining with eloquence her balmy side ; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. A. casement high and triple-arched there was. Ail garlanded with carven imageries Oi fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass. And diamonded with panes of quaint device. Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. As are the tiger-moth’s deep-damasked wings ; And in the midst, ’mong thousand heraldries. And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded ’scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst. And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; •She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest. Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal tali^ Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done. Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees : Unclasps her warmAd jewels one by one ; Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay. Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown like a thought, until the morrow day ; Blissfully havened both from Joy and pain ; Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress. And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness ; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. And breathed himself ; then from the closet crept. Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept. And ’tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — how fast she slept. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight soft he set A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 0 for some drowsy morphean amulet ! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. The kettle drum, and far-heard clarionet. Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gona And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent syrups, tinct with cinamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one. From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On g'dden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand 1 In the retired quiet of the night. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 107 Filling the chilly room with perfume light, — “ And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes’ sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.” Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream Dy the dusk curtains ; — ’twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as icdd stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady’s eyes ; So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute — Tumultuous — and, in chords that tenderest be. He played an ancient ditty, long since mute. In Provence called “ La belle dame sans merci ; ” Close to her ear touching the melody Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan : He ceased ; she panted quick — andsu Idenly Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. There was a painful change that nigh expelled The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; Who knelt with joined hands and piteous eye. Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. “ Ah, Porphyro ! ” she said, “but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear. Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! O, leave me not in this eternal woe. For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go.” Beyond a mortal man impassioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose. Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth ks odor with the violet— Solution sweet ; meantime the frost-wind blows Like love’s alarm pattering the sharp sleet Against the window panes : St. Agnes’ moon hath set. ’Tis dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : “This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! ” ’Tis dark ; the ic^d gusts still rave and beat : “No dream ? alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. Cruel ! what traitor could thee hitherbring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpruned wing.” “ My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vas.sal blest? Thy beauty’s shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed ? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim — saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest, .Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. “Hark ! ’t is an elfin storm from faery land. Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: Arise, arise ! the morning is at hand ; — The bloated wassailers will never heed : Let us awa-y, my love, with happy speed ; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see — Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : Awake, arise, my love, and fearless be. For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.” She hurried at his words, beset with fears. For there were sleeping dragons all around. At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears ; Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound. Fluttered in the besieging wind’s uproar ; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side • The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide. But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans ; And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago These lovers fled into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe. And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin worm. Were long be nightmared. Angela, the old. Died paby-twitched, with meagre face deform ; The beadsman, after thousand aves told. For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. John Keats. FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. ARE thee well ! and if forever, "f L forever, fare thee well ; A Even though unforgiving, never ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 108 CROWN JEWELS. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath lain, While the placid sleep came o’er thee Which thou ne’er canst know again; Would that breast, by thee glanced over. Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover ’T was not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee — Though it smile upon the blow. Even its praises must offend thee. Founded on another’s woe : Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me. To inflict a cureless wound ? Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not ; Love may sink by slow decay ; But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away : Still thine own its life retaineth — Still must mine, though bleeding beat ; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead ; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, W’hen our child’s first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say “ Father !” Though his care she must forego ! When her little hands shall press thee. When her lip to thine is pressed, Thin’K of him whose prayer shall bless thee. Think of him thy love had blessed ! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see. Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest. All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, whene’er thou goest. Whither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ; Pride, which not a world could bow. Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now ; But ’t is done ; all words are idle — Words from me are vainer still ; But t!;e thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. Fare thee well ! — thus disunited. Torn from every nearer tie. Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted. More than this I scarce can die. Lord Byron. BLACK-EYED SUSAN. LL in the Downs the fleet was moored. The streamers waving in the wind, When black-eyed Susan came aboard ; “ O, where shall I my true love find f Tell me, yejovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew. ” William, who high upon the yard Rocked with the billow to and fro. Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sighed, and cast his eyes below : The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands. And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate’s shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William’s lip those kisses sweet. “ O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. “ Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : They’ll tell thee, sailors when away. In every port a mistress And ; Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so. For Thou art present wheresoe’er I go. “ If to fair India’s coast we sail, Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright Thy breath is Afric’s spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. “Though battle call me from thy arms. Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly. Lest precious tears should drop from Susan’s eye.” The boatswain gave the dreadful word. The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard : They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; “Adieu 1” she cried ; and waved her lily hand. John Gay. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. .09 THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND THE TASSEL ON THE CORN. HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath of morn ; The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the corn. I stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac-o chee, To see my love come down the glen to keep her tryst with me. I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along. And pause to pluck a flower, orhearthethiush'.s song. Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen. She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen. Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden shone, For she was belle and wide beloved, and I a youth unknown. The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on bended knee For love this gracious princess gave, with all her heart, to me. So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she stood. With all the freshness of a girl in flush of woman- hood. I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine. And stammered, as in awkward speech, 1 begged her to be mine. Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- lit dream — ’Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the rippling stream ; 'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south winds sigh. More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, low reply. The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life. To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. ’Tis said that angels watch o’er men, commissioned from above ; .'V angel walked with me on earth, and gave to me her love. Ah ! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim with tears — I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years. For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy morn. With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the corn. Don Piatt. LAMENT OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM THE SIDE OF HIS BRIDE BY THE “ FIERY CROSS'’ OF RODERICK DHU. HE heath this night must be my bed. The bracken curtain for my head. My lullaby the warder’s tread, T Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid My couch .may be my bloody plaid. My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary ! I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow. And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bender bow. His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught.' For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover’s dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes. How blithely will the evening close. How sweet the linnet sing repose. To my young bride and me, Mary ! Sir Walter Scott. WE PARTED IN SILENCE E parted in silence, we parted by night. On the banks of that lonely river ; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite. We met — and we parted forever ! The night-bird sung, and the stars above Told many a touching story. Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love. Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet With the tears that were past controlling ; We vowed we would never, no, never forget. And those vows at the time were consol ing ; But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine Are as cold as that lonely river ; And that eye, that beautiful spirit’s shrine, Has shrouded its fires forever. And now on the midnight sky I look. And my heart grows full of weeping ; Each star is to me a sealed book, Some tale of that loved one keeping. We parted in .silence — we parted in tears. On the banks of that lonely river ; But the odor and bloom of those bygone years Shall hang o’er its waters forever. Julia Crawford. 110 CROWN JEWELS. LOVE AND TIME. WO pilgrims from the distant plain Come quickly o’er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold 'f Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stern and old. Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick Goes singing on his careless way ; His old companion walks as quick. But speaks no word by night or day. Where’er the old man treads, the grass Fast fadeth with a certain doom ; But where the beauteous boy doth pass Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy Trips lightly o’er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy — A crystal glass with diamond sands. A smile o’er any brow would pass To see him frolic in the sun — To see him shake the crystal glass. And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o’er, A silver thread so white and thin. And now they reach the open door. And now they lightly enter in : “ God save all here ” — that kind wish flies Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; “ God save you kindly,” Norah cries, ‘‘ Sit down, my child, and rest and e^'i.” “ Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good. We’ll rest awhile our weary feet ; But though this old man needeth food. There’s nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats afone. Beneath some ruined cloister’s cope, Or on some tottering turret’s stone. While I can only live on— hope ! “ A week ago, ere you were wed — It was the very night before — Upon so many sweets I fed While passing by your mother’s door — It was that dear, delicious hour When Owen here the nosegay brought. And found you in the woodbine bower — Since then, indeed. I’ve needed naught.” A blush steals over i-Jorah’s face, A smile comes over Owen’s brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place. As if the moon were shining now; The boy beholds the pleasing pain. The sweet confusion he has done. And shakes the crystal glass again. And makes the sands more quickly run. “ Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound Upon an endless path sublime ; We pace the green earth round and round. And mortals call us love and time ; He seeks the many, I the few ; I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet ; but when we do, I take his glass, and he my wings. “And thus together on we go, Where’er I chance or wish to lead ; And time, whose lonely steps are slow, Now sweeps along with lightning speed Now on our bright predestined way We must to other regions pass ; But take this gift, and night and day Look well upon its truthful glass. “How quick or slow the bright sands fall Is hid from lovers’ eyes alone. If you can see them move at all. Be sure your heart has colder grown. ’Tis coldness makes the glass grow dry, The icy hand, the freezing brow ; But warm the heart and breathe the sigh. And then they’ll pass you know not how.” She took the glass where love’s warm hands A bright impervious vapor cast. She looks, but cannot see the sands. Although she feels they’re falling fast. But cold hours came, and then, alas 1 She saw them falling frozen through. Till love’s warm light suffused the glass. And hid the loosening sands from view ! Denis Florence MacCarthv. HERO TO LEANDER. GO not yet my love. The night is dark and vast ; ^ The white moon is hid in her heaven above And the waves climb high and fast. O, kiss me, kiss me, once again. Lest thy kiss should be the last. O, kiss me ere we part ; Grow closer to my heart. My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the main. O joy ! O bliss of blisses ! My heart of hearts art thou. Come, bathe me with thy kisses, My eyelids and my brow. Hark how the wild rain hisses, And the loud sea roars below. Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, So gladly doth it stir ; Thy eye in drops of gladness swims. I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh ; Thy locks are dripping balm ; Thou shalt not wander hence to night. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. Ill I’ll stay thee with my kisses. To-night the roaring brine Will rend thy golden tresses: The ocean with the morrow light Will be both blue and calm ; ^nd the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mine. No western odors wander On the black and moaning sea, And when thou art dead, Leander, My soul must follow thee ! O, go not yet, my love. Thy voice is sweet and low ; The deep salt wave breaks in above Those marble steps below. The turret stairs are wet That lead into the sea. Leander ! go not yet. The pleasant stars have set : O, go not, go not yet. Or I will follow thee. Alfred Tennyson. FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER. (^J*!^AREWELL ! but whenever you welcome the -Yt hour A That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. His griefs may return — not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain — But he ne’er can forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while lingering with you ! And still on that evening when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where’er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright. My soul, happy friends, wall be with you that night ; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, And return to me, beaming all o’er with your smiles — Too blest if it tell me that, mid the gay cheer. Some kind voice has murmured, “I wish he were here !” Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy. Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de- stroy ; Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care. And bring back the features which joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! Like the vase in which roses have once been dis- tilled- You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. Thomas Moore. BERUTIES OF NATURE. THE GREENWOOD. WHEN ’tis summer weather, And the yellow bee, with fairy sound, The waters clear is humming round. And the cuckoo sings unseen, And the leaves are waving green — O, then ’t is sweet, In some retreat, To hear the murmuring dove, With those whom on earth alone we love, And to wind through the green- wood together. But when ’t is winter weather. And crosses grieve. And friends deceive, And rain and sleet The lattice beat — O, then ’t is sweet To sit and sing Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring. We roamed through the greenwood together. William Lisle Bowles. THANATOPSIS. O him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language : for his gayer hours *1* She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images (){ the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart. Go fortli under the open sky, and list To nature’s teaching.s, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice — yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground. Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, mat nourished thee, shal' Oia-in Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements ; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone — nor coulds’t thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good. Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills. Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. Are shining on the sad abodes of death. Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca’s desert sands. Or lose thyselfin the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone ! So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdravy In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men — The youth in life’s green spring, and he who go'es In the full strength of years, matron and maid. The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off— Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take ( 112 ) LIBRARY Of THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 113 His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed Ey an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William Cullen Bryant. ODE ON THE SPRING. O ! where the rosy-bosomed hours. Fair Venus’ train appear. Disclose the long-expecting flowers. And wake the purple year ! The attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note. The untaught harmony of spring : While, whispering pleasure as they fly. Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky. Their gathered fragrance fling. Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade ; Where’er the rude and moss-grown beach O’er-canopies the glade. Beside some water’s rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think iAt ease reclined in rustic stated How vain the ardor of the crowd. How low, how little are the proud. How indigent the great ! Still is the toiling hand of care : The panting herds repose : Yet hark, how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows ! The insect youth are on the wing. Eager to taste the honeyed spring. And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly o’er the current skim. Some show their gayly-gilded trim Quick glancing to the sun. To contemplation’s sober eye Such is the face of man : And they that creep, and they that fly. Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter through life’s little day. In fortune’s varying colors drest ; Brushed by the hand of rough mischance ; Or chilled by age, their airy dance They leave in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply ; “ Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets, 8 J No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown : Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — We frolic while ’t is May.” Thomas Gray. THE LATE SPRING. HE stood alone amidst the April fields — Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. “The spring is late,” she said, “ the faithless spring. That should have come to make the meadows fair. “Their sweet South left too soon, among the trees The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; For them no green boughs wait — their memories Of last year’s April had deceived them so.” She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad spring, The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees. “ Thus God has dealt with me, his child,” she said : “ I wait my spring-time, and am cold like these. “ To them will come the fulness of their time ; Their spring, though late, will make the meadows fair ; Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? I am His own — doth not my Father care ?” Louise Chandler Moulton.' GOD’S FIRST TEMPLES. 'HE groves were God’s first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, ”1“ A nd spread the roof above them — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems — in the darkling wood. Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences. That, from the stilly twilight of the place. And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven. Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ! Let me, at least. Here, in the shadow of this aged wood. Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear, 1 William Cullen Bryant. 114 CROWN JEWELS. IN JUNE. ? 0 sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; So blithe and gay the humming-bird agoing From flower to flower, a hunting with the bee. So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; So sweet the water’s song through reeds and rushes. The plover’s piping note, now here, now there. So sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover, The west-wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; So sweet, so sweet with news of some one’s lover. Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes ; Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear ; And, water, hush youi song through reeds and rushes. That I may know whose lover cometh near. So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling. Plover or blackbird never heeding me; So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, falling. O’er bar and bank, in brawling, boisterous glee. So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover. Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and fall. Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover. My lover calling through the thrushes’ call. “Come down, come down!” he called, and straight the thrushes From mate to mate sang all at once, “ Come down !” And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes, The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, “Come down !” Then down and off, and through the fields of clover, I followed, followed, at my lover’s call ; Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover. The water’s laugh, the mill-stream’s fret and fall. Nora Perry. MAY-EVE, OR KATE OF ABERDEEN silver moon’s enamoured beam Steals softly through the night. To wanton with the winding stream. And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go, balmy sleep (’Tis where you’ve seldom been). May’s vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen. Upon the green the virgins wait. In rosy chaplets gay. Till mom unbars her golden gate. And gives the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare. The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair. As Kate of Aberdeen. Strike up the tabor’s boldest notes. We'll rpuse the nodding grove ; The nested birds shall raise their throaVs, And hail the maid I love. And see — the matin lark mistakes. He quits the tufted green : Fond bird I ’tis not the morning breaks. ’Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now lightsome o’er the level mead. Where midnight fairies rove. Like them the jocund dance we’ll lead. Or tune the reed to love : For see, the rosy May draws nigh ; She claims a virgin queen ; And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, ’Tis Kate of Aberdeen. John Cunningha.vi MARCH "'HE stormy March is come at last. With wind, and cloud, and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast *?* That through the snowy valley flies. Ah I passing few are they who speak. Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee ; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak. Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou to northern lands again, The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle tram, And wear’st the gentle name of Spring. And, in thy reign of blast and storm. Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day. When the changed winds are soft and warm. And heaven puts on the blue of May. Then sing aloud the gushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free. That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea. The years departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat , But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring’st the hope ot those calm skies And that soft time of sunny showers. When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. William Cullen Bryant BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 115 THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. HEY come ! the merry summer months of beauty, song and flowers ; They come ! the gladsome months that bring "f thick leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad ; fling cark and care aside ; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide ; Or, underneath the sliadows vast of patriarchal tree. Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tran- quility. The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand ; And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland ; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courte- ously ; It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and wel- come thee : \nd mark how with thine own thin locks — they now are silvery gray — That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, “ Be gay !” There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky But hath its own wing’d mariners to give it melody : Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold ; And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth. Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me. To smell again these summer flowers beneath this sum- mer tree ! To suck once more in every breath their little souls away. And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth’s bright summer day. When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy ! I’m sadder now — I have had cause ; but O ! I’m proud to think That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ; — Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, un- clouded sky. Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. When summer’s loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold. I’ll bear indeed life’s heaviest curse— a heart that hath wa.xed old ! William Motherwell. APRIL. the warm sun, that brings 1 f I Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, VA^ ’Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well. When forest glades are teeming with bright forms. Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-in of storms. From the earth’s loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; Though stricken to the heart with winter’s cold. The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wings Are glancing in the golden sun, along The forest openings. And when bright sunset fills The silvery woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills. And wide the upland glows. And when the day is gone. In the blue lake, the sky, o’erreaching far. Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows tlirow, And the fair trees look over, side by side. And see themselves below. Sweet April, many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; Nor shall they fall, till, to its autumn brought. Life’s golden fruit is shed. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE VERNAL SEASON. OW let me sit beneath the whitening thorn. And mark thy spreading tints steal o’er tlie . dale ; And watch with patient eye Thy fair unfolding charms. O nymph, approach ! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead, ^irough the cool moist air 116 CROWN JEWELS. Throws his young maiden beams, And with chaste kisses woos The earth’s fair bosom ; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent snaiie. Protects thy modest blooms From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short : the red dog-star Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower s scythe Thy greens, thy flowerets all. Remorseless shall destroy. Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ; For O ! not all that autumn’s lap contains. Nor summer’s ruddiest fruits. Can aught for thee atone. Fair spring ! whose simplest promise more delights Then all their largest wealth, and through the heart Each joy and new-born hope With softest influence breathes. Anna L. Barbauld. THE WATER! THE WATER! HE water ! the water! The joyous brook for me, That tuneth through the quiet night Its ever-living glee. The water I the water ! That sleepless, merry heart. Which gurgles on unstintedly. And loveth to impart To all around it, some small measure Of its own most perfect pleasure. The water ! the water ! . The gentle stream for me. That gushes from the old gray stone Beside the alder-tree. The water ! the water ! That ever-bubbling spring I loved and looked on while a child. In deepest wondering — And asked it whence it came and went. And when its treasures would 'oe spent. The water ! the water ! Where I have shed salt tears. In loneliness and friendliness, A thing of tender years. The water I the water I Where I have happy been. And showered upon its bosom flowers Culled from each meadow green ; And idly hoped my life would be So crowned by love’s idolatry. The water I the water I My heart yet burns to think How cool thy fountain sparkled forth. For 'parched lip to drink. The water ! the water I Of mine own native glen — The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, But ne’er shall hear again, Though fancy fills my ear for aye With sounds that live so far away 1 The water 1 the water ! The mild and glassy wave. Upon whose broomy banks I’ve longed To find my silent grave. The water ! the water 1 O, blest to me thou art ! Thus sounding in life’s solitude The music of my heart. And filling it, despite of sadness. With dreamings of departed gladness. The water ! the water ! The mournful, pensive tone That whispered to my heart how soon This weary life was done. The water I the water ! That rolled so bright and free, And bade me mark how beautiful Was its soul's purity ; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on, it sought its grave. William Motherwell. MAY. FEEL a newer life in every gale ; The winds that fan the flowers. And with their welcome breathings fill the sail. Tell of serener hours — Of hours that glide unfelt away Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls From his blue throne of air. And where his whispering voice in music falls, Beauty is budding there ; The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers, and awake. The waving verdure rolls along the plain. And the wide forest weaves. To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves , And from its darkening shadows floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; The tresses of the woods. With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; And the full-brimming floods, As gladly to their goal they run. Hail the returning sun. James G. Percival. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 117 THE SUMMER. •jlp N all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul like wings, Teaching us, by the most persuasive reasons, I How akin they are to human things. And with childlike, credulous alTeciion, We behold their tender buds expand. Emblems of our own great resurrection. Emblems of the bright and better land. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE MIDNIGHT WIND. m OURNFULLY! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh. Like some sweet, plaintive melody Of ages long gone by ! It speaks a tale of other years. Of hopes that bloomed to die. Of sunny smiles that set in tears. And loves that mouldering lie ! Mournfully! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan 1 It stirs some chord of memory In each dull, heavy tone ; The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon — All, all my fond heart cherished Ere death had made it lone. Mournfully ! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy — Hope’s passionate farewell To the dreamy joys of early jears. Ere yet griefs canker fell On the heart’s bloom — ay I well may tears Start at that parting knell ! William Motherwell. WILD FLOWERS. EAUTIFUL flowers 1 to me ye fresher seem From the Almighty hand that fasliioned all. Than those that flourish by a garden-wall ; And I can image you as in a dream, Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small : — I love ye all 1 Beautiful gems 1 that on the brow of earth Are fixed, as in a queenly diadem ; Though lowly ye, and most without a name. Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth. As light erewhlle into the world came : — I love ye all ! Beautiful things ye are, where’er ye grow ! The wild red rose — the speedwell’s peeping eyes — Our own bluebell — the daisy, that doth rise Wherever .sunbeams fall or winds do blow ; And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes : — I love ye all ! Beautiful nurslings of the early dew ! Fanned in your loveliness, by every breeze. And shaded o’er by green and arching trees ; I often wish that I were one of you. Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas : — I love ye all ! Beautiful watchers I day and night ye wake ! The evening star grows dim and fades away. And morning comes and goes, and then the day Within the arms of night its rest doth take ; But ye are watchful wheresoe’er we stray : — I love ye all ! Beautiful objects of the wild-bee’s love ! The wild-bird joys your opening bloom to see. And in your native woods and wilds to be. All hearts, to nature true, ye strangely move ; Ye are so passing fair — so passing free : — I love ye all ! Beautiful children of the glen and dell — The dingle deep— the moorland stretching wide,' And of the mossy mountain's sedgy side ! Ye o’er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell ; And, though the worldling, scorning, may deride .- I I love ye all 1 Robert Nicoll. TO THE DANDELION. EAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way. Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold. First pledge of blithesome May, -My childhood’s earliest thoughts are linked with thee ; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. And I. secure in childish piety. Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears. When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem. When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart. Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, I Did we but pay the love we owe, I And with a child’s undoubting wisdom fook On all these living pages of God’s book. 1 James Russell Lowell. 118 CROWN JEWELS. THE IVY GREEN. H ! a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o’er ruins old ! On right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed. To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made. Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings. And a staunch old heart has he ; How closely he twineth, how close he clings. To his friend the huge oak tree ! And slily he traileth along the ground. And his leaves he gently waves. As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men’s graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed. And nations have scattered been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten on the past : For the statliest building man can raise Is the ivy’s food at last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green ! Charles Dickens. TO A DAISY. HERE is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, 'f’ And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field. In gay but quick succession shine ; Race after race their honors yield. They flourish and decline. But this small flower, to nature dear. While moons and stars their courses run, Enwreathes the circle of the year. Companion of the sun. The purple heath and golden broom. On moory mountains catch the gale ; O’er lawns the lily sheds perfume. The violet in the vale. Rut this bold floweret climbs the hill. Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill. Peeps round the fox’s den. Within the garden’s cultured round It shares the sweet carnation’s bed ; And blooms on consecrated ground In honor of the dead. The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; The wild bee murmurs on its breast ; The blue-fly bends its pensiie stem, Light o’er the skylark’s nest. ’Tis Flora’s page — in every place, In every season, fresh and fair ; It opens with perennial grace, And blossoms everywhere. On waste and woodland, rock and plain, Its humble buds unheeded rise : The rose has but a summer reign ; The daisy never dies ! James Montgomery. THE CHANGING WORLD. WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN ENGLAND. HE time hath laid his mantle by Of wind and rain and icy chill. And dons a rich embroidery "f Of sunlight poured on lake and hill. No beast or bird in earth or sky. Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill, For time hath laid his mantle by Of wind and rain and icy chill. River and fountain, brook and rill. Bespangled o’er with livery gay Of silver droplets, wind their way. All in their new apparel vie. For time hath laid his mantle by. Charles of Orleans. ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. LOWER of the waste ! the heath fowl shuns For thee the brake and tangled wood — To thy protecting shade she runs. Thy tender buds supply her food ; Her young forsake her downy plumes. To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art ! The deer that range the mountain free. The graceful doe, the stately hart, Their food and shelter seek from thee ; The bee thy earliest blossom greets. And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom Sheds beauty o’er the lonely moor ; Though thou dispense no rich perfume, Nor yet with splendid tints allure. Both valor’s crest and beauty’s bower Oft has thou decked, a favorite flower. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 119 Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mouVitain’s side, Not the gay hues of Iris’ bow^ Nor garden’s artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer. Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seem to breathe ; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild. And deck his bonnet with the wreath. Where dwelt of old his rustic sires. Is all his simple wish requires. Flower of his dear-loved native land ! Alas, when distant far more dear ! When he from some cold foreign strand. Looks homeward through the blinding tear. How must his aching heart deplore. That home and thee he sees no more ! Marian Grant. WILLOW SONG. ILLOW ! in thy breezy moan I can hear a deeper tone ; Through thy leaves come whispering low Faint sweet sounds of long ago— Willow, sighing willow ! Many a mournful tale of old Heart-sick love to thee hath told, Gathering from thy golden bough Leaves to cool his burning brow — Willow, sighing willow ! Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ; Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent— Willow, sighing willow ! Therefore, wave and murmur on. Sigh for sweet affections gone. And for tuneful voices fled. And for love, whose heart hath bled. Ever, willow, willow ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. THE WANDERING WIND. 'HE wind, the wandering wind |(T\ Of the golden summer eves — Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tones amongst the leaves ? Oh 1 is it from the waters. Or from the long, tall grass ? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass ? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined. That it wins the tone of mastery ! The wind, the wandering wind 1 No, no ! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go. They are not from the osiers. Nor the fir-trees whispering low. They are not of the waters, Nor of the caverned hill ; ’Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill ; They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble. To the wind, the wandering wind ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. THE ROSE. OW fair is the rose ! that beautifnl flower. The glory of April and May ; But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour. And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast. Above all the flowers of the field ; When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors lost Still how sweet a perfume it will yield ! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men. Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ; But all our fond care to preserve them is vain. Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I’ll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty. Since both of them wither and fade ; But gain a good name by well-doing my duty ; This will scent like a rose when I’m dead. Isaac Watts. CHORUS OF FLOWERS E are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene’er you see us, what ou.' beauty saith ;) Utterance mute and bright. Of some unknown delight. We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : All who see us love us — We befit all places ; Unto sorrow we give smiles — and unto graces, graces- Who shall say that flowers Dress not heaven’s own bowers ? Who Its love without us, can fancy — or sweet floor? Who shall even dare To say we sprang not there — And came not down, the Lord might bring one piece of heaven the more ? O ! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions Brought us in their white laps down, ’twlxt their gol- den pinions. I Leigh Hunt. 320 CROWN JEWELS. MAY DAY. HE daisies peep from every field, And violets sweet their odor yield ; And purple blossom paints the thorn, And streams reflect the blush of morn, Then lads and lasses all, be gay. For this is nature’s holiday. Let lusty labor drop his flail. Nor woodman’s hook a tree assail ; The ox shall cease its neck to bow. And Clodden yield to rest the plough. Behold the lark in ether float. While rapture swells the liquid note ! What warbles he, with merry cheer? *• Let love and pleasure rule the year !” Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye. And throws a smile around his sky ; Embracing hill, and vale, and stream. And warming nature with his beam. The insect tribes in myraids pour. And kiss with zephyr every flower ; Shall these our icy hearts reprove, And tell us what are foes to love ? Then lads and lasses all, be gay, For this is nature’s holiday. John Wolcot. TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. 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 cannot 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 hymns to them : When silent showers are falling slow. And ’mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts 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. Scorned 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. A DAY IN JUNE. ND what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days ; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays ; Whether we look, or whether we listen. We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers And, groping blindly above it for light. Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers ; The flush of light may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green. The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice. And there’s never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature’s palace ; The little bird sits at his door in the sun. Atilt like a blossom among the leaves. And lets his illumined being o’errun With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings. And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings ; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest — In the nice ear of nature, which song is the best? James Russell Lowell. THE PRIMEVAL FOREST. ’HIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and hemlocks. Bearded with moss, and in garments green, 'f' indistinct in the twilight. Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and pro- phetic. Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep voiced neigh- boring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 121 TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms. And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young'spring first questioned winter’s sway And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight. Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year. Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale. Unnoticed and alone. Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head. Obscure and unobserved ; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows. Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. Harry Kirke White. THE LILY. OW withered, peiished seems the form Of yon obscure unsightly root ! Yet from the blight of wintry storm. It hides secure the precious fruit. The careless eye can find no grace. No beauty in the scaly folds. Nor see within the dark embrace What latent loveliness it holds. Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales. The lily wraps her silver vest. Till vernal suns and vernal gales Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap The undelighting slighted thing ; There in the cold earth buried deep. In silence let it wait the spring. Oh ! many a stormy night shall close In gloom upon the barren earth. While still, in undisturbed repose. Uninjured lies the future birth. Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear ! The sun, the shower indeed shall come. The promised verdant shoot appear. And nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin queen of spring I Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed. Bursting thy green sheath’s silken string. Unveil thy charms and perfume shed ; Unfold thy robes of purest white. Unsullied from their darksome grave. And thy soft petals’ silvery light In the mild breeze unfettered wave. So faith shall seek the lowly dust Where humble sorrow loves to lie. And bid her thus her hopes intrust. And watch with patient, cheerful eye And bear the long, cold wintry night. And bear her own degraded doom ; And wait till heaven’s reviving light. Eternal spring ! shall burst the gloom. Mary Tighe. THE BRAVE OLD OAK. SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long , Here’s health and renown to his broad green crown. And his fifty arms so strong. There’s fear in his frown when the sun goes down. And the fire in the west fades out ; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branche.t shout. Then here’s to the oak, the brave old oak. Who stands in his pride alone ; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone ! In the days of old, when the spring with cold Had brightened his branches gray. Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains ; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear. When the squire’s wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey. And a ruthless king is he ; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be tossed on the stormy sea. Henry Fothergill Chorley. THE CLOUD. BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one. When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast. As she dances about the sun. 122 CROWN JEWELS. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under ; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines grown aghast ; , And all the night ’tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers. Lightning, my pilot, sits ; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits ; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion. This pilot is guiding me. Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills. Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. The spirit he loves, remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile. Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread. Leaps on the back of my sailing rack When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings ; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea be- neath. Its ardors of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden. Whom mortals call the moon. Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor. By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet. Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof. The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, ^ Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high. Are each paved with the moon and thee. I bind the sun’s throng with a burning zone. And the moon’s with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape. Over a torrent sea. Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof. The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair. Is the million-colored bow ; The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove. While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water. And the nursling of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores • I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams. Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. And out of the caverns of rain. Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again. Percy Bysshe Shelley. COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE. OME to these scenes of peace. Where, to rivers murmuring. The sweet birds all the summer sing, Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease Stranger, does thy heart deplore Friends whom thou wilt see no more ? Does thy wounded spirit prove Pangs of hopeless severed love? Thee, the stream that gushes clear — Thee, the birds that carol near Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie And dream of their wild lullaby ; Come to bless these scenes of peace. Where cares, and toil, and sadness cea'^e. William Lisle Bowles. SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. OWN the glen, across the mountain. O’er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain. Till its little breakers foam. Bending down the weeping willows. While our vesper hymn we sigh ; Then unto our rosy pillows On our weary wings we hie. There of idlenesses dreaming. Scarce from waking we refrain. Moments long as ages deeming Till we’re at our play again. George Darle.l BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 123 DAFFODILS. 'I' WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd — 1 A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I, at a glance. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company ; I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie. In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills. And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. AY-STARS ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth’s creation. And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation 1 Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun — God’s lidless eye — Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high 1 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 planned , 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, stretched upon the sod. Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God — 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 splendor “ Weep without woe, and blush without a crime,” O may I deeply learn, and ne’er surrender Your lore sublime 1 “ Thou wert not, Solomon 1 in all thy glory. Arrayed,” the lilies cry, “m 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 1 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 interred in earth. Ye are to me a type of resurrection. And second birth. Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining. Far from all voice of teachers or divines. My soul v/ould find, in flowers of thy ordaining. Priests, sermons, shrines ! Horace S.mith. AMERICAN SKIES. HE sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely, round the Grecian coast, ’I’ May thy blue pillars rise : — I only know how fair they stand About my own beloved land. And they are fair : a charm is theirs. That earth— the proud, green earth — has not, With all the hues, and forms, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot. We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, And read of heaven’s eternal year. Oh ! when, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mirth. How willingly we turn us then. Away from this cold earth. And look into thy azure breast. For seats of innocence and rest. William Cullen Bryant. 124 CROWN JEWELS. FLOWERS— THE GEMS OF NATURE. EMS of the changing autumn, how beautiful ye are ! Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden star ; Peeping through the long grass, smiling on the down. Lighting up the dusky bank, just where the sun goes down ; Yellow flowers of autumn, how beautiful ye are ! Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden. ' Thomas Campbell. RECOLLECTIONS OF ENGLISH SCENERY. AUNTS of my youth ! Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! Where ’twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes. To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb, There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun ; And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way. While heavily upward moved the laboring wain. And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind. To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone The grating wheel. Advancing higher still. The prospect widens, and the village church But little o’er the lofty roofs around Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane ; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring ; When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms. Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit. Console them, for the vineyards of the South Surpass not these. Where woods of ash and beech, And partial copses fringe the green hill foot. The upland shephetd rears his modest home ; There wanders by a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear. Or after rain with chalky mixture gray. But still refreshing in its shallow course The cottage garden ; most for use designed. Yet not of beau-y destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement , yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks, Grow among balm and rosemary and rue; There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almo.^t uncultured; some with dark green leaves Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white. Others like velvet robes of regal state Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear The hues of youthful beauty’s glowing cheek. With fond regret I recollect e’en now In spring and summer, what delight I felt Among these cottage garden®, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid. Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleased. An early worshipper at nature’s shrine, I loved her rudest scenes— warrens, and heaths. And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows. And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes, Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine. Charlotte S.vnTH. THE GRAPE-VINE SWING. ITHE and long as the serpent train. Springing and clinging from tree to tree. Now darting upward, now down again. With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see ; Never took serpent a deadlier hold. Never the cougar a wilder spring. Strangling the oak with the boa’s fold. Spanning the beach with the condor’s wing. Yet no foe that we fear to seek — The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace ; Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek As ever on lover’s breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade ; While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold. And swings and sings in the noonday shade ! 0 giant strange of our southern woods ! I dream of thee still in the well-known spot. Though our vessel strains o’er the ocean floods, And the northern forest beholds thee not ; 1 think of thee still with a sweet regret. As the cordage yields to my playful grasp — Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp? William Gilmore Sim.ms. MY HEART LEAPS UP. ® Y 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 do Bound each to each by natural piety. William Wordsworth. BE\UTIES OF NATURE. 125 THE CLOSE OF SPRING. *HE garlands fade that spring so Lately wove ; Each simple flower, which she had nursed Vi|i/ in dew, "f Anemonies that spangled every grove. The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell. Or purple orchis variegate the plain, rill spring again shall call forth every bell. And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair Are the fond visions of thy early day. Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colors fade away ! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours. And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay. Pluck the wild rose or woodbine’s gadding flowers ; Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree. The sense of sorrow he a while may lose ; So have I sought thy flowers, fair poesy ! So charmed my way with friendship and the muse. But darker now grows life’s unhappy day. Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come ; Her pencil sickening fancy throws away, And weary hope reclines upon the tomb. And points my wishes to that tranquil shore. Where the pale spectre care pursues no more ! Charlotte Smith. THE WOOD-NYMPH. HY should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen, Lament that here, in this half desert scene. My lot is placed ? At least the poet winds are bold and loud — At least the sunset glorifies the cloud. And forests old and proud Rustle their verdurous banners o’er the waste. Nature, though wild her forms, sustains me still ; The founts are musical — the barren hill Glows with strange lights ; Through solemn pine-groves the small rivulets fleet Sparkling, as if a naiad’s silvery feet. In quick and coy retreat. Glanced through the star-beams on calm summer nights ; And the great sky, the royal heaven above. Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love ; While far remote. Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire. Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir. Their innocent love’s desire Pourtd in a rill of song from each harmonious throat. NATURE'S CHAIN. OOK round our world ; behold the chain of love r Combining all below and all above. See plastic nature working to this end. The single atoms each to other tend. Attract, attracted to, the next in place. Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. See matter next, with various life endued. Press to one centre still, the general good. See dying vegetables life sustain. See life dissolving vegetate again : All forms that perish other forms supply, (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die) ; Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne. They rise, they break, and to that sea return. Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; One all extending, all-preserving soul Connects each being, greatest with the least ; Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast ; All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown. Alexander Pope. THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. ‘HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea. Why takest thou its melancholy voice ? Why with that boding cry f O’er the waves dost thou fly ? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice ! Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the shore. For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. Richard Henry Dana. THE SWALLOW. 0 OME summer visitant, attach To my reed-roof thy nest of clay. And let my ear thy music catch. Low twittering underneath the thatch, At the gray dawn of day. As fables tell, an Indian sage. The Hindustani woods among. Could in his desert hermit.age. As if ’t were marked in written page, Translate the wild bird’s song. I wish I did his power possess. That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess. And know from what wild wilderness Thou earnest o’er the sea. Charlotte Smith. 126 CROWN JEWELS. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. ERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Snug and safe is that nest of ours. Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; White are his shoulders and white his crest. Hear him call in his merry note : Bob o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there never was a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln’s Quaker wife. Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings. Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat : Bob o’-link, bob o’-link, Spink, spank, spink. Never was I afraid of man ; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay. Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Nice good wife, that never goes out. Keeping house with a frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food ; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well. Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink ; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay j'oung fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care* Off" is his holiday garment laid. Half forgotten that merry air, Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; P'un and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln’s a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : Bob-o’-link, bob-o’-link, Spink, spank, spink ; When you can pipe that merry old stram, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. William Cullen Bryant MAY TO APRIL. ITHOUT your showers I breed no flowers ; Each field a barren waste appears ; If you don’t weep. My blossoms sleep. They take such pleasure in your tears. Philip Frenau, SONG OF WOOD-NYMPHS. e OME here, come here, and dwell In forest deep ! Come here, come here, and tell Why thou dost weep ! Is it for love (sweet pain !) That thus thou dar’st complain - Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves. Where nought else grieves ? Come here, come here, and lie By whispering stream ! Here no one dares to die For love’s sweet dream; But health all seek, and joy. And shun perverse annoy. And race along green paths till close of day. And laugh — alway ! Or else, through half the year, On rushy floor, We lie by waters clear. While sky larks pour Their songs into the sun ! And when bright day is done, We hide ’neath bells of flowers or nodding corn, And dream — till morn ! Bryan Waller Proctor {Barry Cornwall). BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 27 ANSWER TO A CHILD’S QUESTION. O you ask what the^ birds say ? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, “ I love, and I love ! ” In the winter they’re silent, the wind is so strong ; What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny w'arm weather. And singing and loving — all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. The green fields below him, the blue sky above. That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, “ I love my love, and my love loves me.” Samuel Taylor Coleridge. THE BOBOLINK. f AYEST songster of the spring ! Thy melodies before me bring Visions of some dream-built land. Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, I might walk the livelong day, Embosomed in perpetual May. Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows. For thee a tempest never blows; But when our northern summer’s o’e^ By Delaware or Schuylkill’s shore The wild rice lifts its airy head. And royal feasts for thee are spread. And when the winter threatens there. Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. But bear thee to more southern coasts. Far beyond the reach of frosts. Bobolink! still may thy gladness Take from me all taints of sadness ! Thomas Hill. THE KATYDID. TT LOVE to hear thine earnest voice. Wherever thou art hid, •V Thou testy little dogmatist, ' Thou pretty Katydid ! Thou mindest me of gentlefolks — Old gentlefolks are they — Thou sayest an undisputed thing In such a solemn way. Thou art a female. Katydid ! I know it by the trill That quivers through thy piercing notes. So petulent and shrill. I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree — A knot of soinster Katydids — Do Katydids drink tea ? O, tell me where did Katy live, And what did Katy do ? And was she very fair and young. And yet so wicked too ? Did Katy love a naughty man. Or kiss more cheeks than one ? I warrant Katy did no more Than many a Kate has done. Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE WEET poet of the woods, a long adieu I Farewell soft minstrel of the early year ! Ah I ’twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night’s dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await. Or whether silent in our groves you dwell. The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate. And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird who sings of pity best : For still thy voice shall soft affections move. And still be dear to sorrow and to love 1 Charlotte Smith. ADDRESS TO THE BUTTERFLY. HILD of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight. Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light, And where the flowers of paradise unfold. Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold : There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky. Expand and shut with silent ecstasy : Yet wert thou once a worm — a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man ! — soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. Samuel Rogers. THE REDBREAST. HEN that the fields put on their gay attire. Thou silent sittest near brake or river’s brim. Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim ; But when pale winter lights the social fire. And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire. Thou charmest us with thy soft and solemn hymn, From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim ; And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire. Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch The pittance due to thy well-warbled song : Sweet bird, sing on ! for oft near lonely hatch. Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng. And oft for entrance ’neath the peaceful thatch. Full many a tale have told and ditty long. John Bampfylde. J28 CROWN JEWELS. THE SKYLARK. IRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — O to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud. Far in the downy cloud. Love gives it energy, love gave it birth ; Where, 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, Blest is thy dwelling place — O to abide in the desert with thee ! James Hogg. THE CUCKOO. BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, 1 hear thee and rejoice : O cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird. Or but a wandering voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear ; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers. Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the spi Even yet thou art to me No bird but an invisible thing A voice, a mystery. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love ; Still longed for, never seen ! And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. William Wardsworth. NIGHT BIRDS. IGH overhead the stripe-winged nightkawk soars. With loud responses to his distant love ; And while the air for insects he e.xplores, In frequent swoop descending from above. Startles, with whizzing sound, the fearful wight, Who wanders lonely in the silent night. Around our heads the bat, on leathern wings. In airy circles wheels his sudden flight ; The whippoorwill, in distant forest, sings Her loud, unvaried song ; and o’er the night The boding owl, upon the evening gale. Sends forth her wild and melancholy wail. The first sweet hour of gentle evening flies. On downy pinions to eternal rest ; Along the vale the balmy breezes rise. Fanning the languid boughs ; while in the west The last faint streaks of daylight die away. And night and silence close the summer day. Alonzo Lewis. THE MOCKING BIRD CALLING HER MATE throat ! O trembling throat 1 Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! Pierce the woods, the earth ; Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want. Shake out, carols 1 Solitary here — the night’s carols ! Carols of lonesome love ! Death’s carols ! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon ! O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea ! O reckless, despairing carols ! But soft ! sink low ; ♦ Soft ! let me just murmur ; And do you wait a moment, you huskyvnoised sea ; For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me. So faint— I must be still, be still to listen ; But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. Hither, my love 1 Here I am ! Here ! With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you; This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. Do not be decoyed elsewhere 1 That is the whistle of the wind— it is not my voice ; That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray ; Those are the shadows of leaves. O darkness ! O in vain 1 O, I am very sick and sorrowful. Walt Whitman, LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS / BEAUTIES OF NATURE. THE STORMY PETREL 'HE lark sings for joy in her own loved land, In the furrowed field, by the breezes fanned ; And so revel we 'I' In the furrowed sea, As joyous and glad as the lark can be. On the placid breast of the inland lake The wild duck delights her pastime to take ; But the petrel braves The wild ocean waves. His wing in the foaming billow he laves. The halcyon loves in the noontide beam To follow his sport on the tranquil stream ; He fishes at ease In the summer breeze, But we go angling in stormiest seas. No song-note have we but a piping cry, That blends with the storm when the wind is high. When the land-birds wail We sport in the gale, And merrily over the ocean we sail THE THRUSH'S NEST. ITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy— and oft an unintruding guest, I watched her secret toils from day to day ; How true she wraped the moss to form her nest. And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew. There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers. Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue; And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly. Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. John Clare. TO A WATERFOWL. HITHER, ’midst falling dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps of day. Far, through the 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. 9J Seekest thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide. Or where the rocking bi.lows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side f There is a Power, whose care Teaches the way along that pathless coatt- The desert and illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned. At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; 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 sheltered nest. Thou’rt gone ; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply bath 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. William Cullen Bryant. THE BARN OWL. HILE moonlight, silvering all the walls, Through every opening crevice falls, Tipping with white his powdery plume. As shades or shifts the changing gloom ; The owl that, watching in the barn, Sees the mouse creeping in the corn. Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes As if he slept — until he spies The little beast within his stretch — Then starts, and seizes on the wretch ! Samuel Butler. THE SQUIRREL. /^"^RAWN from his refuge in some lonely elm, M That age or injury has hollowed deep, 1h^ Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves. He has outslept the winter, ventures forth. To frisk a while and bask in the warm sun,. The squirrel, flippant, pert and full of play ; He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird. Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his brush. And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud. With all the prettiness of feigned alarm. And anger insignificantly fierce. William Cowper. CROWN JEWELS. -3