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On The Same Occasion

William Wordsworth

(The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese) Ye Storms, resound the praises of your King! And ye mild Seasons, in a sunny clime, Midway on some high hill, while father Time Looks on delighted, meet in festal ring, And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing! Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and flowers, Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers, And the dire flapping of his hoary wing! Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass; With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain; Whisper it to the billows of the main, And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, That old decrepit Winter, 'He' hath slain That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain!

Alleluia Height

Michael Earls

Yea, constant through the changeful year, This queenly Height commands our praise. To stand in meek unflinching hardihood When fortune blows its storm of fright, And work to full effect that good Resolved in open days of clearer sight- O, this is worth! That daily sees the soul To braver liberties give birth, That heeds not time's annoy, And hears surrounding voices roll Perennial circumstance of joy. Then come not only when the springtime blows The old familiar strangeness of its breath Across the long-lain snows, And chants her resurrected songs About the tombs of death; Nor yet when summer glows In roseate throngs And works her plenitude of deeds By tangled dells and waving meads, Come here in beauty's pilgrimage: Nor when the autumn reads Illuminate her page With tints of magicry besprent Of iridescent wonderment- (As scrolls in old monastic towers, Done in an earnest far-off age). But choose to come in winter hours To see how character can live, How noble character will give Through desolate distress And cold neglect's duress, The fulness of its powers And win the soul its victor sign. Yea, come when in a peasant gown, Amid the ample banners of the pine,

Inscription For A Monument In Crosthwaite Church, In The Vale Of Keswick

William Wordsworth

Ye vales and hills whose beauty hither drew The poet's steps, and fixed him here, on you His eyes have closed! And ye, loved books, no more Shall Southey feed upon your precious lore, To works that ne'er shall forfeit their renown, Adding immortal labours of his own, Whether he traced historic truth, with zeal For the State's guidance, or the Church's weal, Or Fancy, disciplined by studious art, Informed his pen, or wisdom of the heart, Or judgments sanctioned in the Patriot's mind By reverence for the rights of all mankind. Wide were his aims, yet in no human breast Could private feelings meet for holier rest. His joys, his griefs, have vanished like a cloud From Skiddaw's top; but he to heaven was vowed Through his industrious life, and Christian faith Calmed in his soul the fear of change and death.

Panthera

Thomas Hardy

Yea, as I sit here, crutched, and cricked, and bent, I think of Panthera, who underwent Much from insidious aches in his decline; But his aches were not radical like mine; They were the twinges of old wounds - the feel Of the hand he had lost, shorn by barbarian steel, Which came back, so he said, at a change in the air, Fingers and all, as if it still were there. My pains are otherwise: upclosing cramps And stiffened tendons from this country's damps, Where Panthera was never commandant. - The Fates sent him by way of the Levant. He had been blithe in his young manhood's time, And as centurion carried well his prime. In Ethiop, Araby, climes fair and fell, He had seen service and had borne him well. Nought shook him then: he was serene as brave; Yet later knew some shocks, and would grow grave When pondering them; shocks less of corporal kind Than phantom-like, that disarranged his mind; And it was in the way of warning me (By much his junior) against levity That he recounted them; and one in chief Panthera loved to set in bold relief. This was a tragedy of his Eastern days, Personal in touch - though I have sometimes thought That touch a possible delusion - wrought Of half-conviction carried to a craze - His mind at last being stressed by ails and age:- Yet his good faith thereon I well could wage. I had said it long had been a wish with me That I might leave a scion - some small tree As channel for my sap, if not my name - Ay, offspring even of no legitimate claim, In whose advance I secretly could joy. Thereat he warned. "Cancel such wishes, boy! A son may be a comfort or a curse, A seer, a doer, a coward, a fool; yea, worse - A criminal . . . That I could testify!" "Panthera has no guilty son!" cried I All unbelieving. "Friend, you do not know," He darkly dropt: "True, I've none now to show, For THE LAW TOOK HIM. Ay, in sooth, Jove shaped it so!" "This noon is not unlike," he again began, "The noon these pricking memories print on me - Yea, that day, when the sun grew copper-red, And I served in Judaea . . . 'Twas a date Of rest for arms. The Pax Romana ruled, To the chagrin of frontier legionaries! Palestine was annexed - though sullen yet, - I, being in age some two-score years and ten And having the garrison in Jerusalem Part in my hands as acting officer Under the Governor. A tedious time I found it, of routine, amid a folk Restless, contentless, and irascible. - Quelling some riot, sentrying court and hall, Sending men forth on public meeting-days To maintain order, were my duties there. "Then came a morn in spring, and the cheerful sun Whitened the city and the hills around, And every mountain-road that clambered them, Tincturing the greyness of the olives warm, And the rank cacti round the valley's sides. The day was one whereon death-penalties Were put in force, and here and there were set The soldiery for order, as I said, Since one of the condemned had raised some heat, And crowds surged passionately to see him slain. I, mounted on a Cappadocian horse, With some half-company of auxiliaries, Had captained the procession through the streets When it came streaming from the judgment-hall After the verdicts of the Governor. It drew to the great gate of the northern way That bears towards Damascus; and to a knoll Upon the common, just beyond the walls - Whence could be swept a wide horizon round Over the housetops to the remotest heights. Here was the public execution-ground For city crimes, called then and doubtless now Golgotha, Kranion, or Calvaria. "The usual dooms were duly meted out; Some three or four were stript, transfixed, and nailed, And no great stir occurred. A day of wont It was to me, so far, and would have slid Clean from my memory at its squalid close But for an incident that followed these. "Among the tag-rag rabble of either sex That hung around the wretches as they writhed, Till thrust back by our spears, one held my eye - A weeping woman, whose strained countenance, Sharpened against a looming livid cloud, Was mocked by the crude rays of afternoon - The mother of one of those who suffered there I had heard her called when spoken roughly to By my ranged men for pressing forward so. It stole upon me hers was a face I knew; Yet when, or how, I had known it, for a while Eluded me. And then at once it came. "Some thirty years or more before that noon I was sub-captain of a company Drawn from the legion of Calabria, That marched up from Judaea north to Tyre. We had pierced the old flat country of Jezreel, The great Esdraelon Plain and fighting-floor Of Jew with Canaanite, and with the host Of Pharaoh-Necho, king of Egypt, met While crossing there to strike the Assyrian pride. We left behind Gilboa; passed by Nain; Till bulging Tabor rose, embossed to the top With arbute, terabinth, and locust growths. "Encumbering me were sundry sick, so fallen Through drinking from a swamp beside the way; But we pressed on, till, bearing over a ridge, We dipt into a world of pleasantness - A vale, the fairest I had gazed upon - Which lapped a village on its furthest slopes Called Nazareth, brimmed round by uplands nigh. In the midst thereof a fountain bubbled, where, Lime-dry from marching, our glad halt we made To rest our sick ones, and refresh us all. "Here a day onward, towards the eventide, Our men were piping to a Pyrrhic dance Trod by their comrades, when the young women came To fill their pitchers, as their custom was. I proffered help to one - a slim girl, coy Even as a fawn, meek, and as innocent. Her long blue gown, the string of silver coins That hung down by her banded beautiful hair, Symboled in full immaculate modesty. "Well, I was young, and hot, and readily stirred To quick desire. 'Twas tedious timing out The convalescence of the soldiery; And I beguiled the long and empty days By blissful yieldance to her sweet allure, Who had no arts, but what out-arted all, The tremulous tender charm of trustfulness. We met, and met, and under the winking stars That passed which peoples earth - true union, yea, To the pure eye of her simplicity. "Meanwhile the sick found health; and we pricked on. I made her no rash promise of return, As some do use; I was sincere in that; I said we sundered never to meet again - And yet I spoke untruth unknowingly! - For meet again we did. Now, guess you aught? The weeping mother on Calvaria Was she I had known - albeit that time and tears Had wasted rudely her once flowerlike form, And her soft eyes, now swollen with sorrowing. "Though I betrayed some qualms, she marked me not; And I was scarce of mood to comrade her And close the silence of so wide a time To claim a malefactor as my son - (For so I guessed him). And inquiry made Brought rumour how at Nazareth long before An old man wedded her for pity's sake On finding she had grown pregnant, none knew how, Cared for her child, and loved her till he died. "Well; there it ended; save that then I learnt That he - the man whose ardent blood was mine - Had waked sedition long among the Jews, And hurled insulting parlance at their god, Whose temple bulked upon the adjoining hill, Vowing that he would raze it, that himself Was god as great as he whom they adored, And by descent, moreover, was their king; With sundry other incitements to misrule. "The impalements done, and done the soldiers' game Of raffling for the clothes, a legionary, Longinus, pierced the young man with his lance At signs from me, moved by his agonies Through naysaying the drug they had offered him. It brought the end. And when he had breathed his last The woman went. I saw her never again . . . Now glares my moody meaning on you, friend? - That when you talk of offspring as sheer joy So trustingly, you blink contingencies. Fors Fortuna! He who goes fathering Gives frightful hostages to hazardry!" Thus Panthera's tale. 'Twas one he seldom told, But yet it got abroad. He would unfold, At other times, a story of less gloom, Though his was not a heart where jests had room. He would regret discovery of the truth Was made too late to influence to ruth The Procurator who had condemned his son - Or rather him so deemed. For there was none To prove that Panthera erred not: and indeed, When vagueness of identity I would plead, Panther himself would sometimes own as much - Yet lothly. But, assuming fact was such, That the said woman did not recognize Her lover's face, is matter for surprise. However, there's his tale, fantasy or otherwise. Thereafter shone not men of Panthera's kind: The indolent heads at home were ill-inclined To press campaigning that would hoist the star Of their lieutenants valorous afar. Jealousies kept him irked abroad, controlled And stinted by an Empire no more bold. Yet in some actions southward he had share - In Mauretania and Numidia; there With eagle eye, and sword and steed and spur, Quelling uprisings promptly. Some small stir In Parthia next engaged him, until maimed, As I have said; and cynic Time proclaimed His noble spirit broken. What a waste Of such a Roman! - one in youth-time graced With indescribable charm, so I have heard, Yea, magnetism impossible to word When faltering as I saw him. What a fame, O Son of Saturn, had adorned his name, Might the Three so have urged Thee! - Hour by hour His own disorders hampered Panthera's power To brood upon the fate of those he had known, Even of that one he always called his own - Either in morbid dream or memory . . . He died at no great age, untroublously, An exit rare for ardent soldiers such as he.

Calvin Campbell

Edgar Lee Masters

Ye who are kicking against Fate, Tell me how it is that on this hill-side Running down to the river, Which fronts the sun and the south-wind, This plant draws from the air and soil Poison and becomes poison ivy? And this plant draws from the same air and soil Sweet elixirs and colors and becomes arbutus? And both flourish? You may blame Spoon River for what it is, But whom do you blame for the will in you That feeds itself and makes you dock-weed, Jimpson, dandelion or mullen And which can never use any soil or air So as to make you jessamine or wistaria?

Reasons

Madison Julius Cawein

I Yea, why I love thee let my heart repeat: I look upon thy face and then divine How men could die for beauty, such as thine,-- Deeming it sweet To lay my life and manhood at thy feet, And for a word, a glance, Do deeds of old romance. II Yea, why I love thee let my heart unfold: I look into thy heart and then I know The wondrous poetry of the long-ago, The Age of Gold, That speaks strange music, that is old, so old, Yet young, as when 't was born, With all the youth of morn. III Yea, why I love thee let my heart conclude: I look into thy soul and realize The undiscovered meaning of the skies,-- That long have wooed The world with far ideals that elude,-- Out of whose dreams, maybe, God shapes reality.

Cave Of Staffa

William Wordsworth

Ye shadowy Beings, that have rights and claims In every cell of Fingal's mystic Grot, Where are ye? Driven or venturing to the spot, Our fathers glimpses caught of your thin Frames, And, by your mien and bearing knew your names; And they could hear 'his' ghostly song who trod Earth, till the flesh lay on him like a load, While he struck his desolate harp without hopes or aims. Vanished ye are, but subject to recall; Why keep 'we' else the instincts whose dread law Ruled here of yore, till what men felt they saw, Not by black arts but magic natural! If eyes be still sworn vassals of belief, Yon light shapes forth a Bard, that shade a Chief.

Sacramentum Supremum

Henry John Newbolt, Sir

MUKDEN, MARCH 6TH, 1905 Ye that with me have fought and failed and fought To the last desperate trench of battle's crest, Not yet to sleep, not yet; our work is nought; On that last trench the fate of all may rest, Draw near, my friends; and let your thoughts be high; Great hearts are glad when it is time to give; Life is no life to him that dares not die, And death no death to him that dares to live. Draw near together; none be last or first; We are no longer names, but one desire; With the same burning of the soul we thirst, And the same wine to-night shall quench our fire. Drink! to our fathers who begot us men, To the dead voices that are never dumb; Then to the land of all our loves, and then To the long parting, and the age to come.

On Censure

Jonathan Swift

Ye wise, instruct me to endure An evil, which admits no cure; Or, how this evil can be borne, Which breeds at once both hate and scorn. Bare innocence is no support, When you are tried in Scandal's court. Stand high in honour, wealth, or wit; All others, who inferior sit, Conceive themselves in conscience bound To join, and drag you to the ground. Your altitude offends the eyes Of those who want the power to rise. The world, a willing stander-by, Inclines to aid a specious lie: Alas! they would not do you wrong; But all appearances are strong. Yet whence proceeds this weight we lay On what detracting people say! For let mankind discharge their tongues In venom, till they burst their lungs, Their utmost malice cannot make Your head, or tooth, or finger ache; Nor spoil your shape, distort your face, Or put one feature out of place; Nor will you find your fortune sink By what they speak or what they think; Nor can ten hundred thousand lies Make you less virtuous, learn'd, or wise. The most effectual way to balk Their malice, is - to let them talk.

L' Envoi

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Ye voices, that arose After the Evening's close, And whispered to my restless heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!" Ye sounds, so low and calm, That in the groves of balm Seemed to me like an angel's psalm! Go, mingle yet once more With the perpetual roar Of the pine forest dark and hoar! Tongues of the dead, not lost But speaking from deaths frost, Like fiery tongues at Pentecost! Glimmer, as funeral lamps, Amid the chills and damps Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

The Song Of The Exile. A Canadian Epic.

Wilfred S. Skeats

CANTO THE FIRST. I. Ye shores of England, as ye fast recede The pain of parting rends my weary breast. I must regret--yet there is little need That I should mourn, for only wild unrest Is mine while in my native land I roam. Thou gav'st me birth, but cannot give a home. II. Yet happy were the days that have been mine, So happy that those days must needs be few. It could not be that that bright sun would shine For many months, and while its light was new The clouds arose, and, in one fated day, The jealous storm had swept my joys away. III. That fated day, when I believed that all The hopes that I had cherished in the past Would be fulfilled, and I should fondly call The being whom I loved my own at last: Then fell the storm, and bursting on my head, Still saved my body when my soul was dead. IV. I loved her dearly, and my heart was set On winning her. My only aim in life Was to secure her love, and so forget The world beside--my world would be my wife. I never loved another, her alone I loved, and, loving, longed to call my own. V. The summer months were passed in tortured bliss. My love had grown, but that it could not grow; It all-enveloped me, and one sweet kiss From her dear lips had made my bosom glow With happiness; and many months of pain Had been as nothing, that one kiss to gain. VI. And, when the many-tinted Autumn's reign Succeeded Summer's more congenial sway, I told her of the mingled joy and pain That stirred my soul throughout each Summer's day. And whispered, in emotion's softest tone, The love that I had feared before to own. VII. She listened silently, then, sweetly shy, She laid her gentle head upon my breast. And, in the liquid depths of each blue eye, I read the love her lips had not confessed; And quickly, fondly, pressed her to my heart, Vowing that none should keep us two apart. VIII. Ah! happy were the months that followed then, The months that flew as rapidly as days; And sweet the stolen hours of meeting when We listened to the nightingale's sad lays, Or, seated on a rustic bench alone, Forgot all else in glad communion. IX. I had not asked her father for her hand; He was a baronet of ancient blood. Proud of his lineage, jealous of his land; His pride was such as boded me no good. I was an author, not unknown to fame, But could not boast a title to my name. X. Sore did my loved one beg me to confess My love to him, and ask for his consent. He loved her well, and could not fail to bless Our union; his pride had oft unbent To her, and she had now but little fear That he would hear me with a willing ear. XI. I gladly heard her speak in confident And reassuring tones, and all the doubt That had been mine now vanished, and I went, With lightsome heart, to seek her father out: And prayed him give his daughter for my wife, And thus confer a blessing on my life. XII. He heard me silently, nor did he speak For full two minutes after I had ceased; Then, while his eye flashed, and his livid cheek Betrayed his passion, was his tongue released; And, in vituperative tones, he swore That I should never cross his threshold more. XIII. Was this my gratitude for patronage, That I should thus inveigle his one daughter, And seek to supplement my sorry wage By the rich dowry that her marriage brought her? He was a baronet of ancient name; No parvenu his daughter's hand should claim. XIV. His words enraged me, but I checked my wrath For her dear sake, whose love alone that fire Could quench, and mildly arguments put forth To soothe the baronet, and calm his ire. But useless all the arguments I wove; In foaming rage he cursed me and my love. XV. What need to speak of all that next ensued? Still constantly, throughout those weary days, Impelled by hope, with fondest love imbued, Did I renew my suit. By bold essays I sought to win the baronet's consent-- Each day a wilder rage his bosom rent. XVI. He had forbidden me to see my Love; But one glad morning I received a note From her. She bade me meet her in the grove Behind her father's house. In pain she wrote, For, though the letter spoke no word of pain, Her tears had left a sorrow-telling stain. XVII. We met at night-time; and her tear-stained face, Upturned to mine, was sorrowful and pale. I pressed her to me in a fond embrace, And kissed the cheeks that told so sad a tale. She sadly smiled, then spoke, her cheek bedewed, The while, with bitter tears again renewed: XVIII. "My fondest Love, within this silent glen, I bade thee come to say a last farewell. Alas! my Love, we may not meet again, For thou must leave me. Ah! I cannot tell What pain was mine as on my knees I cried, And begged my father to unbend his pride. XIX. "He will not hear me; nought that I can say Will calm his wrath, but rather do my prayers Increase his passion. Each recurring day, When I would still importune him, he bears A sterner aspect, and 'twere better now That we should speak no more of this our vow. XX. "But leave thou me, and seek a foreign clime. My father thus will think that thou hast lost All hope of winning me. In one year's time Return again; perhaps, by conscience tossed, My father will repent his stern decree, And gladly, as my husband, welcome thee." XXI. "Oh! fly thou with me, Love," I trembling cried, "And--" but my loved one would not hear my cry: "'Tis but a twelvemonth since my mother died, And I should sin against my God if I Should leave my father. Oh! my Love, seek not To tempt me thus, but help me bear my lot." XXII. 'Twere wrong to more persuade her. Silently I kissed her gentle lips. A loving spell Of sweet communion followed--it could be But short--and then we bade a long farewell. O'erwhelmed with tears, my gentle Love was gone, And I must wander exiled and alone. XXIII. Yet is it best that I should wander thus, Far from the cherished spot where we have passed Such happy days, since not again for us Will be the joy that seemed too great to last. Her father is too stern a man to know Remorse's sting; his hatred will but grow. XXIV. Each year my wandering feet shall hither stray, Each year my heart will feel the pang anew. And this one thought alone will cheer my way, That she, my Love, is faithful still, and true. Her father may forbid our union, But still our hearts together beat as one. XXV. Lonely I stand, and silent gaze upon The fading shore, where dwells my soul's twin-soul. 'Midst my companions I am still alone, Less near to them than her, though billows roll Between us two. Fast fades the distant strand. Farewell my Love! Farewell my native Land! XXVI. England! dear land of liberty and peace, Great art thou now, and greater still wilt be, If but thy truth and honesty increase As each revolving decade renders thee In population greater. Let the name Of Christian England fix thy future fame. XXVII. The tale is told that when a foreign king Would know what pow'r thy gracious Queen possessed, That she could rule, with might unfaltering, Her people, and by them be ever blessed; She laid her hand upon a Bible near, And, smiling, said: "That pow'r lies hidden here." XXVIII. Defender of the Faith we call our Queen, And she has been that Faith's exemplar too. Not all the ages of the past have seen A sovereign more noble, pure, and true. And she has kept, as well as monarch could, Her childhood's promise: "Oh! I will be good." XXIX. And not without the help of that great Book Could she have kept the promise of her youth. Through all the backward years of history look-- These plainly prove that declaration's truth. Kingdoms may rise, and, with unquestioned sway, Monarchs may rule, and none their right gainsay, XXX. But, founded on another base than this, That monarch's might shall surely pass away; No kingdom is so strong that it can miss This destiny. A premature decay Has greeted, and will ever greet, that land Whose weak foundation trembles in the sand. XXXI. The sword is mighty; by its bloody might Empires have risen--risen but to fall. A nation built in blood must ever fight, Or lose its name and power. 'Tis not all To conquer once; an enemy subdued Waits but a happy chance for further feud. XXXII. Nor will the nation nurtured by the sword, If undisturbed by subjugated foes, Remain in peace and rest; one murmured word Of discontent will plunge it in the throes Of fratricidal warfare; and not long That word remains uncalled for by some wrong. XXXIII. The page of history is blotted o'er With tales of bloodshed. Not a single nation Exists, but spent its greater life in war. And in each Power's restless fluctuation From might to weakness, and from servitude To might, is shown the sword's incertitude. XXXIV. Until the time when every mighty Power Stands ready to confess the Christian creed That bloodshed is a sin--until that hour Has come, all Europe's treasuries must bleed, That naval armaments may grimly stand, And military menace every land. XXXV. Then, England, since an universal peace, A peace eternal, has not been proclaimed, Thy military might must still increase, Thy naval glory must not be defamed. But only when thine honour shall demand, Or injured right, upraise thy martial hand. XXXVI. Be Christian first and last, and be not slow To propagate the cause of arbitration. Let peaceful compacts, bloodless victories, grow Till hideous war, with ruthless devastation, Destroy no more the beauty of thy land, Nor raise against thy homes its bloodstained hand. XXXVII. Be Christian first and last, for thus alone Shalt thou attain to might unfaltering. No nation in the past has ever known The lasting power which faith alone can bring. Though each in turn has gained a glorious name, Not one has risen to eternal fame. XXXVIII. The Roman C'sars, with increasing pride, "Outstretched their hands and grasped a hemisphere." Their glory swelled with ever-flowing tide, And nations bowed to them in trembling fear. Their eagles flew, and lofty was their flight, Yet only C'sar's empire met their sight. XXXIX. But now the Roman Empire is no more; No longer Roman eagles sweep the sky. The pampered luxury of Rome soon bore Its wonted fruit--gross immorality; And weakened thus, and by internal strife, Great C'sar's Empire yielded up its life. XL. And classic Greece, which, in a former age, Bore mighty warriors without compeer, Knew not the land whose war-compelling gage Could not be taken up without a fear. But now her power is so completely broke, She almost yields her to an Asian yoke. XLI. And France, in later days, has girded on A might magnificent; and none could stay The pow'r of her adored Napoleon, Before whose hosts, in ill-concealed dismay, The nations fled. Then France her flag unfurled, And waved it proudly over half a world. XLII. But not in England. And when Bonaparte Would lay the British nation at his feet, Her legions tore his mighty hosts apart, And snatched the Conqueror from his lofty seat. Then France's glory faded fast away, Till not a nation owned her sovereign sway. XLIII. And thus have mighty nations ever perished, Or lost the greater portion of their might, When, as their sole upholder, they have cherished The reeking sword, in disregard of right. Then, England, take thou warning by their fate, And keep thy Christian faith inviolate. XLIV. America's Republic stands alone. But once for bloody glory did she raise Her martial hand; and Canada was thrown Into a state of war.[A] But all essays To sever her allegiance from her King Proved vain--her faith remained unfaltering. XLV. But once America unrighteously Led forth her armies. Only to defend Her people's honour and integrity Has she, since then, allowed them to contend In bitter warfare. And the peaceful arts Engage more readily her people's hearts. XLVI. A noble nation striving peacefully To gain the highest pinnacle of honour, Without a peer in ingenuity; Well mayest thou, great England, look upon her As worthier far to be thy firm ally Than any European monarchy. XLVII. Send forth thy Prince's son, and let him find In broad America a worthy bride. Thus let the ties of blood together bind The Anglo-Saxon race on either side The great Atlantic. Keep thy princes free From royal Europe's mad heredity. XLVIII. Far better were it they should choose their brides From some American pure family, Than wed their cousins, in whose blood, besides The fell disease which immorality Of ancestors has planted there, there run Weaknesses caused by kindred's union. XLIX. The scurvy-stricken family whose head Rules all the Russias' limitless domain; The progeny of Ludwig, lately dead By his own hand; the Hohenzollern vain And proud, and yet diseased; or Austria's queen Whose hidden madness still is plainly seen: L. Shall we defile our royal English blood By marriage with such families as these? Shall English kings inherit all this flood Of imbecility and dread disease? Must all the purity of Guelph be so Impaired and ruined by this noisome flow? LI. Nay, rather let us throw aside that form, (That well had been abolished in the past), Which bids our royal princes to conform To rules as rigid as the Indian caste Distinctions, nor a single Prince allows To marry other than a royal spouse. LII. And let our England's royal House be bound By wedlock to America. Perchance This bond may, in a future day, be found The first of many, which shall so enhance Our mutual love that, by God's kindly grace, On History's page this name shall have a place: "THE EMPIRE OF THE ANGLO-SAXON RACE." LIII. Great England! Land of liberty and peace, With fond regret I leave thy hallowed shore; But, in my exile, I can never cease To love the Land that I may see no more. All foreign countries are alike to me; My heart's affection is bound up in thee. Blue, boundless and free, the deep-flowing sea Environs on every side The ship, which the gale, well-filling each sail, Impels through the rolling tide. Around, far and near, bright, foaming and clear, The billows tumultuous roll; And their message to me is, "Free, wildly free! "Free ever from man's control!" As round me they throng, I hear their wild song, And echo its truthful strain. The power of man, that limitless span Of ocean, can ne'er restrain. But I know that their Maker can challenge each breaker, And still every wave by His word; And o'er me a feeling comes silently stealing Of awe at the might of the Lord. And sweet is the thought, by memory brought, That once on the waters He trod; And my soul seems to be, on the breast of the sea, Alone in the presence of God. Then soft on the air I whisper a prayer, And know 'twill be echoed above: "Be Thou very near her to comfort and cheer her, Oh, God, bless and cherish my Love!" CANTO THE SECOND. I. Renowned Quebec, upon its rocky height, Stands frowning o'er St. Lawrence' noble river; Well-nigh impregnable, its chosen site Bespeaks its founder's wisdom, and forever Should be remembered all the toil and pain Endured by him, brave Samuel de Champlain. II. Not light the task, nor enviable the lot Of him who thus would plant, on shores unknown, And in a wild and never-trodden spot, A new-born city's first foundation stone. A sturdy courage and a fearless heart Belong to him who plays so bold a part. III. Not first to land in Acadie, nor first To sail the great St. Lawrence, brave Champlain Yet dared what none before him ever durst-- To give his life and labour--not for gain To be derived from profitable trade-- Ambition else by hardship had been stayed; IV. But, for his king to found a colony, And, for his God to win another land, He suffered pain and hardship patiently; And, with a busy and unflinching hand, He laboured on that wild and rugged shore; Nor ceased to labour till he breathed no more. V. He had not thus endured, as he endured, Except his faith had given him new might; Nor had he been to suffering inured, And patient borne, except the holy rite, Each day renewed, had cheered his fainting soul, Enabling him to keep his courage whole. VI. Ye, living in your luxury and ease Think not of all your country's fathers bore; And still forget the famine and disease Those pioneers suffered on your shore. Their names are unfamiliar on your tongue, Their deeds but vaguely known, their praise unsung. VII. So has it been, and so shall ever be The man who stands to-day a shining light, The hero who commands our fealty, To-morrow, in oblivion's dark night, Will be forgotten, or, on history's page, May flicker dimly in a future age. VIII. Think not, ye men who seek to carve your name On monuments of everlasting stone, That ye can thus secure eternal fame. Far greater deeds than yours have others done, And greater far the harvest they have sown, Which now ye reap, while they remain unknown. IX. As through the ages, silent and unseen, The tiny corals work beneath the wave And build a reef, which reef had never been Except each coral there had found a grave; So work the heroes of the human race, And in their work-field find a resting place. X. How vast the number of the coral shells That form the reef! And yet of these but one Of many thousands ever elsewhere dwells Than on that reef; all hidden and unknown The rest remain, and few indeed are they Which shine as jewels at a later day. XI. And thus have lived our heroes in the past: The army of the brave and noble who Have laboured uncomplaining, and at last Have yielded up their lives; but there are few Whose names stand forth, as worth would bid them stand, Revered and honoured in their fatherland. XII. But Canada, let not the brave Champlain Be thus in dark oblivion forgot. Grant him the fame he never sought to gain; Pay him the honour that he courted not; And on thine earliest page of history Write large his name, not as a mystery XIII. Or name unknown--but tell his deeds abroad, And teach thy children all that he has done Not hard the task, and thou canst well afford To show the gratitude that he has won From thee; and thus thou surely wilt impart A proud ambition in thy children's heart XIV. To imitate the man, so true and brave, Who laboured self-denyingly in life, And 'neath the city's walls has found a grave, At rest at last, and free from further strife. Thus, as thy children knowledge of him gain, Their hearts shall burn to emulate Champlain. XV. I stand upon the plains of Abraham, And, silent as I stand, a train of thought Comes o'er me, and the spot whereon I am Seems almost holy ground; for here was fought That mighty battle, whose event would show If Canada were British soil or no. XVI. Before my eyes a vision rises bright, And, in the vision, I can clearly see The actions re-enacted of that fight; And grand indeed the sight appears to me. Repictured thus, I gaze upon the scene, And meditate again on what has been. XVII. Ere yet the light had broken on that morn,[B] Before the sun had shed his rays around, While blackest darkness heralded the dawn, The little fleet had left its anchor-ground; With not a lantern showing light or gleam, It floated silently adown the stream. XVIII. Within the flagship, weakened by the pain Of recent fever, Wolfe reclining lay Unfit to bear the war's fatigue and strain, He yet was armed and ready for the fray. Forgetful of his pain and suffering, He thought but of his country and his king. XIX. His duty bade him fight, and he would fight; His country bade him win, and he would win If bravery could put the foe to flight. If courage and a sturdy heart within Could win the day, he feared not the event; His men were veterans on victory bent. XX. Yet, as he lay upon his couch at rest Among his officers, he seemed to be Prescient of his fate; for he addressed His friends in verses from an Elegy, And to this line a special accent gave: "The paths of glory lead but to the grave." XXI. Foreknowledge of his fate perchance impressed This truth upon him. Glory's path would lead Him to the grave that day, and there at rest, No longer pain or glory would he heed. Full well might these appear a mockery To him who soon would meet eternity.[C] XXII. And who will blame him if his thought recurred, At such a time, to England and the maid Beloved, to whom he gave his plighted word Ere parting? Who will wonder at the shade Of sorrow darkling on his troubled brow, As he reflects on what may not be now? XXIII. A vision bright, of home and happiness, Of calm domestic joy, before him lies. One moment gazes he--his hands hard press His forehead, and the hardy soldier sighs-- One moment only, then he turns away, Prepared to lead his army to the fray. XXIV. Below the city, anchored by the shore, The fleet is floating; and in silent speed, The soldiers land, Wolfe leading in the fore. And, if of urging there were any need, His fearless mien and proud determination Would banish every thought of hesitation. XXV. But fear is foreign to each noble heart That follows him, and in the breast of none Has doubt or hesitation any part; Let him but lead, and they will follow on. They listen to his orders and obey; He fears not death or danger--why should they? XXVI. Above them tow'rs the cliff precipitous, Well-nigh impassable its steep ascent. How hard the task and how laborious To scale the cliff! Yet forth the order went. Then, in the darkness, stealthily they creep, And silently approach the rocky steep. XXVII. Like Indians soft stealing on the trail Of hated foes, intent upon surprise, And silent moving lest their project fail, When death in premature detection lies; So noiselessly that army scaled the height, While darkness hid them from the foemen's sight. XXVIII. At length they reach the summit unattacked, Then form, and silent march upon the plain. And now they learn the foe has seen their act, For onward towards them comes his shining train. The day has broke, the sun now brightly shines, And each can plainly see the other's lines. XXIX. Then from the French battalions comes the fire Of musketry, and bullets hissing loud Pierce through the English ranks, yet but inspire The veterans to vengeance, and their blood Boils in their veins. Yet silently they still March on, awaiting their commander's will. XXX. At length is heard the general's command To fire. A fearful volley from their ranks Then belches forth, and, sweeping o'er the land, The bullets carry ruin to the Franks. In deep dismay the Frenchmen hesitate One moment; then, with valour desperate, XXXI. They turn again, restrengthened, to the fight. But fruitless all the bravery they show; Repulsed anew, ere long they take to flight, Pursued by English bullets as they go. And from the time the battle first begun, But fifteen minutes passed till it was won. XXXII. But deadly was the devastation wrought On either side, and dearly was the day Of glory by the English army bought. Thrice bullet-pierced their young commander lay. He lived to hear the cry of victory, Then yielded up his spirit willingly. XXXIII. Good reason had the conquerors to mourn; Yet had the vanquished greater cause than they. The day was lost, and sadly had they borne Their leader from the battle-field away. Beloved Montcalm, the generous and brave, Upon that field had found a bloody grave. XXXIV. And what of her who sat in silent grief, And listened vainly for the step of him Whose coming only could afford relief, And stay the tears in which her eyes will swim? Ah! History has nought to say of her, Nor speaks it of the sorrow she must bear. XXXV. The full extent of war's resulting curse Is never known: the country's gain or loss Is reckoned by its victory or reverse, The dead are numbered--but the heavy cross Of suffering, which womankind must bear, Is reckoned not among the deeds of war. XXXVI. Nor can it be: while war is arbiter Between the nations, private suffering Must count for nought; affection must defer To duty, whatso'er the pain it bring. The soldier must obey the bugle call; The wife must weep, and pray he may not fall. XXXVII. While war is arbiter--but must it be Forever arbiter? Will not the day Of lasting peace dawn ever? Will not ye, Ye Christian nations, raise your voice, and stay The march of war throughout the universe; And rid you of its agony and curse? XXXVIII. It lies not in your pow'r to order those, The nations still uncivilized, to cease From war, and, if they make themselves your foes, Ye must resist; yet can ye order peace Among yourselves. And, sure, ye Christian lands Would wash the blood of war from off your hands! XXXIX. Slow, slow, the march of Christianity, Yet sure--more sure because its march is slow; And settled now in peace and amity Are issues which, but fifty years ago, Had been the cause of bloodshed and of strife, And cost each country many a noble life. XL. Then let the infidel or atheist, Or him who doubts if ever God can be, And questions the existence of a Christ, Mark well the fruits of Christianity, And say what other power has ever wrought The good that Christianity has brought XLI. No myth or vain delusion can achieve What love of Christ has done; no mockery Can bring the troubled comfort, or relieve The broken heart; nor can idolatry Inspire our hearts with love and charity: These follow only Christianity. XLII. I pause before a simple monument, And read inscribed thereon the noble names Montcalm and Wolfe. Their enmity is spent, And each from French and English justly claims An equal reverence. This humble stone Stands emblematic of their union. XLIII. And are the nations so united now, In Canada, that nothing comes between To break the bond, or disannul the vow Of friendship and of fealty to our Queen? Do they not rather live each wide apart From other, bound in name but not in heart? XLIV. Well nigh a century and thirty years Have run their course since Canada became An English colony; and yet appears, Within her shores, a unity in name, And name alone, between those races who Should live as one, but still exist as two. XLV. What boots it that an oath of loyalty To Britain's Queen is taken by the French, If they but wait the opportunity To give that man support who seeks to wrench This vast Dominion from the British Crown, And tear our noble red-cross banner down? XLVI. And why call that an English colony In which a foreign tongue predominates? And how will he preserve his loyalty To England, who the name of England hates? Too generous have been your governors, Too lightly exercised their given powers. XLVII. Ere this, if England had asserted all The rights that conquest gave, here might have been A colony which we could truly call A British land. Nor should we now have seen, In Canada, two nations side by side Upgrowing, by affection's bond untied. XLVIII. "A nation self-divided cannot stand." All history has proved this adage true. And, Canada, if thou would'st be a land Of might and power, thou must surely do As other lands have done; it cannot be That thou wilt else secure prosperity. XLIX. Let not incipient rebellion grow To actual revolt, but trample down Its very sign, and with a mighty blow, Crush all who rise disloyal to the Crown. Do this, but this alone will not suffice; A sterner duty yet before thee lies. L. Send forth the edict that the English tongue, And it alone, shall be official here, And teach the language everywhere among The French in all the counties far and near. Thus, and thus only, canst thou hope to see Thy future self preserved in unity. LI. But what are these to me? A passing thought, An evanescent stirring of the brain, Which, for a time, forgetfulness has brought, And temporary soothing of my pain. But as I turn away, anew I feel The burning sore which time can never heal. LII. Apart from her I love I wander here, In thought communing with that absent one; In body distant, though in spirit near, I feel our hearts are in communion. Then, softly murmuring, I breathe this lay To her so near, and yet so far away. *            *            *            *            * From regions remote my message shall float On zephyrs across the sea, And softly thou'lt hear the words in thine ear, "I love thee, I love but thee."[D] Though distant I rove, sweet thoughts of my love Are ever at home with me. Each day and each hour but strengthen their power; I love thee, I love but thee. If sorrow be thine, oh! cease to repine, For mine thou shalt always be. Oh! breathe not a sigh, though I am not nigh, I love thee, I love but thee. Though oceans divide us and fortune deride us, No two are more near than we; Our hearts close are beating in tenderest greeting; I love thee, I love but thee. I ask not of Fate a lordly estate, Or position of high degree; I ask her alone to grant me my own; I love thee, I love but thee. CANTO THE THIRD. I. Below me, as I stand upon this mount, I see, in panoramic view displayed So clearly that with ease I could recount The mighty buildings and the ships fast stayed Within the harbour, Montreal, the port Of Canada, and once its chiefest fort. II. And, winding through the valley, I can see St. Lawrence river, and the fields beyond Of corn and pasture land. The scenery Reminds me of my native land, and fond, Yet sad and sorrow-laden, memories Possess me as the vision meets my eyes. III. My native land! still, still I think of thee; By day and night the oft-recurring thought Brings intermingled pain and joy to me. And oft I curse the fortune which has brought These days of exile and of solitude To one who longs for peace and quietude. IV. My life has not been sinless, yet what sin Have I committed that my punishment Should be so great! An aching heart within Still makes me sorrowful. Why was I sent, Far from my home, to wander lonely here, Apart from those whose love I hold so dear? V. I met and loved her whom I may not wed, And, ere I knew that she could not be mine, I thought that God upon my life had shed A brighter light than had been wont to shine. And, sure, this power cometh from above; He teacheth us to love, whose name is Love. VI. And since He giveth us this love, oh! why Doth He not smooth the path of love, and hear The prayer of those who in their anguish cry To Him for help, and in their godly fear Rely upon His aid? And why hath He Prepared this pain and agony for me? VII. Be still my soul; it is not thine to take Thy God to task. Canst thou forget the pain And agony He suffered for thy sake? Or canst remember these and not restrain Thyself from challenging thy God? Be still, And bow submissive to thy Father's will. VIII. 'Twas man condemned me to a life of woe, And 'twas not God. The pride of man hath said That I must suffer thus. It must be so Because the baronet was nobler bred. Oh, cruel, cruel wrong! Oh mockery! That bluer blood should sever her from me! IX. Give thanks to God, Canadians, that ye Have not been cursed with nobility. And, as you love your country, keep it free From those whose utter inutility For any good is proven by their pride Of blood; they have not aught to boast beside. X. A noble land is yours, and ye may well Be proud of her. And here before me lies Your greatest city. Would that I could tell One-half the tales of brave self-sacrifice Which those who founded Montreal had shown, Ere yet the name of Canada was known. XI. But, should I strive to speak of every deed Of sacrifice and brave endurance borne By all your heroes, I should feel the need Of greater time, and heart less sorrow-worn; Nor have the Muses so inspired my pen That I can fitly praise those noble men. XII. Yet would I strive to sing as best I may Of him who landed first upon this shore; I fain would speak of hardy Cartier: His ship the first St. Lawrence ever bore; His face the first pale-face the Indians Had seen; his deeds well merit utterance. XIII. Three centuries and half a century Have sped their course since Cartier set sail From France, intent upon discovery. He oft had heard the wonder-stirring tale Of distant lands possessed of mighty wealth; These now he would discover for himself. XIV. And westward sailing on his unknown way, In course of time he met his due reward; And sailed this noble river on the day Made holy to St. Lawrence. He implored The blessing of the Saint upon his aim, And called the gulf and river by his name. XV. Then, landing on the wooded shore, he knelt Before his God, and offered up a prayer To Him, to show the gratitude he felt Towards the God whose hand had brought him there In safety. And he asked for further aid And guidance in the land where now he stayed. XVI. When men were more unlearned than they are In this our present scientific day, The earth to heaven seemed to be more near, And God Himself appeared less far away. For deeds accomplished, or for blessings given, Due praise was offered to the God of Heaven. XVII. But now our wise philosophers, and those Whose scientific knowledge is so vast That he who knows what has escaped them knows What is not worth the knowing; these, at last, Have reached to such a pinnacle of pride, That God Himself is little by their side. XVIII. In truth, their learning has become so great That their imagination can conceive No being mightier than they, and, straight, In God's existence they will not believe. And men untutored listen to their word, And deem those foolish who believe the Lord. XIX. But Cartier was living in an age When Science in her cradle was asleep, And men accounted not themselves too sage To bow to God in prayer, nor to reap The benefits which only can accrue To those whose faith in God is pure and true. XX. So he besought a blessing from his Lord Before he re-embarked; then, setting sail, The newly-christened river he explored, Till, favored by a gently-blowing gale, He reached the Hochelaga settlement Of Indians, and thence no further went. XXI. A hundred years elapsed, and then there came A little band from France to yonder isle; To found a mission and a fort their aim; And there they laboured for their faith, the while Protecting them as best they might from those Who proved themselves their fierce and bitter foes. XXII. The Iroquois, by cruel hate possessed, Left not a chance untaken to obtain A reeking scalp; and fiercely they oppressed The little band, whose suffering and pain, In Montreal and all throughout the land, Seemed more than human frailty could withstand. XXIII. But Maisonneuve and they who followed him Were bent upon a high and holy aim; Their undertaking was no foolish whim, Nor had they come for honour or for fame. A Jesuitic band, they sought to win Those Indians from a life of death and sin. XXIV. They sought to win them to the faith which they Themselves possessed, and thought it not a hard, Nor yet an unexpected, thing to lay Their own lives down to win them. Their reward They counted not to win on earth, but knew That each in Heaven would gain the glory due. XXV. What though the Jesuitic creed be not As true and generous a faith as that Which we profess; what though a bloody blot Has stained its page of history; the great And worthy deeds those fathers wrought should raise A feeling in our hearts of loving praise. XXVI. They suffered for their God and for their Pope; They suffered for their faith, to them as true And pure as ours to us, and in the hope That God would bless their labours, and endue The savage Indians with a softer heart, And give them with the blessed ones a part. XXVII. They merit praise and honour, but the cause For which they laboured merits none of these; A cruel creed, with harsh and bloody laws, The very name of Christ it travesties. An evil Order, working in the name Of Christianity dark deeds of shame. XXVIII. He whom they call their Master suffered not His followers to mingle in the strife Of politics--not such their chosen lot; Theirs to prepare men for a higher life. And yet He bade them to their king be true, And offer unto C'sar all his due. XXIX. But this do not the Jesuits; they fain Would undermine the power of the land In which they dwell, and every effort strain To take the civil sceptre in their hand. They creep, as serpents, smoothly on their prey, But subtly spread their poison in the way. XXX. And these, Canadians, have found a home Within your shores. Ye know not what ye do In harb'ring them. Be sure the day will come When ye will bitterly and sadly rue Your action. Other lands will not permit The entrance of the hated Jesuit. XXXI. But why should I presume to thus dictate To ye? And what know I of all the things Which influence your Ministers of State, That I should utter forth these murmurings? By greed and selfish motives unpossessed, They, in their wisdom, must do what is best! XXXII. I stand upon the hill at Ottawa, And stretching wide before me lies a scene Of pretty lowland country. Near and far, The river Ottawa winds on between The wooded slopes and meadow-lands, where lie The lazy cattle chewing silently. XXXIII. The scene is unimposing; there is nought Of grandeur or magnificence displayed; But by its quiet prettiness is brought A sense of calm enjoyment--hill and glade And peaceful meadow, all alike suggest Sweet thoughts of still serenity and rest. XXXIV. The face of Nature, for the student's mind, Provides a subject inexhaustible. And, in its study, weary men may find A solace for the troubles caused by all The sorrows and afflictions which must be The lot of all, of high or low degree. XXXV. The mountain, by its grandeur, testifies To His omnipotence who placed it there; The rushing, mighty torrent verifies His ceaseless working; and His constant care And kindliness is proven by the still And growing meadow, and the purling rill. XXXVI. Thus, whatsoever his environment, The sorrow-stricken one can find a balm, Which should assuage his moody discontent, Replacing it by trustfulness and calm. For God reveals Himself in every place, And writes His presence on Creation's face. XXXVII. And here I feel a quiet peace unfelt In all my solitary wanderings Before. My heavy troubles seem to melt Away, and Faith a calm contentment brings, And all my misery aside is thrown; He cares for me who cares for all His own. XXXVIII. A pile majestic and magnificent, Of lofty buildings, stands upon this hill; Unequalled elsewhere on the continent, It well bespeaks the architective skill Displayed in this our nineteenth century; And clothes the city with its dignity. XXXIX. Within these walls are gathered in debate The statesmen and the legislators, who Are learned in the matters of the State. Alike to God and to their country true These men should be, and high above the rest Exalted, seeking not self-interest. XL. These hold the country's welfare in their hand. A mighty trust to them has been consigned. They know their duty, and should understand What acts will echo best the people's mind; And they should act, in matters small or great, As wisdom and their consciences dictate. XLI. Thus should they act, but thus do not they all, But mildly bow to their Dictator's bid; They fear to disobey him, lest they fall Quick victims to his anger, or be chid Severely by the leader, in whose power It lies to give his slaves official dower. XLII. Thus is a heavy premium placed upon A blind obedience and servility; And high position hardly can be won Except by meekness and docility: By meekness where assertion would be right; By weak docility where should be might. XLIII. And they, the Ministers of State, who hold The gift of the office and the nation's trust, From long retained authority grow bold, And, almost flagrantly, they dare adjust The national affairs in such a way As best will serve them, and protract their sway. XLIV. But not too far do they attempt to go In serving self. There stands an arbiter To whom they must appeal; were this not so, Their conscientiousness might not deter The country's servants from committing deeds To hinder which their shame now intercedes. XLV. And yet, methinks, the arbiter to whom They must appeal is far too liberal, Or far too careless. When the day has come In which a judgment must be given on all The actions of their Ministers of State, The people are too mild and moderate. XLVI. Or they forget the misdeeds of the past-- Misdeeds which well deserve a harder name, And which at first provoked a stormy blast Of anger, and aroused a sense of shame Within the people's hearts--these are forgot, Though on the Nation's life they leave a blot. XLVII. They are forgot; for party feelings run More high than love of country, and the man, Who can defeat the chosen champion Of an opposing party, will obtain A full forgiveness for his deeds of shame, And crown himself with all a hero's fame. XLVIII. Not Liberal and not Conservative Alone compels my wrath; to either party My feeble but impartial pen would give A condemnation passionate and hearty; Each sees the wreck the Catholic has made In Canada, and each implores his aid. XLIX. Each begs support for only selfish ends; Unfired with love for Britain's Queen they cry, And seek to make the Catholics their friends For party purposes; their loyalty Bombastically swearing, each bows down To those inimical to Britain's Crown. L. 'Tis hate of bigotry, they glibly shout, Impels their tolerance: Oh! take that word And bid the feet of License crush it out; For License now is undisputed lord. Let not the bigot live,--but nurse the snake That brings the Inquisition in its wake! LI. See where, in old Quebec, its Premier Uplifts the Tricolor, and waves it high. While shouts un-English rend the poisoned air To greet the new-born Nationality; And hear Ontario's Minister confess His joy for this, a Liberal success! LII. And is it bigotry to interfere When treason stalks triumphant through the land? Will none but bigots hear the traitors cheer, Nor long to raise aloft the armed hand? Your ancestors would not account it so; And English hearts would burn to strike the blow. LIII. Tear down that flag! in God's name and the Queen's. Will not the Red Cross Banner rouse your zeal? Tear down that flag! and let who intervenes Bite hard the dust beneath your iron heel. Tear down that flag!--Oh, Canada! bow, bow Your shameful head in deep contrition now. LIV. What wonder, since your party deeds alone Absorb your thought and wake your energy, That insurrection's seeds are widely sown, And voice is given to dark disloyalty? Ye clothe your land in insurrection's dress, And nurse disloyalty, by callousness. LV. And I, though sojourning a stranger here, Will dare to raise my voice in condemnation, When words unwelcome to an English ear Are heard re-echoing without cessation; The while accursed party interests Drive patriotic thoughts from out your breasts. LVI. I marvel not that politicians stand In ill repute with honourable men, While, through the length and breadth of this fair land, They mark themselves with party's evil stain, And enter in the field of politics For selfish ends attained by shameless tricks. LVII. Yet are not politicians in one mould All fashioned; there are honest men and true Who serve their country, not for love of gold Or fame, but for the good that they can do. Would God that these, and these alone, held sway Within your senates, Canada, to-day! LVIII. But politics shall occupy my thought No more. I turn with deep relief away From that which lack of principle has brought To premature and undeserved decay. Perchance, from out the ashes where it lies, True statesmanship may, phoenix-like, arise. LIX. The sun is setting, and its shining rays Reflect them redly on the river's breast, Which now an iridescent gleam displays, Which, like a mighty opal, is possessed With ever-changing hues of brilliancy; As sets the sun their light I still can see. LX. The twilight hour approaches--silent hour For calm reflection or communion, When, in a quiet, unfrequented bower, Fond lovers whisper as they sit alone. And I would send a greeting to the one Whose heart with mine still beats in unison. *            *            *            *            * My Love, my own Sweetheart, Let sorrow not be thine, Though still we live apart, The lamp of Hope must shine. And, shedding on our path The light of trustfulness And never-failing faith, 'Twill make our sorrow less. Let Hope then ever be At home within thy breast, And know God loveth thee, And knoweth what is best. He careth for the trees, For every beast and bird; And thinkest thou thy pleas In Heaven are unheard? Nay, God has heard each prayer, And He will answer thee. Trust to His loving care, And live thou patiently. And when the looked-for day Of happiness and rest Has come, we both shall say "God truly knew the best." And fondly to my heart I'll press thee, dearest Life; And none us two shall part, For thou wilt be my wife. CANTO THE FOURTH. I. Toronto, on its island-girded bay, Full well protected from the storms which blow Across the lake, stands proudly, as well may The capital of all Ontario. So situate, its properties beguile, Inviting me to pause and rest awhile. II. When young America (then recently An independent nation, full of pride Engendered by her new-born dignity), Would sever Canada from England's side, She sent an armed fleet across the lake, This town to capture and its fort to take. III. Six hundred soldiers only guarded then The little fort; but in their veins there flowed The blood of proud and valiant Englishmen. And in their hearts a bitter hatred glowed Against the nation, whose unjust attack But urged them on to drive the invader back. IV. And, though the force opposing them was nigh Three times the number of their own, yet still They fought against their landing valiantly, Contending with a fierce and dogged will. But numbers overpowered the gallant band, And soon the foe was safe upon the land. V. Then inch by inch contested they the ground, Determined not to yield to quick defeat; But, bravely though they fought, ere long they found Themselves compelled to beat a slow retreat. But, falling back before the enemy, They lost not yet the hope of victory. VI. Meanwhile the enemy advanced within Two hundred yards of where the garrison Was quartered. Sudden ceased the battle's din, And he who led the invading army on Gave orders for a halt, in expectation Of winning now the fort's capitulation. VII. Then, as they halted, sudden a report, As of an earthquake, rent the trembling air, And, midst the d'bris of the scattered fort, Two hundred slain Americans lay there. The British had retreated, but had fired The powder-magazine as they retired. VIII. Th' enraged Americans accounted this An act of baseness and of perfidy. I know not what the law of slaughter is, But this I know, that they can hardly be Renowned for faith and truth to honour's code, Whose lives are spent in butchery and blood. IX. The man's environment perfects the man, And each can choose his own environment. And each can either cause to die, or fan To brighter life, the seed or rudiment Of good or evil moral tendency Acquired, or inbred by heredity. X. And he who chooses warfare as the life Most suited to his predilections, he Who finds his happiness in constant strife, Will hardly honour peace and amity. In bloodshed living, gentle virtues all A victim to his martial taste will fall. XI. In ancient days, when men were more uncouth Than now they are, it might be well, perchance, That they should study warfare, for, in sooth, The man who knew not how to poise the lance Or wield the mighty battle-axe, was then Despised and scorned by all his fellow-men. XII. But now the code of honour should not be As crude and rough as in that ancient day. The onward march of Christianity Should sweep the sword and battle-axe away; And Love, the creed which Christ our Master taught, Should bring the pride of martial skill to nought. XIII. Let man still glory in the strength and might That God has given him. But it were well That he should use it not at all to fight Against his fellow-men. He still can dwell In peace with them, and yet retain the power Which is his great and justly-valued dower. XIV. I turn me from the thoughts of war, and gaze With pleased eyes upon this little bay. So bright a scene, in all my exiled days, I have not looked upon; and like a ray Of light upon my darkened life it seems, Reviving hope within me by its beams. XV. The bay is dotted with a hundred boats, And brightly on the sail of many a skiff The evening sun is shining, as it floats Upon the water, shining thus as if To tell the little skiff, as on she goes, That he will guard her from tempestuous foes. XVI. In every boat I see, a maiden fair Accompanies the rower, and the sound Of merriment and laughter on the air Arises, softly echoing around. And all seem bright and happy, and have one To keep them so--I only sit alone. XVII. I sit alone as they pass joyous by, Nor note my presence; or, if they should see, Their eyes but rest upon me absently, Then turn away. They all are strange to me, And I to them. More lonely is my mood Here, than in Nature's wildest solitude. XVIII. A pang of emulation, so severe 'Tis almost envy, now possesses me; And, were I woman, many a bitter tear Would course my cheeks. But now I am not free To weep; my heart, though throbbing in its pain, Uneased and comfortless must yet remain. XIX. Why stand I thus, and gaze upon this scene, Since gazing but rewakes the pain that slept? I had not thought that I should thus have been So quickly cheated of the strength which kept My heart from sorrowing. My pliant thought, Suspecting not this subtlety, was caught, XX. And I was self-deceived, as many more Before have been. Man estimates his power By what he would do; and but little store Can well be placed on this, what time the hour Of trial approaches. For 'tis sadly true, Man often cannot what he wills to do. XXI. His strength is not so great as he had thought It would be; and perchance, the hour of trial Has come and gone, and quick defeat has brought, Without his recognition. But denial That it has come he dare not now put forth, His plain defeat would make it little worth. XXII. And such defeat, unnoted and unseen Till it had passed, has been my own to-day; And, with a sense of mortified chagrin, I turn me from the pleasing view away, And in the busy city seek to find A new diversion to engage my mind. XXIII. How pleasing are thy streets and avenues, Toronto! And what massive buildings rise Adorning them! I cannot now but choose To speak my admiration. Yet it lies Beyond my power to praise as others might, More rich than I in words, this noble sight. XXIV. One mighty pile stands out pre-eminent Among the rest--thy University, So builded that itself will represent Its purpose, and to see it is to be Convinced, ere word of mouth so testifies, That 'twas designed for classic purposes. XXV. The square-built tow'r, the pillared entrance-way, The massive doors, and this encolumned porch, Proclaim that here stern Learning holdeth sway, And here the classic Muse illumes her torch And, standing thus, a grand, imposing whole, It well may awe my poor untutored soul. XXVI. I wander on along the tree-girt streets, Admiring, by compulsion, all the view. So pleasing is each changing sight that greets My eye, as thus I slowly wander through The city, that had Fate not bid me roam In exile, here I'd gladly make my home. XXVII. Here happy homes surround me, but the sight Of happiness is but a mockery To me. My life is like a darkened night, And happiness was not prepared for me; And rankest disappointment, unalloyed With hope, my trustful patience has destroyed. XXVIII. Toronto, fare thee well! I cannot stay Within thy gates. Eternal restlessness Possesses me. I must pursue my way, Though other cities will impress me less Than thou hast done. My native land apart, Thou standest first in this my weary heart. XXIX. Niagara's small village quiet lies Where flows the river in the open lake. The thought of long-past actions sanctifies This little spot. For those brave soldiers' sake Who gladly gave their lives a sacrifice To country, it is hallowed in my eyes. XXX. Here Britain's sons, and here Canadians Were slaughtered by the ruthless enemy, Who swept the country o'er in furtherance Of their unjust desire to gratify Their evil wish, to tear from England's hand The part still left her in this Western land. XXXI. Americans, how sadly should ye mourn The action of your rulers on that day, When unrelenting enmity was sworn Against your fathers' land. Ye cannot say, As six and thirty years before ye said, That gross oppression justified your deed. XXXII. Nay, ye were young, and, in ambition's youth, Ye sought to raise you to a greater state, And waited not to think of honour's truth, But rushed to war in hope to alienate The fair domain of Canada, which lay, Apparently, a not unwilling prey. XXXIII. Speak not of Council Orders,[E] nor essay To prove that these alone provoked the war. The orders were rescinded ere the day Of fighting broke.[F] Not these ye battled for. Nor did the Rights of Search[G] enrage ye so As to compel your being England's foe. XXXIV. Ye wanted more dominion--this alone Provoked your action; and, since every nation In Europe in a state of war was thrown, Your action merits not such condemnation As otherwise it would. The rage of war Is quickly spread to nations near and far. XXXV. But 'tis not mine to speak of that campaign, Whose battles raged from Fort Niagara To Queenston Heights and far-famed Lundy's Lane; Nor yet abated until Chippewa, Black Rock, and Buffalo were summoned all To war and bloodshed by the bugle call. XXXVI. Too long I've dwelt on deeds of war, yet one Brave deed remains which must not be untold; One act--by which a gallant fight was won, One act--by which two noble lives were sold. This only act recounting, I will cease To speak of war, and court the muse of peace. XXXVII. On Queenston Heights the battle raged, and far Around was heard its long-continued roar. It echoed loudly where Niagara Lies nestling on Ontario's green shore. It echoed loudly, nor escaped the ear Of him whose gallant heart was steeled to fear. XXXVIII. The noble Brock paused not when thus he heard The sound of warfare. Turning to his aide, He bade him hastily to give the word To saddle horse. Then rapidly they made Their way across the country to the height, And soon were in the thickest of the fight. XXXIX. In numbers far unequal to the foe, The British had retired. The battery Was taken by the enemy; though slow, Defeat for Britain seemed a certainty; When Brock arrived upon the battle-field, And bade them form again, nor ever yield. XL. Himself then leading, onward to the fray They charged, restrengthened by his confidence; And soon they saw the enemy give way, Retiring slowly from the eminence. The day was theirs, the tide of battle turned, But dearly was that day of victory earned! XLI. The noble Brock would raise his sword no more; No more his cheering word would lead them on. His soul had passed away from scenes of war, His latest battle had been fought and won. And with his spirit, in its upward flight, The soul of young Macdonell passed that night. XLII. A lofty monument, upon the Height Where fell these two, commemorates their deed. There stands it, tow'ring high within the sight Of either Land. Thus let it stand, and plead, In silent mournfulness, that further feud Between the Lands shall never be renewed. XLIII. For we are brothers still--the bond of blood Unites us closely, and, though each has done The other wrong, unselfish deeds and good, Which since have been exchanged, should quite atone For injuries long past. Then clasp our hand, America. As brothers let us stand. XLIV. I wander up the river's bank, my thought Still dwelling on those troublous times of yore, Until my mind by slow degrees is brought To present times and scenes. A distant roar At first recalls me from my reverie, Then bids me trace my steps less tardily. XLV. I know not why, yet, as I press my way Towards the world-renowned Falls, I feel A thrill of awe, which words may not convey Description of. The feeling may be real Or fanciful, but now my trembling soul Seems nearer God, and more in His control. XLVI. Majestic Falls! What little words of mine Can paint thy grandeur? How can I essay To picture such unpictured might as thine? And yet I would not silent pass away, And carry with me nothing that recalls The grandeur of Niagara's proud Falls. XLVII. On, on, tumultuous waters, ever on Unceasingly ye rush, and blindly leap From giddy heights, in volume all unknown, Down, down the jagged rock-protruding steep, And, ever breaking as ye downward go, Burst forth in show'rs like iridescent snow. XLVIII. Here, rolling in unbroken shining green, Your waters smoothly curve them o'er the cliff. No sign of foam or bubbling break is seen As in their glassy depth they roll, as if While all around is wreck and chaos wild, They dare to flow conspicuously mild. XLIX. And here again they break while rushing o'er Some rugged rock--a million flecks of spray Rise, high projected in the air; before These fall, or in the sunlight melt away, A new-born cloud, in high-aspiring pride, Bursts forth, and casts its foam-drops far and wide. L. And each new cloud a thing of life appears, And each leaps forth as though its wild intent Were solely to out-distance its compeers, And rise more high than they. And each seems bent On reaching to a height unreached before, And tells its purpose in a muffled roar. LI. While, far below, a rocky destiny Awaits the mighty waters. Loud resounds The roaring of their falling constantly, While from the rocks the foaming mass rebounds; And upward rising, far above the height, A mist half hides the waters from my sight. LII. The evening sun illumes the rising spray, And forms a bow in beauty unsurpassed. Above the Falls it bends its glist'ning ray, While in the deep its radiance is cast. And, as the mist or fades or thickens, so It breaks or forms again the changing bow. LIII. Above the Falls the rushing rapids rage, In awesome grandeur only less than they. Thus have they madly tossed from age to age, And thus have galloped on their heedless way. In ceaseless ferment, and in constant change, Wide o'er their rocky area they range. LIV. Now foaming whitely, now in rippling waves Unbroken, haste they onward to their fate; Each speeding hurriedly as though it craves An early death. So reckless is the rate Which some pursue, that, with a sudden shock, They burst in foam-clouds on a hidden rock. LV. Rush on, ye mighty waters, and declare To self-conceited man his littleness; Rush on, and give your music to the air, And calm our thoughts and make our sorrows less; For as a friend by words of sympathy Can soothe us, by your music so can ye. LVI. For in your music we can hear the voice Of Him whose hand hath made both ye and us, And we, in deepest gratitude, rejoice, And thank Him who has made ye so. And thus, While listening to your music-roar to-day, I seem to hear the Spirit speak and say: LVII. "As constant roll these waters o'er the steep, So ceaselessly thy Father watcheth thee; As day and night they run, and never sleep, So worketh He throughout eternity; And as their volume's measure is unknown, So boundless is His love towards His own. LVIII. "Then fear not, troubled soul, nor seek to know What destiny has been prepared for thee. Thou seest these mighty waters onward flow, Conforming thus to all their Lord's decree-- Then live thou as thy conscience bids thee live, And know that God due recompense will give." LIX. Rush on, ye waters, with your message fraught Of constant love and care of God; rush on Through lake and ocean, until ye have brought Your message to the One whose love has shone Through darkness on my life; and bear from me A message, too, of love and constancy. *            *            *            *            * Though far I roam from thee, My fondest Love, my thought To theeward constantly By love's dear bond is brought. Whate'er I hear or see, If not thy voice or face, Has interest for me For but a little space. And, whatso'er befall, It little recks to me, If it be not a call, To summon me to thee. My widowed spirit cries Aloud for her twin-soul; My heart in sorrow lies, And needs thee to console. Thus all my being faints, And for thy presence pants; In sorrowful complaints It mourns our severance. Then, dearest one, think not That we shall never be United--such a lot Is not for thee and me. And when at last we meet, (As is our destiny), In commune pure and sweet We'll live eternally. CANTO THE FIFTH. I. Around, both far and wide, on every hand The prairie all environs me; I see Nought save a stretch of green and treeless land, Conspicuous alone for nudity: A sea of earth, a boundless stretch unspanned Except by Heaven's broad horizon-band. II. The very vastness of its sameness lends A fascination which it else had not; And here my sense of solitude transcends What I have felt on any other spot: Of solitude, yet not of loneliness, For God seems present, and His distance less. III. The sea alone of Nature's works can vie With this in solitude. None else can be Compared to it. Here 'neath his Maker's eye The creature seems to stand more openly Than elsewhere. Here his very solitude Makes man appear by God more nearly viewed. IV. Yet is not here God's awfulness displayed; His kindliness and mercy more appear; For flow'rs, the precious emblems He has made Of graciousness, in plenitude are here. In rich profusion blooming unconfined, They seem to whisper softly: "God is kind." V. Yet break they not the solitude; nor can The works of Nature break the solitude. Man needs the presence of his fellow-man, And ever needs it, whatsoe'er his mood; Except when, in the hour he calls his own, He holds communion with his God alone. VI. How vast this solitude! And yet 'tmay be That, ere a decade's course is fully run, This prairie, where no being I can see Inhabiting, may be well built upon; And even on this lonely stretch of ground Surrounding me, a city may be found. VII. So rapidly have risen in the past The cities in this Western land, that well May we expect that not at all less fast Shall future cities rise. And here may dwell A population, whose increasing rate Shall rival cities of an older date. VIII. I once had thought that I would choose to live Upon the prairie-land. My youthful eyes Raised here a mighty castle, which should give A home to me and mine. To youth there lies A fascination in the great Unknown, Which some in old age have not yet outgrown. IX. Thus was I fascinated, and I thought A prairie life, untrammeled, free and blest, Much happiness to me had surely brought; And so I longed to roam the mighty West. But kindly Fate forbade me then to roam, Well knowing that the West was not my home. X. But now I stand upon the prairie, now I see the land which once I longed to see-- And fain must smile, as I remember how This land seemed once a paradise to me. But that was ere my eye had ever seen These thousand miles of treeless prairie-green. XI. Nay, this is not the prairie that I saw In youth's mirage; 'twas fairer far than this. For youth's imagination knows no law, And soars to heights of future-coming bliss, In lands where gladness reigns eternally, Too bright, too beautiful, alas! to be. XII. For each his load of pain and woe must bear, And each must feel the weight of Sorrow's hand, And each will sometimes bow in deep despair, And 'neath his burden think he cannot stand. But strength will come to each in time of need, For they whom grief destroys are few indeed. XIII. Thus youth's bright visions vanish all away, And nought remains save memory. And we Can calmly watch them thus dissolve, and say:-- "'Tis better thus; 'tis best they should not be." For Time has shown us, in his onward flight, That all our visions were too grossly bright; XIV. That, had the dreams we cherished come to pass, We should not be the men that now we are; That what we saw through youth's bright distance-glass Was but a trinket shining as a star; That selfish pleasure, with its gaudy gleams, Alone illumed the brightest of our dreams. XV. And we have learned that 'tis not all to be Self-seeking pleasure-hunters; higher far Are works of kindliness and charity Which we can do, whate'er our frailties are. And we have learned that pain and sorrow, though Unwelcome guests, have each a work to do. XVI. And so we grieve or sorrow not to see Our visions melt away like Winter's snow; But rather thank we all our God that He Sent forth the edict that it should be so; And humbly bless, with gratitude sincere, The hand that led us to a higher sphere. XVII. Farewell! thou vast and fertile prairie-land. Farewell! Not long so dreary wilt thou be; Already man, with ever-busy hand, Is cultivating and enriching thee; And with the wealth of this, thy virgin soil, Thou well rewardest him for all his toil. XVIII. In cloudy height surrounding me, uprear The Rocky Mountains their uncounted heads. And mountains, mountains only now appear, So thickly clustered that the sun but sheds Upon their highest peaks his morning light, While all below is hidden from his sight. XIX. Here rise their sky-aspiring pinnacles In barren ruggedness and majesty; While here some verdure-covered height instils An awe less dread by its fertility; And here again, a peak of snowy whiteness Relieves the gloom and shadow by its brightness. XX. Each one a thing of grandeur, each alone Inspiring fearsome wonder in my soul, What marvel that my being all is thrown Aghast in awe by this stupendous Whole? What wonder that I stand in mute amaze, Dumfounded by the scene whereon I gaze? XXI. My God, how wonderful Thy works appear! How mighty art Thou, and omnipotent! Before Thee, bending low in reverent fear, I humbly bow. My human pride is bent. Thou, Thou art God my awful Maker, I Am helpless in my weak humanity. XXII. I hear the Psalmist's words again,[H] and now Their fuller meaning bursts upon my soul; Thou madest all the earth and heaven, Thou Dost hold the mighty seas within control; These lofty heights were form'd by Thy right-hand; Thou formedst all--all bow to Thy command. XXIII. And what is man to Thee? He well may fall Before Thee worshipping, when thus he sees Thy vast creations. Weak indeed and small Doth man appear before such works as these. In meek humility I bend my knee Before Thee. Lord, why thinkest Thou of me? XXIV. Yet why should all these wonders, thus arrayed Before me, more command my reverence Than man, the greatest creature God has made, And chiefest pledge of His omnipotence? Before the man these wonders fade away, As pales the moon before the orb of day. XXV. For man is given a living, loving soul; Man lives as other works of God live not; He strives to reach a high and Heav'nly goal-- Incomparably higher is his lot. God's greatest work, how fitly he should be The one which most adores His majesty. XXVI. But each creation, when it first reveals Itself to man, impresses him anew With God's omnipotence, and so he feels New cause for adoration in each view. Himself though greatest, these creations each Their own great lessons to his spirit teach. XXVII. And ye, great mountains, have your lessons, ye Have mighty truths to teach the heart of man Of God's omnipotence and majesty, Which, if he will to learn from ye, he can. But many blindly grope upon their way, Refusing all the light of Nature's ray. XXVIII. A mountain tarn, with waters still and blue, Here nestles, open to the heavens whence It seemingly derives its azure hue. Here, has this little tarn pre-eminence, For 'mid such mighty works appearing less, It must attract us by its littleness. XXIX. 'Tis small; but, like the cloud that servant saw Whose master bade him look for rain, it grows To greater bulk; for hence the streamlets draw Their first supplies; and each one onward flows, With speed increasing, down the mountain side, And rolls, a river, in the ocean tide. XXX. So great from little things evolve; and as Man looks upon this tarn and cannot see The mighty river flowing hence, but has To hear report of its immensity; So faith should teach him patiently to wait While little things of life lead on to great. XXXI. But I must leave ye now; I cannot stay, Great mountains, in your midst. Regretfully Must I be borne upon my Westward way, And leave ye far behind me. Yet, should ye No more delight my eye, it cannot be That I shall e'er forget your majesty. XXXII. A quiet voice within me whispering, Advises me to tarry not, nor spend Unneedful hours in westward travelling; For peace awaits me at my journey's end. Alas! 'tis but the mountain solitude That thus has calmed and soothed my weary mood. XXXIII. I would it were a voice intuitive To say that all my suffering should be Now swept away; that henceforth I should live In peace and quiet happiness; that she Whose love alone can shine upon my life With healing light, could be my loving wife. XXXIV. Ah no! It cannot be. Such happiness Is not for me. Yet will I haste me on As best I may. Kind fortune yet may bless The man on whom her smile has never shone. No more I'll linger here, no more delay My steps, but haste with speedy gait away. XXXV. With rapid flight I pass the mountains through, Nor pause to rest upon my hurried way Till, like a picture, burst upon my view The unsung beauties of Vancouver's Bay. Nor here I pause, and, onward speeding fast, Victoria appears in view at last. XXXVI. Here Nature's gifts, all lavishly displayed, Make this a spot most fair and beautiful. Utopia's scene could here be fitly laid. These wooded heights, these straits so clear and cool, The distant mountain's--In the poet's eyes What, more than this, could be earth's Paradise? XXXVII. But beauties physical cannot combine Alone to make an earthly Paradise; But where the lamps of Love most brightly shine, There, there the happiness of Heaven lies, And bitter hatred, by its cursed spell, Will make a very Paradise a hell. XXXVIII. I wander through the city; there is nought Of beauty or attractiveness here shown. Nature, and Nature only, here has brought Adornment. But that little man has done Which bare necessity compelled him do; And nothing tasteful meets my weary view. XXXIX. I pass the city through, and onward, till A pleasing view awakens me, I stray. Here, standing on a high and wooded hill, Imposing is the view that I survey. Afar, across the straits, the mountains rise In sunlit mightiness before my eyes. XL. So near they seem that I could almost be There, at their feet, before the noon of day. And yet I know the mountains, seemingly So near, in truth are many miles away. The air, so pure and undefiled, brings near The view, which else far distant would appear. XLI. Thus is it with our cherished hopes. We see, Not seeming far, a life of happiness Before us; and so close it seems to be, That present grief and trouble pain us less Than otherwise they would. More cheerfully We bear our trials for their brevity. XLII. But, as the days of pain roll slowly by, And lengthen them to weary months and years, And all our hopes of happiness still lie Unfructified, these almost yield to fears; And faith alone will give us strength to bear Affliction's heavy scourge without despair. XLIII. Deep disappointment constantly renewed Has weakened us; but still we hope to gain That brighter life. But oh! if we'd reviewed, At first, that life of long-continued pain, We scarce had found the strength to struggle through The path o'ershadowed with so dark a hue. XLIV. But each new day has brought a new-born hope, Each night of rest has strengthened us anew, And given us again the power to cope With pain and trial; and we still pursue Our way in faith, and day by day we cherish The hope that on that day our pain will perish. XLV. Thus is it best that we should never know What is to be, but walking in the path Appointed, thank our God who made it so; And daily forward press our way in faith Unquestioningly, knowing well that He, Who chose that path, is wiser far than we. XLVI. Upon the waters now the sun has poured His morning light; each little ripple gleams In joy because the day has been restored, And dances lightly in its welcome beams. And gladly, brightly on the wavelets go, And musically murmur as they flow. XLVII. And as they flow they breathe upon the air An odour strengthening, which had not been Except the sea waves shone and glittered there. No unbrined waters roll these hills between, For, by their constant forth and backward motion, They tell their kinship to the mighty ocean. Roll, roll, great Pacific, roll! Ten thousands of years with their joys and their fears, Thy billows cannot control. Still roll, Pacific, roll! Toss, toss, great Pacific, toss! For the hunter of seal, whose woe is thy weal, And whose gain is thine only loss. Still toss, Pacific, toss! Foam, foam, great Pacific, foam! On thy rock-bound coast the wild Indians boast Thy mountains, not thee, their home. Still foam, Pacific, foam! Surge, surge, great Pacific, surge! Though the mariners hear, with prophetical fear, In thy surging their deathly dirge. Still, surge, Pacific, surge! Roar, roar, great Pacific, roar! For the gold-hunter's breast is in wilder unrest Than the billows that lash thy shore. Still roar, Pacific, roar! Moan, moan, great Pacific, moan! For the Inca of old, with his treasures untold, From Peruvian shores is gone. Still moan, Pacific, moan! Wave, wave, mild Pacific, wave! On the light, sandy bar of thine islands afar, In banana-tree grove is the old tale of love Still told by the dusky brave. Wave gently, Pacific, wave! XLVIII. I know not what it was that bade me seek A letter from my Love. She promised not To write to me, nor did I ever speak Of that sad sorrow which would be my lot In wandering alone and friendless here, And hearing nought from her so fondly dear. XLIX. But some small quiet voice, scarce listened to, Enforced by its importunate command This tardy recognition, sooner due; And having sought a letter, now I stand And hold in trembling hand the paper she Has held, and written on so daintily. L. To read her words beneath the public eye Were desecration. I must seek a spot Where I alone can commune quietly With her, and where the vulgar gaze is not. Then let me seek the free and open air, And read my loved one's words of greeting there. LI. What writes my Love? Ah Love! thou hast been ill. Dread fever laid thee low when I had gone, And I was not beside thee--by his will Except for whom thou now had'st been my own. And, though he be thy father, may my curse Rest on him; and I would I could do worse. LII. He, for his selfish pride to cause thee pain; He, for his littleness of mind to lay Thee low in sickness; God grant he may gain His due reward. And may the Lord repay The haughty baronet, in full degree, For all the wrong that he has rendered thee! LIII. But now thou art recovered, now thy heart Alone is sick. Ah Love! thou mournest too, No less than I, that we must live apart. 'Tis selfish, yet I thus would have thee do; I would not have thee happy while away From me, sweetheart, thy love would else decay. LIV. And did'st thou think thy father would relent Because thine illness threatened thee? Ah! no, His stubborn pride would still remain unbent Though thou at Death's dark portal layedst low. His pride is greater than his love for thee, And greater even than his hate for me. LV. We may not be united, loved one--Nay, What writest thou? Ah Love! Love! is it true? It cannot be that thou art mine to-day, And wast before, the while I never knew. Oh God! my God hear Thou thy servant's cry, And let his thankful praise ascend on high. LVI. Mine eyes are dim--Nay, tears? It cannot be; I am a man, and am not wont to weep. Yet beats my happy heart so joyfully The quick revulsion causes me to steep Mine eyes in tears. Though Grief could not compel These tears to flow, Joy bade them, and they fell. LVII. Nay, cease to flow, ye tears, for I must read Those words again so full of promised joy. So quickly read I, and such little heed I paid to little words which might alloy, Perchance, the whole, that I must read anew, Those words, and know my rendering is true. LVIII. "The latest book you wrote has pleas'd well The populace, and men of high renown Upon its certain power for good all dwell; And this has been so pleasing to the Crown That, recognizing your unquestioned right, The Queen has now created you a knight. LIX. "This pleases me, my dearest one, but, oh! What follows gives me higher pleasure far I quick resolved to let my father know That you were now a knight, and, in a prayer, With tearful eyes, I begged him to allow My loved one to return and claim me now. LX. "When first I spoke he heeded not, but soon His face relaxed, and then, 'The boy has won,' He said, 'a worthy name. Then take thy boon, And tell him I will call him now my son.' Then, kissing me, he raised me from my knee, And, smiling, bade me write in haste to thee." LXI. And thou art mine, my love--my very own! And none can sever us. I seem not yet To realize that all my pain is gone. 'Tis hard such heavy sorrow to forget. Ah, Love! what now can give us grief or pain? And who shall part us when we meet again? LXII. I do not love the title, and would choose To bear it not; but this may never be. The baronet would doubtless then refuse To let his daughter be a wife to me, And loud invectives on my head would pour. He loves her, but he loves a title more. LXIII. But 'tis not mine to judge the baronet, E'en though he shaded all my brighter life; My duty bids me all the past forget, For he has given me a loving wife. So be it mine all passions to control, And speed me home to greet my soul's twin-soul. LXIV. Then, farewell, Canada! If I have been O'erladen with a heavy-burdened heart, While all thy many beauties I have seen; And if my sorrow should a vein impart Of sadness to my thoughts, or bitterness, Oh, think not this can make me love thee less. LXV. Farewell, great Canada! And oh! forgive An exiled Englishman if he esteem His native country highest, and would live By choice in England. Do not let it seem That on thy charms he sets but little store; He loves thee well, but must love England more. *            *            *            *            * As boldly on high ye rise to the sky, Great mountains, my message convey, And tell to the Heaven the joy that is given To me and to mine to-day. Ye tall, waving trees, tell ye to the breeze, And bid it to bear away Afar on its wing, the words that I bring: "My love is my own to-day." And you, little bird, your voice must be heard; Hum out to the flow'rs my lay. As o'er them you hover, oh! say that I love her, And say she is mine to-day. And, oh! pretty flowers, put forth all your powers, And tell to the bees that stray Your blossoms among, the words of my song: Oh! tell of my joy to-day. And ye, busy bees, give heed to my pleas, My loving request obey; As ye fly to and fro, let your fellows all know The joy that is mine to-day. Let Nature all see my joy, and for me Her many-tongued pow'rs array, And bid them rejoice, and sing with one voice, Because of my joy to-day.

To Laura In Life. Sonnet I.

Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Voi, ch' ascoltate in rime sparse il suono. HE CONFESSES THE VANITY OF HIS PASSION Ye who in rhymes dispersed the echoes hear Of those sad sighs with which my heart I fed When early youth my mazy wanderings led, Fondly diverse from what I now appear, Fluttering 'twixt frantic hope and frantic fear, From those by whom my various style is read, I hope, if e'er their hearts for love have bled, Not only pardon, but perhaps a tear. But now I clearly see that of mankind Long time I was the tale: whence bitter thought And self-reproach with frequent blushes teem; While of my frenzy, shame the fruit I find, And sad repentance, and the proof, dear-bought, That the world's joy is but a flitting dream. CHARLEMONT. O ye, who list in scatter'd verse the sound Of all those sighs with which my heart I fed, When I, by youthful error first misled, Unlike my present self in heart was found; Who list the plaints, the reasonings that abound Throughout my song, by hopes, and vain griefs bred; If e'er true love its influence o'er ye shed, Oh! let your pity be with pardon crown'd. But now full well I see how to the crowd For length of time I proved a public jest: E'en by myself my folly is allow'd: And of my vanity the fruit is shame, Repentance, and a knowledge strong imprest, That worldly pleasure is a passing dream. NOTT. Ye, who may listen to each idle strain Bearing those sighs, on which my heart was fed In life's first morn, by youthful error led, (Far other then from what I now remain!) That thus in varying numbers I complain, Numbers of sorrow vain and vain hope bred, If any in love's lore be practis'd, His pardon,--e'en his pity I may obtain: But now aware that to mankind my name Too long has been a bye-word and a scorn, I blush before my own severer thought; Of my past wanderings the sole fruit is shame, And deep repentance, of the knowledge born That all we value in this world is naught. DACRE.

Corydon's Farewell To His Pipe

Richard Le Gallienne

Yea, it is best, dear friends, who have so oft Fed full my ears with praises sweet and soft, Sweeter and softer than my song should win, Too sweet and soft - I must not listen more, Lest its dear perilous honey make me mad, And once again an overweening lad Presume against Apollo. Nay, no more! 'Tis not to pipes like mine sing stars at morn, Nor stars at night dance in their solemn dance: Nay, stars! why tell of stars? the very thrush Putteth my daintiest cunning to the blush And boasteth him the hedgerow laureate. Yea, dimmest daisies lost amid the grass, One might have deemed blessed us for looking at, Would rather choose, - yea, so it is, alas! - The meanest bird that from its tiny throat Droppeth the pearl of one monotonous note, Than any music I can bring to pass. So, let me go: for, while I linger here, Piping these dainty ditties for your ear, To win that dearer honey for my own, Daylong my Thestylis doth sit alone, Weeping, mayhap, because the gods have given Song but not sheep - the rarer gift of heaven; And little Phyllis solitary grows, And little Corydon unheeded goes. Sheep are the shepherd's business, - let me go, - Piping his pastime when the sun is low: But I, alas! the other order keep, Piping my business, and forgot my sheep. My song that once was as a little sweet Savouring the daily bread we all must eat, Lo! it has come to be my only food: And, as a lover of the Indian weed Steals to a self-indulgent solitude, To draw the dreamy sweetness from its root, So from the strong blithe world of valorous deed I steal away to suck this singing weed; And while the morning gathers up its strength, And while the noonday runneth on in might, Until the shadows and the evening light Come and awake me with a fear at length, Prone in some hankering covert hid away, Fain am I still my piping to prolong, And for the largess of a bounteous day Dare pay my maker with a paltry song. Welcome the song that like a trumpet high Lifts the tired head of battle with its cry, Welcome the song that from its morning heights Cheers jaded markets with the health of fields, Brings down the stars to mock the city lights. Or up to heaven a shining ladder builds. But not to me belongeth such a grace, And, were it mine, 'tis not in amorous shade To river music that such song is made: The song that moves the battle on awoke To the stern rhythm of the swordsman's stroke, The song that fans the city's weary face Sprang not afar from out some leafy place, But bubbled spring-like in its dingiest lane From out a heart that shared the city's pain; And he who brings the stars into the street And builds that shining ladder for our feet, Dwells in no mystic Abora aloof, But shares the shelter of the common roof; He learns great metres from the thunderous hum, And all his songs pulse to the human beat. But I am Corydon, I am not he, Though I no more that Corydon shall be To make a sugared comfit of my song. So now I go, go back to Thestylis - How her poor eyes will laugh again for this! Go back to Thestylis, and no more roam In melancholy meadows mad to sing, But teach our little home itself to sing. Yea, Corydon, now cast thy pipe away - - See, how it floats upon the stream, and see There it has gone, and now - away! away! But O! my pipe, how sweet thou wert to me!

He That Looketh

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Yea, she and I have broken God's command, And in His sight are branded with our shame. And yet I do not even know her name, Nor ever in my life have touched her hand Or brushed her garments.    But I chanced to stand Beside her in the throng!    A sweet, swift flame Shot from her flesh to mine -and hers the blame Of willing looks that fed it; aye, that fanned The glow within me to a hungry fire. There was an invitation in her eyes. Had she met mine with coldness or surprise, I had not plunged on headlong in the mire Of amorous thought.    The flame leaped high and higher; Her breath and mine pulsated into sighs, And soft glance melted into glance kiss-wise, And in God's sight both yielded to desire.

Parting

Matthew Arnold

Ye storm-winds of Autumn Who rush by, who shake The window, and ruffle The gleam-lighted lake; Who cross to the hill-side Thin-sprinkled with farms, Where the high woods strip sadly Their yellowing arms; Ye are bound for the mountains, Ah, with you let me go Where your cold distant barrier, The vast range of snow, Through the loose clouds lifts dimly Its white peaks in air, How deep is their stillness! Ah! would I were there! But on the stairs what voice is this I hear, Buoyant as morning, and as morning clear? Say, has some wet bird-haunted English lawn Lent it the music of its trees at dawn? Or was it from some sun-fleck'd mountain-brook That the sweet voice its upland clearness took? Ah! it comes nearer, Sweet notes, this way! Hark! fast by the window The rushing winds go, To the ice-cumber'd gorges, The vast seas of snow. There the torrents drive upward Their rock-strangled hum, There the avalanche thunders The hoarse torrent dumb. I come, O ye mountains! Ye torrents, I come! But who is this, by the half-open'd door, Whose figure casts a shadow on the floor The sweet blue eyes, the soft, ash-colour'd hair, The cheeks that still their gentle paleness wear, The lovely lips, with their arch smile, that tells The unconquer'd joy in which her spirit dwells, Ah! they bend nearer, Sweet lips, this way! Hark! the wind rushes past us, Ah! with that let me go To the clear waning hill-side Unspotted by snow, There to watch, o'er the sunk vale, The frore mountain wall, Where the nich'd snow-bed sprays down Its powdery fall. There its dusky blue clusters The aconite spreads; There the pines slope, the cloud-strips Hung soft in their heads. No life but, at moments, The mountain-bee's hum. I come, O ye mountains Ye pine-woods, I come! Forgive me! forgive me Ah, Marguerite, fain Would these arms reach to clasp thee: But see! 'tis in vain. In the void air towards thee My strain'd arms are cast. But a sea rolls between us, Our different past. To the lips, ah! of others, Those lips have been prest, And others, ere I was, Were clasp'd to that breast; Far, far from each other Our spirits have grown. And what heart knows another? Ah! who knows his own? Blow, ye winds! lift me with you I come to the wild. Fold closely, O Nature! Thine arms round thy child. To thee only God granted A heart ever new: To all always open; To all always true. Ah, calm me! restore me And dry up my tears On thy high mountain platforms, Where Morn first appears, Where the white mists, for ever, Are spread and upfurl'd; In the stir of the forces Whence issued the world.

The Lost Bells.

Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Year after year the artist wrought With earnest, loving care, The music flooding all his soul To pour upon the air. For this no metal was too rare, He counted not the cost; Nor deemed the years in which he toiled As labor vainly lost. When morning flushed with crimson light The golden gates of day, He longed to fill the air with chimes Sweet as a matin's lay. And when the sun was sinking low Within the distant West, He gladly heard the bells he wrought Herald the hour of rest. The music of a thousand harps Could never be so dear As when those solemn chants and thrills Fell on his list'ning ear. He poured his soul into their chimes, And felt his toil repaid; He called them children of his soul, His home a'near them made. But evil days came on apace, War spread his banner wide, And from his village snatched away The artist's love and pride. At dewy morn and stilly eve The chimes no more he heard; With dull and restless agony His spirit's depths was stirred. A weary longing filled his soul, It bound him like a spell; He left his home to seek the chimes - The chimes he loved so well. Where lofty fanes in grandeur rose, Upon his ear there fell No music like the long lost chimes Of his beloved bell. And thus he wandered year by year. Touched by the hand of time, Seeking to hear with anxious heart Each well remembered chime. And to that worn and weary heart There came a glad surcease: He heard again the dear old chimes, And smiled and uttered peace. "The chimes! the chimes!" the old man cried, "I hear their tones at last;" A sudden rapture filled his heart, And all his cares were past. Yes, peace had come with death's sweet calm, His journeying was o'er, The weary, restless wanderer Had reached the restful shore. It may be that he met again, Enfolded in the air, The dear old chimes beside the gates Where all is bright and fair; That he who crossed and bowed his head When Angelus was sung In clearer light touched golden harps By angel fingers strung.

The Stateman's Creed.

Edward Young

"Ye states! and empires! nor of empires least, Though least in size, hear, Britain! thou whose lot, Whose final lot, is in the balance laid, Irresolutely play the doubtful scales, Nor know'st thou which will win.--Know then from me, As govern'd well or ill, states sink or rise: State ministers, as upright or corrupt, Are balm or poison in a nation's veins! Health or distemper, hasten or retard The period of her pride, her day of doom: And though, for reasons obvious to the wise, Just Providence deals otherwise with men, Yet believe, Britons! nor too late believe, 'Tis fix'd! by fate irrevocably fix'd! Virtue and vice are empire's life and death." Thus it is written--Heard you not a groan? Is Britain on her death-bed?--No, that groan Was utter'd by her foes--but soon the scale, If this divine monition is despis'd, May turn against us. Read it, ye who rule! With reverence read; with steadfastness believe; With courage act as such belief inspires; Then shall your glory stand like fate's decree; Then shall your name in adamant be writ, In records that defy the tooth of time, By nations sav'd, resounding your applause. While deep beyond your monument's proud base, In black oblivion's kennel, shall be trod Their execrable names, who, high in power, And deep in guilt, most ominously shine, (The meteors of the state!) give vice her head, To license lewd let loose the public rein; Quench every spark of conscience in the land, And triumph in the profligate's applause: Or who to the first bidder sell their souls, Their country sell, sell all their fathers bought With funds exhausted and exhausted veins, To demons, by his holiness ordain'd To propagate the gospel--penn'd at Rome; Hawk'd through the world by consecrated bulls; And how illustrated?--by Smithfleld flames: Who plunge (but not like Curtius) down the gulf, Down narrow-minded self's voracious gulf, Which gapes and swallows all they swore to save: Hate all that lifted heroes into gods, And hug the horrors of a victor's chain: Of bodies politic that destin'd hell, Inflicted here, since here their beings end; And fall from foes detested and despis'd, On disbelievers--of the statesman's creed. Note, here, my lord, (unnoted yet it lies By most, or all,) these truths political Serve more than public ends: this creed of states Seconds, and irresistibly supports, The Christian creed. Are you surpris'd?--Attend And on the statesman's build a nobler name. This punctual justice exercis'd on states, With which authentic chronicle abounds, As all men know, and therefore must believe; This vengeance pour'd on nations ripe in guilt, Pour'd on them here, where only they exist, What is it but an argument of sense, Or rather demonstration, to support Our feeble faith--"That they who states compose, That men who stand not bounded by the grave, Shall meet like measure at their proper hour?" For God is equal, similarly deals With states and persons, or he were not God! What means a rectitude immutable? A pattern here of universal right. What, then, shall rescue an abandon'd man? Nothing, it is replied. Replied, by whom? Replied by politicians well as priests: Writ sacred set aside, mankind's own writ, The whole world's annals; these pronounce his doom. Thus (what might seem a daring paradox) E'en politics advance divinity: True masters there are better scholars here, Who travel history in quest of schemes To govern nations, or perhaps oppress, May there start truths that other aims inspire, And, like Candace's eunuch, as they read, By Providence turn Christians on their road: Digging for silver, they may strike on gold; May be surpris'd with better than they sought, And entertain an angel unawares. Nor is divinity ungrateful found. As politics advance divinity, Thus, in return, divinity promotes True politics, and crowns the statesman's praise. All wisdoms are but branches of the chief, And statesmen found but shoots of honest men. Are this world's witchcrafts pleaded in excuse For deviations in our moral line? This, and the next world, view'd with such an eye As suits a statesman, such as keeps in view His own exalted science, both conspire To recommend and fix us in the right. If we reward the politics of Heaven, The grand administration of the whole, What's the next world? A supplement of this: Without it, justice is defective here; Just as to states, defective as to men: If so, what is this world? As sure as right Sits in Heaven's throne, a prophet of the next. Prize you the prophet? then believe him too: His prophecy more precious than his smile. How comes it then to pass, with most on earth, That this should charm us, that should discompose? Long as the statesman finds this case his own, So long his politics are uncomplete; In danger he; nor is the nation safe, But soon must rue his inauspicious power. What hence results? a truth that should resound For ever awful in Britannia's ear: "Religion crowns the statesman and the man, Sole source of public and of private peace." This truth all men must own, and therefore will, And praise and preach it too:--and when that's done, Their compliment is paid, and 'tis forgot. What highland pole-axe half so deep can wound? But how dare I, so mean, presume so far? Assume my seat in the dictator's chair? Pronounce, predict (as if indeed inspir'd), Promulge my censures, lay out all my throat, Till hoarse in clamour on enormous crimes? Two mighty columns rise in my support; In their more awful and authentic voice, Record profane and sacred, drown the muse, Tho' loud, and far out-thread her threatening song. Still further, Holles! suffer me to plead That I speak freely, as I speak to thee: Guilt only startles at the name of guilt; And truth, plain truth, is welcome to the wise. Thus what seem'd my presumption is thy praise. Praise, and immortal praise, is virtue's claim; And virtue's sphere is action: yet we grant Some merit to the trumpet's loud alarm, Whose clangour kindles cowards into men. Nor shall the verse, perhaps, be quite forgot, Which talks of immortality, and bids, In every British breast, true glory rise, As now the warbling lark awakes the morn. To close, my lord! with that which all should close And all begin, and strike us every hour, Though no war wak'd us, no black tempest frown'd. The morning rises gay; yet gayest morn Less glorious after night's incumbent shades; Less glorious far bright nature, rich array'd With golden robes, in all the pomp of noon, Than the first feeble dawn of moral day? Sole day, (let those whom statesmen serve attend,) Though the sun ripens diamonds for their crowns; Sole day worth his regard whom Heaven ordains, Undarken'd, to behold noon dark, and date, From the sun's death, and every planet's fall, His all-illustrious and eternal year; Where statesmen and their monarchs, (names of awe And distance here,) shall rank with common men, Yet own their glory never dawn'd before.

From Faust. Dedication.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Ye shadowy forms, again ye're drawing near, So wont of yore to meet my troubled gaze! Were it in vain to seek to keep you here? Loves still my heart that dream of olden days? Oh, come then! and in pristine force appear, Parting the vapor mist that round me plays! My bosom finds its youthful strength again, Feeling the magic breeze that marks your train. Ye bring the forms of happy days of yore, And many a shadow loved attends you too; Like some old lay, whose dream was well nigh o'er, First-love appears again, and friendship true; Upon life's labyrinthine path once more Is heard the sigh, and grief revives anew; The friends are told, who, in their hour of pride, Deceived by fortune, vanish'd from my side. No longer do they hear my plaintive song, The souls to whom I sang in life's young day; Scatter'd for ever now the friendly throng, And mute, alas! each sweet responsive lay. My strains but to the careless crowd belong, Their smiles but sorrow to my heart convey; And all who heard my numbers erst with gladness, If living yet, roam o'er the earth in sadness. Long buried yearnings in my breast arise, Yon calm and solemn spirit-realm to gain; Like the AEONIAN harp's sweet melodies, My murmuring song breathes forth its changeful strain. A trembling seizes me, tears fill mine eyes, And softer grows my rugged heart amain. All I possess far distant seems to be, The vanish'd only seems reality.

A Ballad Of France

Michael Earls

Ye who heed a nation's call And speed to arms therefor, Ye who fear your children's march To perils of the war,-- Soldiers of the deck and camp And mothers of our men, Hearken to a tale of France And tell it oft again. * * * In the east of France by the roads of war, (God save us evermore from Mars and Thor!} Up and down the fair land iron armies came, (Pity, Jesu, all who fell, calling Thy name). Pleasant all the fields were round every town, Garden airs went sweetly up, heaven smiled down; Till under leaden hail with flaming breath, Graves and ashen harvest were the keep of death. One little town stood, white on a hill, Chapel and hostel gates, farms and windmill, Chapel and countryside met the gunner's path, Till no blade of kindly grass hid from his wrath. Lo! When the terrain cleared out of murky air, When mid the ruins stalked death and despair, One figure stood erect, bright with day,-- Christ the Crucified, though His Cross was shot away. Flame and shot tore away all the tender wood, Yet with arms uplifted Christ His Figure stood; Out reached the blessing hands, meek bowed the head, Christ! The saving solace o'er the waste of dead.

Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - XXIII. - Among The Ruins Of A Convent In The Apennines

William Wordsworth

Ye Trees! whose slender roots entwine Altars that piety neglects; Whose infant arms enclasp the shrine Which no devotion now respects; If not a straggler from the herd Here ruminate, nor shrouded bird, Chanting her low-voiced hymn, take pride In aught that ye would grace or hide How sadly is your love misplaced, Fair Trees, your bounty run to waste! Ye, too, wild Flowers! that no one heeds, And ye, full often spurned as weeds In beauty clothed, or breathing sweetness From fractured arch and mouldering wall Do but more touchingly recall Man's headstrong violence and Time's fleetness, Making the precincts ye adorn Appear to sight still more forlorn.

The First Canzone Of The Convito. From The Italian Of Dante.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

1. Ye who intelligent the Third Heaven move, Hear the discourse which is within my heart, Which cannot be declared, it seems so new. The Heaven whose course follows your power and art, Oh, gentle creatures that ye are! me drew, And therefore may I dare to speak to you, Even of the life which now I live - and yet I pray that ye will hear me when I cry, And tell of mine own heart this novelty; How the lamenting Spirit moans in it, And how a voice there murmurs against her Who came on the refulgence of your sphere. 2. A sweet Thought, which was once the life within This heavy heart, man a time and oft Went up before our Father's feet, and there It saw a glorious Lady throned aloft; And its sweet talk of her my soul did win, So that I said, 'Thither I too will fare.' That Thought is fled, and one doth now appear Which tyrannizes me with such fierce stress, That my heart trembles - ye may see it leap - And on another Lady bids me keep Mine eyes, and says - Who would have blessedness Let him but look upon that Lady's eyes, Let him not fear the agony of sighs. 3. This lowly Thought, which once would talk with me Of a bright seraph sitting crowned on high, Found such a cruel foe it died, and so My Spirit wept, the grief is hot even now - And said, Alas for me! how swift could flee That piteous Thought which did my life console! And the afflicted one ... questioning Mine eyes, if such a Lady saw they never, And why they would... I said: 'Beneath those eyes might stand for ever He whom ... regards must kill with... To have known their power stood me in little stead, Those eyes have looked on me, and I am dead.' 4. 'Thou art not dead, but thou hast wandered, Thou Soul of ours, who thyself dost fret,' A Spirit of gentle Love beside me said; For that fair Lady, whom thou dost regret, Hath so transformed the life which thou hast led, Thou scornest it, so worthless art thou made. And see how meek, how pitiful, how staid, Yet courteous, in her majesty she is. And still call thou her Woman in thy thought; Her whom, if thou thyself deceivest not, Thou wilt behold decked with such loveliness, That thou wilt cry [Love] only Lord, lo! here Thy handmaiden, do what thou wilt with her. 5. My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning Of such hard matter dost thou entertain. Whence, if by misadventure chance should bring Thee to base company, as chance may do, Quite unaware of what thou dost contain, I prithee comfort thy sweet self again, My last delight; tell them that they are dull, And bid them own that thou art beautiful.

The Sower. - Matthew xiii.3.

William Cowper

Ye sons of earth, prepare the plough, Break up the fallow ground; The sower is gone forth to sow, And scatter blessings round. The seed that finds a stony soil, Shoots forth a hasty blade; But ill repays the sower's toil, Soon wither'd, scorch'd, and dead. The thorny ground is sure to balk All hopes of harvest there; We find a tall and sickly stalk, But not the fruitful ear. The beaten path and highway side Receive the trust in vain; The watchful birds the spoil divide, And pick up all the grain. But where the Lord of grace and power Has bless'd the happy field, How plenteous is the golden store The deep-wrought furrows yield! Father of mercies, we have need Of thy preparing grace; Let the same hand that gives the seed Provide a fruitful place.

The Sonnets Of Tommaso Campanella - On The Lord'S Prayer. No. I.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Vilissima progenie. Ye vile offscourings! with unblushing face Dare ye claim sonship to our heavenly Sire, Who serve brute vices, crouching in the mire To hounds and conies, beasts that ape our race? Such truckling is called virtue by the base Hucksters of sophistry, the priest and friar,-- Gilt claws of tyrant brutes,--who lie for hire, Preaching that God delights in this disgrace. Look well, ye brainless folk! Do fathers hold Their children slaves to serfs? Do sheep obey The witless ram? Why make a beast your king? If there are no archangels, let your fold Be governed by the sense of all: why stray From men to worship every filthy thing?

Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XXIV - Saints

William Wordsworth

Ye, too, must fly before a chasing hand, Angels and Saints, in every hamlet mourned! Ah! if the old idolatry be spurned, Let not your radiant Shapes desert the Land: Her adoration was not your demand, The fond heart proffered it, the servile heart; And therefore are ye summoned to depart, Michael, and thou, St. George, whose flaming brand The Dragon quelled; and valiant Margaret Whose rival sword a like Opponent slew: And rapt Cecilia seraph-haunted Queen Of harmony; and weeping Magdalene, Who in the penitential desert met Gales sweet as those that over Eden blew!

The Lone Trail

Robert William Service

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it, Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit. Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-bye; The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow till you die. The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried; You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide; And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan, Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on. And somehow you're sick of the highway, with its noise and its easy needs, And you seek the risk of the by-way, and you reck not where it leads. And sometimes it leads to the desert, and the tongue swells out of the mouth, And you stagger blind to the mirage, to die in the mocking drouth. And sometimes it leads to the mountain, to the light of the lone camp-fire, And you gnaw your belt in the anguish of hunger-goaded desire. And sometimes it leads to the Southland, to the swamp where the orchid glows, And you rave to your grave with the fever, and they rob the corpse for its clothes. And sometimes it leads to the Northland, and the scurvy softens your bones, And your flesh dints in like putty, and you spit out your teeth like stones. And sometimes it leads to a coral reef in the wash of a weedy sea, And you sit and stare at the empty glare where the gulls wait greedily. And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail, and the snows where your torn feet freeze, And you whittle away the useless clay, and crawl on your hands and knees. Often it leads to the dead-pit; always it leads to pain; By the bones of your brothers ye know it, but oh, to follow you're fain. By your bones they will follow behind you, till the ways of the world are made plain. Bid good-bye to sweetheart, bid good-bye to friend; The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow to the end. Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true; Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you.

The Modern Climber.

Edward Woodley Bowling

Year after year, as Summer suns come round, Upon the Calais packet am I found: Thence to Geneva hurried by express, I halt for breakfast, bathe, and change my dress. My well-worn knapsack to my back I strap; My Alpine rope I neatly round me wrap; Then, axe in hand, the diligence disdaining, I walk to Chamonix, by way of training. Arrived at Coutlet's Inn by eventide, I interview my porter and my guide: My guide, that Mentor who has dragg'd full oft These aching, shaking, quaking limbs aloft; Braved falling stones, cut steps on ice-slopes steep, That I the glory of his deeds might reap. My porter, who with uncomplaining back O'er passes, peaks, and glaciers bears my pack: Tho' now the good man looks a trifle sadder, When I suggest the ill-omened name of "ladder." O'er many a pipe our heads we put together; Our first enquiry is of course "the weather." With buoyant hearts the star-lit heaven we view; Then our next point is "What are we to 'do'?" My pipe I pocket, and with head up-tossed My listening followers I thus accost: - "Mont Blanc, we know, is stupid, stale, and slow, A tiresome tramp o'er lumps of lifeless snow. The Col du G'ant is a trifle worse; The Jardin's fit for babies with their nurse: The Aiguille Verte is more the sort of thing, But time has robbed it of its former sting; Alone the Dent du G'ant and the Dru [1] Remain 'undone,' and therefore fit to 'do.' Remember how I love, my comrades tried, To linger on some rocky mountain's side, "Where I can hear the crash of falling stones, Threatening destruction to the tourist's bones! No cadence falls so sweetly on my ear As stones discharged from precipices sheer: No sight is half so soothing to my nerves As boulders bounding in eccentric curves. If falling stones sufficient be not found, Lead me where avalanches most abound. Ye shake your heads; ye talk of home and wife, Of babes dependent on the Father's life. What! still reluctant? let me then make clear The duties of the guide and mountaineer; Mine is to order, yours is to obey - For you are hirelings, and 'tis I who pay. I've heard, indeed, that some old-fashioned Herren, Who've walked with Almer, Melchior, and Perren, Maintain that mountaineering is a pleasure, A recreation for our hours of leisure: 'To be or not to be' perhaps may matter To them, for they may have some brains to scatter; But we, I trust, shall take a higher view, And make our mountain motto 'die or do.' "Nay, hear me out! your scruples well I know: Trust me, not unrewarded shall ye go. If ye succeed, much money will I give, And mine unfaltering friendship, while ye live. Nor only thus will I your deeds requite; High testimonials in your books I'll write. Thee, trusty guide, will I much eulogize As strong and cautious, diligent and wise, Active, unhesitating, cheerful, sure - Nay, almost equal to an Amateur! And thou, my meekest of meek beasts of burden, Thou too shalt have thine undisputed guerdon: I'll do for thee the very best I can, And sound thy praise as 'a good third-rate man.' But if ye fail, if cannonading stones, Or toppling ice-crag, pulverize your bones; O happy stroke, that makes immortal heroes Of men who, otherwise, would be but zeroes! What tho' no Alpine horn make music drear O'er the lone snow which furnishes your bier; Nor Alpine maiden strew your grave with posies Of gentian, edelweiss, and Alpine roses? "The Alpine Muse her iciest tears shall shed, And 'build a stone-man' o'er your honour'd head, Chamois and bouquetins the spot shall haunt, With eagles, choughs, and lammergeyers gaunt; The mountain marmots, marching o'er the snow, Their yearly pilgrimage shall ne'er forego; Tyndall himself, in grand, prophetic tones, Shall calculate the movement of your bones; And your renown shall live serene, eternal, Embalmed in pages of the Alpine Journal!" *            *            *            *            * By reasoning such as this, year after year, I overcome my men's unreasoning fear: Twice has my guide by falling stones been struck, Yet still I trust his science and my luck. A falling stone once cut my rope in twain; We stopped to mend it, and marched on again. Once a big boulder, with a sudden whack, Severed my knapsack from my porter's back. Twice on a sliding avalanche I've slid, While my companions in its depths were hid. Daring all dangers, no disaster fearing, I carry out my plan of mountaineering. Thus have I conquered glacier, peak, and pass, Aiguilles du Midi, Cols des Grandes Jorasses. Thus shall I onward march from peak to peak, Till there are no new conquests left to seek. O the wild joy, the unutterable bliss To hear the coming avalanche's hiss! Or place oneself in acrobatic pose, While mountain missiles graze one's sun-burnt nose! And if some future season I be doom'd To be by boulders crushed, or snow entombed, Still let me upward urge my mad career, And risk my limbs and life for honour dear! Sublimely acquiescent in my lot, I'll die a martyr for - I know not what! (1876) [1] Written in 1876.

Inscription For A Crucifix.[1]

Victor-Marie Hugo

("Vous qui pleurez, venez ' ce Dieu.") [Bk. III. iv., March, 1842.] Ye weepers, the Mourner o'er mourners behold! Ye wounded, come hither - the Healer enfold! Ye gloomy ones, brighten 'neath smiles quelling care - Or pass - for this Comfort is found ev'rywhere.

Music For The Dying. From The French Of Sully Prudhomme

Robert Fuller Murray

Ye who will help me in my dying pain, Speak not a word: let all your voices cease. Let me but hear some soft harmonious strain, And I shall die at peace. Music entrances, soothes, and grants relief From all below by which we are opprest; I pray you, speak no word unto my grief, But lull it into rest. Tired am I of all words, and tired of aught That may some falsehood from the ear conceal, Desiring rather sounds which ask no thought, Which I need only feel: A melody in whose delicious streams The soul may sink, and pass without a breath From fevered fancies into quiet dreams, From dreaming into death.

God, The Complement.

Margaret Steele Anderson

("Nor does being weary imply that there is any place to rest.") Yea, by your wants bestead, You come Myself to know; For if I be not bread, Why hunger so? And if not water I, Your fountain last and first, Why should your earth be dry? Why should you thirst? Have you not read desire? Do you not know your quest? Spirit, why should you tire Were I not rest?

The Free Selector

Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

(A Song of 1861.) Ye sons of industry, to you I belong, And to you I would dedicate a verse or a song, Rejoicing o'er the victory John Robertson has won Now the Land Bill has passed and the good time has come Now the Land Bill, &c. No more with our swags through the bush need we roam For to ask of another there to give us a home, Now the land is unfettered and we may reside In a home of our own by some clear waterside. In a home of our own, &c. On some fertile spot which we may call our own, Where the rich verdure grows, we will build up a home. There industry will flourish and content will smile, While our children rejoicing will share in our toil. While our children, &c. We will plant our garden and sow our own field, And eat from the fruits which industry will yield, And be independent, what we long for have strived, Though those that have ruled us the right long denied. Though those that have ruled us, &c.

Sonnets on English Dramatic Poets (1590-1650): Anonymous Plays

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Ye too, dim watchfires of some darkling hour, Whose fame forlorn time saves not nor proclaims For ever, but forgetfulness defames And darkness and the shadow of death devour, Lift up ye too your light, put forth your power, Let the far twilight feel your soft small flames And smile, albeit night name not even their names, Ghost by ghost passing, flower blown down on flower: That sweet-tongued shadow, like a star's that passed Singing, and light was from its darkness cast To paint the face of Painting fair with praise:1 And that wherein forefigured smiles the pure Fraternal face of Wordsworth's Elidure Between two child-faced masks of merrier days.2

To Groves

Robert Herrick

Ye silent shades, whose each tree here Some relique of a saint doth wear; Who for some sweet-heart's sake, did prove The fire and martyrdom of Love: Here is the legend of those saints That died for love, and their complaints; Their wounded hearts, and names we find Encarved upon the leaves and rind. Give way, give way to me, who come Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom! And have deserved as much, Love knows, As to be canonized 'mongst those Whose deeds and deaths here written are Within your Greeny-kalendar. By all those virgins' fillets hung Upon! your boughs, and requiems sung For saints and souls departed hence, Here honour'd still with frankincense; By all those tears that have been shed, As a drink-offering to the dead; By all those true-love knots, that be With mottoes carved on every tree; By sweet Saint Phillis! pity me; By dear Saint Iphis! and the rest Of all those other saints now blest, Me, me forsaken, here admit Among your myrtles to be writ; That my poor name may have the glory To live remember'd in your story.

The South-Sea Project. 1721

Jonathan Swift

Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto, Arma vir'm, tabulaeque, et Tro'a gaza per undas. VIRG. For particulars of this famous scheme for reducing the National Debt, projected by Sir John Blunt, who became one of the Directors of it, and ultimately one of the greatest sufferers by it, when the Bubble burst, see Smollett's "History of England," vol. ii; Pope's "Moral Essays," Epist. iii, and notes; and Gibbon's "Memoirs," for the violent and arbitrary proceedings against the Directors, one of whom was his grandfather. Ye wise philosophers, explain What magic makes our money rise, When dropt into the Southern main; Or do these jugglers cheat our eyes? Put in your money fairly told; Presto! be gone - 'Tis here again: Ladies and gentlemen, behold, Here's every piece as big as ten. Thus in a basin drop a shilling, Then fill the vessel to the brim, You shall observe, as you are filling, The pond'rous metal seems to swim: It rises both in bulk and height, Behold it swelling like a sop; The liquid medium cheats your sight: Behold it mounted to the top! In stock three hundred thousand pounds, I have in view a lord's estate; My manors all contiguous round! A coach-and-six, and served in plate! Thus the deluded bankrupt raves, Puts all upon a desperate bet; Then plunges in the Southern waves, Dipt over head and ears - in debt. So, by a calenture misled, The mariner with rapture sees, On the smooth ocean's azure bed, Enamell'd fields and verdant trees: With eager haste he longs to rove In that fantastic scene, and thinks It must be some enchanted grove; And in he leaps, and down he sinks. Five hundred chariots just bespoke, Are sunk in these devouring waves, The horses drown'd, the harness broke, And here the owners find their graves. Like Pharaoh, by directors led, They with their spoils went safe before; His chariots, tumbling out the dead, Lay shatter'd on the Red Sea shore. Raised up on Hope's aspiring plumes, The young adventurer o'er the deep An eagle's flight and state assumes, And scorns the middle way to keep. On paper wings he takes his flight, With wax the father bound them fast; The wax is melted by the height, And down the towering boy is cast. A moralist might here explain The rashness of the Cretan youth;[1] Describe his fall into the main, And from a fable form a truth. His wings are his paternal rent, He melts the wax at every flame; His credit sunk, his money spent, In Southern Seas he leaves his name. Inform us, you that best can tell, Why in that dangerous gulf profound, Where hundreds and where thousands fell, Fools chiefly float, the wise are drown'd? So have I seen from Severn's brink A flock of geese jump down together; Swim where the bird of Jove would sink, And, swimming, never wet a feather. But, I affirm, 'tis false in fact, Directors better knew their tools; We see the nation's credit crack'd, Each knave has made a thousand fools. One fool may from another win, And then get off with money stored; But, if a sharper once comes in, He throws it all, and sweeps the board. As fishes on each other prey, The great ones swallowing up the small, So fares it in the Southern Sea; The whale directors eat up all. When stock is high, they come between, Making by second-hand their offers; Then cunningly retire unseen, With each a million in his coffers. So, when upon a moonshine night, An ass was drinking at a stream, A cloud arose, and stopt the light, By intercepting every beam: The day of judgment will be soon, Cries out a sage among the crowd; An ass has swallow'd up the moon! The moon lay safe behind the cloud. Each poor subscriber to the sea Sinks down at once, and there he lies; Directors fall as well as they, Their fall is but a trick to rise. So fishes, rising from the main, Can soar with moisten'd wings on high; The moisture dried, they sink again, And dip their fins again to fly. Undone at play, the female troops Come here their losses to retrieve; Ride o'er the waves in spacious hoops, Like Lapland witches in a sieve. Thus Venus to the sea descends, As poets feign; but where's the moral? It shows the Queen of Love intends To search the deep for pearl and coral. The sea is richer than the land, I heard it from my grannam's mouth, Which now I clearly understand; For by the sea she meant the South. Thus, by directors we are told, "Pray, gentlemen, believe your eyes; Our ocean's cover'd o'er with gold, Look round, and see how thick it lies: "We, gentlemen, are your assisters, We'll come, and hold you by the chin." - Alas! all is not gold that glisters, Ten thousand sink by leaping in. O! would those patriots be so kind, Here in the deep to wash their hands, Then, like Pactolus,[2] we should find The sea indeed had golden sands. A shilling in the bath you fling, The silver takes a nobler hue, By magic virtue in the spring, And seems a guinea to your view. But, as a guinea will not pass At market for a farthing more, Shown through a multiplying glass, Than what it always did before: So cast it in the Southern seas, Or view it through a jobber's bill; Put on what spectacles you please, Your guinea's but a guinea still. One night a fool into a brook Thus from a hillock looking down, The golden stars for guineas took, And silver Cynthia for a crown. The point he could no longer doubt; He ran, he leapt into the flood; There sprawl'd a while, and scarce got out, All cover'd o'er with slime and mud. "Upon the water cast thy bread, And after many days thou'lt find it;"[3] But gold, upon this ocean spread, Shall sink, and leave no mark behind it: There is a gulf, where thousands fell, Here all the bold adventurers came, A narrow sound, though deep as Hell - 'Change Alley is the dreadful name. Nine times a-day it ebbs and flows, Yet he that on the surface lies, Without a pilot seldom knows The time it falls, or when 'twill rise. Subscribers here by thousands float, And jostle one another down; Each paddling in his leaky boat, And here they fish for gold, and drown. "Now buried in the depth below, Now mounted up to Heaven again, They reel and stagger to and fro, At their wits' end, like drunken men."[4] Meantime, secure on Garway[5] cliffs, A savage race, by shipwrecks fed, Lie waiting for the founder'd skiffs, And strip the bodies of the dead. But these, you say, are factious lies, From some malicious Tory's brain; For, where directors get a prize, The Swiss and Dutch whole millions drain. Thus, when by rooks a lord is plied, Some cully often wins a bet, By venturing on the cheating side, Though not into the secret let. While some build castles in the air, Directors build them in the seas; Subscribers plainly see them there, For fools will see as wise men please. Thus oft by mariners are shown (Unless the men of Kent are liars) Earl Godwin's castles overflown, And palace roofs, and steeple spires. Mark where the sly directors creep, Nor to the shore approach too nigh! The monsters nestle in the deep, To seize you in your passing by. Then, like the dogs of Nile, be wise, Who, taught by instinct how to shun The crocodile, that lurking lies, Run as they drink, and drink and run. Ant'us could, by magic charms, Recover strength whene'er he fell; Alcides held him in his arms, And sent him up in air to Hell. Directors, thrown into the sea, Recover strength and vigour there; But may be tamed another way, Suspended for a while in air. Directors! for 'tis you I warn, By long experience we have found What planet ruled when you were born; We see you never can be drown'd. Beware, nor overbulky grow, Nor come within your cully's reach; For, if the sea should sink so low To leave you dry upon the beach, You'll owe your ruin to your bulk: Your foes already waiting stand, To tear you like a founder'd hulk, While you lie helpless on the sand. Thus, when a whale has lost the tide, The coasters crowd to seize the spoil: The monster into parts divide, And strip the bones, and melt the oil. Oh! may some western tempest sweep These locusts whom our fruits have fed, That plague, directors, to the deep, Driven from the South Sea to the Red! May he, whom Nature's laws obey, Who lifts the poor, and sinks the proud, "Quiet the raging of the sea, And still the madness of the crowd!" But never shall our isle have rest, Till those devouring swine run down, (The devils leaving the possest) And headlong in the waters drown. The nation then too late will find, Computing all their cost and trouble, Directors' promises but wind, South Sea, at best, a mighty bubble.

The True Loyal Natives.

Robert Burns

Ye true "Loyal Natives," attend to my song, In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; From envy or hatred your corps is exempt, But where is your shield from the darts of contempt?

The Winds.

William Cullen Bryant

I. Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, Softly ye played a few brief hours ago; Ye bore the murmuring bee; ye tossed the hair O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow; Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue; Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew; Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. II. How are ye changed! Ye take the cataract's sound; Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might; The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground; The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. The clouds before you shoot like eagles past; The homes of men are rocking in your blast; Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. III. The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, To escape your wrath; ye seize and dash them dead. Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain; The harvest-field becomes a river's bed; And torrents tumble from the hills around, Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. IV. Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray; Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray. See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings; Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, And take the mountain billow on your wings, And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. V. Why rage ye thus? no strife for liberty Has made you mad; no tyrant, strong through fear, Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere; For ye were born in freedom where ye blow; Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go; Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. VI. O ye wild winds! a mightier Power than yours In chains upon the shore of Europe lies; The sceptred throng, whose fetters he endures, Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes: And armed warriors all around him stand, And, as he struggles, tighten every band, And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. VII. Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains, And leap in freedom from his prison-place, Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, To waste the loveliness that time could spare, To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair Unconscious breast with blood from human veins. VIII. But may he like the spring-time come abroad, Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light; Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night.

Lincoln

Madison Julius Cawein

I. Yea, this is he, whose name is synonym Of all that's noble, though but lowly born; Who took command upon a stormy morn When few had hope. Although uncouth of limb, Homely of face and gaunt, but never grim, Beautiful he was with that which none may scorn. With love of God and man and things forlorn, And freedom mighty as the soul in him. Large at the helm of State he leans and looms With the grave, kindly look of those who die Doing their duty. Staunch, unswervingly Onward he steers beneath portentous glooms, And overwhelming thunders of the sky, Till, safe in port, he sees a people free. II. Safe from the storm; the harbour-lights of Peace Before his eyes; the burden of dark fears Cast from him like a cloak; and in his ears The heart-beat music of a great release, Captain and pilot, back upon the seas, Whose wrath he'd weathered, back he looks with tears, Seeing no shadow of the Death that nears, Stealthy and sure, with sudden agonies. So let him stand, brother to every man, Ready for toil or battle; he who held A Nation's destinies within his hand: Type of our greatness; first American, By whom the hearts of all men are compelled, And with whose name Freedom unites our Land. III. He needs no praise of us, who wrought so well, Who has the Master's praise; who at his post Stood to the last. Yet, now, from coast to coast, Let memory of him peal like some great bell. Of him as woodsman, workman let it tell! Of him as lawyer, statesman, without boast! And for what qualities we love him most, And recollections that no time can quell. He needs no praise of us, yet let us praise, Albeit his simple soul we may offend, That liked not praise, being most diffident. Still let us praise him, praise him in such ways As his were, and in words, that shall transcend Marble, and outlast any monument.

The Sons Of Old Killie.

Robert Burns

Tune - "Shawnboy." I. Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation; Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another To sit in that honoured station. I've little to say, but only to pray, As praying's the ton of your fashion; A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, 'Tis seldom her favourite passion. II. Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, Who marked each element's border; Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order; Within this dear mansion, may wayward contention Or withered envy ne'er enter; May secrecy round be the mystical bound, And brotherly love be the centre.

On The Platonic 'Ideal' As It Was Understood By Aristotle.

William Cowper

Ye sister Pow'rs who o'er the sacred groves Preside, and, Thou, fair mother of them all Mnemosyne,[1] and thou, who in thy grot Immense reclined at leisure, hast in charge The Archives and the ord'nances of Jove, And dost record the festivals of heav'n, Eternity!--Inform us who is He, That great Original by Nature chos'n To be the Archetype of Human-kind, Unchangeable, Immortal, with the poles Themselves coaeval, One, yet ev'rywhere, An image of the god, who gave him Being? Twin-brother of the Goddess born from Jove,[2] He dwells not in his Father's mind, but, though Of common nature with ourselves, exists Apart, and occupies a local home. Whether, companion of the stars, he spend Eternal ages, roaming at his will From sphere to sphere the tenfold heav'ns, or dwell On the moon's side that nearest neighbours Earth, Or torpid on the banks of Lethe[3] sit Among the multitude of souls ordair'd To flesh and blood, or whether (as may chance) That vast and giant model of our kind In some far-distant region of this globe Sequester'd stalk, with lifted head on high O'ertow'ring Atlas, on whose shoulders rest The stars, terrific even to the Gods. Never the Theban Seer,[4] whose blindness proved His best illumination, Him beheld In secret vision; never him the son Of Pleione,[5] amid the noiseless night Descending, to the prophet-choir reveal'd; Him never knew th'Assyrian priest,[6] who yet The ancestry of Ninus[7] chronicles, And Belus, and Osiris far-renown'd; Nor even Thrice-great Hermes,[7] although skill'd So deep in myst'ry, to the worshippers Of Isis show'd a prodigy like Him. And thou,[8] who hast immortalized the shades Of Academus, if the school received This monster of the Fancy first from Thee, Either recall at once the banish'd bards To thy Republic, or, thyself evinc'd A wilder Fabulist, go also forth.

Gunnar's Howe Above The House At Lithend.

William Morris

Ye who have come o'er the sea to behold this grey minster of lands, Whose floor is the tomb of time past, and whose walls by the toil of dead hands Show pictures amidst of the ruin of deeds that have overpast death, Stay by this tomb in a tomb to ask of who lieth beneath. Ah! the world changeth too soon, that ye stand there with unbated breath, As I name him that Gunnar of old, who erst in the haymaking tide Felt all the land fragrant and fresh, as amidst of the edges he died. Too swiftly fame fadeth away, if ye tremble not lest once again The grey mound should open and show him glad-eyed without grudging or pain. Little labour methinks to behold him but the tale-teller laboured in vain. Little labour for ears that may hearken to hear his death-conquering song, Till the heart swells to think of the gladness undying that overcame wrong. O young is the world yet meseemeth and the hope of it flourishing green, When the words of a man unremembered so bridge all the days that have been, As we look round about on the land that these nine hundred years he hath seen. Dusk is abroad on the grass of this valley amidst of the hill: Dusk that shall never be dark till the dawn hard on midnight shall fill The trench under Eyiafell's snow, and the grey plain the sea meeteth grey. White, high aloft hangs the moon that no dark night shall brighten ere day, For here day and night toileth the summer lest deedless his time pass away.

The Exile's Secret - From Readings Over The Teacups - Five Stories And A Sequel

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Ye that have faced the billows and the spray Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned The beaconed rocks, the wave-girt hills of sand, Have ye not marked one elm-o'ershadowed isle, Round as the dimple chased in beauty's smile, - A stain of verdure on an azure field, Set like a jewel in a battered shield? Fixed in the narrow gorge of Ocean's path, Peaceful it meets him in his hour of wrath; When the mailed Titan, scourged by hissing gales, Writhes in his glistening coat of clashing scales, The storm-beat island spreads its tranquil green, Calm as an emerald on an angry queen. So fair when distant should be fairer near; A boat shall waft us from the outstretched pier. The breeze blows fresh; we reach the island's edge, Our shallop rustling through the yielding sedge. No welcome greets us on the desert isle; Those elms, far-shadowing, hide no stately pile Yet these green ridges mark an ancient road; And to! the traces of a fair abode; The long gray line that marks a garden-wall, And heaps of fallen beams, - fire-branded all. Who sees unmoved, a ruin at his feet, The lowliest home where human hearts have beat? Its hearthstone, shaded with the bistre stain A century's showery torrents wash in vain; Its starving orchard, where the thistle blows And mossy trunks still mark the broken rows; Its chimney-loving poplar, oftenest seen Next an old roof, or where a roof has been; Its knot-grass, plantain, - all the social weeds, Man's mute companions, following where he leads; Its dwarfed, pale flowers, that show their straggling heads, Sown by the wind from grass-choked garden-beds; Its woodbine, creeping where it used to climb; Its roses, breathing of the olden time; All the poor shows the curious idler sees, As life's thin shadows waste by slow degrees, Till naught remains, the saddening tale to tell, Save home's last wrecks, - the cellar and the well? And whose the home that strews in black decay The one green-glowing island of the bay? Some dark-browed pirate's, jealous of the fate That seized the strangled wretch of "Nix's Mate"? Some forger's, skulking in a borrowed name, Whom Tyburn's dangling halter yet may claim? Some wan-eyed exile's, wealth and sorrow's heir, Who sought a lone retreat for tears and prayer? Some brooding poet's, sure of deathless fame, Had not his epic perished in the flame? Or some gray wooer's, whom a girlish frown Chased from his solid friends and sober town? Or some plain tradesman's, fond of shade and ease, Who sought them both beneath these quiet trees? Why question mutes no question can unlock, Dumb as the legend on the Dighton rock? One thing at least these ruined heaps declare, - They were a shelter once; a man lived there. But where the charred and crumbling records fail, Some breathing lips may piece the half-told tale; No man may live with neighbors such as these, Though girt with walls of rock and angry seas, And shield his home, his children, or his wife, His ways, his means, his vote, his creed, his life, From the dread sovereignty of Ears and Eyes And the small member that beneath them lies. They told strange things of that mysterious man; Believe who will, deny them such as can; Why should we fret if every passing sail Had its old seaman talking on the rail? The deep-sunk schooner stuffed with Eastern lime, Slow wedging on, as if the waves were slime; The knife-edged clipper with her ruffled spars, The pawing steamer with her inane of stars, The bull-browed galliot butting through the stream, The wide-sailed yacht that slipped along her beam, The deck-piled sloops, the pinched chebacco-boats, The frigate, black with thunder-freighted throats, All had their talk about the lonely man; And thus, in varying phrase, the story ran. His name had cost him little care to seek, Plain, honest, brief, a decent name to speak, Common, not vulgar, just the kind that slips With least suggestion from a stranger's lips. His birthplace England, as his speech might show, Or his hale cheek, that wore the red-streak's glow; His mouth sharp-moulded; in its mirth or scorn There came a flash as from the milky corn, When from the ear you rip the rustling sheath, And the white ridges show their even teeth. His stature moderate, but his strength confessed, In spite of broadcloth, by his ample breast; Full-armed, thick-handed; one that had been strong, And might be dangerous still, if things went wrong. He lived at ease beneath his elm-trees' shade, Did naught for gain, yet all his debts were paid; Rich, so 't was thought, but careful of his store; Had all he needed, claimed to have no more. But some that lingered round the isle at night Spoke of strange stealthy doings in their sight; Of creeping lonely visits that he made To nooks and corners, with a torch and spade. Some said they saw the hollow of a cave; One, given to fables, swore it was a grave; Whereat some shuddered, others boldly cried, Those prowling boatmen lied, and knew they lied. They said his house was framed with curious cares, Lest some old friend might enter unawares; That on the platform at his chamber's door Hinged a loose square that opened through the floor; Touch the black silken tassel next the bell, Down, with a crash, the flapping trap-door fell; Three stories deep the falling wretch would strike, To writhe at leisure on a boarder's pike. By day armed always; double-armed at night, His tools lay round him; wake him such as might. A carbine hung beside his India fan, His hand could reach a Turkish ataghan; Pistols, with quaint-carved stocks and barrels gilt, Crossed a long dagger with a jewelled hilt; A slashing cutlass stretched along the bed; - All this was what those lying boatmen said. Then some were full of wondrous stories told Of great oak chests and cupboards full of gold; Of the wedged ingots and the silver bars That cost old pirates ugly sabre-scars; How his laced wallet often would disgorge The fresh-faced guinea of an English George, Or sweated ducat, palmed by Jews of yore, Or double Joe, or Portuguese moidore; And how his finger wore a rubied ring Fit for the white-necked play-girl of a king. But these fine legends, told with staring eyes, Met with small credence from the old and wise. Why tell each idle guess, each whisper vain? Enough: the scorched and cindered beams remain. He came, a silent pilgrim to the West, Some old-world mystery throbbing in his breast; Close to the thronging mart he dwelt alone; He lived; he died. The rest is all unknown. Stranger, whose eyes the shadowy isle survey, As the black steamer dashes through the bay, Why ask his buried secret to divine? He was thy brother; speak, and tell us thine! . . . . . . . . . . . Silence at first, a kind of spell-bound pause; Then all the Teacups tinkled their applause; When that was hushed no sound the stillness broke Till once again the soft-voiced lady spoke: "The Lover's Secret, - surely that must need The youngest voice our table holds to read. Which of our two 'Annexes' shall we choose? Either were charming, neither will refuse; But choose we must, - what better can we do Than take the younger of the youthful two?" True to the primal instinct of her sex, "Why, that means me," half whispered each Annex. "What if it does?" the voiceless question came, That set those pale New England cheeks aflame; "Our old-world scholar may have ways to teach Of Oxford English, Britain's purest speech, - She shall be youngest, - youngest for to-day, - Our dates we'll fix hereafter as we may; All rights reserved, - the words we know so well, That guard the claims of books which never sell." The British maiden bowed a pleased assent, Her two long ringlets swinging as she bent; The glistening eyes her eager soul looked through Betrayed her lineage in their Saxon blue. Backward she flung each too obtrusive curl And thus began, - the rose-lipped English girl.

The Village Atheist

Edgar Lee Masters

Ye young debaters over the doctrine Of the soul's immortality I who lie here was the village atheist, Talkative, contentious, versed in the arguments Of the infidels. But through a long sickness Coughing myself to death I read the Upanishads and the poetry of Jesus. And they lighted a torch of hope and intuition And desire which the Shadow Leading me swiftly through the caverns of darkness, Could not extinguish. Listen to me, ye who live in the senses And think through the senses only: Immortality is not a gift, Immortality is an achievement; And only those who strive mightily Shall possess it.

Lilith

Madison Julius Cawein

Yea, there are some who always seek The love that lasts an hour; And some who in love's language speak, Yet never know his power. Of such was I, who knew not what Sweet mysteries may rise Within the heart when 't is its lot To love and realize. Of such was I, ah me! till, lo, Your face on mine did gleam, And changed that world, I used to know, Into an evil dream. That world wherein, on hill and plain, Great blood-red poppies bloomed, Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, And sleepily perfumed. Above, below, on every part A crimson shadow lay, As if the red sun streamed athwart And sunset was alway. I know not how, I know not when, I only know that there She met me in the haunted glen, A poppy in her hair. Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, That knows no sin or wrong; Her presence filled the silences As music fills a song. And she was clad like the Mother of God, As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, But when she moved and where she trod A hiss went of a snake. Though seeming sinless, till I die I shall not know for sure Why to my soul she seemed a lie And otherwise than pure. Nor why I kissed her soon and late And for her felt desire, While loathing of her passion ate Into my soul like fire. Was it because my soul could tell That, like the poppy-flower, She had no soul? a thing of Hell, That o'er it had no power. Or was it that your love at last My soul so long had craved, From the sweet sin that held me fast At that last moment saved?

My Rights.

Susan Coolidge (Sarah Chauncey Woolsey)

Yes, God has made me a woman, And I am content to be Just what He meant, not reaching out For other things, since He Who knows me best and loves me most has ordered this for me. A woman, to live my life out In quiet womanly ways, Hearing the far-off battle, Seeing as through a haze The crowding, struggling world of men fight through their busy days. I am not strong or valiant, I would not join the fight Or jostle with crowds in the highways To sully my garments white; But I have rights as a woman, and here I claim my right. The right of a rose to bloom In its own sweet, separate way, With none to question the perfumed pink And none to utter a nay If it reaches a root or points, a thorn, as even a rose-tree may. The right of the lady-birch to grow, To grow as the Lord shall please, By never a sturdy oak rebuked, Denied nor sun nor breeze, For all its pliant slenderness, kin to the stronger trees. The right to a life of my own,-- Not merely a casual bit Of somebody else's life, flung out That, taking hold of it, I may stand as a cipher does after a numeral writ. The right to gather and glean What food I need and can From the garnered store of knowledge Which man has heaped for man, Taking with free hands freely and after an ordered plan. The right--ah, best and sweetest!-- To stand all undismayed Whenever sorrow or want or sin Call for a woman's aid, With none to call or question, by never a look gainsaid. I do not ask for a ballot; Though very life were at stake, I would beg for the nobler justice That men for manhood's sake Should give ungrudgingly, nor withhold till I must fight and take. The fleet foot and the feeble foot Both seek the self-same goal, The weakest soldier's name is writ On the great army-roll, And God, who made man's body strong, made too the woman's soul

The Last Survivor

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Yes! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast, And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last? When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill, With his ninety winters burdened, will he greet the morning still? Will he stand with Harvard's nurslings when they hear their mother's call And the old and young are gathered in the many alcoved hall? Will he answer to the summons when they range themselves in line And the young mustachioed marshal calls out "Class of '29 "? Methinks I see the column as its lengthened ranks appear In the sunshine of the morrow of the nineteen hundredth year; Through the yard 't is creeping, winding, by the walls of dusky red, - What shape is that which totters at the long procession's head? Who knows this ancient graduate of fourscore years and ten, - What place he held, what name he bore among the sons of men? So speeds the curious question; its answer travels slow; "'T is the last of sixty classmates of seventy years ago." His figure shows but dimly, his face I scarce can see, - There's something that reminds me, - it looks like - is it he? He? Who? No voice may whisper what wrinkled brow shall claim The wreath of stars that circles our last survivor's name. Will he be some veteran minstrel, left to pipe in feeble rhyme All the stories and the glories of our gay and golden time? Or some quiet, voiceless brother in whose lonely,loving breast Fond memory broods in silence, like a dove upon her nest? Will it be some old Emeritus, who taught so long ago The boys that heard him lecture have heads as white as snow? Or a pious, painful preacher, holding forth from year to year Till his colleague got a colleague whom the young folks flocked to hear? Will it be a rich old merchant in a square-tied white cravat, Or select-man of a village in a pre-historic hat? Will his dwelling be a mansion in a marble-fronted row, Or a homestead by a hillside where the huckleberries grow? I can see our one survivor, sitting lonely by himself, - All his college text-books round him, ranged in order on their shelf; There are classic "interliners" filled with learning's choicest pith, Each cum notis variorum, quas recensuit doctus Smith; Physics, metaphysics, logic, mathematics - all the    lot Every wisdom - crammed octavo he has mastered and forgot, With the ghosts of dead professors standing guard beside them all; And the room is fall of shadows which their lettered backs recall. How the past spreads out in vision with its far receding train, Like a long embroidered arras in the chambers of the brain, From opening manhood's morning when first we learned to grieve To the fond regretful moments of our sorrow-saddened eve! What early shadows darkened our idle summer's joy When death snatched roughly from us that lovely bright-eyed boy! The years move swiftly onwards; the deadly shafts fall fast, - Till all have dropped around him - lo, there he stands, - the last! Their faces flit before him, some rosy-hued and fair, Some strong in iron manhood, some worn with toil and care; Their smiles no more shall greet him on cheeks with pleasure flushed! The friendly hands are folded, the pleasant voices hushed! My picture sets me dreaming; alas! and can it be Those two familiar faces we never more may see? In every entering footfall I think them drawing near, With every door that opens I say, "At last they 're here!" The willow bends unbroken when angry tempests blow, The stately oak is levelled and all its strength laid low; So fell that tower of manhood, undaunted, patient, strong, White with the gathering snowflakes, who faced    the storm so long. And he, - what subtle phrases their varying light must blend To paint as each remembers our many-featured friend! His wit a flash auroral that laughed in every look, His talk a sunbeam broken on the ripples of a    brook, Or, fed from thousand sources, a fountain's glittering jet, Or careless handfuls scattered of diamond sparks unset; Ah, sketch him, paint him, mould him in every shape you will, He was himself - the only - the one unpictured still! Farewell! our skies are darkened and - yet the stars will shine, We 'll close our ranks together and still fall into line Till one is left, one only, to mourn for all the rest; And Heaven bequeath their memories to him who loves us best!

Droggie.

David Rorie M.D.

Yersel' is't? Imphm! Man that's bad! A kin' o' thinness o' the blude? Gaed aff las' nicht intil a dwam? Keep's a'! But that's rale nesty, Tam! An' lossin' taste noo for the dram? (An' may it dae ye muckle gude!) Noo! See the libel! "Thrice a day A tablespunefu' efter food." Drogues is nae better than they're ca'ed? Some drumlie-like? Losh! ye're a lad! The taste'll be byordnar' bad? (An' may it dae ye muckle gude!) Weel, here's your mixtur'-auchteen pence, I'd mak' it cheaper gin I could. For beast or body maist fowk ken Best's cheapest at the hin'er en', An' on my drogues ye may depen'. (An' may they dae ye muckle gude!) Forgot your siller? Hae ye though? Ye're in a richt forgetfu' mood! Gie't ye on tick? I ken ye fine? An' whustle on my fingers, syne! Lat's see that bottle! Here's your line! (An' may it dae ye muckle gude!)

Distant View Of England From The Sea

William Lisle Bowles

Yes! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white Above the wave, once more my beating heart With eager hope and filial transport hails! Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring, As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring Joyous awoke amidst your hawthorn vales, And filled with fragrance every village lane: Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave! Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave That bears me nearer to my home again; If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair, Stranger to Peace, I yet may meet her there.

Departed Days

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Yes, dear departed, cherished days, Could Memory's hand restore Your morning light, your evening rays, From Time's gray urn once more, Then might this restless heart be still, This straining eye might close, And Hope her fainting pinions fold, While the fair phantoms rose. But, like a child in ocean's arms, We strive against the stream, Each moment farther from the shore Where life's young fountains gleam; Each moment fainter wave the fields, And wider rolls the sea; The mist grows dark, - the sun goes down, - Day breaks, - and where are we?

The Crown Of Years

Robert Fuller Murray

Years grow and gather--each a gem Lustrous with laughter and with tears, And cunning Time a crown of years Contrives for her who weareth them. No chance can snatch this diadem, It trembles not with hopes or fears, It shines before the rose appears, And when the leaves forsake her stem. Time sets his jewels one by one. Then wherefore mourn the wreaths that lie In attic chambers of the past? They withered ere the day was done. This coronal will never die, Nor shall you lose it at the last.

To A Friend.

Joseph Rodman Drake

"You damn me with faint praise." I. Yes, faint was my applause and cold my praise, Though soul was glowing in each polished line; But nobler subjects claim the poet's lays, A brighter glory waits a muse like thine. Let amorous fools in love-sick measure pine; Let Strangford whimper on, in fancied pain, And leave to Moore his rose leaves and his vine; Be thine the task a higher crown to gain, The envied wreath that decks the patriot's holy strain. II. Yet not in proud triumphal song alone, Or martial ode, or sad sepulchral dirge, There needs no voice to make our glories known; There needs no voice the warrior's soul to urge To tread the bounds of nature's stormy verge; Columbia still shall win the battle's prize; But be it thine to bid her mind emerge To strike her harp, until its soul arise From the neglected shade, where low in dust it lies. III. Are there no scenes to touch the poet's soul? No deeds of arms to wake the lordly strain? Shall Hudson's billows unregarded roll? Has Warren fought, Montgomery died in vain? Shame! that while every mountain stream and plain Hath theme for truth's proud voice or fancy's wand, No native bard the patriot harp hath ta'en, But left to minstrels of a foreign strand To sing the beauteous scenes of nature's loveliest land. IV. Oh! for a seat on Appalachia's brow, That I might scan the glorious prospect round, Wild waving woods, and rolling floods below, Smooth level glades and fields with grain embrown'd, High heaving hills, with tufted forests crown'd, Rearing their tall tops to the heaven's blue dome, And emerald isles, like banners green unwound, Floating along the lake, while round them roam Bright helms of billowy blue and plumes of dancing foam. V. 'Tis true no fairies haunt our verdant meads, No grinning imps deform our blazing hearth; Beneath the kelpie's fang no traveller bleeds, Nor gory vampyre taints our holy earth, Nor spectres stalk to frighten harmless mirth, Nor tortured demon howls adown the gale; Fair reason checks these monsters in their birth. Yet have we lay of love and horrid tale Would dim the manliest eye and make the bravest pale. VI. Where is the stony eye that hath not shed Compassion's heart-drops o'er the sweet Mc Rea? Through midnight's wilds by savage bandits led, "Her heart is sad--her love is far away!" Elate that lover waits the promised day When he shall clasp his blooming bride again-- Shine on, sweet visions! dreams of rapture, play! Soon the cold corse of her he loved in vain Shall blight his withered heart and fire his frenzied brain. VII. Romantic Wyoming! could none be found Of all that rove thy Eden groves among, To wake a native harp's untutored sound, And give thy tale of wo the voice of song? Oh! if description's cold and nerveless tongue From stranger harps such hallowed strains could call, How doubly sweet the descant wild had rung, From one who, lingering round thy ruined wall, Had plucked thy mourning flowers and wept thy timeless fall. VIII. The Huron chief escaped from foemen nigh, His frail bark launches on Niagara's tides, "Pride in his port, defiance in his eye," Singing his song of death the warrior glides; In vain they yell along the river sides, In vain the arrow from its sheaf is torn, Calm to his doom the willing victim rides, And, till adown the roaring torrent borne, Mocks them with gesture proud, and laughs their rage to scorn. IX. But if the charms of daisied hill and vale, And rolling flood, and towering rock sublime, If warrior deed or peasant's lowly tale Of love or wo should fail to wake the rhyme, If to the wildest heights of song you climb, (Tho' some who know you less, might cry, beware!) Onward! I say--your strains shall conquer time; Give your bright genius wing, and hope to share Imagination's worlds--the ocean, earth, and air. X. Arouse, my friend--let vivid fancy soar, Look with creative eye on nature's face, Bid airy sprites in wild Niagara roar, And view in every field a fairy race. Spur thy good Pacolet to speed apace, And spread a train of nymphs on every shore; Or if thy muse would woo a ruder grace, The Indian's evil Manitou's explore, And rear the wondrous tale of legendary lore. XI. Away! to Susquehannah's utmost springs, Where, throned in mountain mist, Areouski reigns, Shrouding in lurid clouds his plumeless wings, And sternly sorrowing o'er his tribes remains; His was the arm, like comet ere it wanes That tore the streamy lightnings from the skies, And smote the mammoth of the southern plains; Wild with dismay the Creek affrighted flies, While in triumphant pride Kanawa's eagles rise. XII. Or westward far, where dark Miami wends, Seek that fair spot as yet to fame unknown; Where, when the vesper dew of heaven descends, Soft music breathes in many a melting tone, At times so sadly sweet it seems the moan Of some poor Ariel penanced in the rock; Anon a louder burst--a scream! a groan! And now amid the tempest's reeling shock, Gibber, and shriek, and wail--and fiend-like laugh and mock. XIII. Or climb the Pallisado's lofty brows, Were dark Omana waged the war of hell, Till, waked to wrath, the mighty spirit rose And pent the demons in their prison cell; Full on their head the uprooted mountain fell, Enclosing all within its horrid womb Straight from the teeming earth the waters swell, And pillared rocks arise in cheerless gloom Around the drear abode--their last eternal tomb! XIV. Be these your future themes--no more resign The soul of song to laud your lady's eyes; Go! kneel a worshipper at nature's shrine! For you her fields are green, and fair her skies! For you her rivers flow, her hills arise! And will you scorn them all, to pour forth tame And heartless lays of feigned or fancied sighs? Still will you cloud the muse? nor blush for shame To cast away renown, and hide your head from fame?

Anselmo

James Whitcomb Riley

Years did I vainly seek the good Lord's grace, Prayed, fasted, and did penance dire and dread; Did kneel, with bleeding knees and rainy face, And mouth the dust, with ashes on my head; Yea, still with knotted scourge the flesh I flayed, Rent fresh the wounds, and moaned and shrieked insanely; And froth oozed with the pleadings that I made, And yet I prayed on vainly, vainly, vainly! A time, from out of swoon I lifted eye, To find a wretched outcast, gray and grim, Bathing my brow, with many a pitying sigh, And I did pray God's grace might rest on him. Then, lo! A gentle voice fell on mine ears - "Thou shalt not sob in suppliance hereafter; Take up thy prayers and wring them dry of tears, And lift them, white and pure with love and laughter!" So is it now for all men else I pray; So is it I am blest and glad alway.

Out O' The Fire.

Will Carleton

[As Told in 1880.] Year of '71, children, middle of the fall, On one fearful night, children, we well-nigh lost our all. True, it wa'n't no great sum we had to lose that night, But when a little's all you've got, it comes to a blessed sight. I was a mighty worker, in them 'ere difficult days, For work is a good investment, and almost always pays; But when ten years' hard labor went smokin' into the air. I doubted all o' the maxims, an' felt that it wasn't fair. Up from the East we had traveled, with all of our household wares, Where we had long been workin' a piece of land on shares; But how a fellow's to prosper without the rise of the land, For just two-thirds of nothin', I never could understand. Up from the East we had traveled, me and my folks alone, And quick we went to workin' a piece of land of our own; Small was our backwoods quarters, and things looked mighty cheap; But every thing we put in there, we put in there to keep. So, with workin' and savin', we managed to get along; Managed to make a livin', and feel consid'able strong; And things went smooth and happy, an' fair as the average run, Till every thing went back on me, in the fall of '71. First thing bothered and worried me, was 'long o' my daughter Kate; Rather a han'some cre'tur', and folks all liked her gait. Not so nice as them sham ones in yeller-covered books; But still there wa'n't much discount on Katherine's ways an' looks. And Katherine's smile was pleasant, and Katherine's temper good, And how she come to like Tom Smith, I never understood; For she was a mornin'-glory, as fair as you ever see, And Tom was a shag-bark hickory, as green as green could be. "Like takes to like," is a proverb that's nothin' more than trash; And many a time I've seen it all pulverized to smash. For folks in no way sim'lar, I've noticed ag'in and ag'in, Will often take to each other, and stick together like sin. Next thing bothered and worried me, was 'long of a terrible drouth; And me an' all o' my neighbors was some'at down in the mouth. And week after week the rain held off, and things all pined an' dried, And we drove the cattle miles to drink, and many of 'em died. And day after day went by us, so han'some and so bright, And never a drop of water came near us, day or night; And what with the neighbors' grumblin', and what with my daily loss, I must own that somehow or other I was gettin' mighty cross. And on one Sunday evenin' I was comin' down the lane From meetin', where our preacher had stuck and hung for rain, And various slants on heaven kept workin' in my mind, And the smoke from Sanders' fallow was makin' me almost blind; I opened the door kind o' sudden, an' there my Katherine sat, As cozy as any kitten along with a friendly cat; An' Tom was dreadful near her--his arm on the back of her chair-- And lookin' as happy and cheerful as if there was rain to spare. "Get out of this house in a minute!" I cried, with all my might: "Get out, while I'm a-talkin'!"--Tom's eyes showed a bit of fight; But he rose up, stiff and surly, and made me a civil bow, And mogged along to the door-way, with never a word of row. And I snapped up my wife quite surly when she asked me what I'd said, And I scolded Kate for cryin', and sent her up stairs to bed; And then I laid down, for the purpose of gettin' a little sleep, An' the wind outside was a-howlin', and puttin' it in to keep. 'Twas half-past three next mornin', or maybe 'twas nearer four-- The neighbors they came a-yellin' and poundin' at my door; "Get up! get up!" they shouted: "get up! there's danger near! The woods are all a-burnin'! the wind is blowin' it here!" If ever it happens, children, that you get catched, some time, With fire a-blowin' toward you, as fast as fire can climb, You'll get up and get in a hurry, as fast as you can budge; It's a lively season of the year, or else I ain't no judge! Out o' the dear old cabin we tumbled fast as we could-- Smashed two-thirds of our dishes, and saved some four-foot wood; With smoke a-settlin' round us and gettin' into our eyes, And fire a-roarin' an' roarin' an' drowndin' all of our cries. And just as the roof was smokin', and we hadn't long to wait, I says to my wife, "Now get out, and hustle, you and Kate!" And just as the roof was fallin', my wife she come to me, With a face as white as a corpse's face, and "Where is Kate?" says she. And the neighbors come runnin' to me, with faces black as the ground, And shouted, "Where is Katherine? She's nowhere to be found!" An' this is all I remember, till I found myself next day, A-lyin' in Sanders' cabin, a mile an' a half away. If ever you wake up, children, with somethin' into your head, Concernin' a han'some daughter, that's lyin' still an' dead, All scorched into coal-black cinders--_perhaps_ you may not weep, But I rather think it'll happen you'll wish you'd a-kept asleep. And all I could say, was "Kath'rine, oh Kath'rine, come to me!" And all I could think, was "Kath'rine!" and all that I could see, Was Sanders a-standin' near to me, his finger into his eye, And my wife a-bendin' over me, and tellin' me not to cry; When, lo! Tom Smith he entered--his face lit up with grins And Kate a-hangin' on his arm, as neat as a row of pins! And Tom looked glad, but sheepish; and said, "Excuse me, Squire, But I 'loped with Kate, and married her an hour before the fire." Well, children, I was shattered; 'twas more than I could bear-- And I up and went for Kate an' Tom, and hugged 'em then and there! And since that time, the times have changed, an' now they ain't so bad; And--Katherine, she's your mother now, and--Thomas Smith's your dad.

The Truce Of The Bear

Rudyard Kipling

Yearly, with tent and rifle, our careless white men go By the Pass called Muttianee, to shoot in the vale below. Yearly by Muttianee he follows our white men in, Matun, the old blind beggar, bandaged from brow to chin. Eyeless, noseless, and lipless, toothless, broken of speech, Seeking a dole at the doorway he mumbles his tale to each; Over and over the story, ending as he began: "Make ye no truce with Adam-zad, the Bear that walks like a Man! "There was a flint in my musket, pricked and primed was the pan, When I went hunting Adam-zad, the Bear that stands like a Man. I looked my last on the timber, I looked my last on the snow, When I went hunting Adam-zad fifty summers ago! "I knew his times and his seasons, as he knew mine, that fed By night in the ripened maizefield and robbed my house of bread. I knew his strength and cunning, as he knew mine, that crept At dawn to the crowded goat-pens and plundered while I slept. "Up from his stony playground, down from his well-digged lair, Out on the naked ridges ran Adam-zad the Bear, Groaning, grunting, and roaring, heavy with stolen meals, Two long marches to northward, and I was at his heels! "Two long marches to northward, at the fall of the second night, I came on mine enemy Adam-zad all panting from his flight. There was a charge in the musket, pricked and primed was the pan, My finger crooked on the trigger, when he reared up like a man. "Horrible, hairy, human, with paws like hands in prayer, Making his supplication rose Adam-zad the Bear! I looked at the swaying shoulders, at the paunch's swag and swing, And my heart was touched with pity for the monstrous, pleading thing. "Touched witth pity and wonder, I did not fire then . . . I have looked no more on women, I have walked no more with men. Nearer he tottered and nearer, with paws like hands that pray, From brow to jaw that steel-shod paw, it ripped my face away! "Sudden, silent, and savage, searing as flame the blow, Faceless I fell before his feet, fifty summers ago. I heard him grunt and chuckle, I heard him pass to his den. He left me blind to the darkened years and the little mercy of men. "Now ye go down in the morning with guns of the newer style, That load (I have felt) in the middle and range (I have heard) a mile? Luck to the white man's rifle, that shoots so fast and true, But, pay, and I lift my bandage and show what the Bear can do!" (Flesh like slag in the furnace, knobbed and withered and grey, Matun, the old blind beggar, he gives good worth for his pay.) "Rouse him at noon in the bushes, follow and press him hard, Not for his ragings and roarings flinch ye from Adam-zad. "But (pay, and I put back the bandage) this is the time to fear, When he stands up like a tired man, tottering near and near; When he stands up as pleading, in wavering, man-brute guise, When he veils the hate and cunning of his little, swinish eyes; "When he shows as seeking quarter, with paws like hands in prayer That is the time of peril, the time of the Truce of the Bear!" Eyeless, noseless, and lipless, asking a dole at the door, Matun, the old blind beggar, he tells it o'er and o'er; Fumbling and feeling the rifles, warming his hands at the flame, Hearing our careless white men talk of the morrow's game; Over and over the story, ending as he began: "There is no trnce with Adam-zad, the Bear that looks like a Man!"

Belle Of The Ball, The

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty, Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; Years, years ago, while all my joy Was in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the county ball; There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that set young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced, O Heaven, her dancing! Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. She talk'd, of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmur'd Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laugh'd; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout See any happiness in kneeling? She was the daughter of a Dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen, Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother for many a year Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand, She made the Catalani jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo, And recipes for elder water. And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored; Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the Opera were demolished. She smil'd on many just for fun, I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves, A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, and then we parted. We parted; months and years roll'd by; We met again four summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh--- Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ballroom belle, But only, Mrs. Something Rogers.

The Sunday Children.

Friedrich Schiller

Years has the master been laboring, but always without satisfaction; To an ingenious race 'twould be in vision conferred. What they yesterday learned, to-day they fain would be teaching: Small compassion, alas, is by those gentlemen shown!

Fragment

Anne Bronte

Yes I will take a cheerful tone And feign to share their heartless glee, But I would rather weep alone Than laugh amid their revelry.

Answer To Cloe Jealous. The Author Sick

Matthew Prior

Yes, fairest Proof of Beauty's Pow'r, Dear Idol of My panting Heart, Nature points This my fatal Hour: And I have liv'd; and We must part. While now I take my last Adieu, Heave Thou no Sigh, nor shed a Tear; Lest yet my half-clos'd Eye may view On Earth an Object worth it's Care. From Jealousy's tormenting Strife For ever be Thy Bosom free'd: That nothing may disturb Thy Life, Content I hasten to the Dead. Yet when some better-fated Youth Shall with his am'rous Parly move Thee; Reflect One Moment on His Truth, Who dying Thus, persists to love Thee.

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XLII.

Thomas Moore

[1] Yes, be the glorious revel mine, Where humor sparkles from the wine. Around me, let the youthful choir Respond to my enlivening lyre; And while the red cup foams along, Mingle in soul as well as song. Then, while I sit, with flowerets crowned, To regulate the goblets round. Let but the nymph, our banquet's pride, Be seated smiling by my side, And earth has not a gift or power That I would envy, in that hour. Envy!--oh never let its blight Touch the gay hearts met here tonight. Far hence be slander's sidelong wounds, Nor harsh dispute, nor discord's sounds Disturb a scene, where all should be Attuned to peace and harmony. Come, let us hear the harp's gay note Upon the breeze inspiring float, While round us, kindling into love, Young maidens through the light dance move. Thus blest with mirth, and love, and peace, Sure such a life should never cease!

The Lady's Yes

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"Yes!" I answered you last night; "No!" this morning, Sir, I say! Colours, seen by candle-light, Will not look the same by day. When the tabors 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 Wooer 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 With 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 for evermore.

George Washington

William F. Kirk

Yeorge Vashington ban honest man. Ven dis har country first began, Yeorge ban a yen'ral, and yu bet Dese English fallers know it yet. Ven he ban small, his fader say, "Ef yu skol breng in vood to-day, And feeding cow and chickens, tu, Ay skol yust blow myself on yu." Val, sure enuff, ven Yeorge du chore, His fader hike for hardvare store, And buy gude hatchet, only it Ban second-hand a little bit. Dar ban on edge some little dents, It ban marked down to saxty cents. He pay sax cents to sharpen axe, And so it cost him saxty-sax. He tak it home to Yeorgie, tu, And say, "Ay ant ban fuling you." Next day Yeorge tak dis hatchet out, And start to rubber all about For someteng he can chop, yu see, And den he pipe nice cherry-tree. "By Yudas! Dis ban soft!" say he. "Ef dis har axe ban any gude, Dis tree skol sune ban kindling vood." So Yeorge give cherry-tree gude whack, And sveng dis axe lak lumberyack; And yust ven tree ban falling down, His fader coming back from town. Yeorge see old yent ban standing dar, Smoking gude fifteen-cent cigar; And so he say: "Val, holy yee! Ay guess the yig ban op vith me. Dear fader, AY chopped down dis tree!" Dar ban gude moral har for youth: Ven lie ban fulish, tal the truth!

Nursery Rhyme. XCVII. Proverbs.

Unknown

[In Suffolk, children are frequently reminded of the decorum due to the Sabbath by the following lines.] Yeow mussent sing a' Sunday, Becaze it is a sin, But yeow may sing a' Monday Till Sunday cums agin.

Yes! Thou Art Fair, Yet Be Not Moved

William Wordsworth

Yes! thou art fair, yet be not moved To scorn the declaration, That sometimes I in thee have loved My fancy's own creation. Imagination needs must stir; Dear Maid, this truth believe, Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive. Be pleased that nature made thee fit To feed my heart's devotion, By laws to which all Forms submit In sky, air, earth, and ocean.

Epigram - Yes, Every Poet Is A Fool

Matthew Prior

Yes, every poet is a fool; By demonstration, Ned can show it: Happy could Ned's inverted rule Prove every fool to be a poet.

The American Girls.

A. H. Laidlaw

Yes! The land we love Is a land of pretty girls, In grand variety; With their many colored eyes And their multi-colored curls, They'll steal thy heart from thee. If you travel in the North, One will gleam in glory forth, With her blue eyes, O, so blue! And her flash of golden hair Will be flirting in the air, While entrancing all the soul in you. Oho! My Boy! Oho! Always for your weal and never for your woe, Your little heart will gallop on the go, And it will not give you rest Within your manly breast, Till you land yourself in toto at her toe. Oho! My Boy! Oho! If you travel in the South, You will find a rosy mouth, And a black eye, O so black! And some strands of raven hair Will purloin your heart just there, And you'll never get the poor thing back. Oho! My Boy! Oho! Etc. If you travel in the East, Your dear soul will have a feast On a sweet eye, O so sweet! And a most seductive curl Will there give your heart a twirl That will fling you at two queenly feet. Oho! My Boy! Oho! Etc. If you travel in the West, One shy glance will pierce your breast From a bright eye, O so bright! And an auburn heaven of hair Will so glorify the air, You'll surrender all your soul at sight. Oho! My Boy! Oho! Always for your weal and never for your woe, Your little heart will gallop on the go, And it will not give you rest Within your manly breast, Till you land yourself in toto at her toe. Oho! My Boy! Oho! Thus, the land we love Is a land of pretty girls, In grand variety; With their many colored eyes And their multi-colored curls, They'll steal thy heart from thee.

Years Of The Modern

Walt Whitman

Years of the modern! years of the unperform'd! Your horizon rises, I see it parting away for more august dramas; I see not America only, I see not only Liberty's nation, but other nations preparing; I see tremendous entrances and exits, I see new combinations, I see the solidarity of races; I see that force advancing with irresistible power on the world's stage; (Have the old forces, the old wars, played their parts? are the acts suitable to them closed?) I see Freedom, completely arm'd, and victorious, and very haughty, with Law on one side, and Peace on the other, A stupendous Trio, all issuing forth against the idea of caste; What historic denouements are these we so rapidly approach? I see men marching and countermarching by swift millions; I see the frontiers and boundaries of the old aristocracies broken; I see the landmarks of European kings removed; I see this day the People beginning their landmarks, (all others give way;) Never were such sharp questions ask'd as this day; Never was average man, his soul, more energetic, more like a God; Lo! how he urges and urges, leaving the masses no rest; His daring foot is on land and sea everywhere, he colonizes the Pacific, the archipelagoes; With the steam-ship, the electric telegraph, the newspaper, the wholesale engines of war, With these, and the world-spreading factories, he interlinks all geography, all lands; What whispers are these, O lands, running ahead of you, passing under the seas? Are all nations communing? is there going to be but one heart to the globe? Is humanity forming, en-masse?, for lo! tyrants tremble, crowns grow dim; The earth, restive, confronts a new era, perhaps a general divine war; No one knows what will happen next, such portents fill the days and nights; Years prophetical! the space ahead as I walk, as I vainly try to pierce it, is full of phantoms; Unborn deeds, things soon to be, project their shapes around me; This incredible rush and heat, this strange extatic fever of dreams, O years! Your dreams, O year, how they penetrate through me! (I know not whether I sleep or wake!) The perform'd America and Europe grow dim, retiring in shadow behind me, The unperform'd, more gigantic than ever, advance, advance upon me.

Autumn Days.

Will Carleton

Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease Of the southward-flying swallow. Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden, Autumn days! Shivering, quivering, tearful days, Fretfully and sadly weeping; Dreading still, with anxious gaze, Icy fetters round thee creeping; O'er the cheerless, withered plain, Woefully and hoarsely calling; Pelting hail and drenching rain On thy scanty vestments falling. Sad and mournful are thy ways, Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!

To Marguriet

Matthew Arnold

Yes! in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown, Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know. But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour Oh! then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent; For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent! Now round us spreads the watery plain Oh might our marges meet again! Who order'd, that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? Who renters vain their deep desire? A God, a God their severance ruled! And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

Year Of Meteors, 1859 '60

Walt Whitman

Year of meteors! brooding year! I would bind in words retrospective, some of your deeds and signs; I would sing your contest for the 19th Presidentiad; I would sing how an old man, tall, with white hair, mounted the scaffold in Virginia; (I was at hand, silent I stood, with teeth shut close, I watch'd; I stood very near you, old man, when cool and indifferent, but trembling with age and your unheal'd wounds, you mounted the scaffold;) I would sing in my copious song your census returns of The States, The tables of population and products, I would sing of your ships and their cargoes, The proud black ships of Manhattan, arriving, some fill'd with immigrants, some from the isthmus with cargoes of gold; Songs thereof would I sing, to all that hitherward comes would I welcome give; And you would I sing, fair stripling! welcome to you from me, sweet boy of England! Remember you surging Manhattan's crowds, as you pass'd with your cortege of nobles? There in the crowds stood I, and singled you out with attachment; I know not why, but I loved you... (and so go forth little song, Far over sea speed like an arrow, carrying my love all folded, And find in his palace the youth I love, and drop these lines at his feet;) Nor forget I to sing of the wonder, the ship as she swam up my bay, Well-shaped and stately the Great Eastern swam up my bay, she was 600 feet long, Her, moving swiftly, surrounded by myriads of small craft, I forget not to sing; Nor the comet that came unannounced out of the north, flaring in heaven; Nor the strange huge meteor procession, dazzling and clear, shooting over our heads, (A moment, a moment long, it sail'd its balls of unearthly light over our heads, Then departed, dropt in the night, and was gone;) Of such, and fitful as they, I sing, with gleams from them would I gleam and patch these chants; Your chants, O year all mottled with evil and good! year of forebodings! year of the youth I love! Year of comets and meteors transient and strange!, lo! even here, one equally transient and strange! As I flit through you hastily, soon to fall and be gone, what is this book, What am I myself but one of your meteors?

Song. Fanny, Dearest.

Thomas Moore

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh. But between love and wine and sleep, So busy a life I live, That even the time it would take to weep Is more than my heart can give. Then wish me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears. Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny dearest, thy image lies; But ah! the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it thro' sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beams clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow-- Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.

Autumn.

Marietta Holley

Yes! yes! I dare say it is so, And you should be pitied, but how could I know, Watching alone by the moon-lit bay; But that is past for many a day, For the woman that loved, died years ago, Years ago. She had loving eyes, with a wistful look In their depths that day, and I know you took Her face in your hands and read it o'er, As if you should never see it more; You were right, for she died long years ago, Years ago. Had I trusted you - for trust, you know Will keep love's fire forever aglow; Then what would have mattered storm or sun, But the watching - the waiting, all is done; For the woman that loved, died years ago, Years ago. Yes; I think you are constant, true and good, I am tired, and would love you if I could; I am tired, oh, friend, tired out; and yet, Can we make sweet morn of the dim sunset? The woman that loved, died years ago, Years ago. Not a pulse of my heart is stirred by you, No; even your tears cannot move me now; So leave me alone, what is said is said, What boots your prayers, she is dead! is dead! The woman you loved, long years ago, Years ago.

Fanny, Dearest.

Thomas Moore

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn To tears when thou art nigh. But, between love, and wine, and sleep, So busy a life I live, That even the time it would take to weep Is more than my heart can give. Then bid me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's ordered to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears. Reflected bright in this heart of mine, Fanny, dearest, thy image lies; But, ah, the mirror would cease to shine, If dimmed too often with sighs. They lose the half of beauty's light, Who view it through sorrow's tear; And 'tis but to see thee truly bright That I keep my eye-beam clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow, Fanny, dearest--the hope is vain; If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow, I shall never attempt it with rain.

A Rhymed Lesson (Urania)

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Yes, dear Enchantress, - wandering far and long, In realms unperfumed by the breath of song, Where flowers ill-flavored shed their sweets around, And bitterest roots invade the ungenial ground, Whose gems are crystals from the Epsom mine, Whose vineyards flow with antimonial wine, Whose gates admit no mirthful feature in, Save one gaunt mocker, the Sardonic grin, Whose pangs are real, not the woes of rhyme That blue-eyed misses warble out of time; - Truant, not recreant to thy sacred claim, Older by reckoning, but in heart the same, Freed for a moment from the chains of toil, I tread once more thy consecrated soil; Here at thy feet my old allegiance own, Thy subject still, and loyal to thy throne! My dazzled glance explores the crowded hall; Alas, how vain to hope the smiles of all! I know my audience. All the gay and young Love the light antics of a playful tongue; And these, remembering some expansive line My lips let loose among the nuts and wine, Are all impatience till the opening pun Proclaims the witty shamfight is begun. Two fifths at least, if not the total half, Have come infuriate for an earthquake laugh; I know full well what alderman has tied His red bandanna tight about his side; I see the mother, who, aware that boys Perform their laughter with superfluous noise, Beside her kerchief brought an extra one To stop the explosions of her bursting son; I know a tailor, once a friend of mine, Expects great doings in the button line, - For mirth's concussions rip the outward case, And plant the stitches in a tenderer place. I know my audience, - these shall have their due; A smile awaits them ere my song is through! I know myself. Not servile for applause, My Muse permits no deprecating clause; Modest or vain, she will not be denied One bold confession due to honest pride; And well she knows the drooping veil of song Shall save her boldness from the caviller's wrong. Her sweeter voice the Heavenly Maid imparts To tell the secrets of our aching hearts For this, a suppliant, captive, prostrate, bound, She kneels imploring at the feet of sound; For this, convulsed in thought's maternal pains, She loads her arms with rhyme's resounding chains; Faint though the music of her fetters be, It lends one charm, - her lips are ever free! Think not I come, in manhood's fiery noon, To steal his laurels from the stage buffoon; His sword of lath the harlequin may wield; Behold the star upon my lifted shield Though the just critic pass my humble name, And sweeter lips have drained the cup of fame, While my gay stanza pleased the banquet's lords, The soul within was tuned to deeper chords! Say, shall my arms, in other conflicts taught To swing aloft the ponderous mace of thought, Lift, in obedience to a school-girl's law, Mirth's tinsel wand or laughter's tickling straw? Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here? No! while I wander through the land of dreams, To strive with great and play with trifling themes, Let some kind meaning fill the varied line. You have your judgment; will you trust to mine? . . . . . . . . . . Between two breaths what crowded mysteries lie, - The first short gasp, the last and long-drawn sigh! Like phantoms painted on the magic slide, Forth from the darkness of the past we glide, As living shadows for a moment seen In airy pageant on the eternal screen, Traced by a ray from one unchanging flame, Then seek the dust and stillness whence we came. But whence and why, our trembling souls inquire, Caught these dim visions their awakening fire? Oh, who forgets when first the piercing thought Through childhood's musings found its way unsought? I AM; - I LIVE. The mystery and the fear When the dread question, WHAT HAS BROUGHT ME HERE? Burst through life's twilight, as before the sun Roll the deep thunders of the morning gun! Are angel faces, silent and serene, Bent on the conflicts of this little scene, Whose dream-like efforts, whose unreal strife, Are but the preludes to a larger life? Or does life's summer see the end of all, These leaves of being mouldering as they fall, As the old poet vaguely used to deem, As WESLEY questioned in his youthful dream? Oh, could such mockery reach our souls indeed, Give back the Pharaohs' or the Athenian's creed; Better than this a Heaven of man's device, - The Indian's sports, the Moslem's paradise! Or is our being's only end and aim To add new glories to our Maker's name, As the poor insect, shrivelling in the blaze, Lends a faint sparkle to its streaming rays? Does earth send upward to the Eternal's ear The mingled discords of her jarring sphere To swell his anthem, while creation rings With notes of anguish from its shattered strings? Is it for this the immortal Artist means These conscious, throbbing, agonized machines? Dark is the soul whose sullen creed can bind In chains like these the all-embracing Mind; No! two-faced bigot, thou dost ill reprove The sensual, selfish, yet benignant Jove, And praise a tyrant throned in lonely pride, Who loves himself, and cares for naught beside; Who gave thee, summoned from primeval night, A thousand laws, and not a single right, - A heart to feel, and quivering nerves to thrill, The sense of wrong, the death-defying will; Who girt thy senses with this goodly frame, Its earthly glories and its orbs of flame, Not for thyself, unworthy of a thought, Poor helpless victim of a life unsought, But all for him, unchanging and supreme, The heartless centre of thy frozen scheme. Trust not the teacher with his lying scroll, Who tears the charter of thy shuddering soul; The God of love, who gave the breath that warms All living dust in all its varied forms, Asks not the tribute of a world like this To fill the measure of his perfect bliss. Though winged with life through all its radiant shores, Creation flowed with unexhausted stores Cherub and seraph had not yet enjoyed; For this he called thee from the quickening void! Nor this alone; a larger gift was thine, A mightier purpose swelled his vast design Thought, - conscience, - will, - to make them all thine own, He rent a pillar from the eternal throne! Made in his image, thou must nobly dare The thorny crown of sovereignty to share. With eye uplifted, it is thine to view, From thine own centre, Heaven's o'erarching blue; So round thy heart a beaming circle lies No fiend can blot, no hypocrite disguise; From all its orbs one cheering voice is heard, Full to thine ear it bears the Father's word, Now, as in Eden where his first-born trod "Seek thine own welfare, true to man and God!" Think not too meanly of thy low estate; Thou hast a choice; to choose is to create! Remember whose the sacred lips that tell, Angels approve thee when thy choice is well; Remember, One, a judge of righteous men, Swore to spare Sodom if she held but ten! Use well the freedom which thy Master gave, (Think'st thou that Heaven can tolerate a slave?) And He who made thee to be just and true Will bless thee, love thee, - ay, respect thee too! Nature has placed thee on a changeful tide, To breast its waves, but not without a guide; Yet, as the needle will forget its aim, Jarred by the fury of the electric flame, As the true current it will falsely feel, Warped from its axis by a freight of steel; So will thy CONSCIENCE lose its balanced truth If passion's lightning fall upon thy youth, So the pure effluence quit its sacred hold Girt round too deeply with magnetic gold. Go to yon tower, where busy science plies Her vast antennae, feeling through the skies That little vernier on whose slender lines The midnight taper trembles as it shines, A silent index, tracks the planets' march In all their wanderings through the ethereal arch; Tells through the mist where dazzled Mercury burns, And marks the spot where Uranus returns. So, till by wrong or negligence effaced, The living index which thy Maker traced Repeats the line each starry Virtue draws Through the wide circuit of creation's laws; Still tracks unchanged the everlasting ray Where the dark shadows of temptation stray, But, once defaced, forgets the orbs of light, And leaves thee wandering o'er the expanse of night. "What is thy creed?" a hundred lips inquire; "Thou seekest God beneath what Christian spire?" Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies Float upward on the smoke of sacrifice; When man's first incense rose above the plain, Of earth's two altars one was built by Cain! Uncursed by doubt, our earliest creed we take; We love the precepts for the teacher's sake; The simple lessons which the nursery taught Fell soft and stainless on the buds of thought, And the full blossom owes its fairest hue To those sweet tear-drops of affection's dew. Too oft the light that led our earlier hours Fades with the perfume of our cradle flowers; The clear, cold question chills to frozen doubt; Tired of beliefs, we dread to live without Oh then, if Reason waver at thy side, Let humbler Memory be thy gentle guide; Go to thy birthplace, and, if faith was there, Repeat thy father's creed, thy mother's prayer! Faith loves to lean on Time's destroying arm, And age, like distance, lends a double charm; In dim cathedrals, dark with vaulted gloom, What holy awe invests the saintly tomb! There pride will bow, and anxious care expand, And creeping avarice come with open hand; The gay can weep, the impious can adore, From morn's first glimmerings on the chancel floor Till dying sunset sheds his crimson stains Through the faint halos of the irised panes. Yet there are graves, whose rudely-shapen sod Bears the fresh footprints where the sexton trod; Graves where the verdure has not dared to shoot, Where the chance wild-flower has not fixed its root, Whose slumbering tenants, dead without a name, The eternal record shall at length proclaim Pure as the holiest in the long array Of hooded, mitred, or tiaraed clay! Come, seek the air; some pictures we may gain Whose passing shadows shall not be in vain; Not from the scenes that crowd the stranger's soil, Not from our own amidst the stir of toil, But when the Sabbath brings its kind release, And Care lies slumbering on the lap of Peace. The air is hushed, the street is holy ground; Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound As one by one awakes each silent tongue, It tells the turret whence its voice is flung. The Chapel, last of sublunary things That stirs our echoes with the name of Kings, Whose bell, just glistening from the font and forge, Rolled its proud requiem for the second George, Solemn and swelling, as of old it rang, Flings to the wind its deep, sonorous clang; The simpler pile, that, mindful of the hour When Howe's artillery shook its half-built tower, Wears on its bosom, as a bride might do, The iron breastpin which the "Rebels" threw, Wakes the sharp echoes with the quivering thrill Of keen vibrations, tremulous and shrill; Aloft, suspended in the morning's fire, Crash the vast cymbals from the Southern spire; The Giant, standing by the elm-clad green, His white lance lifted o'er the silent scene, Whirling in air his brazen goblet round, Swings from its brim the swollen floods of sound; While, sad with memories of the olden time, Throbs from his tower the Northern Minstrel's chime, - Faint, single tones, that spell their ancient song, But tears still follow as they breathe along. Child of the soil, whom fortune sends to range Where man and nature, faith and customs change, Borne in thy memory, each familiar tone Mourns on the winds that sigh in every zone. When Ceylon sweeps thee with her perfumed breeze Through the warm billows of the Indian seas; When - ship and shadow blended both in one - Flames o'er thy mast the equatorial sun, From sparkling midnight to refulgent noon Thy canvas swelling with the still monsoon; When through thy shrouds the wild tornado sings, And thy poor sea-bird folds her tattered wings, - Oft will delusion o'er thy senses steal, And airy echoes ring the Sabbath peal Then, dim with grateful tears, in long array Rise the fair town, the island-studded bay, Home, with its smiling board, its cheering fire, The half-choked welcome of the expecting sire, The mother's kiss, and, still if aught remain, Our whispering hearts shall aid the silent strain. Ah, let the dreamer o'er the taffrail lean To muse unheeded, and to weep unseen; Fear not the tropic's dews, the evening's chills, His heart lies warm among his triple hills! Turned from her path by this deceitful gleam, My wayward fancy half forgets her theme. See through the streets that slumbered in repose The living current of devotion flows, Its varied forms in one harmonious band Age leading childhood by its dimpled hand; Want, in the robe whose faded edges fall To tell of rags beneath the tartan shawl; And wealth, in silks that, fluttering to appear, Lift the deep borders of the proud cashmere. See, but glance briefly, sorrow-worn and pale, Those sunken cheeks beneath the widow's veil; Alone she wanders where with HIM she trod, No arm to stay her, but she leans on God. While other doublets deviate here and there, What secret handcuff binds that pretty pair? Compactest couple! pressing side to side, - Ah, the white bonnet that reveals the bride! By the white neckcloth, with its straitened tie, The sober hat, the Sabbath-speaking eye, Severe and smileless, he that runs may read The stern disciple of Geneva's creed Decent and slow, behold his solemn march; Silent he enters through yon crowded arch. A livelier bearing of the outward man, The light-hued gloves, the undevout rattan, Now smartly raised or half profanely twirled, - A bright, fresh twinkle from the week-day world, - Tell their plain story; yes, thine eyes behold A cheerful Christian from the liberal fold. Down the chill street that curves in gloomiest shade What marks betray yon solitary maid? The cheek's red rose that speaks of balmier air, The Celtic hue that shades her braided hair, The gilded missal in her kerchief tied, - Poor Nora, exile from Killarney's side! Sister in toil, though blanched by colder skies, That left their azure in her downcast eyes, See pallid Margaret, Labor's patient child, Scarce weaned from home, the nursling of the wild, Where white Katahdin o'er the horizon shines, And broad Penobscot dashes through the pines. Still, as she hastes, her careful fingers hold The unfailing hymn-book in its cambric fold. Six days at drudgery's heavy wheel she stands, The seventh sweet morning folds her weary hands. Yes, child of suffering, thou mayst well be sure He who ordained the Sabbath loves the poor! This weekly picture faithful Memory draws, Nor claims the noisy tribute of applause; Faint is the glow such barren hopes can lend, And frail the line that asks no loftier end. Trust me, kind listener, I will yet beguile Thy saddened features of the promised smile. This magic mantle thou must well divide, It has its sable and its ermine side; Yet, ere the lining of the robe appears, Take thou in silence what I give in tears. Dear listening soul, this transitory scene Of murmuring stillness, busily serene, - This solemn pause, the breathing-space of man, The halt of toil's exhausted caravan, - Comes sweet with music to thy wearied ear; Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere! Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide The lowliest brother straying from thy side If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own; If wrong, the verdict is for God alone. What though the champions of thy faith esteem The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream; Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life? Let my free soul, expanding as it can, Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan; But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride? In that stern faith my angel Mary died; Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save, Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave? True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child; Must thou be raking in the crumbled past For racks and fagots in her teeth to cast? See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile The whitened skull of old Servetus smile! Round her young heart thy "Romish Upas" threw Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew; Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish tricks," Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix, But De Profundis blessed her father's grave, That "idol" cross her dying mother gave! What if some angel looks with equal eyes On her and thee, the simple and the wise, Writes each dark fault against thy brighter creed, And drops a tear with every foolish bead! Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking page; Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age; Strive with the wanderer from the better path, Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath; Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, Have thine own faith, - but hope and pray for all! Faith; Conscience; Love. A meaner task remains, And humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier strains. Shalt thou be honest? Ask the worldly schools, And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools; Prudent? Industrious? Let not modern pens Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citizens. Be firm! One constant element in luck Is genuine solid old Teutonic pluck. See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill, Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still. Stick to your aim: the mongrel's hold will slip, But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip; Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields! Yet in opinions look not always back, - Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track; Leave what you've done for what you have to do; Don't be "consistent," but be simply true. Don't catch the fidgets; you have found your place Just in the focus of a nervous race, Fretful to change and rabid to discuss, Full of excitements, always in a fuss. Think of the patriarchs; then compare as men These lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and pen! Run, if you like, but try to keep your breath; Work like a man, but don't be worked to death; And with new notions, - let me change the rule, - Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly cool. Choose well your set; our feeble nature seeks The aid of clubs, the countenance of cliques; And with this object settle first of all Your weight of metal and your size of ball. Track not the steps of such as hold you cheap, Too mean to prize, though good enough to keep; The "real, genuine, no-mistake Tom Thumbs" Are little people fed on great men's crumbs. Yet keep no followers of that hateful brood That basely mingles with its wholesome food The tumid reptile, which, the poet said, Doth wear a precious jewel in his head. If the wild filly, "Progress," thou wouldst ride, Have young companions ever at thy side; But wouldst thou stride the stanch old mare, "Success," Go with thine elders, though they please thee less. Shun such as lounge through afternoons and eves, And on thy dial write, "Beware of thieves!" Felon of minutes, never taught to feel The worth of treasures which thy fingers steal, Pick my left pocket of its silver dime, But spare the right, - it holds my golden time! Does praise delight thee? Choose some ultra side, - A sure old recipe, and often tried; Be its apostle, congressman, or bard, Spokesman or jokesman, only drive it hard; But know the forfeit which thy choice abides, For on two wheels the poor reformer rides, - One black with epithets the anti throws, One white with flattery painted by the pros. Though books on MANNERS are not out of print, An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint. Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet, To spin your wordy fabric in the street; While you are emptying your colloquial pack, The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back. Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale; Health is a subject for his child, his wife, And the rude office that insures his life. Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul, Not on his garments, to detect a hole; "How to observe" is what thy pages show, Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau! Oh, what a precious book the one would be That taught observers what they 're NOT to see! I tell in verse - 't were better done in prose - One curious trick that everybody knows; Once form this habit, and it's very strange How long it sticks, how hard it is to change. Two friendly people, both disposed to smile, Who meet, like others, every little while, Instead of passing with a pleasant bow, And "How d' ye do?" or "How 's your uncle now?" Impelled by feelings in their nature kind, But slightly weak and somewhat undefined, Rush at each other, make a sudden stand, Begin to talk, expatiate, and expand; Each looks quite radiant, seems extremely struck, Their meeting so was such a piece of luck; Each thinks the other thinks he 's greatly pleased To screw the vice in which they both are squeezed; So there they talk, in dust, or mud, or snow, Both bored to death, and both afraid to go! Your hat once lifted, do not hang your fire, Nor, like slow Ajax, fighting still, retire; When your old castor on your crown you clap, Go off; you've mounted your percussion cap. Some words on LANGUAGE may be well applied, And take them kindly, though they touch your pride. Words lead to things; a scale is more precise, - Coarse speech, bad grammar, swearing, drinking, vice. Our cold Northeaster's icy fetter clips The native freedom of the Saxon lips; See the brown peasant of the plastic South, How all his passions play about his mouth! With us, the feature that transmits the soul, A frozen, passive, palsied breathing-hole. The crampy shackles of the ploughboy's walk Tie the small muscles when he strives to talk; Not all the pumice of the polished town Can smooth this roughness of the barnyard down; Rich, honored, titled, he betrays his race By this one mark, - he's awkward in the face; - Nature's rude impress, long before he knew The sunny street that holds the sifted few. It can't be helped, though, if we're taken young, We gain some freedom of the lips and tongue; But school and college often try in vain To break the padlock of our boyhood's chain One stubborn word will prove this axiom true, - No quondam rustic can enunciate view. A few brief stanzas may be well employed To speak of errors we can all avoid. Learning condemns beyond the reach of hope The careless lips that speak of so'ap for soap; Her edict exiles from her fair abode The clownish voice that utters ro'ad for road Less stern to him who calls his coat a co'at, And steers his boat, believing it a bo'at, She pardoned one, our classic city's boast, Who said at Cambridge mo'st instead of most, But knit her brows and stamped her angry foot To hear a Teacher call a root a ro'ot. Once more: speak clearly, if you speak at all; Carve every word before you let it fall; Don't, like a lecturer or dramatic star, Try over-hard to roll the British R; Do put your accents in the proper spot; Don't, - let me beg you, - don't say "How?" for "What?" And when you stick on conversation's burs, Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs. From little matters let us pass to less, And lightly touch the mysteries of DRESS; The outward forms the inner man reveal, - We guess the pulp before we cut the peel. I leave the broadcloth, - coats and all the rest, - The dangerous waistcoat, called by cockneys "vest," The things named "pants" in certain documents, A word not made for gentlemen, but "gents;" One single precept might the whole condense Be sure your tailor is a man of sense; But add a little care, a decent pride, And always err upon the sober side. Three pairs of boots one pair of feet demands, If polished daily by the owner's hands; If the dark menial's visit save from this, Have twice the number, - for he 'll sometimes miss. One pair for critics of the nicer sex, Close in the instep's clinging circumflex, Long, narrow, light; the Gallic boot of love, A kind of cross between a boot and glove. Compact, but easy, strong, substantial, square, Let native art compile the medium pair. The third remains, and let your tasteful skill Here show some relics of affection still; Let no stiff cowhide, reeking from the tan, No rough caoutchoue, no deformed brogan, Disgrace the tapering outline of your feet, Though yellow torrents gurgle through the street. Wear seemly gloves; not black, nor yet too light, And least of all the pair that once was white; Let the dead party where you told your loves Bury in peace its dead bouquets and gloves; Shave like the goat, if so your fancy bids, But be a parent, - don't neglect your kids. Have a good hat; the secret of your looks Lives with the beaver in Canadian brooks; Virtue may flourish in an old cravat, But man and nature scorn the shocking hat. Does beauty slight you from her gay abodes? Like bright Apollo, you must take to Rhoades, - Mount the new castor, - ice itself will melt; Boots, gloves, may fail; the hat is always felt. Be shy of breastpins; plain, well-ironed white, With small pearl buttons, - two of them in sight, - Is always genuine, while your gems may pass, Though real diamonds, for ignoble glass. But spurn those paltry Cisatlantic lies That round his breast the shabby rustic ties; Breathe not the name profaned to hallow things The indignant laundress blushes when she brings! Our freeborn race, averse to every check, Has tossed the yoke of Europe from its neck; From the green prairie to the sea-girt town, The whole wide nation turns its collars down. The stately neck is manhood's manliest part; It takes the life-blood freshest from the heart. With short, curled ringlets close around it spread, How light and strong it lifts the Grecian head! Thine, fair Erechtheus of Minerva's wall; Or thine, young athlete of the Louvre's hall, Smooth as the pillar flashing in the sun That filled the arena where thy wreaths were won, Firm as the band that clasps the antlered spoil Strained in the winding anaconda's coil I spare the contrast; it were only kind To be a little, nay, intensely blind. Choose for yourself: I know it cuts your ear; I know the points will sometimes interfere; I know that often, like the filial John, Whom sleep surprised with half his drapery on, You show your features to the astonished town With one side standing and the other down; - But, O, my friend! my favorite fellow-man! If Nature made you on her modern plan, Sooner than wander with your windpipe bare, - The fruit of Eden ripening in the air, - With that lean head-stalk, that protruding chin, Wear standing collars, were they made of tin! And have a neckcloth - by the throat of Jove! - Cut from the funnel of a rusty stove! The long-drawn lesson narrows to its close, Chill, slender, slow, the dwindled current flows; Tired of the ripples on its feeble springs, Once more the Muse unfolds her upward wings. Land of my birth, with this unhallowed tongue, Thy hopes, thy dangers, I perchance had sung; But who shall sing, in brutal disregard Of all the essentials of the "native bard"? Lake, sea, shore, prairie, forest, mountain, fall, His eye omnivorous must devour them all; The tallest summits and the broadest tides His foot must compass with its giant strides, Where Ocean thunders, where Missouri rolls, And tread at once the tropics and the poles; His food all forms of earth, fire, water, air, His home all space, his birthplace everywhere. Some grave compatriot, having seen perhaps The pictured page that goes in Worcester's Maps, And, read in earnest what was said in jest, "Who drives fat oxen" - please to add the rest, - Sprung the odd notion that the poet's dreams Grow in the ratio of his hills and streams; And hence insisted that the aforesaid "bard," Pink of the future, fancy's pattern-card, The babe of nature in the "giant West," Must be of course her biggest and her best. Oh! when at length the expected bard shall come, Land of our pride, to strike thine echoes dumb, (And many a voice exclaims in prose and rhyme, It's getting late, and he's behind his time,) When all thy mountains clap their hands in joy, And all thy cataracts thunder, "That 's the boy," - Say if with him the reign of song shall end, And Heaven declare its final dividend! Becalm, dear brother! whose impassioned strain Comes from an alley watered by a drain; The little Mincio, dribbling to the Po, Beats all the epics of the Hoang Ho; If loved in earnest by the tuneful maid, Don't mind their nonsense, - never be afraid! The nurse of poets feeds her winged brood By common firesides, on familiar food; In a low hamlet, by a narrow stream, Where bovine rustics used to doze and dream, She filled young William's fiery fancy full, While old John Shakespeare talked of beeves and wool! No Alpine needle, with its climbing spire, Brings down for mortals the Promethean fire, If careless nature have forgot to frame An altar worthy of the sacred flame. Unblest by any save the goatherd's lines, Mont Blanc rose soaring through his "sea of pines;" In vain the rivers from their ice-caves flash; No hymn salutes them but the Ranz des Vaches, Till lazy Coleridge, by the morning's light, Gazed for a moment on the fields of white, And lo! the glaciers found at length a tongue, Mont Blanc was vocal, and Chamouni sung! Children of wealth or want, to each is given One spot of green, and all the blue of heaven! Enough if these their outward shows impart; The rest is thine, - the scenery of the heart. If passion's hectic in thy stanzas glow, Thy heart's best life-blood ebbing as they flow; If with thy verse thy strength and bloom distil, Drained by the pulses of the fevered thrill; If sound's sweet effluence polarize thy brain, And thoughts turn crystals in thy fluid strain, - Nor rolling ocean, nor the prairie's bloom, Nor streaming cliffs, nor rayless cavern's gloom, Need'st thou, young poet, to inform thy line; Thy own broad signet stamps thy song divine! Let others gaze where silvery streams are rolled, And chase the rainbow for its cup of gold; To thee all landscapes wear a heavenly dye, Changed in the glance of thy prismatic eye; Nature evoked thee in sublimer throes, For thee her inmost Arethusa flows, - The mighty mother's living depths are stirred, - Thou art the starred Osiris of the herd! A few brief lines; they touch on solemn chords, And hearts may leap to hear their honest words; Yet, ere the jarring bugle-blast is blown, The softer lyre shall breathe its soothing tone. New England! proudly may thy children claim Their honored birthright by its humblest name Cold are thy skies, but, ever fresh and clear, No rank malaria stains thine atmosphere; No fungous weeds invade thy scanty soil, Scarred by the ploughshares of unslumbering toil. Long may the doctrines by thy sages taught, Raised from the quarries where their sires have wrought, Be like the granite of thy rock-ribbed land, - As slow to rear, as obdurate to stand; And as the ice that leaves thy crystal mine Chills the fierce alcohol in the Creole's wine, So may the doctrines of thy sober school Keep the hot theories of thy neighbors cool! If ever, trampling on her ancient path, Cankered by treachery or inflamed by wrath, With smooth "Resolves" or with discordant cries, The mad Briareus of disunion rise, Chiefs of New England! by your sires' renown, Dash the red torches of the rebel down! Flood his black hearthstone till its flames expire, Though your old Sachem fanned his council-fire! But if at last, her fading cycle run, The tongue must forfeit what the arm has won, Then rise, wild Ocean! roll thy surging shock Full on old Plymouth's desecrated rock! Scale the proud shaft degenerate hands have hewn, Where bleeding Valor stained the flowers of June! Sweep in one tide her spires and turrets down, And howl her dirge above Monadnock's crown! List not the tale; the Pilgrim's hallowed shore, Though strewn with weeds, is granite at the core; Oh, rather trust that He who made her free Will keep her true as long as faith shall be! Farewell! yet lingering through the destined hour, Leave, sweet Enchantress, one memorial flower! An Angel, floating o'er the waste of snow That clad our Western desert, long ago, (The same fair spirit who, unseen by day, Shone as a star along the Mayflower's way,) - Sent, the first herald of the Heavenly plan, To choose on earth a resting-place for man, - Tired with his flight along the unvaried field, Turned to soar upwards, when his glance revealed A calm, bright bay enclosed in rocky bounds, And at its entrance stood three sister mounds. The Angel spake: "This threefold hill shall be The home of Arts, the nurse of Liberty! One stately summit from its shaft shall pour Its deep-red blaze along the darkened shore; Emblem of thoughts that, kindling far and wide, In danger's night shall be a nation's guide. One swelling crest the citadel shall crown, Its slanted bastions black with battle's frown, And bid the sons that tread its scowling heights Bare their strong arms for man and all his rights! One silent steep along the northern wave Shall hold the patriarch's and the hero's grave; When fades the torch, when o'er the peaceful scene The embattled fortress smiles in living green, The cross of Faith, the anchor staff of Hope, Shall stand eternal on its grassy slope; There through all time shall faithful Memory tell, 'Here Virtue toiled, and Patriot Valor fell; Thy free, proud fathers slumber at thy side; Live as they lived, or perish as they died!'"

There Stands A City.

Charles Stuart Calverley

INGOLDSBY. Year by year do Beauty's daughters, In the sweetest gloves and shawls, Troop to taste the Chattenham waters, And adorn the Chattenham balls. 'Nulla non donanda lauru' Is that city: you could not, Placing England's map before you, Light on a more favoured spot. If no clear translucent river Winds 'neath willow-shaded paths, "Children and adults" may shiver All day in "Chalybeate baths:" If "the inimitable Fechter" Never brings the gallery down, Constantly "the Great Protector" There "rejects the British crown:" And on every side the painter Looks on wooded vale and plain And on fair hills, faint and fainter Outlined as they near the main. There I met with him, my chosen Friend - the 'long' but not 'stern swell,' {15a} Faultless in his hats and hosen, Whom the Johnian lawns know well:- Oh my comrade, ever valued! Still I see your festive face; Hear you humming of "the gal you'd Left behind" in massive bass: See you sit with that composure On the eeliest of hacks, That the novice would suppose your Manly limbs encased in wax: Or anon, - when evening lent her Tranquil light to hill and vale, - Urge, towards the table's centre, With unerring hand, the squail. Ah delectablest of summers! How my heart - that "muffled drum" Which ignores the aid of drummers - Beats, as back thy memories come! Oh, among the dancers peerless, Fleet of foot, and soft of eye! Need I say to you that cheerless Must my days be till I die? At my side she mashed the fragrant Strawberry; lashes soft as silk Drooped o'er saddened eyes, when vagrant Gnats sought watery graves in milk: Then we danced, we walked together; Talked - no doubt on trivial topics; Such as Blondin, or the weather, Which "recalled us to the tropics." But - oh! in the deuxtemps peerless, Fleet of foot, and soft of eye! - Once more I repeat, that cheerless Shall my days be till I die. And the lean and hungry raven, As he picks my bones, will start To observe 'M. N.' engraven Neatly on my blighted heart.

Years

Walter Savage Landor

Years, many parti-colour'd years, Some have crept on, and some have flown Since first before me fell those tears I never could see fall alone. Years, not so many, are to come, Years not so varied, when from you One more will fall: when, carried home, I see it not, nor hear Adieu.

Out O' The Fire.

William McKendree Carleton

[As Told in 1880.] Year of '71, children, middle of the fall, On one fearful night, children, we well-nigh lost our all. True, it wa'n't no great sum we had to lose that night, But when a little's all you've got, it comes to a blessed sight. I was a mighty worker, in them 'ere difficult days, For work is a good investment, and almost always pays; But when ten years' hard labor went smokin' into the air. I doubted all o' the maxims, an' felt that it wasn't fair. Up from the East we had traveled, with all of our household wares, Where we had long been workin' a piece of land on shares; But how a fellow's to prosper without the rise of the land, For just two-thirds of nothin', I never could understand. Up from the East we had traveled, me and my folks alone, And quick we went to workin' a piece of land of our own; Small was our backwoods quarters, and things looked mighty cheap; But every thing we put in there, we put in there to keep. So, with workin' and savin', we managed to get along; Managed to make a livin', and feel consid'able strong; And things went smooth and happy, an' fair as the average run, Till every thing went back on me, in the fall of '71. First thing bothered and worried me, was 'long o' my daughter Kate; Rather a han'some cre'tur', and folks all liked her gait. Not so nice as them sham ones in yeller-covered books; But still there wa'n't much discount on Katherine's ways an' looks. And Katherine's smile was pleasant, and Katherine's temper good, And how she come to like Tom Smith, I never understood; For she was a mornin'-glory, as fair as you ever see, And Tom was a shag-bark hickory, as green as green could be. "Like takes to like," is a proverb that's nothin' more than trash; And many a time I've seen it all pulverized to smash. For folks in no way sim'lar, I've noticed ag'in and ag'in, Will often take to each other, and stick together like sin. Next thing bothered and worried me, was 'long of a terrible drouth; And me an' all o' my neighbors was some'at down in the mouth. And week after week the rain held off, and things all pined an' dried, And we drove the cattle miles to drink, and many of 'em died. And day after day went by us, so han'some and so bright, And never a drop of water came near us, day or night; And what with the neighbors' grumblin', and what with my daily loss, I must own that somehow or other I was gettin' mighty cross. And on one Sunday evenin' I was comin' down the lane From meetin', where our preacher had stuck and hung for rain, And various slants on heaven kept workin' in my mind, And the smoke from Sanders' fallow was makin' me almost blind; I opened the door kind o' sudden, an' there my Katherine sat, As cozy as any kitten along with a friendly cat; An' Tom was dreadful near her - his arm on the back of her chair - And lookin' as happy and cheerful as if there was rain to spare. "Get out of this house in a minute!" I cried, with all my might: "Get out, while I'm a-talkin'!" - Tom's eyes showed a bit of fight; But he rose up, stiff and surly, and made me a civil bow, And mogged along to the door-way, with never a word of row. And I snapped up my wife quite surly when she asked me what I'd said, And I scolded Kate for cryin', and sent her up stairs to bed; And then I laid down, for the purpose of gettin' a little sleep, An' the wind outside was a-howlin', and puttin' it in to keep. 'Twas half-past three next mornin', or maybe 'twas nearer four - The neighbors they came a-yellin' and poundin' at my door; "Get up! get up!" they shouted: "get up! there's danger near! The woods are all a-burnin'! the wind is blowin' it here!" If ever it happens, children, that you get catched, some time, With fire a-blowin' toward you, as fast as fire can climb, You'll get up and get in a hurry, as fast as you can budge; It's a lively season of the year, or else I ain't no judge! Out o' the dear old cabin we tumbled fast as we could - Smashed two-thirds of our dishes, and saved some four-foot wood; With smoke a-settlin' round us and gettin' into our eyes, And fire a-roarin' an' roarin' an' drowndin' all of our cries. And just as the roof was smokin', and we hadn't long to wait, I says to my wife, "Now get out, and hustle, you and Kate!" And just as the roof was fallin', my wife she come to me, With a face as white as a corpse's face, and "Where is Kate?" says she. And the neighbors come runnin' to me, with faces black as the ground, And shouted, "Where is Katherine? She's nowhere to be found!" An' this is all I remember, till I found myself next day, A-lyin' in Sanders' cabin, a mile an' a half away. If ever you wake up, children, with somethin' into your head, Concernin' a han'some daughter, that's lyin' still an' dead, All scorched into coal-black cinders - perhaps you may not weep, But I rather think it'll happen you'll wish you'd a-kept asleep. And all I could say, was "Kath'rine, oh Kath'rine, come to me!" And all I could think, was "Kath'rine!" and all that I could see, Was Sanders a-standin' near to me, his finger into his eye, And my wife a-bendin' over me, and tellin' me not to cry; When, lo! Tom Smith he entered - his face lit up with grins And Kate a-hangin' on his arm, as neat as a row of pins! And Tom looked glad, but sheepish; and said, "Excuse me, Squire, But I 'loped with Kate, and married her an hour before the fire." Well, children, I was shattered; 'twas more than I could bear - And I up and went for Kate an' Tom, and hugged 'em then and there! And since that time, the times have changed, an' now they ain't so bad; And - Katherine, she's your mother now, and - Thomas Smith's your dad.

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter XI. From Phelim Connor To ----.

Thomas Moore

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great As ever hero died to vindicate-- A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice, And own no power but of the Nation's choice! Such was the grand, the glorious cause that now Hung trembling on NAPOLEON'S single brow; Such the sublime arbitrament, that poured, In patriot eyes, a light around his sword, A hallowing light, which never, since the day Of his young victories, had illumed its way! Oh 'twas not then the time for tame debates, Ye men of Gaul, when chains were at your gates; When he, who late had fled your Chieftain's eye. As geese from eagles on Mount Taurus fly,[1] Denounced against the land, that spurned his chain, Myriads of swords to bind it fast again-- Myriads of fierce invading swords, to track Thro' your best blood his path of vengeance back; When Europe's Kings, that never yet combined But (like those upper Stars, that, when conjoined, Shed war and pestilence,) to scourge mankind, Gathered around, with hosts from every shore, Hating NAPOLEON much, but Freedom more, And, in that coming strife, appalled to see The world yet left one chance for liberty!-- No, 'twas not then the time to weave a net Of bondage round your Chief; to curb and fret Your veteran war-horse, pawing for the fight, When every hope was in his speed and might-- To waste the hour of action in dispute, And coolly plan how freedom's boughs should shoot, When your Invader's axe was at the root! No sacred Liberty! that God, who throws, Thy light around, like His own sunshine, knows How well I love thee and how deeply hate All tyrants, upstart and Legitimate-- Yet, in that hour, were France my native land, I would have followed, with quick heart and hand, NAPOLEON, NERO--ay, no matter whom-- To snatch my country from that damning doom, That deadliest curse that on the conquered waits-- A Conqueror's satrap, throned within her gates! True, he was false--despotic--all you please-- Had trampled down man's holiest liberties-- Had, by a genius, formed for nobler things Than lie within the grasp of vulgar Kings, But raised the hopes of men--as eaglets fly With tortoises aloft into the sky-- To dash them down again more shatteringly! All this I own--but still

Recollections

Algernon Charles Swinburne

I. Years upon years, as a course of clouds that thicken Thronging the ways of the wind that shifts and veers, Pass, and the flames of remembered fires requicken Years upon years. Surely the thought in a man's heart hopes or fears Now that forgetfulness needs must here have stricken Anguish, and sweetened the sealed-up springs of tears. Ah, but the strength of regrets that strain and sicken, Yearning for love that the veil of death endears, Slackens not wing for the wings of years that quicken Years upon years. II. Years upon years, and the flame of love's high altar Trembles and sinks, and the sense of listening ears Heeds not the sound that it heard of love's blithe psalter Years upon years. Only the sense of a heart that hearkens hears, Louder than dreams that assail and doubts that palter, Sorrow that slept and that wakes ere sundawn peers. Wakes, that the heart may behold, and yet not falter, Faces of children as stars unknown of, spheres Seen but of love, that endures though all things alter, Years upon years. III. Years upon years, as a watch by night that passes, Pass, and the light of their eyes is fire that sears Slowly the hopes of the fruit that life amasses Years upon years. Pale as the glimmer of stars on moorland meres Lighten the shadows reverberate from the glasses Held in their hands as they pass among their peers. Lights that are shadows, as ghosts on graveyard grasses, Moving on paths that the moon of memory cheers, Shew but as mists over cloudy mountain passes Years upon years.

Verses Written To Be Spoken By Mrs. Siddons.

Samuel Rogers

Yes, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain! I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. Still in this nether world; no seraph yet! Nor walks my spirit, when the sun is set, With troubled step to haunt the fatal board, Where I died last--by poison or the sword; Blanching each honest cheek with deeds of night, Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. --To drop all metaphor, that little bell Call'd back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very woman--scarce restrains her own! Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, When to be grateful is the part assign'd? Ah, No! she scorns the trappings of her Art; No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart! But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask? Is here no other actress? let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, Know every Woman studies stage-effect. She moulds her manners to the part she, fills, As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills; And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. First, how her little breast with triumph swells, When the red coral rings its golden bells! To play in pantomime is then the rage, Along the carpet's many-colour'd stage; Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there--in noise and mischief ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Terror of caps, and wigs, and sober notions! A romp! that longest of perpetual motions! --Till tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces, She sports her lovely face at public places; And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan, First acts her part with that great actor, MAN. Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies! Frowns when pursued, and, when entreated, sighs! Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd! Then comes that good old character, a Wife, With all the dear, distracting cares of life; A thousand cards a day at doors to leave, And, in return, a thousand cards receive; Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, With nightly blaze set PORTLAND-PLACE on fire; Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball, A Meteor, trac'd by none, tho' seen by all; And, when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam, In very spleen--rehearse the girls at home. Last the grey Dowager, in antient flounces, With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle Knelt for a look, and duell'd for a smile. The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal, Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal; With modern Belles eternal warfare wages, Like her own birds that clamour from their cages; And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Like some old Ruin, 'nodding to its fall!' Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit; Not least an actress, when she least suspects it. Yet Nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot; Full oft, with energy that scorns controul, At once lights up the features of the soul; Unlocks each thought chain'd by coward Art, And to full day the latent passions start! --And she, whose first, best wish is your applause, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. Born on the stage--thro' every shifting scene, Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, Still has your smile her trembling spirit fir'd! And can she act, with thoughts like these inspir'd? Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows; For all that life endears--to you she owes.

Autumn Days.

William McKendree Carleton

Yellow, mellow, ripened days, Sheltered in a golden coating; O'er the dreamy, listless haze, White and dainty cloudlets floating; Winking at the blushing trees, And the sombre, furrowed fallow; Smiling at the airy ease Of the southward-flying swallow. Sweet and smiling are thy ways, Beauteous, golden, Autumn days! Shivering, quivering, tearful days, Fretfully and sadly weeping; Dreading still, with anxious gaze, Icy fetters round thee creeping; O'er the cheerless, withered plain, Woefully and hoarsely calling; Pelting hail and drenching rain On thy scanty vestments falling. Sad and mournful are thy ways, Grieving, wailing, Autumn days!

The Sphinx

Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Yellowish-grey sand, soft at the top, hard, grating below ... sand without end, where-ever one looks. And above this sandy desert, above this sea of dead dust, rises the immense head of the Egyptian sphinx. What would they say, those thick, projecting lips, those immutable, distended, upturned nostrils, and those eyes, those long, half-drowsy, half-watchful eyes under the double arch of the high brows? Something they would say. They are speaking, truly, but only Oedipus can solve the riddle and comprehend their mute speech. Stay, but I know those features ... in them there is nothing Egyptian. White, low brow, prominent cheek-bones, nose short and straight, handsome mouth and white teeth, soft moustache and curly beard, and those wide-set, not large eyes ... and on the head the cap of hair parted down the middle.... But it is thou, Karp, Sidor, Semyon, peasant of Yaroslav, of Ryazan, my countryman, flesh and blood, Russian! Art thou, too, among the sphinxes? Wouldst thou, too, say somewhat? Yes, and thou, too, art a sphinx. And thy eyes, those colourless, deep eyes, are speaking too ... and as mute and enigmatic is their speech. But where is thy Oedipus? Alas! it's not enough to don the peasant smock to become thy Oedipus, oh Sphinx of all the Russias! Dec. 1878.

Fragment.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Posthumous Fragments Of Margaret Mcholson. Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor. [The "Posthumous Fragments", published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared in November, 1810.] Fragment. Yes! all is past - swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind. Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, And yet that may not ever, ever be, Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell; Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me; Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny. I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes, The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge, And on the blast a frightful yell arose. Wild flew the meteors o'er the maddened main, Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain, Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air, 'Twas like a spirit's song, but yet more soft and fair. I met a maniac - like he was to me, I said - 'Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? And canst thou not contend with agony, That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?' 'Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form, And I will go to slumber in her grave; And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, Will sweep at midnight o'er the wildered wave; Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?' 'Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear, This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more - But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, Can shriek in horror to the tempest's roar.'

Year That Trembled

Walt Whitman

Year that trembled and reel'd beneath me! Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me; A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken'd me; Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself; Must I indeed learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled? And sullen hymns of defeat?

Cooranbean

Henry Kendall

Years fifty, and seven to boot, have smitten the children of men Since sound of a voice or a foot came out of the head of that glen. The brand of black devil is there an evil wind moaneth around There is doom, there is death in the air: a curse groweth up from the ground! No noise of the axe or the saw in that hollow unholy is heard, No fall of the hoof or the paw, no whirr of the wing of the bird; But a grey mother down by the sea, as wan as the foam on the strait, Has counted the beads on her knee these forty-nine winters and eight. Whenever an elder is asked a white-headed man of the woods Of the terrible mystery masked where the dark everlastingly broods, Be sure he will turn to the bay, with his back to the glen in the range, And glide like a phantom away, with a countenance pallid with change. From the line of dead timber that lies supine at the foot of the glade, The fierce-featured eaglehawk flies afraid as a dove is afraid; But back in that wilderness dread are a fall and the forks of a ford Ah! pray and uncover your head, and lean like a child on the Lord. A sinister fog at the wane at the change of the moon cometh forth Like an ominous ghost in the train of a bitter, black storm of the north! At the head of the gully unknown it hangs like a spirit of bale. And the noise of a shriek and a groan strikes up in the gusts of the gale. In the throat of a feculent pit is the beard of a bloody-red sedge; And a foam like the foam of a fit sweats out of the lips of the ledge. But down in the water of death, in the livid, dead pool at the base Bow low, with inaudible breath, beseech with the hands to the face! A furlong of fetid, black fen, with gelid, green patches of pond, Lies dumb by the horns of the glen at the gates of the horror beyond; And those who have looked on it tell of the terrible growths that are there The flowerage fostered by hell, the blossoms that startle and scare. If ever a wandering bird should light on Gehennas like this Be sure that a cry will be heard, and the sound of the flat adder's hiss. But hard by the jaws of the bend is a ghastly Thing matted with moss Ah, Lord! be a father, a friend, for the sake of the Christ of the Cross. Black Tom, with the sinews of five that never a hangman could hang In the days of the shackle and gyve, broke loose from the guards of the gang. Thereafter, for seasons a score, this devil prowled under the ban; A mate of red talon and paw, a wolf in the shape of a man. But, ringed by ineffable fire, in a thunder and wind of the north, The sword of Omnipotent ire the bolt of high Heaven went forth! But, wan as the sorrowful foam, a grey mother waits by the sea For the boys that have never come home these fifty-four winters and three. From the folds of the forested hills there are ravelled and roundabout tracks, Because of the terror that fills the strong-handed men of the axe! Of the workers away in the range there is none that will wait for the night, When the storm-stricken moon is in change and the sinister fog is in sight. And later and deep in the dark, when the bitter wind whistles about, There is never a howl or a bark from the dog in the kennel without, But the white fathers fasten the door, and often and often they start, At a sound like a foot on the floor and a touch like a hand on the heart.

Ponchontas

Paul Cameron Brown

Years ago, when life was too violent for any to live very old, the Spirit invented a ruse to give great age to Man. Late one fall, Ponchontas was keeping a slow fire to smoke his strips of salmon. It occurred to him that by stoking the flames gently with bits of chips, the fire would burn not only smoother, but more evenly. Ponchontas held the block firmly and brought his axe to play on the extended limb. Suddenly, his grip faltered and the blade struck flesh drawing blood. Panicky, he thrashed about the sand scattering it into the face of the fire. Quite by accident, you see, as his foot only convulsed the pain his bleeding arm felt. One by one, the blood fell in drops then trickles, rivulets until a veritable torrent seemed loosed. Ponchontas screamed till the woods listened. The spirit that governs the pulp of the wood and the sap to rise took pity on Ponchontas. It curdled the sap to thick resins in the chopped wood and the gummy resin fell to the forest floor. As it lay so glutenous, the Earth Mother was also quickened to show sympathy. This she did by touching the marrow of the hurting wood. By a thick chain of being, Ponchontas felt his skin harden. The painful throb soon began to leave the wound and the scar healed. Immediately, he was on his knees imploring the spirits. He begged what small favour he might return. The reply was instantaneous. "Liberate three husks in your crib." Then, with much saying and thoughts multiplying forth within his head, he gave word to the council of Voices. Once dispatched, the three ears lost their kernels giving old women to this day their namesake of beady eyes. The abandoned husks became their withered forms and sacks of corn were found to be "old bags." The empty rinds became harridans' cancelled lives. Tares in the fruit were seen as the trials and vicissitudes of this life, wormholes as their tears. So, in an act of mercy, old women and crones were born saving future generations the misery of living too old. To this day, an old woman often has a husky voice and an ear for medicine.

From The Italian Of Michael Angelo

William Wordsworth

Yes! hope may with my strong desire keep pace, And I be undeluded, unbetrayed; For if of our affections none finds grace In sight of Heaven, then, wherefore hath God made The world which we inhabit? Better plea Love cannot have, than that in loving thee Glory to that eternal Peace is paid, Who such divinity to thee imparts As hallows and makes pure all gentle hearts. His hope is treacherous only whose love dies With beauty, which is varying every hour; But, in chaste hearts uninfluenced by the power Of outward change, there blooms a deathless flower, That breathes on earth the air of paradise.

Henry, Aged Eight Years.

Jean Ingelow

Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter - woodland hollows thickly strewing, Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win, While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing All without and all within! All within! but winds of autumn, little Henry, round their dwelling Did not load your father's spirit with those deep and burdened sighs; - Only echoed thoughts of sadness, in your mother's bosom swelling, Fast as tears that dim her eyes. Life is fraught with many changes, checked with sorrow and mutation, But no grief it ever lightened such a truth before to know: - I behold them - father, mother - as they seem to contemplation, Only three short weeks ago! Saddened for the morrow's parting - up the stairs at midnight stealing - As with cautious foot we glided past the children's open door, - "Come in here," they said, the lamplight dimpled forms at last revealing, "Kiss them in their sleep once more." You were sleeping, little Henry, with your eyelids scarcely closing, Two sweet faces near together, with their rounded arms entwined: - And the rose-bud lips were moving, as if stirred in their reposing By the movements of the mind! And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered, Whispering fondly - "He is dreaming" - as you turned upon your bed - And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered, With his hand upon your head! Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing? No! he never Heard afar the summons uttered - "Come up hither" - Never knew How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever, And for ever in their view. Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us, Shrouding wings - majestic beings - hidden by this earthly veil - Such as we have called on, saying, "Praise the Lord, O Ananias, Azarias and Misael!" But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him, To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will? While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought him, When at midnight all was still? Father! Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber? Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray? When you count your children over, must you tell a different number, Since that happier yesterday? Father! Mother! weep if need be, since this is a "time" for weeping, Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down - Coldly sounds the admonition, "Why lament? in better keeping Rests the child than in your own." "Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion! Have you sought to scan my sorrow?" (Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list'ning to that common tale) "Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow Even a tone that might avail? "Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection? Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine? Surely no! I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection Of the care that burdens mine!" When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander, Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries, Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder From its place upon your knees - With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder, Of itself the heart shall question, "Art Thou then no longer here? Is it so, my little Henry? Are we set so far asunder Who were wont to be so near?" While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting, To itself the heart shall answer, "He shall come to me no more: I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child's sweet voice entreating For admission at my door." But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling, Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know; Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling, "Daylight breaketh, let me go!" Daylight breaketh, little Henry; in its beams your soul awaketh - What though night should close around us, dim and dreary to the view - Though our souls should walk in darkness, far away that morning breaketh Into endless day for you!

The Singer

John Greenleaf Whittier

Years since (but names to me before), Two sisters sought at eve my door; Two song-birds wandering from their nest, A gray old farm-house in the West. How fresh of life the younger one, Half smiles, half tears, like rain in sun! Her gravest mood could scarce displace The dimples of her nut-brown face. Wit sparkled on her lips not less For quick and tremulous tenderness; And, following close her merriest glance, Dreamed through her eyes the heart's romance. Timid and still, the elder had Even then a smile too sweetly sad; The crown of pain that all must wear Too early pressed her midnight hair. Yet ere the summer eve grew long, Her modest lips were sweet with song; A memory haunted all her words Of clover-fields and singing birds. Her dark, dilating eyes expressed The broad horizons of the west; Her speech dropped prairie flowers; the gold Of harvest wheat about her rolled. Fore-doomed to song she seemed to me I queried not with destiny I knew the trial and the need, Yet, all the more, I said, God speed? What could I other than I did? Could I a singing-bird forbid? Deny the wind-stirred leaf? Rebuke The music of the forest brook? She went with morning from my door, But left me richer than before; Thenceforth I knew her voice of cheer, The welcome of her partial ear. Years passed: through all the land her name A pleasant household word became All felt behind the singer stood A sweet and gracious womanhood. Her life was earnest work, not play; Her tired feet climbed a weary way; And even through her lightest strain We heard an undertone of pain. Unseen of her her fair fame grew, The good she did she rarely knew, Unguessed of her in life the love That rained its tears her grave above. When last I saw her, full of peace, She waited for her great release; And that old friend so sage and bland, Our later Franklin, held her hand. For all that patriot bosoms stirs Had moved that woman's heart of hers, And men who toiled in storm and sun Found her their meet companion. Our converse, from her suffering bed To healthful themes of life she led The out-door world of bud and bloom And light and sweetness filled her room. Yet evermore an underthought Of loss to come within us wrought, And all the while we felt the strain Of the strong will that conquered pain. God giveth quietness at last! The common way that all have passed She went, with mortal yearnings fond, To fuller life and love beyond. Fold the rapt soul in your embrace, My dear ones! Give the singer place To you, to her, I know not where, I lift the silence of a prayer. For only thus our own we find; The gone before, the left behind, All mortal voices die between; The unheard reaches the unseen. Again the blackbirds sing; the streams Wake, laughing, from their winter dreams, And tremble in the April showers The tassels of the maple flowers. But not for her has spring renewed The sweet surprises of the wood; And bird and flower are lost to her Who was their best interpreter. What to shut eyes has God revealed? What hear the ears that death has sealed? What undreamed beauty passing show Requites the loss of all we know? O silent land, to which we move, Enough if there alone be love, And mortal need can ne'er outgrow What it is waiting to bestow! O white soul! from that far-off shore Float some sweet song the waters o'er. Our faith confirm, our fears dispel, With the old voice we loved so well

Sonnets From The Portuguese XXXIII

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear The name I used to run at, when a child, From innocent play, and leave the cowslips plied, To glance up in some face that proved me dear With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled Into the music of Heaven's undefiled, Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, While I call God, call God! so let thy mouth Be heir to those who are now exanimate. Gather the north flowers to complete the south, And catch the early love up in the late. Yes, call me by that name, and I, in truth, With the same heart, will answer and not wait.

Resignation.

Friedrich Schiller

Yes! even I was in Arcadia born, And, in mine infant ears, A vow of rapture was by Nature sworn; Yes! even I was in Arcadia born, And yet my short spring gave me only tears! Once blooms, and only once, life's youthful May; For me its bloom hath gone. The silent God O brethren, weep to-day The silent God hath quenched my torch's ray, And the vain dream hath flown. Upon thy darksome bridge, Eternity, I stand e'en now, dread thought! Take, then, these joy-credentials back from me! Unopened I return them now to thee, Of happiness, alas, know naught! Before Thy throne my mournful cries I vent, Thou Judge, concealed from view! To yonder star a joyous saying went With judgment's scales to rule us thou art sent, And call'st thyself Requiter, too! Here, say they, terrors on the bad alight, And joys to greet the virtuous spring. The bosom's windings thou'lt expose to sight, Riddle of Providence wilt solve aright, And reckon with the suffering! Here to the exile be a home outspread, Here end the meek man's thorny path of strife! A godlike child, whose name was Truth, they said, Known but to few, from whom the many fled, Restrained the ardent bridle of my life. "It shall be thine another life to live, Thy youth to me surrender! To thee this surety only can I give" I took the surety in that life to live; And gave to her each youthful joy so tender. "Give me the woman precious to thy heart, Give up to me thy Laura! Beyond the grave will usury pay the smart." I wept aloud, and from my bleeding heart With resignation tore her. "The obligation's drawn upon the dead!" Thus laughed the world in scorn; "The lying one, in league with despots dread, For truth, a phantom palmed on thee instead, Thou'lt be no more, when once this dream has gone!" Shamelessly scoffed the mockers' serpent-band "A dream that but prescription can admit Dost dread? Where now thy God's protecting hand, (The sick world's Saviour with such cunning planned), Borrowed by human need of human wit?" "What future is't that graves to us reveal? What the eternity of thy discourse? Honored because dark veils its form conceal, The giant-shadows of the awe we feel, Viewed in the hollow mirror of remorse!" "An image false of shapes of living mould, (Time's very mummy, she!) Whom only Hope's sweet balm hath power to hold Within the chambers of the grave so cold, Thy fever calls this immortality!" "For empty hopes, corruption gives the lie Didst thou exchange what thou hadst surely done? Six thousand years sped death in silence by, His corpse from out the grave e'er mounted high, That mention made of the Requiting One?" I saw time fly to reach thy distant shore, I saw fair Nature lie A shrivelled corpse behind him evermore, No dead from out the grave then sought to soar Yet in that Oath divine still trusted I. My ev'ry joy to thee I've sacrificed, I throw me now before thy judgment-throne; The many's scorn with boldness I've despised, Only thy gifts by me were ever prized, I ask my wages now, Requiting One! "With equal love I love each child of mine!" A genius hid from sight exclaimed. "Two flowers," he cried, "ye mortals, mark the sign, Two flowers to greet the Searcher wise entwine, Hope and Enjoyment they are named." "Who of these flowers plucks one, let him ne'er yearn To touch the other sister's bloom. Let him enjoy, who has no faith; eterne As earth, this truth! Abstain, who faith can learn! The world's long story is the world's own doom." "Hope thou hast felt, thy wages, then, are paid; Thy faith 'twas formed the rapture pledged to thee. Thou might'st have of the wise inquiry made, The minutes thou neglectest, as they fade, Are given back by no eternity!"

Lines To A Lady, On Hearing Her Sing "Cushlamachree."

Joseph Rodman Drake

Yes! heaven protect thee, thou gem of the ocean; Dear land of my sires, though distant thy shores; Ere my heart cease to love thee, its latest emotion, The last dying throbs of its pulse must be o'er. And dark were the bosom, and cold and unfeeling, That tamely could listen unmoved at the call, When woman, the warm soul of melody stealing, Laments for her country and sighs o'er its fall. Sing on, gentle warbler, the tear-drop appearing Shall fall for the woes of the queen of the sea; And the spirit that breathes in the harp of green Erin, Descending, shall hail thee her "Cushlamachree."

Love-Doubt.

Archibald Lampman

Yearning upon the faint rose-curves that flit About her child-sweet mouth and innocent cheek, And in her eyes watching with eyes all meek The light and shadow of laughter, I would sit Mute, knowing our two souls might never knit; As if a pale proud lily-flower should seek The love of some red rose, but could not speak One word of her blithe tongue to tell of it. For oh, my Love was sunny-lipped and stirred With all swift light and sound and gloom not long Retained; I, with dreams weighed, that ever heard Sad burdens echoing through the loudest throng She, the wild song of some May-merry bird; I, but the listening maker of a song.

The Battle Of Lundy's Lane

Duncan Campbell Scott

Rufus Gale speaks - 1852 Yes, - in the Lincoln Militia, - in the war of eighteen-twelve; Many's the day I've had since then to dig and delve - But those are the years I remember as the brightest years of all, When we left the plow in the furrow to follow the bugle's call. Why, even our son Abner wanted to fight with the men! "Don't you go, d'ye hear, sir!" - I was angry with him then. "Stay with your mother!" I said, and he looked so old and grim - He was just sixteen that April - I couldn't believe it was him; But I didn't think - I was off - and we met the foe again, Five thousand strong and ready, at the hill by Lundy's Lane. There as the night came on we fought them from six to nine, Whenever they broke our line we broke their line, They took our guns and we won them again, and around the levels Where the hill sloped up - with the Eighty-ninth, - we fought like devils Around the flag; - and on they came and we drove them back, Until with its very fierceness the fight grew slack. It was then about nine and dark as a miser's pocket, When up came Hercules Scott's brigade swift as a rocket, And charged, - and the flashes sprang in the dark like a lion's eyes; The night was full of fire - groans, and cheers, and cries; Then through the sound and the fury another sound broke in - The roar of a great old duck-gun shattered the rest of the din; It took two minutes to charge it and another to set it free. Every time I heard it an angel spoke to me; Yes, the minute I heard it I felt the strangest tide Flow in my veins like lightning, as if, there, by my side, Was the very spirit of Valor. But 'twas dark - you couldn't see - And the one who was firing the duck-gun fell against me And slid down to the clover, and lay there still; Something went through me - piercing - with a strange, swift thrill; The noise fell away into silence, and I heard as clear as thunder The long, slow roar of Niagara: O the wonder Of that deep sound. But again the battle broke And the foe, driven before us desperately - stroke upon stroke, Left the field to his master, and sullenly down the road Sounded the boom of his guns, trailing the heavy load Of his wounded men and his shattered flags, sullen and slow, Setting fire in his rage to Bridgewater mills and the glow Flared in the distant forest. We rested as we could, And for a while I slept in the dark of a maple wood: But when the clouds in the east were red all over, I came back there to the place we made the stand in the clover; For my heart was heavy then with a strange deep pain, As I thought of the glorious fight, and again and again I remembered the valiant spirit and the piercing thrill; But I knew it all when I reached the top of the hill, - For there, there with the blood on his dear, brave head, There on the hill in the clover lay our Abner - dead! - No - thank you - no, I don't need it; I'm solid as granite rock, But every time that I tell it I feel the old, cold shock, I'm eighty-one my next birthday - do you breed such fellows now? There he lay with the dawn cooling his broad fair brow, That was no dawn for him; and there was the old duck-gun That many and many's the time, - just for the fun, We together, alone, would take to the hickory rise, And bring home more wild pigeons than ever you saw with your eyes. Up with Hercules Scott's brigade, just as it came on night - He was the angel beside me in the thickest of the fight - Wrote a note to his mother - He said, "I've got to go; Mother what would home be under the heel of the foe!" Oh! she never slept a wink, she would rise and walk the floor; She'd say this over and over, "I knew it all before!" I'd try to speak of the glory to give her a little joy. "What is the glory to me when I want my boy, my boy!" She'd say, and she'd wring her hands; her hair grew white as snow - And I'd argue with her up and down, to and fro, Of how she had mothered a hero, and his was a glorious fate, Better than years of grubbing to gather an estate. Sometimes I'd put it this way: "If God was to say to me now 'Take him back as he once was helping you with the plow,' I'd say, 'No, God, thank You kindly; 'twas You that he obeyed; You told him to fight and he fought, and he wasn't afraid; You wanted to prove him in battle, You sent him to Lundy's Lane, 'Tis well!" But she only would answer over and over again, "Give me back my Abner - give me back my son!" It was so all through the winter until the spring had begun, And the crocus was up in the dooryard, and the drift by the fence was thinned, And the sap drip-dropped from the branches wounded by the wind, And the whole earth smelled like a flower, - then she came to me one night - "Rufus!" she said, with a sob in her throat, - "Rufus, you're right." I hadn't cried till then, not a tear - but then I was torn in two - There, it's all right - my eyes don't see as they used to do! But O the joy of that battle - it was worth the whole of life, You felt immortal in action with the rapture of the strife, There in the dark by the river, with the flashes of fire before, Running and crashing along, there in the dark, and the roar Of the guns, and the shrilling cheers, and the knowledge that filled your heart That there was a victory making and you must do your part, But - there's his grave in the orchard where the headstone glimmers white: We could see it, we thought, from our window even on the darkest night; It is set there for a sign that what one lad could do Would be done by a hundred hundred lads whose hearts were stout and true. And when in the time of trial you hear the recreant say, Shooting his coward lips at us, "You shall have had your day: For all your state and glory shall pass like a cloudy wrack, And here some other flag shall fly where flew the Union Jack," - Why tell him a hundred thousand men would spring from these sleepy farms, To tie that flag in its ancient place with the sinews of their arms; And if they doubt you and put you to scorn, why you can make it plain, With the tale of the gallant Lincoln men and the fight at Lundy's Lane. 1908.

The Last Oracle

Algernon Charles Swinburne

eipate toi basilei, xamai pese daidalos aula. ouketi PHoibos exei kaluban, ou mantida daphnen, ou pagan laleousan . apesbeto kai lalon udor. Years have risen and fallen in darkness or in twilight, Ages waxed and waned that knew not thee nor thine, While the world sought light by night and sought not thy light, Since the sad last pilgrim left thy dark mid shrine. Dark the shrine and dumb the fount of song thence welling, Save for words more sad than tears of blood, that said: Tell the king, on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling, And the watersprings that spake are quenched and dead. Not a cell is left the God, no roof, no cover In his hand the prophet laurel flowers no more. And the great king's high sad heart, thy true last lover, Felt thine answer pierce and cleave it to the core. And he bowed down his hopeless head In the drift of the wild world's tide, And dying, Thou hast conquered, he said, Galilean; he said it, and died. And the world that was thine and was ours When the Graces took hands with the Hours Grew cold as a winter wave In the wind from a wide-mouthed grave, As a gulf wide open to swallow The light that the world held dear. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Age on age thy mouth was mute, thy face was hidden, And the lips and eyes that loved thee blind and dumb; Song forsook their tongues that held thy name forbidden, Light their eyes that saw the strange God's kingdom come. Fire for light and hell for heaven and psalms for pans Filled the clearest eyes and lips most sweet of song, When for chant of Greeks the wail of Galileans Made the whole world moan with hymns of wrath and wrong. Yea, not yet we see thee, father, as they saw thee, They that worshipped when the world was theirs and thine, They whose words had power by thine own power to draw thee Down from heaven till earth seemed more than heaven divine. For the shades are about us that hover When darkness is half withdrawn And the skirts of the dead night cover The face of the live new dawn. For the past is not utterly past Though the word on its lips be the last, And the time be gone by with its creed When men were as beasts that bleed, As sheep or as swine that wallow, In the shambles of faith and of fear. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Yet it may be, lord and father, could we know it, We that love thee for our darkness shall have light More than ever prophet hailed of old or poet Standing crowned and robed and sovereign in thy sight. To the likeness of one God their dreams enthralled thee, Who wast greater than all Gods that waned and grew; Son of God the shining son of Time they called thee, Who wast older, O our father, than they knew. For no thought of man made Gods to love or honour Ere the song within the silent soul began, Nor might earth in dream or deed take heaven upon her Till the word was clothed with speech by lips of man. And the word and the life wast thou, The spirit of man and the breath; And before thee the Gods that bow Take life at thine hands and death. For these are as ghosts that wane, That are gone in an age or twain; Harsh, merciful, passionate, pure, They perish, but thou shalt endure; Be their flight with the swan or the swallow, They pass as the flight of a year. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Thou the word, the light, the life, the breath, the glory, Strong to help and heal, to lighten and to slay, Thine is all the song of man, the world's whole story; Not of morning and of evening is thy day. Old and younger Gods are buried or begotten From uprising to downsetting of thy sun, Risen from eastward, fallen to westward and forgotten, And their springs are many, but their end is one. Divers births of godheads find one death appointed, As the soul whence each was born makes room for each; God by God goes out, discrowned and disanointed, But the soul stands fast that gave them shape and speech. Is the sun yet cast out of heaven? Is the song yet cast out of man? Life that had song for its leaven To quicken the blood that ran Through the veins of the songless years More bitter and cold than tears, Heaven that had thee for its one Light, life, word, witness, O sun, Are they soundless and sightless and hollow, Without eye, without speech, without ear? O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Time arose and smote thee silent at his warning, Change and darkness fell on men that fell from thee; Dark thou satest, veiled with light, behind the morning, Till the soul of man should lift up eyes and see. Till the blind mute soul get speech again and eyesight, Man may worship not the light of life within; In his sight the stars whose fires grow dark in thy sight Shine as sunbeams on the night of death and sin. Time again is risen with mightier word of warning, Change hath blown again a blast of louder breath; Clothed with clouds and stars and dreams that melt in morning, Lo, the Gods that ruled by grace of sin and death! They are conquered, they break, they are stricken, Whose might made the whole world pale; They are dust that shall rise not or quicken Though the world for their death's sake wail. As a hound on a wild beast's trace, So time has their godhead in chase; As wolves when the hunt makes head, They are scattered, they fly, they are fled; They are fled beyond hail, beyond hollo, And the cry of the chase, and the cheer. O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear! Day by day thy shadow shines in heaven beholden, Even the sun, the shining shadow of thy face: King, the ways of heaven before thy feet grow golden; God, the soul of earth is kindled with thy grace. In thy lips the speech of man whence Gods were fashioned, In thy soul the thought that makes them and unmakes; By thy light and heat incarnate and impassioned, Soul to soul of man gives light for light and takes. As they knew thy name of old time could we know it, Healer called of sickness, slayer invoked of wrong, Light of eyes that saw thy light, God, king, priest, poet, Song should bring thee back to heal us with thy song. For thy kingdom is past not away, Nor thy power from the place thereof hurled; Out of heaven they shall cast not the day, They shall cast not out song from the world. By the song and the light they give We know thy works that they live; With the gift thou hast given us of speech We praise, we adore, we beseech, We arise at thy bidding and follow, We cry to thee, answer, appear, O father of all of us, Paian, Apollo, Destroyer and healer, hear!

Alfred And Jennet.

Robert Bloomfield

Yes, let me tell of Jennet, my last child; In her the charms of all the rest ran wild, And sprouted as they pleased. Still by my side, I own she was my favourite, was my pride, Since first she labour'd round my neck to twine, Or clasp'd both little hands in one of mine: And when the season broke, I've seen her bring Lapfuls of flowers, and then the girl would sing Whole songs, and halves, and bits, O, with such glee! If playmates found a favourite, it was she. Her lively spirit lifted her to joy; To distance in the race a clumsy boy Would raise the flush of conquest in her eye, And all was dance, and laugh, and liberty. Yet not hard-hearted, take me right, I beg, The veriest romp that ever wagg'd a leg Was Jennet; but when pity soothed her mind, Prompt with her tears, and delicately kind. The half-fledged nestling, rabbit, mouse, or dove, By turns engaged her cares and infant love; And many a one, at the last doubtful strife, Warm'd in her bosom, started into life. At thirteen she was all that Heaven could send, My nurse, my faithful clerk, my lively friend; Last at my pillow when I sunk to sleep, First on my threshold soon as day could peep: I heard her happy to her heart's desire, With clanking pattens, and a roaring fire. Then, having store of new-laid eggs to spare, She fill'd her basket with the simple fare, And weekly trudged (I think I see her still) To sell them at yon house upon the hill. Oft have I watch'd her as she stroll'd along, Heard the gate bang, and heard her morning song; And, as my warm ungovern'd feelings rose, Said to myself, "Heaven bless her! there she goes." Long would she tarry, and then dancing home, Tell how the lady bade her oft'ner come, And bade her talk and laugh without control; For Jennet's voice was music to the soul, My tale shall prove it: - For there dwelt a son, An only child, and where there is but one, Indulgence like a mildew reigns, from whence Mischief may follow if that child wants sense. But Alfred was a youth of noble mind, With ardent passions, and with taste refined; All that could please still courted heart and hand, Music, joy, peace, and wealth, at his command; Wealth, which his widow'd mother deem'd his own; Except the poor, she lived for him alone. Yet would she weep by stealth when he was near, But check'd all sighs to spare his wounded ear; For from his cradle he had never seen Soul-cheering sunbeams, or wild nature's green. But all life's blessings centre not in sight; For Providence, that dealt him one long night, Had given, in pity to the blooming boy, Feelings more exquisitely tuned to joy. Fond to excess was he of all that grew; The morning blossom sprinkled o'er with dew, Across his path, as if in playful freak, Would dash his brow, and weep upon his cheek; Each varying leaf that brush'd where'er he came, Press'd to his rosy lip he call'd by name; He grasp'd the saplings, measured every bough, Inhaled the fragrance that the spring months throw Profusely round, till his young heart confess'd That all was beauty, and himself was bless'd. Yet when he traced the wide extended plain, Or clear brook side, he felt a transient pain; The keen regret of goodness, void of pride, To think he could not roam without a guide. Who, guess ye, knew these scenes of home delight Better than Jennet, bless'd with health and sight? Whene'er she came, he from his sports would slide, And catch her wild laugh, listening by her side; Mount to the tell-tale clock with ardent spring, And feel the passing hour, then fondly cling To Jennet's arm, and tell how sweet the breath Of bright May-mornings on the open heath; Then off they started, rambling far and wide, Like Cupid with a wood-nymph by his side. Thus months and months roll'd on, the summer pass'd, And the long darkness, and the winter blast, Sever'd the pair; no flowery fields to roam, Poor Alfred sought his music and his home. What wonder then if inwardly he pined? The anxious mother mark'd her stripling's mind Gloomy and sad, yet striving to be gay As the long tedious evenings pass'd away: 'Twas her delight fresh spirits to supply. - My girl was sent for - just for company. A tender governess my daughter found, Her temper placid, her instruction sound; Plain were her precepts, full of strength, their power Was founded on the practice of the hour: Theirs were the happy nights to peace resign'd, With ample means to cheer th' unbended mind. The Sacred History, or the volumes fraught With tenderest sympathy, or towering thought, The laughter-stirring tale, the moral lay, All that brings dawning reason into day. There Jennet learn'd by maps, through every land To travel, and to name them at command; Would tell how great their strength, their bounds how far, And show where uncle Charles was in the war. The globe she managed with a timid hand, Told which was ocean, which was solid land, And said, whate'er their diff'rent climates bore, All still roll'd round, though that I knew before. Thus grown familiar, and at perfect ease, What could be Jennet's duty but to please? Yet hitherto she kept, scarce knowing why, One powerful charm reserved, and still was shy. When Alfred from his grand-piano drew Those heavenly sounds that seem'd for ever new, She sat as if to sing would be a crime, And only gazed with joy, and nodded time. Till one snug evening, I myself was there, The whispering lad inquired, behind my chair, "Bowman, can Jennet sing?" "At home," said I, "She sings from morn till night, and seems to fly "From tune to tune, the sad, the wild, the merry, "And moulds her lip to suit them like a cherry; "She learn'd them here." - "O ho!" said he, "O ho!" And rubb'd his hands, and stroked his forehead, so. Then down he sat, sought out a tender strain, Sung the first words, then struck the chords again; "Come, Jennet, help me, you must know this song "Which I have sung, and you have heard so long." I mark'd the palpitation of her heart, Yet she complied, and strove to take a part, But faint and fluttering, swelling by degrees, Ere self-composure gave that perfect ease, The soul of song: - then, with triumphant glee, Resting her idle work upon her knee, Her little tongue soon fill'd the room around With such a voluble and magic sound, That, 'spite of all her pains to persevere, She stopp'd to sigh, and wipe a starting tear; Then roused herself for faults to make amends. While Alfred trembled to his fingers' ends. But when this storm of feeling sunk to rest, Jennet, resuming, sung her very best, And on the ear, with many a dying fall, She pour'd th' enchanting "Harp of Tara's Hall." Still Alfred hid his raptures from her view, Still touch'd the keys, those raptures to renew, And led her on to that sweet past'ral air, The Highland Laddie with the yellow hair. She caught the sound, and with the utmost ease Bade nature's music triumph, sure to please: Such truth, such warmth, such tenderness express'd, That my old heart was dancing in my breast. Upsprung the youth, "O Jennet, where's your hand? "There's not another girl in all the land, "If she could bring me empires, bring me sight, "Could give me such unspeakable delight: "You little baggage! not to tell before "That you could sing; mind - you go home no more." Thus I have seen her from my own fire-side Attain the utmost summit of her pride; For, from that singing hour, as time roll'd round, At the great house my Jennet might be found, And, while I watch'd her progress with delight, She had a father's blessing every night, And grew in knowledge at that moral school Till I began to guess myself a fool. Music! why she could play as well as he! At least I thought so, - but we'll let that be: She read the poets, grave and light, by turns, And talk'd of Cowper's "Task," and Robin Burns; Nay, read without a book, as I may say, As much as some could with in half a day. 'Twas thus I found they pass'd their happy time, In all their walks, when nature in her prime Spread forth her scents and hues, and whisper'd love And joy to every bird in every grove; And though their colours could not meet his eye, She pluck'd him flowers, then talk'd of poetry. Once on a sunbright morning, 'twas in June, I felt my spirits and my hopes in tune, And idly rambled forth, as if t' explore The little valley just before my door; Down by yon dark green oak I found a seat Beneath the clustering thorns, a snug retreat For poets, as I deem'd, who often prize Such holes and corners far from human eyes; I mark'd young Alfred, led by Jennet, stray Just to the spot, both chatting on their way: They came behind me, I was still unseen; He was the elder, Jennet was sixteen. My heart misgave me, lest I should be deem'd A prying listener, never much esteem'd, But this fear soon subsided, and I said, "I'll hear this blind lad and my little maid." That instant down she pluck'd a woodbine wreath, The loose leaves rattled on my head beneath; This was for Alfred, which he seized with joy, "O, thank you, Jennet," said the generous boy. Much was their talk, which many a theme supplied, As down they sat, for every blade was dried. I would have skulk'd away, but dare not move, "Besides," thought I, "they will not talk of love;" But I was wrong, for Alfred, with a sigh, A little tremulous, a little shy, But, with the tenderest accents, ask'd his guide A question which might touch both love and pride. "This morning, Jennet, why did you delay, "And talk to that strange clown upon your way, "Our homespun gardener? how can you bear "His screech-owl tones upon your perfect ear? "I cannot like that man, yet know not why, "He's surely quite as old again as I; "He's ignorant, and cannot be your choice, "And ugly too, I'm certain, by his voice, "Besides, he call'd you pretty." - "Well, what then? "I cannot hide my face from all the men; "Alfred, indeed, indeed, you are deceived, "He never spoke a word that I believed; "Nay, can he think that I would leave a home "Full of enjoyment, present, and to come, "While your dear mother's favours daily prove "How sweet the bonds of gratitude and love? "No, while beneath her roof I shall remain, "I'll never vex you, never give you pain." "Enough, my life," he cried, and up they sprung; By Heaven, I almost wish'd that I was young; It was a dainty sight to see them pass, Light as the July fawns upon the grass, Pure as the breath of spring when forth it spreads, Love in their hearts, and sunshine on their heads. Next day I felt what I was bound to do, To weigh the adventure well, and tell it too; For Alfred's mother must not be beguiled, He was her earthly hope, her only child; I had no wish, no right to pass it by, It might bring grief, perhaps calamity. She was the judge, and she alone should know Whether to check the flame or let it grow. I went with fluttering heart, and moisten'd eye, But strong in truth, and arm'd for her reply. "Well, master Bowman, why that serious face?" Exclaim'd the lovely dame, with such a grace, That had I knelt before her, I had been Not quite the simplest votary ever seen. I told my tale, and urged that well-known truth, That the soft passion in the bloom of youth Starts into power, and leads th' unconscious heart A chase where reason takes but little part; Nothing was more in nature, or more pure, And from their habits nothing was more sure. Whether the lady blush'd from pride or joy, I could but guess; - at length she said - "My boy Dropp'd not a syllable of this to me! What was I doing, that I could not see? Through all the anxious hours that I have known, His welfare still was dearer than my own; How have I mourn'd o'er his unhappy fate! Blind as he is! the heir to my estate! I now might break his heart, and Jennet's too; What must I, Bowman, or what can I do?" - "Do, madam?" said I, boldly, "if you trace "Impending degradation or disgrace "In this attachment, let us not delay; "Send my girl home, and check it while you may." "I will," she said, but the next moment sigh'd; Parental love was struggling hard with pride. I left her thus, deep musing, and soon found My daughter, for I traced her by the sound Of Alfred's flageolet; no cares had they, But in the garden bower spent half the day. By starts he sung, then wildest trillings made, To mock a piping blackbird in the glade. I turn'd a corner and approach'd the pair; My little rogue had roses in her hair! She whipp'd them out, and with a downcast look, Conquer'd a laugh by poring on her book. My object was to talk with her aside, But at the sight my resolution died; They look'd so happy in their blameless glee, That, as I found them, I e'en let them be; Though Jennet promised a few social hours 'Midst her old friends, my poultry, and my flowers. She came, - but not till fatal news had wrung Her heart through sleepless hours, and chain'd her tongue. She came, but with a look that gave me pain, For, though bright sunbeams sparkled after rain, Though every brood came round, half run, half fly, I knew her anguish by her alter'd eye; And strove, with all my power, where'er she came, To soothe her grief, yet gave it not a name. At length a few sad bitter tears she shed. And on both hands reclined her aching head. 'Twas then my time the conqueror to prove, I summon'd all my rhetoric, all my love. "Jennet, you must not think to pass through life "Without its sorrows, and without its strife; "Good, dutiful, and worthy, as you are, "You must have griefs, and you must learn to bear." Thus I went on, trite moral truths to string, - All chaff, mere chaff, where love has spread his wing: She cared not, listen'd not, nor seem'd to know What was my aim, but wiped her burning brow, Where sat more eloquence and living power Than language could embody in an hour. With soften'd tone I mention'd Alfred's name, His wealth, our poverty, and that sad blame Which would have weigh'd me down, had I not told The secret which I dare not keep for gold, Of Alfred's love, o'erheard the other morn. The gardener, and the woodbine, and the thorn; And added, "Though the lady sends you home, "You are but young, child, and a day may come" - "She has not sent me home," the girl replied, And rose with sobs of passion from my side; "She has not sent me home, dear father, no; "She gives me leave to tarry or to go; "She has not blamed me, - yet she weeps no less, "And every tear but adds to my distress; "I am the cause, - thus all that she has done "Will bring the death or misery of her son. "Jealous he might be, could he but have seen "How other lads approach'd where I have been; "But this man's voice offends his very soul, "That strange antipathy brooks no control; "And should I leave him now, or seem unkind, "The thought would surely wreck his noble mind; "To leave him thus, and in his utmost need! "Poor Alfred! then you will be blind indeed! "I will not leave him." - "Nay, child, do not rave, "What, would you be his menial, be his slave?" "Yes," she exclaim'd, and wiped each streaming eye, "Yes, be his slave, and serve him till I die; "He is too just to act the tyrant's part, "He's truth itself." O how my burthen'd heart Sigh'd for relief! - soon that relief was found; Without one word we traced the meadow round, Her feverish hand in mine, and weigh'd the case, Nor dared to look each other in the face; Till, with a sudden stop, as if from fear, I roused her sinking spirit, "Who comes here?" Down the green slope before us, glowing warm, Came Alfred, tugging at his mother's arm; Willing she seem'd, but he still led the way, She had not walk'd so fast for many a day; His hand was lifted, and his brow was bare, For now no clust'ring ringlets wanton'd there, He threw them back in anger and in spleen, And shouted "Jennet" o'er the daisied green. Boyish impatience strove with manly grace In ev'ry line and feature of his face; His claim appear'd resistless as his choice, And when he caught the sound of Jennet's voice, And when with spotless soul he clasp'd the maid, My heart exulted while my breath was staid. "Jennet, we must not part! return again; "What have I done to merit all this pain? "Dear mother, share my fortune with the poor, "Jennet is mine, and shall be - say no more; "Bowman, you know not what a friend I'll be; "Give me your daughter, Bowman, give her me; "Jennet, what will my days be if you go? "A dreary darkness, and a life of woe: "My dearest love, come home, and do not cry; "You are my daylight, Jennet, I shall die." To such appeals all prompt replies are cold, And stately prudence snaps her cobweb hold. Had the good widow tried, or wish'd to speak, This was a bond she could not, dared not break; Their hearts (you never saw their likeness, never) Were join'd, indissolubly join'd for ever. Why need I tell how soon our tears were dried. How Jennet blush'd, how Alfred with a stride Bore off his prize, and fancied every charm, And clipp'd against his ribs her trembling arm; How mute we seniors stood, our power all gone? Completely conquer'd, Love the day had won, And the young vagrant triumph'd in our plight, And shook his roguish plumes, and laugh'd outright. Yet, by my life and hopes, I would not part With this sweet recollection from my heart; I would not now forget that tender scene To wear a crown, or make my girl a queen. Why need be told how pass'd the months along, How sped the summer's walk, the winter's song, How the foil'd suitor all his hopes gave up, How Providence with rapture fill'd their cup? No dark regrets, no tragic scenes to prove, The gardener was too old to die for love. A thousand incidents I cast aside To tell but one - I gave away the bride - Gave the dear youth what kings could not have given; Then bless'd them both, and put my trust in Heaven. There the old neighbours laugh'd the night away, Who talk of Jennet's wedding to this day. And could you but have seen the modest grace, The half-hid smiles that play'd in Jennet's face, Or mark'd the bridegroom's bounding heart o'erflow, You might have wept for joy, as I could now: I speak from memory of days long past; Though 'tis a father's tale, I've done at last. *        *        *        *        * Here rest thee, rest thee, Muse, review the scene Where thou with me from peep of dawn hast been: We did not promise that this motley throng Should every one supply a votive song; Nor every tenant: - yet thou hast been kind, For untold tales must still remain behind, Which might o'er listening patience still prevail. Did fancy waver not, nor daylight fail. "The Soldier's Wife," her toils, his battles o'er, "Love in a Shower," the riv'let's sudden roar; Then, "Lines to Aggravation" form the close, Parent of murders, and the worst of woes. But while the changeful hours of daylight flew, Some homeward look'd, and talk'd of evening dew; Some watch'd the sun's decline, and stroll'd around, Some wish'd another dance, and partners found; When in an instant every eye was drawn To one bright object on the upper lawn; A fair procession from the mansion came, Unknown its purport, and unknown its aim. No gazer could refrain, no tongue could cease, It seem'd an embassy of love and peace. Nearer and nearer still approach'd the train, Age in the van transform'd to youth again. Sir Ambrose gazed, and scarce believed his eyes; 'Twas magic, memory, love, and blank surprise, For there his venerable lady wore The very dress which, sixty years before, Had sparkled on her sunshine bridal morn, Had sparkled, ay, beneath this very thorn! Her hair was snowy white, o'er which was seen, Emblem of what her bridal cheeks had been, A twin red rose - no other ornament Had pride suggested, or false feeling lent; She came to grace the triumph of her lord, And pay him honours at his festive board. Nine ruddy lasses follow'd where she stepp'd; White were their virgin robes, that lightly swept The downy grass; in every laughing eye Cupid had skulk'd, and written "victory." What heart on earth its homage could refuse? Each tripp'd, unconsciously, a blushing Muse. A slender chaplet of fresh blossoms bound Their clustering ringlets in a magic round. And, as they slowly moved across the green, Each in her beauty seem'd a May-day queen. The first a wreath bore in her outstretch'd hand, The rest a single rose upon a wand; Their steps were measured to that grassy throne Where, watching them, Sir Ambrose sat alone. They stopp'd, - when she, the foremost of the row, Curtsied, and placed the wreath upon his brow; The rest, in order pacing by his bower, In the loop'd wreath left each her single flower, - Then stood aside. - What broke the scene's repose? The whole assembly clapp'd their hands and rose. The Muses charm'd them as they form'd a ring, And look'd the very life and soul of Spring! But still the white hair'd dame they view'd with pride, Her love so perfect, and her truth so tried. Oh, sweet it is to hear, to see, to name, Unquench'd affection in the palsied frame - To think upon the boundless raptures past, And love, triumphant, conquering to the last! Silenced by feeling, vanquish'd by his tears, The host sprung up, nor felt the weight of years; Yet utterance found not, though in virtue's cause, But acclamations fill'd up nature's pause, Till, by one last and vigorous essay, His tide of feeling roll'd itself away; The language of delight its bondage broke, And many a warm heart bless'd him as he spoke. "Neighbours and friends, by long experience proved, "Pardon this weakness; I was too much moved: "My dame, you see, can youth and age insnare, "In vain I strove, 'twas more than I could bear, - "Yet hear me, - though the tyrant passions strive, "The words of truth, like leading stars, survive; "I thank you all, but will accomplish more - "Your verses shall not die as heretofore; "Your local tales shall not be thrown away, "Nor war remain the theme of every lay. "Ours is an humbler task, that may release "The high-wrought soul, and mould it into peace. "These pastoral notes some victor's ear may fill, "Breathed amidst blossoms, where the drum is still: "I purpose then to send them forth to try "The public patience, or its apathy. "The world shall see them; why should I refrain? "'Tis all the produce of my own domain. "Farewell!" he said, then took his lady's arm, On his shrunk hand her starting tears fell warm; Again he turn'd to view the happy crowd, And cried, "Good night, good night, good night," aloud, "Health to you all! for see, the evening closes," Then march'd to rest, beneath his crown of roses. "Happy old man! with feelings such as these, "The seasons all can charm, and trifles please." An instantaneous shout re-echoed round, 'Twas wine and gratitude inspired the sound: Some joyous souls resumed the dance again, The aged loiter'd o'er the homeward plain, And scatter'd lovers rambled through the park, And breathed their vows of honour in the dark; Others a festal harmony preferr'd, Still round the thorn the jovial song was heard; Dance, rhymes, and fame, they scorn'd such things as these, But drain'd the mouldy barrel to its lees, As if 'twere worse than shame to want repose: Nor was the lawn clear till the moon arose, And on each turret pour'd a brilliant gleam Of modest light, that trembled on the stream; The owl awoke, but dared not yet complain, And banish'd silence re-assumed her reign.

Leggett's Monument

John Greenleaf Whittier

Yes, pile the marble o'er him! It is well That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, And planted in the pathway of his life The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell, Who clamored down the bold reformer when He pleaded for his captive fellow-men, Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind In party chains the free and honest thought, The angel utterance of an upright mind, Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise The stony tribute of your tardy praise, For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame

In May

William Henry Davies

Yes, I will spend the livelong day With Nature in this month of May; And sit beneath the trees, and share My bread with birds whose homes are there; While cows lie down to eat, and sheep Stand to their necks in grass so deep; While birds do sing with all their might, As though they felt the earth in flight. This is the hour I dreamed of, when I sat surrounded by poor men; And thought of how the Arab sat Alone at evening, gazing at The stars that bubbled in clear skies; And of young dreamers, when their eyes Enjoyed methought a precious boon In the adventures of the Moon Whose light, behind the Clouds' dark bars, Searched for her stolen flocks of stars. When I, hemmed in by wrecks of men, Thought of some lonely cottage then, Full of sweet books; and miles of sea, With passing ships, in front of me; And having, on the other hand, A flowery, green, bird-singing land.

Fulfillment

Madison Julius Cawein

Yes, there are some who may look on these Essential peoples of the earth and air That have the stars and flowers in their care And all their soul-suggestive secrecies: Heart-intimates and comrades of the trees, Who from them learn, what no known schools declare, God's knowledge; and from winds, that discourse there, God's gospel of diviner mysteries: To whom the waters shall divulge a word Of fuller faith; the sunset and the dawn Preach sermons more inspired even than The tongues of Penticost; as, distant heard In forms of change, through Nature upward drawn, God doth address th' immortal soul of Man.

Song Of The Glee-Maiden

Walter Scott (Sir)

Yes, thou mayst sigh, And look once more at all around, At stream and bank, and sky and ground. Thy life its final course has found, And thou must die. Yes, lay thee down, And while thy struggling pulses flutter, Bid the grey monk his soul mass mutter, And the deep bell its death tone utter, Thy life is gone. Be not afraid. 'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill, A fever fit, and then a chill, And then an end of human ill, For thou art dead.

Sonnet LXX. To A Young Lady In Affliction, Who Fancied She Should Never More Be Happy.

Anna Seward

Yes, thou shalt smile again! - Time always heals In youth, the wounds of Sorrow. - O! survey Yon now subsided Deep, thro' Night a prey To warring Winds, and to their furious peals Surging tumultuous! - yet, as in dismay, The settling Billows tremble. - Morning steals Grey on the rocks; - and soon, to pour the day From the streak'd east, the radiant Orb unveils In all his pride of light. - Thus shall the glow Of beauty, health, and hope, by soft degrees Spread o'er thy breast; disperse these storms of woe; Wake, with sweet pleasure's sense, the wish to please, Till from those eyes the wonted lustres flow, Bright as the Sun on calm'd and crystal Seas.

The World's Convention Of The Friends Of Emancipation, Held In London In 1840

John Greenleaf Whittier

Yes, let them gather! Summon forth The pledged philanthropy of Earth. From every land, whose hills have heard The bugle blast of Freedom waking; Or shrieking of her symbol-bird From out his cloudy eyrie breaking: Where Justice hath one worshipper, Or truth one altar built to her; Where'er a human eye is weeping O'er wrongs which Earth's sad children know; Where'er a single heart is keeping Its prayerful watch with human woe: Thence let them come, and greet each other, And know in each a friend and brother! Yes, let them come! from each green vale Where England's old baronial halls Still bear upon their storied walls The grim crusader's rusted mail, Battered by Paynim spear and brand On Malta's rock or Syria's sand.! And mouldering pennon-staves once set Within the soil of Palestine, By Jordan and Gennesaret; Or, borne with England's battle line, O'er Acre's shattered turrets stooping, Or, midst the camp their banners drooping, With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, A holier summons now is given Than that gray herinit's voice of old, Which unto all the winds of heaven The banners of the Cross unrolled! Not for the long-deserted shrine; Not for the dull unconscious sod, Which tells not by one lingering sign That there the hope of Israel trod; But for that truth, for which alone In pilgrim eyes are sanctified The garden moss, the mountain stone, Whereon His holy sandals pressed, The fountain which His lip hath blessed, Whate'er hath touched His garment's hem At Bethany or Bethlehem, Or Jordan's river-side. For Freedom in the name of Him Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor, To break the chain from every limb, The bolt from every prison door! For these, o'er all the earth hath passed An ever-deepening trumpet blast, As if an angel's breath had lent Its vigor to the instrument. And Wales, from Snowrich's mountain wall, Shall startle at that thrilling call, As if she heard her bards again; And Erin's "harp on Tara's wall" Give out its ancient strain, Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal, The melody which Erin loves, When o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of gladness And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness, The hand of her O'Connell moves! Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill, And mountain hold, and heathery hill, Shall catch and echo back the note, As if she heard upon the air Once more her Cameronian's prayer. And song of Freedom float. And cheering echoes shall reply From each remote dependency, Where Britain's mighty sway is known, In tropic sea or frozen zone; Where'er her sunset flag is furling, Or morning gun-fire's smoke is curling; From Indian Bengal's groves of palm And rosy fields and gales of balm, Where Eastern pomp and power are rolled Through regal Ava's gates of gold; And from the lakes and ancient woods And dim Canadian solitudes, Whence, sternly from her rocky throne, Queen of the North, Quebec looks down; And from those bright and ransomed Isles Where all unwonted Freedom smiles, And the dark laborer still retains The scar of slavery's broken chains! From the hoar Alps, which sentinel The gateways of the land of Tell, Where morning's keen and earliest glance On Jura's rocky wall is thrown, And from the olive bowers of France And vine groves garlanding the Rhone, "Friends of the Blacks," as true and tried As those who stood by Oge's side, And heard the Haytien's tale of wrong, Shall gather at that summons strong; Broglie, Passy, and he whose song Breathed over Syria's holy sod, And in the paths which Jesus trod, And murmured midst the hills which hem Crownless and sad Jerusalem, Hath echoes whereso'er the tone Of Israel's prophey-lyre is known. Still let them come; from Quito's walls, And from the Orinoco's tide, From Lima's Inca-haunted halls, From Santa Fe and Yucatan, Men who by swart Guerrero's side Proclaimed the deathless rights of man, Broke every bond and fetter off, And hailed in every sable serf A free and brother Mexican! Chiefs who across the Andes' chain Have followed Freedom's flowing pennon, And seen on Junin's fearful plain, Glare o'er the broken ranks of Spain The fire-burst of Bolivar's cannon! And Hayti, from her mountain land, Shall send the sons of those who hurled Defiance from her blazing strand, The war-gage from her Petition's hand, Alone against a hostile world. Nor all unmindful, thou, the while, Land of the dark and mystic Nile! Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame All tyrants of a Christian name, When in the shade of Gizeh's pile, Or, where, from Abyssinian hills El Gerek's upper fountain fills, Or where from Mountains of the Moon El Abiad bears his watery boon, Where'er thy lotus blossoms swim Within their ancient hallowed waters; Where'er is heard the Coptic hymn, Or song of Nubia's sable daughters; The curse of slavery and the crime, Thy bequest from remotest time, At thy dark Mehemet's decree Forevermore shall pass from thee; And chains forsake each captive's limb Of all those tribes, whose hills around Have echoed back the cymbal sound And victor horn of Ibrahim. And thou whose glory and whose crime To earth's remotest bound and clime, In mingled tones of awe and scorn, The echoes of a world have borne, My country! glorious at thy birth, A day-star flashing brightly forth, The herald-sign of Freedom's dawn! Oh, who could dream that saw thee then, And watched thy rising from afar, That vapors from oppression's fen Would cloud the upward tending star? Or, that earth's tyrant powers, which heard, Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawning, Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king, To mock thee with their welcoming, Like Hades when her thrones were stirred To greet the down-east Star of Morning! "Aha! and art thou fallen thus? Art thou become as one of us?" Land of my fathers! there will stand, Amidst that world-assembled band, Those owning thy maternal claim Unweakened by thy crime and shame; The sad reprovers of thy wrong; The children thou hast spurned so long. Still with affection's fondest yearning To their unnatural mother turning. No traitors they! but tried and leal, Whose own is but thy general weal, Still blending with the patriot's zeal The Christian's love for human kind, To caste and climate unconfined. A holy gathering! peaceful all: No threat of war, no savage call For vengeance on an erring brother! But in their stead the godlike plan To teach the brotherhood of man To love and reverence one another, As sharers of a common blood, The children of a common God! Yet, even at its lightest word, Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred: Spain, watching from her Moro's keep Her slave-ships traversing the deep, And Rio, in her strength and pride, Lifting, along her mountain-side, Her snowy battlements and towers, Her lemon-groves and tropic bowers, With bitter hate and sullen fear Its freedom-giving voice shall hear; And where my country's flag is flowing, On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing, Above the Nation's council halls, Where Freedom's praise is loud and long, While close beneath the outward walls The driver plies his reeking thong; The hammer of the man-thief falls, O'er hypocritic cheek and brow The crimson flush of shame shall glow And all who for their native land Are pledging life and heart and hand, Worn watchers o'er her changing weal, Who for her tarnished honor feel, Through cottage door and council-hall Shall thunder an awakening call. The pen along its page shall burn With all intolerable scorn; An eloquent rebuke shall go On all the winds that Southward blow; From priestly lips, now sealed and dumb, Warning and dread appeal shall come, Like those which Israel heard from him, The Prophet of the Cherubim; Or those which sad Esaias hurled Against a sin-accursed world! Its wizard leaves the Press shall fling Unceasing from its iron wing, With characters inscribed thereon, As fearful in the despot's hall As to the pomp of Babylon The fire-sign on the palace wall! And, from her dark iniquities, Methinks I see my country rise: Not challenging the nations round To note her tardy justice done; Her captives from their chains unbound, Her prisons opening to the sun: But tearfully her arms extending Over the poor and unoffending; Her regal emblem now no longer A bird of prey with talons reeking, Above the dying captive shrieking, But, spreading out her ample wing, A broad, impartial covering, The weaker sheltered by the stronger! Oh, then to Faith's anointed eyes The promised token shall be given; And on a nation's sacrifice, Atoning for the sin of years, And wet with penitential tears, The fire shall fall from Heaven

The Screen In The Lumber Room.

Henry Austin Dobson

Yes, here it is, behind the box, That puzzle wrought so neatly-- That paradise of paradox-- We once knew so completely; You see it? 'Tis the same, I swear, Which stood, that chill September, Beside your aunt Lavinia's chair The year when ... You remember? Look, Laura, look! You must recall This florid "Fairy's Bower," This wonderful Swiss waterfall, And this old "Leaning Tower;" And here's the "Maiden of Cashmere," And here is Bewick's "Starling," And here the dandy cuirassier You thought was "such a Darling!" Your poor dear Aunt! you know her way, She used to say this figure Reminded her of Count D'Orsay "In all his youthful vigour;" And here's the "cot beside the hill" We chose for habitation, The day that ... But I doubt if still You'd like the situation! Too damp--by far! She little knew, Your guileless Aunt Lavinia, Those evenings when she slumbered through "The Prince of Abyssinia," That there were two beside her chair Who both had quite decided To see things in a rosier air Than Rasselas provided! Ah! men wore stocks in Britain's land, And maids short waists and tippets, When this old-fashioned screen was planned From hoarded scraps and snippets; But more--far more, I think--to me Than those who first designed it, Is this--in Eighteen Seventy-Three I kissed you first behind it.