Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight of his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,
And with a look made all of sweet accord,
Answer’d, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellowmen.”
The angel wrote and vanish’d. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show’d the names whom love of God had bless’d,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
BUGLE SONG.
BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
This poem is one of the lyrics from the “Princess,” yet there is so
little connection between the story and these five or six charming songs
embedded within the mock heroic poem that one does not think of them as
part of the medley.
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
OPPORTUNITY.
BY JOHN J. INGALLS.
John James Ingalls was born in Massachusetts in 1833 and was graduated
from Williams College in 1853. He was admitted to the bar in 1857, and
removed to Atchison, Kas., in 1859. He took an active interest in the
exciting Kansas politics, and, besides serving as a delegate to the
Wyandotte convention that framed the State constitution, he served as
secretary to the Territorial Council. In 1862 he was a State Senator.
He edited the Atchison Champion for three years and served in the State
militia. In 1873 he was elected to the United States Senate, and then
began his remarkably brilliant political career. After serving twenty
years he was retired by the political revolution in his State. As an
orator he held high rank. He frequently contributed to the leading
magazines and reviews. He died about two years ago.
Master of human destinies am I.
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait,
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by
Hovel, and mart, and palace, soon or late
I knock unbidden once at every gate!
If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before
I turn away. It is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore—
I answer not, and I return no more.
MIGNON’S SONG FROM “WILHELM MEISTER.”
“After having sung the song a second time, she paused for a moment,
and, attentively surveying Wilhelm, she asked him, ‘Know’st thou the
land?’ ‘It must be Italy!’ he replied.”—Wilhelm Meister’s
Apprenticeship.
Know’st thou the land where the lemon tree blows—
Where deep in the bower the gold orange grows?
Where zephyrs from heaven die softly away,
And the laurel and myrtle tree never decay?
Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee,
My dearest, my fondest! with thee would I flee.
Know’st thou the hall with its pillared arcades,
Its chambers so vast and its long colonnades?
Where the statues of marble with features so mild
Ask “Why have they used thee so harshly, my child?”
Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee,
My guide, my protector! with thee would I flee.
Know’st thou the Alp which the vapor enshrouds,
Where the bold muleteer seeks his way thro’ the clouds?
In the cleft of the mountain the dragon abides,
And the rush of the stream tears the rock from its sides;
Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee,
Leads our way, father—then come, let us flee.
PSALM LXXXIV.
How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts!
My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth for the courts of the Lord; my
heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God.
Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for
herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of
hosts, my King and my God.
Blessed are they that dwell in thy house; they will be still praising
thee. Selah.
Blessed is the man whose strength is in thee; in whose heart are the
ways of them.
Who, passing through the valley of Baca, make it a well; the rain also
filleth the pools.
They go from strength to strength; every one of them in Zion appeareth
before God.
O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob. Selah.
Behold, O God our shield, and look upon the face of thine anointed.
For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a
doorkeeper in the house of my God than to dwell in the tents of
wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and
glory; no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.
O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.
THANATOPSIS.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
This imperishable poem was written by William Cullen Bryant when he was
18 years old. It was sent to the North American Review either by the
poet or his father. Richard Henry Dana of the Review supposed the writer
to be some one of international repute. The poet’s father was then a
member of the Massachusetts senate. Dana went to the statehouse to call
on him, but the appearance of Dr. Bryant seemed to satisfy Dana that he
must look elsewhere for the author, and so he returned to Cambridge
without an interview with the senator. Later he learned that the author
was the doctor’s son.
To him who, in the love of nature, holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness and a smile
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart,
Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding Sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements;
To be a brother to the insensible rock,
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.
Yet not to thine eternal resting place
Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods; rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks,
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there!
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone!
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men—
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray headed man—
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES.
BY FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON.
Francis William Bourdillon was born in Woolbeding in 1852. Re received
his education at Worcester College, Oxford, and was afterwards a private
tutor to the sons of the Prince and Princess Christian. A few of his
published works are, “Among the Flowers and Other Poems,” 1874; “Ailes
d’Alouette,” 1891; “A Lost God,” 1892; and “Sursum Corda,” 1893.
The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.
The mind has a thousand eyes,
And the heart but one;
Yet the light of a whole life dies
When love is done.
THE HERITAGE.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
The rich man’s son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft, white hands,
And tender flesh that fears the cold,
Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man’s son inherits cares;
The bank may break, the factory burn,
A breath may burst his bubble shares;
And soft, white hands could scarcely earn
A living that would serve his turn;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man’s son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare,
And wearies in his easy chair;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man’s son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart,
A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands, he does his part
In every useful toil and art;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man’s son inherit?
Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things,
A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit,
Content that from employment springs.
A heart that in his labor sings;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man’s son inherit?
A patience learned of being poor;
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it.
A fellow-feeling that is sure
To make the outcast bless his door;
A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
O, rich man’s son! there is a toil
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil,
But only whiten, soft white hands—
This is the best crop from thy lands;
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
O, poor man’s son! scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine,
In merely being rich and great;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
And makes rest fragrant and benign—
A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being poor to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod,
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God,
Prove title to your heirship vast
By record of a well filled past—
A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.
A DITTY.
BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
My true love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one to the other given;
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss,
There never was a better bargain driven;
My true love hath my heart and I have his.
His heart in me keeps him and me in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own,
I cherish his because in me it bides:
My true love hath my heart and I have his.
PSALM CXXI.
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.
My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.
He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not
slumber.
Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.
The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.
The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall preserve thy
soul.
The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time
forth and even for evermore.
THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.
BY FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.
Francis Scott Key was born in Frederick County, Maryland, in 1780. He
was the author of a volume of poems published in 1857, but the poem that
will keep him alive in the memory of the nation is his “Star Spangled
Banner.” This poem was written on shipboard during the war of 1812,
while the English were bombarding Fort McHenry. Mr. Key died at
Baltimore in 1843.
O! say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars thro’ the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there;
O! say, does that star spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On that shore, dimly seen thro’ the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream;
’Tis the star spangled banner, O, long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution;
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave.
And the star spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation;
Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the heav’n-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto, “In God is our trust.”
And the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
FROM “IN MEMORIAM.”
BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
O, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroyed,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain,
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shriveled in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another’s gain.
* * *
So runs my dream: But what am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light;
And with no language but a cry.
The wish that of the living whole
No life may fail beyond the grave,
Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?
Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;
That I, considering everywhere
Her secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs
That slope thro’ darkness up to God
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.
MARY’S DREAM.
BY JOHN LOWE.
John Lowe, the author of this poem, was born at Kenmure, parish of Kells,
Kircudbrightshire, Scotland, in 1750. His father was a gardener, and at
the age of 14 John was apprenticed to a weaver, but in 1771 he was
enabled to go to the University of Edinburgh. Later he entered the
family of Mr. McGhie of Airds, whose house was located on an elevated
piece of ground washed by the Dee and Ken, a spot reverenced by Lowe for
its beauty. Within the grounds he erected a rural seat environed with
honeysuckle, woodbine, and other shrubs, which is known to this day as
“Lowe’s Seat,” and there he composed many of his most beautiful verses.
The moon had climbed the highest hill
That rises o’er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed
Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,
Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea;
When, soft and low, a voice was heard,
Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me.”
She from her pillow gently raised
Her head to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale and hollow e’e.
“O, Mary dear, cold is my clay,
It lies beneath a stormy sea;
Far, far from thee I sleep in death,
So, Mary, weep no more for me.
“Three stormy nights and stormy days
We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our barque to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,
My heart was filled with love for thee.
The storm is past and I at rest,
So, Mary, weep no more for me.
“O, maiden dear, thyself prepare!
We soon shall meet upon that shore
Where love is free from doubt and care,
And thou and I shall part no more!”
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled;
No more of Sandy could she see,
But soft the passing spirit said,
“Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!”
ON A BUST OF DANTE.
BY T. W. PARSONS.
Thomas William Parsons was born at Boston in 1818. He spent the greater
part of his life in Europe. In 1867 he translated Dante’s “Inferno.” In
1854 he published, under the title “Ghetto di Roma,” a collection of his
poems. He died at Scituate, Mass., in 1892.
See, from his counterfeit of him
Whom Arno shall remember long,
How stern of lineament, how grim,
The father was of Tuscan song!
There but the burning sense of wrong,
Perpetual care and scorn abide;
Small friendship for the lordly throng;
Distrust of all the world beside.
Faithful if this wan image be,
No dream his life was, but a fight;
Could any Beatrice see
A lover in that anchorite?
To that cold Ghibeline’s gloomy sight
Who could have guessed the visions came
Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?
The lips as Cumæ’s cavern close,
The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,
The rigid front, almost morose,
But for the patient hope within,
Declare a life whose course hath been
Unsullied still, though still severe;
Which, through the wavering days of sin,
Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.
Peace dwells not here—this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;
The sullen warrior sole we trace,
The marble man of many woes.
Such was his mien when first arose
The thought of that strange tale divine,
When hell he peopled with his foes,
The scourge of many a guilty line.
BALLAD OF OLD TIME LADIES.
BY FRANÇOIS VILLON.
This ballad, of which we give Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s translation, was
written by Villon in 1450. There are many translations of the poems of
that beggar, poet, thief—that first lucid poet of France. Andrew Lang
has interpreted him in one way, John Payne in another. The following
translation is, perhaps, the happiest of this particular poem, though the
ballad cannot but lose some of its spirit in an English rendering.
Tell me, now, in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais—
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,
Only heard on river and mere—
She whose beauty was more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Where’s Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen
Who willed that Buridan should steer,
Sewed in a sack’s mouth, down the Seine?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies
With a voice like any mermaiden—
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,
And Ermengarde, the lady of the Maine—
And that good Joan, whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed, and burned her there—
Mother of God, where are they, then?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword—
But where are the snows of yesteryear?
SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN.
BY ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.
Mr. Hawker was a clergyman, born at Plymouth, England, in 1804, and died
there in 1875. He was educated at Oxford and became a noted figure in
the church. He was a stalwart and heroic character. In 1834 he became
vicar of a lonely parish on the Cornwall coast. His “Echoes From Old
Cornwall” appeared in 1845; “Cornish Ballads” in 1869. Shortly before
his death he joined the Roman Catholic Church.
A good sword and a trusty hand!
And merry heart and true!
King James’ men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawney die?
Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!
Out spake their Captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he;
“If London Tower were Michael’s hold,
We’ll set Trelawney free!
“We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay;
With ‘one and all’ and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?
“And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth! Come forth, ye cowards all,
Here’s men as good as you!
“Trelawney he’s in keep and hold,
Trelawney he may die;
But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold,
Will know the reason why!”
THE SHEPHERDESS.
BY ALICE MEYNELL.
Mrs. Meynell is considered by many critics as the most elegant poet in
England at this present time. She has written, besides several volumes
of verse, two or three books of essays: “The Color of Life,” “The Rhythm
of Life,” and “The Children.”
She walks—the lady of my delight—
A shepherdess of sheep.
Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;
She guards them from the steep.
She feeds them on the fragrant height,
And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright,
Dark valleys safe and deep.
Into her tender breast at night
The chastest stars may peep.
She walks—the lady of my delight—
A shepherdess of sheep.
She holds her little thoughts in sight,
Though gay they run and leap.
She is so circumspect and right;
She has her soul to keep.
She walks—the lady of my delight—
A shepherdess of sheep.
INVICTUS.
BY W. E. HENLEY.
William Ernest Henley was born in England about 1850. In 1888 he became
editor of the Scots Observer, and in the same year published his first
volume of poems—“A Book of Verses.” He is a writer and a critic as well
as a poet.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud;
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow’d.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how straight the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.