With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the power that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts.
The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease;
And, like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say “Peace!”
Peace! And no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of war’s great organ shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals
The holy melodies of love arise.
ALL.
BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.
Francis A. Durivage was born at Boston in 1814 and engaged early in
journalistic work, writing for the magazines as well. He won
considerable reputation with a series of humorous articles signed “Old
Un.” He wrote a great many poems of serious as well as of light
character, and several plays. He published “Cyclopedia of Biography,”
“The Fatal Casket,” “Life Scenes from the World Around Us,” was part
translator of Lamartine’s “History of the Revolution of 1848,” and
co-author of “Stray Subjects.” He died in New York city in 1881.
[“_I know of no finer poem of its length_.”—_Bayard Taylor_.]
There hangs a saber, and there a rein,
With a rusty buckle and green curb chain;
A pair of spurs on the old gray wall,
And a mouldy saddle—well, that is all.
Come out to the stable—it is not far;
The moss grown door is hanging ajar.
Look within! There’s an empty stall,
Where once stood a charger, and that is all.
The good black horse came riderless home,
Flecked with blood drops as well as foam;
See yonder hillock where dead leaves fall;
The good black horse pined to death—that’s all.
All? O, God! it is all I can speak.
Question me not—I am old and weak;
His saber and his saddle hang on the wall,
And his horse pined to death—I have told you all.
LIFE.
BY MRS. A. L. BARBAULD.
Anna Letitia Barbauld, the daughter of the Rev. John Aiken, was born at
Kilworth-Harcourt, in Leicestershire, 1743. She married the Rev.
Rochemond Barbauld. A poet as well as an essayist, she wrote “Poems,”
“Hymns in Prose for Children,” “The Female Spectator,” and “Eighteen
Hundred and Eleven.” She died at Stoke Newington in 1825.
Life! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;
And when, or how, or where we met
I own to me ’s a secret yet.
Life! we’ve been long together
Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;
’Tis hard to part when friends are dear—
Perhaps ’t will cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time;
Say not “Good night,” but in some brighter clime
Bid me “Good morning.”
THE DAFFODILS.
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
I wandered, lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretch’d in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;
A poet could not but be gay
In such jocund company!
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth to me the show had brought;
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
SONG ON MAY MORNING.
BY JOHN MILTON.
John Milton was born at London in 1608. At 16 he went to Christ’s
College, Cambridge, and there wrote his “Ode on the Nativity” (1629).
During the Long Parliament Milton wrote many political pamphlets
attacking the Episcopacy, and later, when Charles I. had been executed,
he answered the “Eikon Basilike” of Gauden with his famous
“Eikonoclastes.” At home Milton suffered through the neglect and
impatience of his daughters, who, on account of his blindness, were the
unwilling amanuenses, of “Paradise Lost,” and “Paradise Regained.”
Besides these epic poems are “L’Allegro,” “Il Penseroso,” “Comus,” and
“Lycidas,” all of which were written between 1634–’37. He died in 1674.
Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing;
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
GROUNDS OF THE TERRIBLE.
BY HAROLD BEGBIE.
The death is announced of First Class Petty Officer Grounds of H. M. S.
Terrible, the best shot with a heavy gun in the British navy. Grounds’
wages were 3 shillings per day, and for the unparalleled achievement of
making eight shots in one minute in 1901 with the six-inch gun, and seven
hits out of eight rounds in one minute under most unfavorable weather
conditions in 1902, he received in all the magnificent remuneration of 1
shilling 9 pence, and 6 shillings 3 pence in the two years, “his proper
share of prize money.”
_The statesman at the council_, _and the gunner at the breech_:
_The hand upon the parchment and the eye along the sight_:
_O_, _the cry is on the waters_: _Have ye weighed the worth of each_?
_Have ye shown a mandate stronger than ability to smite_?
He was the best with a heavy gun in the whole o’ the British fleet,
And the run of his pay? Three shillin’s a day, with biscuit and
salted meat.
He was the man who could pitch his shell on a mark that was never
still
Eight times true while a minute flew, and parliament whittled the
bill;
He was a man who could soothe a gun in the race of a swirling tide,
Who could chime his shots with the charging knots of a ship with a
dripping side,
Who could get to his mark from a dancing deck that never a moment
stood,
Content to hear, for a Bisley cheer, a midshipman’s muttered “Good!”
Never his eye will steady now thro’ the spray and the whistling rain,
To loose the scream from the foaming lips and splinter the mark in
twain;
Never again will he win his share in the prize that my lords assign—
Six-and-three in a single year, and once—it was one-and-nine!
Never again! He has fired the last of the shells that the state
allowed,
He has turned from the roar of the six-inch bore to the hush of the
hammock shroud,
And never a bell in England tolled, and who was it caught his breath
When the Shot o’ the Fleet first dipped his feet in the flooding ford
of Death?
Gladder, I think, would the gunner’s soul have passed thro’ the
closing dark
Had he known that ye cared with patriot joy when the navy hit the
mark;
Gladder, I think, would the gunner’s soul have passed to the farther
shore
Had the Mother Land once gripped his hand, and uttered the pride she
bore.
Gold is the prize that all men seek, tho’ the mark be honor and fame;
Declare: Have ye spurned by a gift or a word the Terrible gunners’
aim?
Will ye care to know what the men can do when the hosts of hate
embark?
What of your sons at the old sea guns?—have ye cared if they hit the
mark?
IN THE GRAVEYARD.
BY MACDONALD CLARKE.
Macdonald Clarke was born at New London, Conn., in 1798. On account of
his many eccentricities he gained the name of the “Mad Poet.” His poems
have been collected under the titles of “A Review of the Eve of Eternity
and Other Poems,” “The Elixir of Moonshine, by the Mad Poet,” “The
Gossip,” “Poetic Sketches,” and “The Belles of Broadway.” He died in
1842.
’Mid the half-lit air, and the lonely place,
Rose the buried Pleasures of perish’d years.
I saw the Past, with her pallid face,
Whose smiles had turned to tears.
On many a burial stone,
I read the names of beings once known,
Who oft in childish glee,
Had jumped across the graves with me—
Sported, many a truant day,
Where—now their ashes lay.
There the dead Poet had been placed,
Who died in the dawn of thought—
And there, the girl whose virtues graced
The lines his love had wrought—
Beauty’s power, and Talent’s pride,
And Passion’s fever, early chill’d
The heart that felt, the eye that thrill’d,
All, the dazzling dreams of each,
Faded, out of Rapture’s reach.
O, when they trifled, on this spot,
Not long ago,
Little they thought, ’twould be their lot,
So soon to lie here lone and low,
’Neath a chilly coverlid of clay,
And few or none to go
’Mid the glimmering dusk of a summer day,
To the dim place where they lay,
And pause and pray,
And think how little worth,
Is all that frets our hearts on earth.
The sun had sunk, and the summer skies
Were dotted with specks of light,
That melted soon, in the deep moon-rise,
That flowed over Croton Height.
For the Evening, in her robe of white,
Smiled o’er sea and land, with pensive eyes,
Saddening the heart, like the first fair night,
After a loved one dies.
BONNY DUNDEE.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
To the lords of convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke,
“Ere the king’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke;
So let each cavalier who loves honor and me
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
“Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
Come open the West Port and let me gang free,
And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.”
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
But the provost, douce man, said, “Just e’en let him be,
The gude town is weel quit of the deil of Dundee.”
With sour featured whigs the Grassmarket was crammed,
As if half the west had set tryst to be hanged;
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee,
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
And lang hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;
And they shrunk to close heads, and the causeway was free,
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
“Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks—
Ere I own an usurper, I’ll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false whigs, in the midst of your glee;
You have not seen the last of my bonnets and me.”
BORDER BALLAD.
BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale
All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the border.
Many a banner spread
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory.
Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding,
War steeds are bounding;
Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order,
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.
TO THE DANDELION.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
This poem, like Bryant’s “Waterfowl,” like many of Longfellow’s, speaks
of the objects of nature in a reflective, almost religious tone,
portraying the love of our American poets for “these living pages of
God’s book.”
Dear common flower, that grow’st beside the way,
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold,
First pledge of blithesome May,
Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold,
High hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they
An El Dorado in the grass have found,
Which not the rich earth’s ample round
May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer blooms may be.
Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas,
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age to rob the lover’s heart of ease;
’Tis the spring’s largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand,
Though most hearts never understand
To take it at God’s value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye,
Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
The eyes thou givest
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time.
Not in mid-June the gold cuirassed bee
Feels a more summerlike warm ravishment
In the white lily’s breezy tent,
His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first
From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
How like a prodigal doth nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show,
Did we but pay the love we owe.
And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look,
On all these pages of God’s book.
THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT.
BY RICHARD GARNETT.
This poem has passed in American books of selections as having been
written by an unknown “R. Garrett,” this being mainly the consequence of
an error in editing the little book called “Sea and Shore,” some twenty
years ago. It now, however, appears as the work of a man dear to many
Americans, Dr. Richard Garnett, late of the British Museum.
The stream was smooth as glass. We said: “Arise, and let’s away.”
The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay,
And spread the sail and strong the oar, we gayly took our way.
When shall the sandy bar be crost? When shall we find the bay?
The broadening flood swells slowly out o’er cattle dotted plains;
The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains;
The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away.
When shall the sandy bar be crost? When shall we find the bay?
Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large,
Slow as an oak to woodman’s stroke, sinks flaming at their marge;
The waves are bright with mirror’d light as jacinths on our way.
When shall the sandy bar be crost? When shall we find the bay?
The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see
The spreading river’s either bank, and surging distantly
There booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away;
Now shall the sandy bar be crost, now shall we find the bay!
The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight
The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night.
We’ll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay,
When once the sandy bar is crost and we are in the bay.
What rises white and awful as a shroud enfolded ghost?
What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast?
Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away.
O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?
NEARER HOME.
BY PHOEBE CARY.
Phoebe Cary, sister of Alice Cary, was born in Hamilton County, near
Cincinnati, Sept. 24, 1824; died in Newport, R. I., July 31, 1871. Her
educational advantages were superior to those of Alice, whose constant
companion she was through life. “Nearer Home” was written when she was
18 years old. Intense sorrow for her sister, whom she survived,
doubtless hastened her death.
One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o’er and o’er;
I’m nearer my home today
Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father’s house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads us at length to the light.
Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm;
Closer Death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism.
O, if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even today than I think;
Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith!
THE TIGER.
BY WILLIAM BLAKE.
William Blake was born at London in 1757; he died there in 1827. He is
well known among children for his “Songs of Innocence.” Other of his
works are: “Book of Thel,” the “Marriage of Heaven and Earth,” “Gates of
Paradise,” “Songs of Experience.” He was also a painter and an engraver,
and among his best work in that line are his illustrations to Blair’s
“Grave,” and to the book of Job.
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thine heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
ANNABEL LEE.
BY EDGAR ALLAN POE.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulcher
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulcher there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
TODAY.
BY THOMAS CARLYLE.
So here hath been dawning another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?
Out of eternity this new day is born;
Into eternity at night will return.
Behold it aforetime no eye ever did;
So soon it forever from all eyes is hid.
Here hath been dawning another blue day;
Think, wilt thou let it slip useless away?
MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE
BY LORD BYRON.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But before I go, Tom Moore,
Here’s a double health to thee!
Here’s a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s a heart for every fate!
Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.
Were’t the last drop in the well,
As I gasp’d upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
’T is to thee that I would drink.
With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be—Peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!
INDIAN SUMMER.
BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
From gold to gray
Our mild, sweet day
Of Indian summer fades too soon;
But tenderly
Above the sea
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter’s moon.
In its pale fire
The village spire
Shows like the zodiac’s spectral lance;
The painted walls
Whereon it falls
Transfigured stand in marble trance!
SCOTS WHA HAE.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
A friend of Burns states this stirring poem was written during a
frightful storm in the wilds of Glenken, in Galloway. It was written in
September, 1793.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lour;
See approach proud Edward’s pow’r—
Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s king and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa’,
Let him follow me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do or die!
JERUSALEM, THE GOLDEN.
TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN, BY JOHN M. NEALE.
Jerusalem, the golden,
With milk and honey blest!
Beneath thy contemplation
Sink heart and voice oppressed;
I know not, Oh, I know not,
What joys await me there,
What radiancy of glory,
What bliss beyond compare.
They stand, those halls of Zion,
All jubilant with song,
And bright with many an angel,
And all the martyr throng;
The Prince is ever in them,
The daylight is serene;
The pastures of the blessed
Are decked in glorious sheen.
There is the throne of David;
And there, from care released,
The shout of them that triumph,
The song of them that feast:
And they who, with their Leader,
Have conquered in the fight
Forever and forever
Are clad in robes of white.
MISCONCEPTIONS.
BY ROBERT BROWNING.
This is a spray the Bird clung to,
Making it blossom with pleasure,
Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,
Fit for her nest and her treasure.
Oh, what a hope beyond measure
Was the poor spray’s which the flying feet hung to,—
So to be singled out, built in and sung to!
This is a heart the Queen leant on
Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,
Meet for love’s regal dalmatic.
Oh what a fancy ecstatic
Was the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on—
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
BY ROBERT BURNS.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.
BY LORD BYRON.
_Zoè mou sas agapo_.
(_My life_, _I love thee_.)
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Or, since that has left my breast,
Keep it now and take the rest!
Hear my vow before I go,
Zoè mou sas agapo.
By those tresses unconfined,
Woo’d by each Ægean wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes like the roe,
Zoè mou sas agapo.
By that lip I long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell
What words can never speak so well;
By love’s alternate joy and woe,
Zoè mou sas agapo.
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can I cease to love thee? No!
Zoè mou sas agapo.
TO CELIA.
BEN JONSON.
Ben Jonson was born about the year 1573, at Westminster. Little is known
about his early life, but in 1597 he is found playing and writing for
“The Admiral’s Men,” and later for the “Lord Chamberlain’s Servants.”
Afterwards he stood in great favor at court, and wrote many of his best
plays during that time—the “Alchemist,” “Catiline,” “Bartholomew Fair,”
and “Epicoene.” He died in 1637, after several years of illness, which
affected his wit and brilliancy in such a manner that many of his later
plays were not heard to the end. He is buried in Westminster Abbey. He
also wrote some prose and some of the most beautiful lyrics of the
English language.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Not of itself but thee.
A LOVER’S QUARREL.
BY AUSTIN DOBSON.
NELLIE.