Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden’s breast,
Parted forever?
Where through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,
Under the willow.
There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving.
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted forever,
Never again to wake,
Never, O, never!
Where shall the traitor rest,
He, the deceiver,
Who could win maiden’s breast,
Ruin and leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war’s rattle
With groans of the dying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap,
O’er the false hearted.
His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
E’er life be parted.
Shame and dishonor sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it—
Never, O, never!
THE GRASS.
BY EMILY DICKINSON.
The grass so little has to do—
A sphere of simple green,
With only butterflies to brood,
And bees to entertain,
And stir all day to pretty tunes
The breezes fetch along,
And hold the sunshine in its lap
And bow to everything;
And thread the dews all night, like pearls,
And make itself so fine—
A duchess were too common
For such a noticing.
And even when it dies, to pass
In odors so divine,
As lowly spices gone to sleep,
Or amulets of pine.
And then to dwell in sovereign barns,
And dream the days away—
The grass so little has to do,
I wish I were the hay!
THE WIDOW MALONE.
BY CHARLES LEVER.
Charles James Lever was born at Dublin in 1806. He was a graduate of
Trinity College, Dublin, and afterwards became a physician, as well as a
journalist, and the editor of the Dublin University Magazine. He was
consul at Spezzia in 1858, and later at Trieste, where he died in 1872.
His poems, when he did not try to be serious, are full of humor and
rhythm. He wrote, among other novels, “Harry Lorrequer,” “Charles
O’Malley,” and “Tom Burke of Ours.”
Did you hear of the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
Who lived in the town of Athlone,
Alone?
Oh! she melted the hearts
Of the swains in them parts—
So lovely the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So lovely the Widow Malone.
Of lovers she had a full score
Or more;
And fortunes they all had galore,
In store;
From the minister down
To the clerk of the crown,
All were courting the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
All were courting the Widow Malone.
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
’Twas known
That no one could see her alone,
Ohone!
Let them ogle and sigh,
They could ne’er catch her eye—
So bashful the Widow Malone,
Ohone!
So bashful the Widow Malone.
Till one Misther O’Brien from Clare—
How quare!
It’s little for blushing they care
Down there—
Put his arm round her waist,
Gave ten kisses at laste—
“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone—
My own!”
“Oh,” says he, “you’re my Molly Malone!”
And the widow they all thought so shy,
My eye!
Ne’er thought of a simper or sigh—
For why?
But, “Lucius,” says she,
“Since you’ve now made so free,
You may marry your Mary Malone,
Ohone!
You may marry your Mary Malone.”
There’s a moral contained in my song,
Not wrong,
And, one comfort, it’s not very long,
But strong;
If for widows you die
Learn to kiss, not to sigh,
For they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone!
Ohone!
Oh! they’re all like sweet Mistress Malone!
MY WIFE AND CHILD.
BY GENERAL HENRY R. JACKSON.
This poem, which has often been attributed to General “Stonewall”
Jackson, was written by General Henry R. Jackson, a lawyer and diplomat,
of Savannah, Ga.
The tattoo beats—the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies;
The night with solemn pace moves on,
The shadows thicken o’er the skies;
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.
I think of thee, Oh, dearest one,
Whose love my early life hath blest—
Of thee and him—our baby son—
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.
God of the tender, frail and lone,
Oh, guard the tender sleeper’s rest.
And hover gently, hover near,
To her, whose watchful eye is wet—
To mother, wife—the doubly dear,
In whose young heart have freshly met
Two streams of love so deep and clear
And clear her drooping spirits yet.
Whatever fate those forms may show,
Loved with a passion almost wild—
By day—by night—in joy or woe—
By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled,
From every danger, every foe,
O God! protect my wife and child!
Now, while she kneels before Thy throne,
Oh, teach her, ruler of the skies,
That, while by thy behest alone,
Earth’s mightiest powers fall or rise,
No tear is wept to Thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!
That Thou can’st stay the ruthless hands
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by Thy stern command
The battle’s lost, the soldier’s slain—
That from the distant sea or land
Thou bring’st the wanderer home again.
And when upon her pillow lone
Her tear-wet cheek is sadly prest,
May happier visions beam upon
The brightening current of her breast,
No frowning look nor angry tone
Disturb the Sabbath of her rest.
JONATHAN TO JOHN.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
Lowell was born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1819. He went to Harvard college
and was Longfellow’s successor as professor of modern languages at the
same college. From 1857–’62 he was editor of the Atlantic Monthly; in
1863–’72 he was editor of the North American Review. He held the office
of United States minister, first to Spain–1877–’80—and later to Great
Britain–1880–’85. Lowell died at Cambridge in 1891. Among his poems are
the “Biglow Papers,” the “Vision of Sir Launfal,” “A Tale for Critics.”
Some of his prose works are “Among My Books,” “My Study Windows,” and
“Political Essays.”
It don’t seem hardly right, John,
When both my hands was full,
To stump me to a fight, John—
Your cousin, tu, John Bull!
Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
We know it now,” sez he;
“The lion’s paw is all the law,
According to J. B.,
Thet’s fit for you an’ me!”
You wonder why we’re hot, John?
Your mark wuz on the guns—
The neutral guns, thet shot, John,
Our brothers an’ our sons.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
There’s human blood,” sez he,
“By fits an’ starts, in Yankee hearts,
Though’t may surprise J. B.
More ’n it would you an’ me.”
When your rights was our wrongs, John,
You didn’t stop for fuss—
Britanny’s trident prongs, John,
Was good ’nough law for us.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess,
Though physic’s good,” sez he,
“It doesn’t foller thet he can swaller
Prescriptions signed ‘J. B.’,
Put up by you an’ me!”
We own the ocean, tu, John;
You mus’n’t take it hard,
Ef we can’t think with you, John,
It’s jest your own back yard.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess,
Ef thet’s his claim,” sez he,
“The fencin’ stuff’ll cost enough
To bust up friend J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
We know we’ve got a cause, John,
Thet’s honest, just, an’ true;
We thought ’twould win applause, John,
Ef nowheres else, from you.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
His love of right,” sez he,
“Hangs by a rotten fibre o’ cotton;
There’s natur’ in J. B.,
Ez wal ez you an’ me!”
God means to make this land, John,
Clear thru, from sea to sea,
Believe an’ understand, John,
The wuth o’ being free.
Ole Uncle S., sez he, “I guess
God’s price is high,” sez he;
“But nothin’ else than wut he sells
Wears long, an’ thet J. B.
May larn, like you an’ me.”
SOLILOQUY FROM “HAMLET.”
BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.
To be, or not to be; that is the question;
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep:
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to; ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die; to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: aye, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death—
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveler returns—puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turns awry
And lose the name of action.
TO A WATER FOWL.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Whither, ’midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler’s eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
* * *
There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—
The desert and illimitable air—
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere.
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
* * *
Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone
Will lead my steps aright.
ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.
BY GENL. WILLIAM H. LYTLE.
William Haines Lytle was born at Cincinnati, O., in 1826, and died a
hero’s death at Chickamauga in 1863. He enlisted in the Mexican war in
1846, and served with distinction. Afterwards he attained prominence as
a lawyer and politician. When the civil war broke out he was appointed
major general of volunteers. At Carnifex ferry he was desperately
wounded, but recovered and took charge of a brigade. He was again
wounded at Perryville and captured. Being exchanged, he was promoted to
brigadier general and fought in many engagements till Sept. 29, 1863.
His poems were never collected in book form. This one was written in
1857.
I am dying, Egypt, dying!
Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,
And the dark Plutonian shadows
Gather on the evening blast.
Let thine arms, O queen, enfold me;
Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear.
Listen to the great heart secrets
Thou, and thou alone, must hear.
Though my scarred and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more,
And my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium’s fatal shore;
Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master’s will,
I must perish like a Roman—
Die the great Triumvir still!
Let no Cesar’s servile minions
Mock the lion thus laid low;
’Twas no foeman’s arm that felled him;
’Twas his own that struck the blow—
His who, pillowed on thy bosom,
Turned aside from glory’s ray—
His who, drunk with thy caresses,
Madly threw a world away.
Should the base plebeian rabble
Dare assail my name at Rome,
Where my noble spouse, Octavia,
Weeps within her widowed home,
Seek her; say the gods bear witness—
Altars, augurs, circling wings—
That her blood with mine commingled,
Yet shall mount the throne of kings.
As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!
Glorious sorceress of the Nile!
Light the path to Stygian horrors
With the splendors of thy smile.
Give to Cæsar crowns and arches,
Let his brow the laurel twine;
I can scorn the senate’s triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.
I am dying, Egypt, dying;
Hark! the insulting foeman’s cry.
They are coming—quick, my falchion!
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle
Shall my heart exulting swell;
Isis and Osiris guard thee!
Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!
O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?
BY WILLIAM KNOX.
The following poem was a particular favorite with Abraham Lincoln. It
was first shown to him when a young man by a friend, and afterwards he
cut it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. He said to a friend: “I
would give a great deal to know who wrote it, but have never been able to
ascertain.” He did afterwards learn the name of the author.
William Knox was a Scottish poet who was born in 1789 at Firth and died
in 1825 at Edinburgh. His “Lonely Hearth and Other Poems” was published
in 1818, and “The Songs of Israel,” from which “O, Why Should the Spirit
of Mortal be Proud” is taken, in 1824. Sir Walter Scott was an admirer
of Knox’s poems, and befriended the author when his habits brought him
into need.
O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
As the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant’s affection who proved,
The father that mother and infant who blest—
Each, all, are away to that dwelling of rest.
The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure—her triumphs are by;
And alike from the minds of the living erased
Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.
The head of the King, that the scepter hath borne;
The brow of the priest, that the miter hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave—
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread—
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we see the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink;
To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling,
But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing.
They loved—but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned—but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved—but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died—ah! they died—we, things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain,
And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.
’Tis the wink of an eye; ’tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;
O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
THE THREE FISHERS.
BY CHARLES KINGSLEY.
Charles Kingsley was born in Devonshire in 1819; he died in 1875. His
poetical works consist of “The Saint’s Tragedy” and “Andromeda and Other
Poems.”
Three fishers went sailing out into the West,
Out into the West as the sun went down;
Each thought on the woman who loved him the best;
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And there’s little to earn, and many to keep;
Though the harbor bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall and they looked at the shower,
And the rack it came rolling up ragged and brown!
But men must work and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
And the harbor bar be moaning.
Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands
For those who will never come back to the town;
For men must work and women must weep,
And the sooner it’s over, the sooner to sleep—
And good-by to the bar and its moaning.
PSALM XLVIII.
Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised
In the city of our God, in the mountain of his holiness,
Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth,
Is Mount Zion, on the sides of the north, the city of the great King.
God is known in her palaces for a refuge,
For, lo, the kings were assembled,
They passed by together.
They saw it and so they marveled;
They were troubled, and hasted away.
Fear took hold upon them there,
And pain, as of a woman in travail.
Thou breakest the ships of Tarshish with an east wind,
As we have heard, so have we seen
In the city of the Lord of hosts, in the city of our God;
God will establish it forever.
We have thought of thy loving-kindness, O God,
In the midst of thy temple.
According to thy name, O God,
So is thy praise unto the ends of the earth;
Thy right hand is full of righteousness.
Let Mount Zion rejoice,
Let the daughters of Judah be glad, because of thy judgments.
Walk about Zion, and go round about her;
Tell the towers thereof.
Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces;
That ye may tell it to the generation following.
For this God is our God for ever and ever;
He will be our guide even unto death.
THE ISLES OF GREECE.
BY LORD BYRON.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace—
Where Delos rose and Phœbus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all except their sun, is set.
The mountains look on Marathon—
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And, musing there an hour alone,
I dream’d that Greece might still be free;
For standing on the Persians’ grave
I could not deem myself a slave.
A King sate on the rocky brow
Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis;
And ships, by thousands, lay below,
And men in nations—all were his!
He counted them at break of day—
And when the sun set where were they?
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay is tuneless now—
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
Must we but weep o’er days more blest?
Must we but blush? Our father’s bled.
Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylæ!
In vain—in vain: strike other chords;
Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes,
And shed the blood of Scio’s vine!
Hark! rising to the ignoble call—
How answers each bold Bacchanal!
You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave—
Think ye he meant them for a slave?
Fill high the bowl with Samian wine!
Our virgins dance beneath the shade—
I see their glorious black eyes shine!
But gazing on each glowing maid,
My own the burning tear-drop laves,
To think such breasts must suckle slaves.
Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die:
A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine—
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!
INDEX.
PAGE
Abou Ben Adhem _Leigh Hunt_ 107
All _Francis A. Durivage_ 160
Althea from Prison, To _Richard Lovelace_ 98
Annabel Lee _Edgar Allan Poe_ 178
Antony and Cleopatra _William H. Lytle_ 226
Arsenal at Springfield, The _Henry Wadsworth 158
Longfellow_
Babyhood _Josiah Gilbert 40
Holland_
Ballade of Nicolete _Graham R. Tomson_ 78
Ballad of Old-Time Ladies _Dante Gabriel 128
Rossetti’s version of
Villon_
Ballad of the Boat, The _Richard Garnett_ 172
Ballad Upon a Wedding _Sir John Suckling_ 192
Banks o’ Doon _Robert Burns_ 76
Bedouin Love Song _Bayard Taylor_ 67
Believe Me If All Those _Thomas Moore_ 101
Bells of Shandon _Francis Mahony_ 196
Bonny Dundee _Sir Walter Scott_ 167
Border Ballad _Sir Walter Scott_ 169
Break, Break, Break _Lord Tennyson_ 24
Breathes There a Man _Sir Walter Scott_ 104
Bridge, The _Henry Wadsworth 55
Longfellow_
Bugle Song _Lord Tennyson_ 108
Celia, To _Ben Jonson_ 187
Chambered Nautilus _Oliver Wendell 87
Holmes_
Cherry Ripe _Thomas Campion_ 36
Children, Cry of The _Elizabeth Barrett 106
Browning_
Church Gate, At the _William Makepeace 92
Thackeray_
Crossing the Bar _Lord Tennyson_ 193
Cuckoo, To the _John Logan_ 94
Daffodils, The _William Wordsworth_ 162
Dandelion, To the _James Russell 170
Lowell_
Dante, On A Bust of _T. W. Parsons_ 126
Death-Bed, The _Thomas Hood_ 33
Deed and a Word, A _Charles Mackay_ 47
Delight in Disorder _Robert Herrick_ 62
Dirge for a Soldier _George H. Boker_ 53
Ditty, A _Sir Philip Sidney_ 118
Douglas, Douglas, Tender and True _Dinah Maria Mulock_ 149
Drifting _Thomas Buchanan 50
Read_
Elia _E. J. McPhelim_ 70
Emperor’s Daughter Stands Alone, An _Geoffrey Chaucer_ 60
Evening Song _Sidney Lanier_ 54
Faith _Thomas Chatterton_ 144
Fate _Susan Marr Spalding_ 22
Flynn of Virginia _Bret Harte_ 204
Fool’s Prayer, The _Edward Rowland Sill_ 28
For All These _Juliet Wilbor 45
Tompkins_
Fount of Castaly _Joseph O’Connor_ 142
Garret, The _William Makepeace 198
Thackeray_
Girdle, On a _Edmund Waller_ 199
Go, Lovely Rose _Edmund Waller_ 82
Grass, The _Emily Dickinson_ 217
Graveyard, In the _Macdonald Clarke_ 166
Grounds of the Terrible _Harold Begbie_ 164
Hark, Hark the Lark _William Shakespeare_ 71
Harp That Once Through Tara’s Halls _Thomas Moore_ 195
He’d Had No Show _S. W. Foss_ 93
Heritage, The _James Russell 116
Lowell_
Her Moral (Miss Kilmanseg) _Thomas Hood_ 95
Highland Mary _Robert Burns_ 152
Holy Nation, A _Richard Realf_ 23
Indian Serenade _Percy Bysshe 141
Shelley_
Indian Summer _John G. Whittier_ 181
“In Memoriam” _Lord Tennyson_ 121
Intra Muros _Mary C. Gillington_ 21
Invictus _W. E. Henley_ 131
I Remember _Thomas Hood_ 123
Isles of Greece _Lord Byron_ 232
Jerusalem the Golden _John M. Neale_ 183
Jim Bludso _John Hay_ 64
John Anderson, My Jo _Robert Burns_ 185
Jonathan to John _James Russell 222
Lowell_
June _James Russell 194
Lowell_
Kubla Kahn _Samuel Taylor 190
Coleridge_
Lamb, The _William Blake_ 153
Last Leaf, The _Oliver Wendell 84
Holmes_
Lead Kindly Light _John Henry Newman_ 72
Life _Mrs. A. L. Barbauld_ 161
Little Breeches _John Hay_ 202
Lovers’ Quarrel, A _Austin Dobson_ 188
Lucasta on Going to the Wars, To _Richard Lovelace_ 35
Lucy _William Wordsworth_ 59
Maid of Athens _Lord Byron_ 186
Mary’s Dream _John Lowe_ 124
Match, A _Algernon Charles 137
Swinburne_
Mignon’s Song _Johann Wolfgang 110
Goethe_
Misconceptions _Robert Browning_ 184
Moral (“Lady Flora”) _Lord Tennyson_ 66
Music, When Soft Voices Die _Percy Bysshe 133
Shelley_
My Boat Is on the Shore _Lord Byron_ 180
My Wife and Child _Henry R. Jackson_ 220
Nathan Hale _Francis Miles Finch_ 212
Nearer Home _Phoebe Cary_ 174
Night _James Blanco White_ 79
Night Has a Thousand Eyes, The _Francis Williams 115
Bourdillon_
Nocturne _Thomas Bailey 210
Aldrich_
O, Captain, My Captain _Walt Whitman_ 38
Ode on a Grecian Urn _John Keats_ 97
Ode on Solitude _Alexander Pope_ 103
Oft in the Stilly Night _Thomas Moore_ 63
Old Familiar Faces, The _Charles Lamb_ 18
Old Oaken Bucket _Samuel Woodworth_ 86
One Touch of Nature _William Shakespeare_ 89
Opportunity _John James Ingalls_ 109
O, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal _William Knox_ 228
Be Proud?
O, Yet We Trust that Somehow Good _Lord Tennyson_ 121
(“In Memoriam”)
Patriotism _Sir Walter Scott_ 104
Paradox of Time, The _Austin Dobson_ 208
Pompadour’s Fan, The _Austin Dobson_ 75
Portia’s Speech on Mercy _William Shakespeare_ 207
Psalm XIX 74
Psalm XXIV 155
Psalm XLVI 44
Psalm XLVIII 231
Psalm LXXXIV 111
Psalm CXXI 119
Remembrance _Emily Bronte_ 42
Requiem, A _Robert Louis 90
Stevenson_
Requiescat _Matthew Arnold_ 90
Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep _Emma Willard_ 105
Rock Me to Sleep _Elizabeth Akers 30
Allen_
Rose, The _Pierre Ronsard_ 143
Ruthless Time _William Shakespeare_ 46