_829._ _Song_

I made another garden, yea,

For my new Love:

I left the dead rose where it lay

And set the new above.

Why did my Summer not begin?

Why did my heart not haste?

My old Love came and walk’d therein,

And laid the garden waste.

She enter’d with her weary smile,

Just as of old;

She look’d around a little while

And shiver’d with the cold:

Her passing touch was death to all,

Her passing look a blight;

She made the white rose-petals fall,

And turn’d the red rose white.

Her pale robe clinging to the grass

Seem’d like a snake

That bit the grass and ground, alas!

And a sad trail did make.

She went up slowly to the gate,

And then, just as of yore,

She turn’d back at the last to wait

And say farewell once more.

_830._ _The Fountain of Tears_

If you go over desert and mountain,

Far into the country of Sorrow,

To-day and to-night and to-morrow,

And maybe for months and for years;

You shall come with a heart that is bursting

For trouble and toiling and thirsting.

You shall certainly come to the fountain

At length,--to the Fountain of Tears.

Very peaceful the place is, and solely

For piteous lamenting and sighing,

And those who come living or dying

Alike from their hopes and their fears;

Full of cypress-like shadows the place is,

And statues that cover their faces:

But out of the gloom springs the holy

And beautiful Fountain of Tears.

And it flows and it flows with a motion

So gentle and lovely and listless,

And murmurs a tune so resistless

To him who hath suffer’d and hears--

You shall surely--without a word spoken,

Kneel down there and know your heart broken,

And yield to the long-curb’d emotion

That day by the Fountain of Tears.

For it grows and it grows, as though leaping

Up higher the more one is thinking;

And ever its tunes go on sinking

More poignantly into the ears:

Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain,

Reach’d after dry desert and mountain,

You shall fall down at length in your weeping

And bathe your sad face in the tears.

Then alas! while you lie there a season

And sob between living and dying,

And give up the land you were trying

To find ’mid your hopes and your fears;

--O the world shall come up and pass o’er you,

Strong men shall not stay to care for you,

Nor wonder indeed for what reason

Your way should seem harder than theirs.

But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting

Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses,

Nor caring to raise your wet tresses

And look how the cold world appears--

O perhaps the mere silences round you--

All things in that place Grief hath found you--

Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting,

May soothe you somewhat through your tears.

You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes

Your face, as though some one had kiss’d you;

Or think at least some one who miss’d you

Had sent you a thought,--if that cheers;

Or a bird’s little song, faint and broken,

May pass for a tender word spoken:

--Enough, while around you there rushes

That life-drowning torrent of tears.

And the tears shall flow faster and faster,

Brim over and baffle resistance,

And roll down blear’d roads to each distance

Of past desolation and years;

Till they cover the place of each sorrow,

And leave you no past and no morrow:

For what man is able to master

And stem the great Fountain of Tears?

But the floods and the tears meet and gather;

The sound of them all grows like thunder:

--O into what bosom, I wonder,

Is pour’d the whole sorrow of years?

For Eternity only seems keeping

Account of the great human weeping:

May God, then, the Maker and Father--

May He find a place for the tears!

JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY

1844-1890

_831._ _A White Rose_

The red rose whispers of passion,

And the white rose breathes of love;

O, the red rose is a falcon,

And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud

With a flush on its petal tips;

For the love that is purest and sweetest

Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

ROBERT BRIDGES

b. 1844

_832._ _My Delight and Thy Delight_

My delight and thy delight

Walking, like two angels white,

In the gardens of the night:

My desire and thy desire

Twining to a tongue of fire,

Leaping live, and laughing higher:

Thro’ the everlasting strife

In the mystery of life.

Love, from whom the world begun,

Hath the secret of the sun.

Love can tell, and love alone,

Whence the million stars were strewn,

Why each atom knows its own,

How, in spite of woe and death,

Gay is life, and sweet is breath:

This he taught us, this we knew,

Happy in his science true,

Hand in hand as we stood

’Neath the shadows of the wood,

Heart to heart as we lay

In the dawning of the day.

_833._ _Spirits_

Angel spirits of sleep,

White-robed, with silver hair,

In your meadows fair,

Where the willows weep,

And the sad moonbeam

On the gliding stream

Writes her scatter’d dream:

Angel spirits of sleep,

Dancing to the weir

In the hollow roar

Of its waters deep;

Know ye how men say

That ye haunt no more

Isle and grassy shore

With your moonlit play;

That ye dance not here,

White-robed spirits of sleep,

All the summer night

Threading dances light?

_834._ _Nightingales_

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,

And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom

Ye learn your song:

Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,

Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air

Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:

Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,

A throe of the heart,

Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound,

No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,

For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men

We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,

As night is withdrawn

From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,

Dream, while the innumerable choir of day

Welcome the dawn.

_835._ _A Passer-by_

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding,

Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West,

That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding,

Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest?

Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest,

When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling,

Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest

In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.

I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest,

Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air:

I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest,

And anchor queen of the strange shipping there,

Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare:

Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp’d grandest

Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair

Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.

And yet, O splendid ship, unhail’d and nameless,

I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine

That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless,

Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.

But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine,

As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding,

From the proud nostril curve of a prow’s line

In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.

_836._ _Absence_

When my love was away,

Full three days were not sped,

I caught my fancy astray

Thinking if she were dead,

And I alone, alone:

It seem’d in my misery

In all the world was none

Ever so lone as I.

I wept; but it did not shame

Nor comfort my heart: away

I rode as I might, and came

To my love at close of day.

The sight of her still’d my fears,

My fairest-hearted love:

And yet in her eyes were tears:

Which when I questioned of,

‘O now thou art come,’ she cried,

‘’Tis fled: but I thought to-day

I never could here abide,

If thou wert longer away.’

_837._ _On a Dead Child_

Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee,

With promise of strength and manhood full and fair!

Though cold and stark and bare,

The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.

Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer

To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be

Thy father’s pride:--ah, he

Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.

To me, as I move thee now in the last duty,

Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond;

Startling my fancy fond

With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.

Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it:

But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff;

Yet feels to my hand as if

’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.

So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,--

Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!--

Propping thy wise, sad head,

Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

So quiet! doth the change content thee?--Death, whither hath he taken thee?

To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this?

The vision of which I miss,

Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?

Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us

To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark,

Unwilling, alone we embark,

And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.

_838._ _Pater Filio_

Sense with keenest edge unusèd,

Yet unsteel’d by scathing fire;

Lovely feet as yet unbruisèd

On the ways of dark desire;

Sweetest hope that lookest smiling

O’er the wilderness defiling!

Why such beauty, to be blighted

By the swarm of foul destruction?

Why such innocence delighted,

When sin stalks to thy seduction?

All the litanies e’er chaunted

Shall not keep thy faith undaunted.

I have pray’d the sainted Morning

To unclasp her hands to hold thee;

From resignful Eve’s adorning

Stol’n a robe of peace to enfold thee;

With all charms of man’s contriving

Arm’d thee for thy lonely striving.

Me too once unthinking Nature,

--Whence Love’s timeless mockery took me,--

Fashion’d so divine a creature,

Yea, and like a beast forsook me.

I forgave, but tell the measure

Of her crime in thee, my treasure.

_839._ _Winter Nightfall_

The day begins to droop,--

Its course is done:

But nothing tells the place

Of the setting sun.

The hazy darkness deepens,

And up the lane

You may hear, but cannot see,

The homing wain.

An engine pants and hums

In the farm hard by:

Its lowering smoke is lost

In the lowering sky.

The soaking branches drip,

And all night through

The dropping will not cease

In the avenue.

A tall man there in the house

Must keep his chair:

He knows he will never again

Breathe the spring air:

His heart is worn with work;

He is giddy and sick

If he rise to go as far

As the nearest rick:

He thinks of his morn of life,

His hale, strong years;

And braves as he may the night

Of darkness and tears.

_840._ _When Death to Either shall come_

When Death to either shall come,--

I pray it be first to me,--

Be happy as ever at home,

If so, as I wish, it be.

Possess thy heart, my own;

And sing to the child on thy knee,

Or read to thyself alone

The songs that I made for thee.

ANDREW LANG

1844-1912

_841._ _The Odyssey_

As one that for a weary space has lain

Lull’d by the song of Circe and her wine

In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,

Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,

And only the low lutes of love complain,

And only shadows of wan lovers pine--

As such an one were glad to know the brine

Salt on his lips, and the large air again--

So gladly from the songs of modern speech

Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free

Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,

And through the music of the languid hours

They hear like Ocean on a western beach

The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY

1849-1903

_842._ _Invictus_

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 strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

_843._ _Margaritæ Sorori_

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies:

And from the west,

Where the sun, his day’s work ended,

Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, gray city

An influence luminous and serene,

A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires

Shine and are changed. In the valley

Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplish’d and the long day done,

My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gather’d to the quiet west,

The sundown splendid and serene,

Death.

_844._ _England, My England_

What have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,

England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,

As the Lord were walking near,

Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown,

England--

Round the world on your bugles blown?

Where shall the watchful sun,

England, my England,

Match the master-work you’ve done,

England, my own?

When shall he rejoice agen

Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,

England--

Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England:--

‘Take and break us: we are yours,

England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high

Between English earth and sky:

Death is death; but we shall die

To the Song on your bugles blown,

England--

To the stars on your bugles blown!’

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mail’d hand keeps the keys

Of such teeming destinies,

You could know nor dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugles blown,

England,

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea’s delight,

England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,

There’s the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown, England--

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

EDMUND GOSSE

b. 1849

_845._ _Revelation_

Into the silver night

She brought with her pale hand

The topaz lanthorn-light,

And darted splendour o’er the land;

Around her in a band,

Ringstraked and pied, the great soft moths came flying,

And flapping with their mad wings, fann’d

The flickering flame, ascending, falling, dying.

Behind the thorny pink

Close wall of blossom’d may,

I gazed thro’ one green chink

And saw no more than thousands may,--

Saw sweetness, tender and gay,--

Saw full rose lips as rounded as the cherry,

Saw braided locks more dark than bay,

And flashing eyes decorous, pure, and merry.

With food for furry friends

She pass’d, her lamp and she,

Till eaves and gable-ends

Hid all that saffron sheen from me:

Around my rosy tree

Once more the silver-starry night was shining,

With depths of heaven, dewy and free,

And crystals of a carven moon declining.

Alas! for him who dwells

In frigid air of thought,

When warmer light dispels

The frozen calm his spirit sought;

By life too lately taught

He sees the ecstatic Human from him stealing;

Reels from the joy experience brought,

And dares not clutch what Love was half revealing.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

1850-1894

_846._ _Romance_

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight

Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.

I will make a palace fit for you and me,

Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.

I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,

Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,

And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white

In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.

And this shall be for music when no one else is near,

The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!

That only I remember, that only you admire,

Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

_847._ _In the Highlands_

In the highlands, in the country places,

Where the old plain men have rosy faces,

And the young fair maidens

Quiet eyes;

Where essential silence cheers and blesses,

And for ever in the hill-recesses

_Her_ more lovely music

Broods and dies--

O to mount again where erst I haunted;

Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,

And the low green meadows

Bright with sward;

And when even dies, the million-tinted,

And the night has come, and planets glinted,

Lo, the valley hollow

Lamp-bestarr’d!

O to dream, O to awake and wander

There, and with delight to take and render,

Through the trance of silence,

Quiet breath!

Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,

Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;

Only winds and rivers,

Life and death.

_848._ _Requiem_

Under the wide and starry sky

Dig the grave and let me lie:

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

_Here he lies where he long’d to be;_

_Home is the sailor, home from sea,_

_And the hunter home from the hill._

T. W. ROLLESTON

b. 1857

_849._ _The Dead at Clonmacnois_

FROM THE IRISH OF ANGUS O’GILLAN

In a quiet water’d land, a land of roses,

Stands Saint Kieran’s city fair;

And the warriors of Erin in their famous generations

Slumber there.

There beneath the dewy hillside sleep the noblest

Of the clan of Conn,

Each below his stone with name in branching Ogham

And the sacred knot thereon.

There they laid to rest the seven Kings of Tara,

There the sons of Cairbrè sleep--

Battle-banners of the Gael that in Kieran’s plain of crosses

Now their final hosting keep.

And in Clonmacnois they laid the men of Teffia,

And right many a lord of Breagh;

Deep the sod above Clan Creidè and Clan Conaill,

Kind in hall and fierce in fray.

Many and many a son of Conn the Hundred-Fighter

In the red earth lies at rest;

Many a blue eye of Clan Colman the turf covers,

Many a swan-white breast.

JOHN DAVIDSON

1857-1909

_850._ _Song_

The boat is chafing at our long delay,

And we must leave too soon

The spicy sea-pinks and the inborne spray,

The tawny sands, the moon.

Keep us, O Thetis, in our western flight!

Watch from thy pearly throne

Our vessel, plunging deeper into night

To reach a land unknown.

_851._ _The Last Rose_

‘O which is the last rose?’

A blossom of no name.

At midnight the snow came;

At daybreak a vast rose,

In darkness unfurl’d,

O’er-petall’d the world.

Its odourless pallor

Blossom’d forlorn,

Till radiant valour

Established the morn--

Till the night

Was undone

In her fight

With the sun.

The brave orb in state rose,

And crimson he shone first;

While from the high vine

Of heaven the dawn burst,

Staining the great rose

From sky-line to sky-line.

The red rose of morn

A white rose at noon turn’d;

But at sunset reborn

All red again soon burn’d.

Then the pale rose of noonday

Rebloom’d in the night,

And spectrally white

In the light

Of the moon lay.

But the vast rose

Was scentless,

And this is the reason:

When the blast rose

Relentless,

And brought in due season

The snow rose, the last rose

Congeal’d in its breath,

Then came with it treason;

The traitor was Death.

In lee-valleys crowded,

The sheep and the birds

Were frozen and shrouded

In flights and in herds.

In highways

And byways

The young and the old

Were tortured and madden’d

And kill’d by the cold.

But many were gladden’d

By the beautiful last rose,

The blossom of no name

That came when the snow came,

In darkness unfurl’d--

The wonderful vast rose

That fill’d all the world.

WILLIAM WATSON

b. 1858

_852._ _Song_

April, April,

Laugh thy girlish laughter;

Then, the moment after,

Weep thy girlish tears!

April, that mine ears

Like a lover greetest,

If I tell thee, sweetest,

All my hopes and fears,

April, April,

Laugh thy golden laughter,

But, the moment after,

Weep thy golden tears!

_853._ _Ode in May_

Let me go forth, and share

The overflowing Sun

With one wise friend, or one

Better than wise, being fair,

Where the pewit wheels and dips

On heights of bracken and ling,

And Earth, unto her leaflet tips,

Tingles with the Spring.

What is so sweet and dear

As a prosperous morn in May,

The confident prime of the day,

And the dauntless youth of the year,

When nothing that asks for bliss,

Asking aright, is denied,

And half of the world a bridegroom is,

And half of the world a bride?

The Song of Mingling flows,

Grave, ceremonial, pure,

As once, from lips that endure,

The cosmic descant rose,

When the temporal lord of life,

Going his golden way,

Had taken a wondrous maid to wife

That long had said him nay.

For of old the Sun, our sire,

Came wooing the mother of men,

Earth, that was virginal then,

Vestal fire to his fire.

Silent her bosom and coy,

But the strong god sued and press’d;

And born of their starry nuptial joy

Are all that drink of her breast.

And the triumph of him that begot,

And the travail of her that bore,

Behold they are evermore

As warp and weft in our lot.

We are children of splendour and flame,

Of shuddering, also, and tears.

Magnificent out of the dust we came,

And abject from the Spheres.

O bright irresistible lord!

We are fruit of Earth’s womb, each one,

And fruit of thy loins, O Sun,

Whence first was the seed outpour’d.

To thee as our Father we bow,

Forbidden thy Father to see,

Who is older and greater than thou, as thou

Art greater and older than we.

Thou art but as a word of his speech;

Thou art but as a wave of his hand;

Thou art brief as a glitter of sand

’Twixt tide and tide on his beach;

Thou art less than a spark of his fire,

Or a moment’s mood of his soul:

Thou art lost in the notes on the lips of his choir

That chant the chant of the Whole.

_854._ _The Great Misgiving_

‘Not ours,’ say some, ‘the thought of death to dread;

Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell:

Life is a feast, and we have banqueted--

Shall not the worms as well?

‘The after-silence, when the feast is o’er,

And void the places where the minstrels stood,

Differs in nought from what hath been before,

And is nor ill nor good.’

Ah, but the Apparition--the dumb sign--

The beckoning finger bidding me forgo

The fellowship, the converse, and the wine,

The songs, the festal glow!

And ah, to know not, while with friends I sit,

And while the purple joy is pass’d about,

Whether ’tis ampler day divinelier lit

Or homeless night without;

And whether, stepping forth, my soul shall see

New prospects, or fall sheer--a blinded thing!

_There_ is, O grave, thy hourly victory,

And there, O death, thy sting.

HENRY CHARLES BEECHING

1859-1919

_855._ _Prayers_

God who created me

Nimble and light of limb,

In three elements free,

To run, to ride, to swim:

Not when the sense is dim,

But now from the heart of joy,

I would remember Him:

Take the thanks of a boy.

Jesu, King and Lord,

Whose are my foes to fight,

Gird me with Thy sword

Swift and sharp and bright.

Thee would I serve if I might;

And conquer if I can,

From day-dawn till night,

Take the strength of a man.

Spirit of Love and Truth,

Breathing in grosser clay,

The light and flame of youth,

Delight of men in the fray,

Wisdom in strength’s decay;

From pain, strife, wrong to be free,

This best gift I pray,

Take my spirit to Thee.

_856._ _Going down Hill on a Bicycle_

A BOY’S SONG

With lifted feet, hands still,

I am poised, and down the hill

Dart, with heedful mind;

The air goes by in a wind.

Swifter and yet more swift,

Till the heart with a mighty lift

Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:--

‘O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

‘Is this, is this your joy?

O bird, then I, though a boy,

For a golden moment share

Your feathery life in air!’

Say, heart, is there aught like this

In a world that is full of bliss?

’Tis more than skating, bound

Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float

Awhile in my airy boat;

Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,

My feet to the treadles fall.

Alas, that the longest hill

Must end in a vale; but still,

Who climbs with toil, wheresoe’er,

Shall find wings waiting there.

BLISS CARMAN

b. 1861

_857._ _Why_

For a name unknown,

Whose fame unblown

Sleeps in the hills

For ever and aye;

For her who hears

The stir of the years

Go by on the wind

By night and day;

And heeds no thing

Of the needs of spring,

Of autumn’s wonder

Or winter’s chill;

For one who sees

The great sun freeze,

As he wanders a-cold

From hill to hill;

And all her heart

Is a woven part

Of the flurry and drift

Of whirling snow;

For the sake of two

Sad eyes and true,

And the old, old love

So long ago.

DOUGLAS HYDE

b. 1861

_858._ _My Grief on the Sea_

FROM THE IRISH

My grief on the sea,

How the waves of it roll!

For they heave between me

And the love of my soul!

Abandon’d, forsaken,

To grief and to care,

Will the sea ever waken

Relief from despair?

My grief and my trouble!

Would he and I were,

In the province of Leinster,

Or County of Clare!

Were I and my darling--

O heart-bitter wound!--

On board of the ship

For America bound.

On a green bed of rushes

All last night I lay,

And I flung it abroad

With the heat of the day.

And my Love came behind me,

He came from the South;

His breast to my bosom,

His mouth to my mouth.

ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON

b. 1862

_859._ _The Phœnix_

BY feathers green, across Casbeen

The pilgrims track the Phœnix flown,

By gems he strew’d in waste and wood,

And jewell’d plumes at random thrown.

Till wandering far, by moon and star,

They stand beside the fruitful pyre,

Where breaking bright with sanguine light

The impulsive bird forgets his sire.

Those ashes shine like ruby wine,

Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt,

The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl

Are with the glorious anguish gilt.

So rare the light, so rich the sight,

Those pilgrim men, on profit bent,

Drop hands and eyes and merchandise,

And are with gazing most content.

HENRY NEWBOLT

b. 1862

_860._ _He fell among Thieves_

‘Ye have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughtered and made an end,

Take your ill-got plunder, and bury the dead:

What will ye more of your guest and sometime friend?’

‘Blood for our blood,’ they said.

He laugh’d: ‘If one may settle the score for five,

I am ready; but let the reckoning stand till day:

I have loved the sunlight as dearly as any alive.’

‘You shall die at dawn,’ said they.

He flung his empty revolver down the slope,

He climb’d alone to the Eastward edge of the trees:

All night long in a dream untroubled of hope

He brooded, clasping his knees.

He did not hear the monotonous roar that fills

The ravine where the Yassîn river sullenly flows;

He did not see the starlight on the Laspur hills,

Or the far Afghan snows.

He saw the April noon on his books aglow,

The wistaria trailing in at the window wide;

He heard his father’s voice from the terrace below

Calling him down to ride.

He saw the gray little church across the park,

The mounds that hid the loved and honour’d dead;

The Norman arch, the chancel softly dark,

The brasses black and red.

He saw the School Close, sunny and green,

The runner beside him, the stand by the parapet wall,

The distant tape, and the crowd roaring between,

His own name over all.

He saw the dark wainscot and timber’d roof,

The long tables, and the faces merry and keen;

The College Eight and their trainer dining aloof,

The Dons on the daïs serene.

He watch’d the liner’s stem ploughing the foam,

He felt her trembling speed and the thrash of her screw;

He heard the passengers’ voices talking of home,

He saw the flag she flew.

And now it was dawn. He rose strong on his feet,

And strode to his ruin’d camp below the wood;

He drank the breath of the morning cool and sweet:

His murderers round him stood.

Light on the Laspur hills was broadening fast,

The blood-red snow-peaks chill’d to a dazzling white;

He turn’d, and saw the golden circle at last,

Cut by the Eastern height.

‘O glorious Life, Who dwellest in earth and sun,

I have lived, I praise and adore Thee.’ A sword swept.

Over the pass the voices one by one

Faded, and the hill slept.

GILBERT PARKER

b. 1862

_861._ _Reunited_

When you and I have play’d the little hour,

Have seen the tall subaltern Life to Death

Yield up his sword; and, smiling, draw the breath,

The first long breath of freedom; when the flower

Of Recompense hath flutter’d to our feet,

As to an actor’s; and, the curtain down,

We turn to face each other all alone--

Alone, we two, who never yet did meet,

Alone, and absolute, and free: O then,

O then, most dear, how shall be told the tale?

Clasp’d hands, press’d lips, and so clasp’d hands again;

No words. But as the proud wind fills the sail,

My love to yours shall reach, then one deep moan

Of joy, and then our infinite Alone.

WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

b. 1865

_862._ _Where My Books go_

All the words that I utter,

And all the words that I write,

Must spread out their wings untiring,

And never rest in their flight,

Till they come where your sad, sad heart is,

And sing to you in the night,

Beyond where the waters are moving,

Storm-darken’d or starry bright.

_863._ _When You are Old_

When you are old and gray and full of sleep

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true;

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead,

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

_864._ _The Lake Isle of Innisfree_

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a-glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

RUDYARD KIPLING

b. 1865

_865._ _A Dedication_

My new-cut ashlar takes the light

Where crimson-blank the windows flare;

By my own work, before the night,

Great Overseer, I make my prayer.

If there be good in that I wrought,

Thy hand compell’d it, Master, Thine;

Where I have fail’d to meet Thy thought

I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.

One instant’s toil to Thee denied

Stands all Eternity’s offence;

Of that I did with Thee to guide

To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,

Bring’st Eden to the craftsman’s brain,

Godlike to muse o’er his own trade

And manlike stand with God again.

The depth and dream of my desire,

The bitter paths wherein I stray,

Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,

Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.

One stone the more swings to her place

In that dread Temple of Thy worth--

It is enough that through Thy grace

I saw naught common on Thy earth.

Take not that vision from my ken;

O, whatsoe’er may spoil or speed,

Help me to need no aid from men,

That I may help such men as need!

_866._ _L’Envoi_

There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield

And the ricks stand gray to the sun,

Singing:--‘Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover

And your English summer’s done.’

You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind

And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song--how long! how long!

Pull out on the trail again!

Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,

We’ve seen the seasons through,

And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

It’s North you may run to the rime-ring’d sun,

Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;

Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,

Or West to the Golden Gate;

Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,

And the wildest tales are true,

And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,

And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;

And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll

Of a black Bilbao tramp;

With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,

And a drunken Dago crew,

And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,

Or the way of a man with a maid;

But the sweetest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea

In the heel of the North-East Trade.

Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,

And the drum of the racing screw,

As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,

And the fenders grind and heave,

And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,

And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;

It’s ‘Gang-plank up and in,’ dear lass,

It’s ‘Hawsers warp her through!’

And it’s ‘All clear aft’ on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re backing down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,

And the sirens hoot their dread!

When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep

To the sob of the questing lead!

It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,

With the Gunfleet Sands in view,

Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light

That holds the hot sky tame,

And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powder’d floors

Where the scared whale flukes in flame!

Her plates are scarr’d by the sun, dear lass,

And her ropes are taut with the dew,

For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re sagging south on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,

And the shouting seas drive by,

And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,

And the Southern Cross rides high!

Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,

That blaze in the velvet blue.

They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start--

We’re steaming all too slow,

And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle

Where the trumpet-orchids blow!

You have heard the call of the off-shore wind

And the voice of the deep-sea rain;

You have heard the song--how long! how long!

Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,

And the deuce knows what we may do--

But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,

We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.

_867._ _Recessional_

_June 22, 1897_

God of our fathers, known of old--

Lord of our far-flung battle-line--

Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine--

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies--

The captains and the kings depart--

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-call’d our navies melt away--

On dune and headland sinks the fire--

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--

Such boasting as the Gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the Law--

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard--

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding calls not Thee to guard--

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

RICHARD LE GALLIENNE

b. 1866

_868._ _Song_

She’s somewhere in the sunlight strong,

Her tears are in the falling rain,

She calls me in the wind’s soft song,

And with the flowers she comes again.

Yon bird is but her messenger,

The moon is but her silver car;

Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,

And every wistful waiting star.

_869._ _The Second Crucifixion_

Loud mockers in the roaring street

Say Christ is crucified again:

Twice pierced His gospel-bearing feet,

Twice broken His great heart in vain.

I hear, and to myself I smile,

For Christ talks with me all the while.

No angel now to roll the stone

From off His unawaking sleep,

In vain shall Mary watch alone,

In vain the soldiers vigil keep.

Yet while they deem my Lord is dead

My eyes are on His shining head.

Ah! never more shall Mary hear

That voice exceeding sweet and low

Within the garden calling clear:

Her Lord is gone, and she must go.

Yet all the while my Lord I meet

In every London lane and street.

Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain,

And Bartimæus still go blind;

The healing hem shall ne’er again

Be touch’d by suffering humankind.

Yet all the while I see them rest,

The poor and outcast, on His breast.

No more unto the stubborn heart

With gentle knocking shall He plead,

No more the mystic pity start,

For Christ twice dead is dead indeed.

So in the street I hear men say,

Yet Christ is with me all the day.

LAURENCE BINYON

b. 1869

_870._ _Invocation to Youth_

Come then, as ever, like the wind at morning!

Joyous, O Youth, in the agèd world renew

Freshness to feel the eternities around it,

Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew.

The strong sun shines above thee:

That strength, that radiance bring!

If Winter come to Winter,

When shall men hope for Spring?

_871._ _O World, be Nobler_

O World, be nobler, for her sake!

If she but knew thee what thou art,

What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done

In thee, beneath thy daily sun,

Know’st thou not that her tender heart

For pain and very shame would break?

O World, be nobler, for her sake!

GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL (‘A. E.’)

b. 1853

_872._ _By the Margin of the Great Deep_

When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,

All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,

With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;

I am one with the twilight’s dream.

When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,

Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:

Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,

I am one with their hearts at rest.

From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love

Stray’d away along the margin of the unknown tide,

All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above

Word or touch from the lips beside.

Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw

From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,

Such primæval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,

Growing one with its silent stream.

_873._ _The Great Breath_

Its edges foam’d with amethyst and rose,

Withers once more the old blue flower of day:

There where the ether like a diamond glows,

Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;

Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;

The great deep thrills--for through it everywhere

The breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past,

Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,

Near’d to the hour when Beauty breathes her last

And knows herself in death.

T. STURGE MOORE

b. 1870

_874._ _A Duet_

‘Flowers nodding gaily, scent in air,

Flowers posied, flowers for the hair,

Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare----’

‘O pick me some!’

‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,

Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper _Come_,

Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb----’

‘O let me hear.’

‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,

Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,

Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear----’

‘O look at me!’

‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea,

Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,

Bob-a-cherry kisses ’neath a tree----’

‘O give me one!’

Thus sang a king and queen in Babylon.

FRANCIS THOMPSON

1859-1907

_875._ _The Poppy_

Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare,

And left the flush’d print in a poppy there;

Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,

And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drank

The blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank,

And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shine

When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,

And hot as a swinkèd gipsy is,

And drowsed in sleepy savageries,

With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.

A child and man paced side by side,

Treading the skirts of eventide;

But between the clasp of his hand and hers

Lay, felt not, twenty wither’d years.

She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair,

And saw the sleeping gipsy there;

And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim,

With--‘Keep it, long as you live!’--to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres,

Trembled up from a bath of tears;

And joy, like a mew sea-rock’d apart,

Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart.

For _he_ saw what she did not see,

That--as kindled by its own fervency--

The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly:

And suddenly ’twixt his hand and hers

He knew the twenty withered years--

No flower, but twenty shrivelled years.

‘Was never such thing until this hour,’

Low to his heart he said; ‘the flower

Of sleep brings wakening to me,

And of oblivion memory.’

‘Was never this thing to me,’ he said,

‘Though with bruisèd poppies my feet are red!’

And again to his own heart very low:

‘O child! I love, for I love and know;

‘But you, who love nor know at all

The diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall,

Where some rise early, few sit long:

In how differing accents hear the throng

His great Pentecostal tongue;

‘Who know not love from amity,

Nor my reported self from me;

A fair fit gift is this, meseems,

You give--this withering flower of dreams.

‘O frankly fickle, and fickly true,

Do you know what the days will do to you?

To your Love and you what the days will do,

O frankly fickle, and fickly true?

‘You have loved me, Fair, three lives--or days:

’Twill pass with the passing of my face.

But where _I_ go, your face goes too,

To watch lest I play false to you.

‘I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover,

Knowing well when certain years are over

You vanish from me to another;

Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.

‘So, frankly fickle, and fickly true!

For my brief life-while I take from you

This token, fair and fit, meseems,

For me--this withering flower of dreams.’

* * * * *

The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head,

Heavy with dreams, as that with bread:

The goodly grain and the sun-flush’d sleeper

The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.

I hang ’mid men my needless head,

And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread:

The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper

Time shall reap, but after the reaper

The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!

Love! love! your flower of wither’d dream

In leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem,

Shelter’d and shut in a nook of rhyme,

From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.

Love! _I_ fall into the claws of Time:

But lasts within a leavèd rhyme

All that the world of me esteems--

My wither’d dreams, my wither’d dreams.

HENRY CUST

1861-1917

_876._ _Non Nobis_

Not unto us, O Lord,

Not unto us the rapture of the day,

The peace of night, or love’s divine surprise,

High heart, high speech, high deeds ’mid honouring eyes;

For at Thy word

All these are taken away.

Not unto us, O Lord:

To us thou givest the scorn, the scourge, the scar,

The ache of life, the loneliness of death,

The insufferable sufficiency of breath;

And with Thy sword

Thou piercest very far.

Not unto us, O Lord:

Nay, Lord, but unto her be all things given--

My light and life and earth and sky be blasted--

But let not all that wealth of loss be wasted:

Let Hell afford

The pavement of her Heaven!

KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON

b. 1861

_877._ _Sheep and Lambs_

All in the April morning,

April airs were abroad;

The sheep with their little lambs

Pass’d me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs

Pass’d me by on the road;

All in an April evening

I thought on the Lamb of God.

The lambs were weary, and crying

With a weak human cry,

I thought on the Lamb of God

Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains

Dewy pastures are sweet:

Rest for the little bodies,

Rest for the little feet.

Rest for the Lamb of God

Up on the hill-top green,

Only a cross of shame

Two stark crosses between.

All in the April evening,

April airs were abroad;

I saw the sheep with their lambs,

And thought on the Lamb of God.

FRANCES BANNERMAN

_878._ _An Upper Chamber_

I came into the City and none knew me;

None came forth, none shouted ‘He is here!

Not a hand with laurel would bestrew me,

All the way by which I drew anear--

Night my banner, and my herald Fear.

But I knew where one so long had waited

In the low room at the stairway’s height,

Trembling lest my foot should be belated,

Singing, sighing for the long hours’ flight

Towards the moment of our dear delight.

I came into the City when you hail’d me

Saviour, and again your chosen Lord:--

Not one guessing what it was that fail’d me,

While along the way as they adored

Thousands, thousands, shouted in accord.

But through all the joy I knew--I only--

How the hostel of my heart lay bare and cold,

Silent of its music, and how lonely!

Never, though you crown me with your gold,

Shall I find that little chamber as of old!

ALICE MEYNELL

b. 1850

_879._ _Renouncement_

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,

I shun the love that lurks in all delight--

The love of thee--and in the blue heaven’s height,

And in the dearest passage of a song.

Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng

This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;

But it must never, never come in sight;

I must stop short of thee the whole day long.

But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,

When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,

And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,

Must doff my will as raiment laid away,--

With the first dream that comes with the first sleep

I run, I run, I am gather’d to thy heart.

_880._ _The Lady of the Lambs_

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.

Her dreams are innocent 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.

DORA SIGERSON

d. 1918

_881._ _Ireland_

’Twas the dream of a God,

And the mould of His hand,

That you shook ’neath His stroke,

That you trembled and broke

To this beautiful land.

Here He loosed from His hold

A brown tumult of wings,

Till the wind on the sea

Bore the strange melody

Of an island that sings.

He made you all fair,

You in purple and gold,

You in silver and green,

Till no eye that has seen

Without love can behold.

I have left you behind

In the path of the past,

With the white breath of flowers,

With the best of God’s hours,

I have left you at last.

MARGARET L. WOODS

b. 1856

_882._ _Genius Loci_

Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on?

Since long ago grace-giving Phœbus died,

And all the train that loved the stream-bright side

Of the poetic mount with him are gone

Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron,

In unexplorèd realms of night to hide.

The clouds that strew their shadows far and wide

Are all of Heaven that visits Helicon.

Yet here, where never muse or god did haunt,

Still may some nameless power of Nature stray,

Pleased with the reedy stream’s continual chant

And purple pomp of these broad fields in May.

The shepherds meet him where he herds the kine,

And careless pass him by whose is the gift divine.

R. D. BLACKMORE

1825-1900

_883._ _Dominus Illuminatio Mea_

In the hour of death, after this life’s whim,

When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim,

And pain has exhausted every limb--

The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him.

When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim,

And the mind can only disgrace its fame,

And a man is uncertain of his own name--

The power of the Lord shall fill this frame.

When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed,

And the coffin is waiting beside the bed,

And the widow and child forsake the dead--

The angel of the Lord shall lift this head.

For even the purest delight may pall,

And power must fail, and the pride must fall,

And the love of the dearest friends grow small--

But the glory of the Lord is all in all.

[Illustration]

INDEX OF AUTHORS AND FIRST LINES INDEX OF AUTHORS

_The references are to the numbers of the poems_

Addison, Joseph, 433.

‘A.E.,’ 872, 873.

Ainslie, Hew, 619.

Akenside, Mark, 461-463.

Alford, Henry, 711.

Allingham, William, 769.

Anonymous, 1-7, 22-29, 50-72, 367-392.

Arnold, Matthew, 747-754.

Ashe, Thomas, 805, 806.

Ayton, Sir Robert, 182, 183.

Baillie, Joanna, 510.

Baillie, Lady Grisel, 430.

Bannerman, Frances, 878.

Barbauld, Anna Lætitia, 474.

Barbour, John, 9.

Barnefield, Richard, 203.

Barnes, William, 658, 659.

Beattie, James, 472.

Beaumont, Francis, 234.

Beaumont, Sir John, 223.

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell, 666-668.

Beeching, Henry Charles, 855, 856.

Behn, Aphra, 411, 412.

Benson, Arthur Christopher, 859.

Binyon, Laurence, 870, 871.

Blackmore, R. D., 883.

Blake, William, 483-492.

Blunt, Wilfrid Scawen, 816-823.

Bowles, William Lisle, 509.

Boyd, Mark Alexander, 114.

Breton, Nicholas, 73, 74 (?).

Bridges, Robert, 832-840.

Brome, Alexander, 354.

Brooke, Lord, 96.

Broome, William, 446, 447

Brontë, Emily, 735-738.

Brown, Thomas Edward, 790-793.

Browne, William, of Tavistock, 240-246.

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 678-687.

Browning, Robert, 715-730.

Buckinghamshire, Duke of, 417, 418.

Bunyan, John, 366.

Burns, Robert, 493-506.

Byron, Lord, 597-601.

Callanan, Jeremiah Joseph, 638.

Campbell, Thomas, 580, 581.

Campion, Thomas, 168-176.

Carew, Thomas, 289-295.

Carey, Henry, 444, 445.

Carman, Bliss, 857.

Cartwright, William, 330-333.

Chapman, George, 107.

Chatterton, Thomas, 479.

Chaucer, Geoffrey, 10-12.

Clare, John, 621.

Clough, Arthur Hugh, 741.

Coleridge, Hartley, 643-646.

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 549-555.

Coleridge, Sara, 661, 662.

Collins, William, 457-460.

Congreve, William, 431, 432.

Constable, Henry, 110.

Cory, William (Johnson), 758-9.

Cotton, Charles, 396.

Cowley, Abraham, 349-353.

Cowper, William, 470, 471.

Crabbe, George, 480-482.

Crashaw, Richard, 336-342.

Cunningham, Allan, 589-591.

Cunninghame-Graham, Robert, of Gartmore, 469.

Cust, Henry, 876.

Cutts, Lord, 421.

Daniel, Samuel, 111-113.

Darley, George, 640-642.

Davenant, Sir William, 301-303.

Davidson, John, 850, 851.

Davies, Sir John, 181.

Davison, F. _or_ W. (?), 64.

Dekker, Thomas, 204.

De Vere, Aubrey, 732, 733.

De Vere, Sir Aubrey, 602.

Dobell, Sydney, 765-768.

Dobson, Henry Austin, 824-826.

Donne, John, 195-202.

Dorset, Earl of, 408.

Drayton, Michael, 116-120.

Drummond, William, of Hawthornden, 224-232.

Dryden, John, 398-402.

Dufferin, Lady, 691.

Dunbar, William, 18-21.

D’Urfey, Thomas, 395.

Edwardes, Richard, 46.

Elliott, Ebenezer, 587, 588.

Elliot, Jane, 466.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 669-672.

Etherege, Sir George, 404, 405.

Fanshawe, Sir Richard, 329.

Ferguson, Sir Samuel, 712-714.

FitzGerald, Edward, 697, 698.

Flatman, Thomas, 407.

Fletcher, Giles, 233.

Fletcher, John, 141-143 (?), 207-217.

Fletcher, Phineas, 222.

Ford, John, 235.

Fox, George, 734.

Gascoigne, George, 47.

Gay, John, 439.

Goldsmith, Oliver, 467, 468.

Gosse, Edmund, 845.

Gray, Thomas, 453-456.

Greene, Robert, 103-105.

Greville, Fanny, 475.

Griffin, Gerald, 663.

Grimald, Nicholas, 42.

Habington, William, 297, 298.

Harte, Bret, 813.

Hawes, Stephen, 32, 33.

Hawker, Robert Stephen, 674, 675.

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea, 622.

Henley, William Ernest, 842-844.

Henryson, Robert, 16, 17.

Herbert, George, 281-286.

Herrick, Robert, 247-275.

Heywood, John (?), 53.

Heywood, Thomas, 205, 206.

Hinkson, Katharine Tynan, 877.

Hoccleve, Thomas, 13.

Hood, Thomas, 647-654.

Hogg, James, 513, 514.

Horne, Richard Henry, 673.

Houghton, Lord, 710.

Howells, William Dean, 82.

Hume, Alexander, 106.

Hunt, Leigh, 592.

Hyde, Douglas, 858.

Jago, Richard, 452.

James I (King of Scotland), 15.

Johnson, Samuel, 450, 451.

Jones, Ebenezer, 745.

Jones, Sir William, 478.

Jonson, Ben, 184-194.

Jordan, Thomas, 335.

Keats, John, 623-637.

Keble, John, 620.

Kendall, Henry Clarence, 827.

King, Henry (Bishop of Chichester), 278-280.

Kingsley, Charles, 739, 740.

Kipling, Rudyard, 865-867.

Lamb, Charles, 577-579.

Lamb, Mary, 511.

Landor, Walter Savage, 557-576.

Lang, Andrew, 841.

Le Gallienne, Richard, 868, 869.

Lindsay, Lady Anne, 477.

Locker-Lampson, Frederick, 746.

Lodge, Thomas, 97-100.

Logan, John, 476.

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 689.

Lovelace, Richard, 343-348.

Lydgate, John, 14.

Lyly, John, 85, 86.

Lyttelton, Lord, 449.

Lytton, Earl of, 794, 795.

Macaulay, Lord, 657.

MacDonald, George, 770.

Mahony, Francis, 677.

Mangan, James Clarence, 664, 665.

Mannyng, Robert, of Brunne, 8.

Marlowe, Christopher, 121.

Marvell, Andrew, 355-361.

Mayne, Jasper, 296.

Melcombe, Lord, 443.

Meredith, George, 772-776.

Meynell, Alice, 879, 880.

Milton, John, 307-324.

Montgomerie, Alexander, 48.

Montrose, Marquis of, 334.

Moore, Thomas, 582-585.

Moore, T. Sturge, 874.

Morris, William, 800-802.

Munday, Anthony, 87.

Nairne, Carolina Lady, 512.

Nashe, Thomas, 166, 167.

Newbolt, Henry, 860.

Noel, Roden Berkeley Wriothesley, 803, 804.

Norton, Caroline Elizabeth Sarah, 692.

Oldham, John, 420.

Oldys, William, 438.

O’Reilly, John Boyle, 831.

O’Shaughnessy, Arthur William Edgar, 828-830.

Otway, Thomas, 419.

Pagan, Isobel, 473.

Parker, Gilbert, 861.

Parnell, Thomas, 436.

Patmore, Coventry, 760-764.

Peacock, Thomas Love, 593-595.

Peele, George, 101, 102.

Philips, Katherine (‘Orinda’), 397.

Philpot, William, 757.

Poe, Edgar Allan, 694-696.

Pope, Alexander, 440-442.

Praed, Winthrop Mackworth, 660.

Prior, Matthew, 422-428.

Quarles, Francis, 276, 277.

Raleigh, Sir Walter, 75-78, 122.

Ramsay, Allan, 437.

Randolph, Thomas, 299, 300.

Rands, William Brighty, 755, 756.

Reynolds, John, 177.

Rochester, Earl of, 413-416.

Rolleston, T. W., 849.

Rossetti, Christina Georgina, 779-789.

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 771

Rowe, Henry, 507, 508.

Rowlands, Richard, 165.

Ruskin, John, 744.

Russell, George William, 872, 873.

Scott, Alexander, 43, 44.

Scott, Sir Walter, 542-548.

Scott, William Bell, 731.

Sedley, Sir Charles, 409, 410.

Shakespeare, William, 56 (?), 123-164.

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 605-618.

Shirley, James, 287, 288.

Sidney, Sir Philip, 88-95.

Sigerson, Dora, 881.

Skelton, John, 30, 31.

Smart, Christopher, 465.

Smith, Alexander, 777, 778.

Smollett, Tobias George, 464.

Southey, Caroline, 596.

Southey, Robert, 556.

Southwell, Robert, 108, 109.

Spenser, Edmund, 79-84.

Stanley, Thomas, 394.

Stevenson, Robert Louis, 846-848.

Stevenson, William, 49.

Stirling, Earl of, 221.

Strode, William, 393.

Suckling, Sir John, 325-328.

Surrey, Earl of, 39-41.

Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 808-811.

Sylvester, Joshua, 115.

Taylor, Sir Henry, 656.

Tennyson, Frederick, 688.

Tennyson, Lord, 699-709.

Thom, William, 655.

Thompson, Francis, 875.

Thomson, James, 448.

Thomson, James, 796-799.

Thurlow, Lord, 586.

Todhunter, John, 814, 815.

Traherne, Thomas, 406.

Turner, Charles Tennyson, 693.

Vaughan, Henry, 362-365.

Wade, Thomas, 676.

Walker, William Sidney, 639.

Waller, Edmund, 304-306.

Walsh, William, 429.

Watson, William, 852-854.

Watts, Isaac, 434, 435.

Watts-Dunton, Theodore, 807.

Webbe, Charles, 403.

Webster, John, 218-220.

Wever, Robert, 45.

Whitman, Walt, 742, 743.

Whittier, John Greenleaf, 690.

Wither, George, 236-239.

Wolfe, Charles, 603, 604.

Woods, Margaret L., 882.

Wordsworth, William, 515-541.

Wotton, Sir Henry, 178-180.

Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 34-38.

Yeats, William Butler, 862-864.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

No.

A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 698

A child’s a plaything for an hour, 511

A! Fredome is a noble thing!, 9

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot!, 793

A late lark twitters from the quiet skies, 843

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, 714

A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, 242

A slumber did my spirit seal, 519

A star is gone! a star is gone!, 642

A sunny shaft did I behold, 555

A sweet disorder in the dress, 258

A thousand martyrs I have made, 412

A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 546

Above yon sombre swell of land, 673

Absence, hear thou my protestation, 197

Absent from thee, I languish still, 413

Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, 280

Adieu, farewell earth’s bliss!, 167

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever, 499

Ah, Chloris! that I now could sit, 406

Ah, how sweet it is to love!, 400

Ah! were she pitiful as she is fair, 104

Ah, what avails the sceptred race, 558

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon, 739

Alexis, here she stay’d; among these pines, 228

All are not taken; there are left behind, 680

All holy influences dwell within, 602

All in the April morning, 877

All is best, though we oft doubt, 324

All my past life is mine no more, 414

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair, 554

All’s over, then: does truth sound bitter, 726

All the flowers of the spring, 220

All the words that I utter, 862

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 551

All under the leaves and the leaves of life, 382

Allas! my worthy maister honorable, 13

Amarantha sweet and fair, 346

An ancient chestnut’s blossoms threw, 572

And, like a dying lady lean and pale, 609

And wilt thou leave me thus?, 35

Angel, king of streaming morn, 507

Angel spirits of sleep, 833

April, April, 852

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?, 204

As doctors give physic by way of prevention, 428

As I in hoary winter’s night, 109

As I was walking all alane, 380

As it fell upon a day, 203

As one that for a weary space has lain, 841

As those we love decay, we die in part, 448

As we rush, as we rush in the Train, 796

As ye came from the holy land, 26

Ask me no more where Jove bestows, 289

Ask me why I send you here, 254

Ask not the cause why sullen Spring, 402

At her fair hands how have I grace entreated, 64

At the last, tenderly, 742

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly, 585

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, 455

Away! Away!, 462

Away, delights! go seek some other dwelling, 211

Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon, 617

Bacchus must now his power resign, 445

Balow, my babe, lie still and sleep!, 28

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 630

Be it right or wrong, these men among, 25

Beating Heart! we come again, 746

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, 834

Beauty clear and fair, 215

Beauty sat bathing by a spring, 87

Behold her, single in the field, 528

Being your slave, what should I do but tend, 151

Best and brightest, come away, 606

Bid me to live, and I will live, 266

Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy, 309

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 136

Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon, 329

Bonnie Kilmeny gaed up the glen, 514

Brave flowers--that I could gallant it like you, 278

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, 547

Bright Star, would I were steadfast as thou art, 637

Bring me wine, but wine which never grew, 671

Busy, curious, thirsty fly!, 438

By feathers green, across Casbeen, 859

Bytuene Mershe ant Averil, 2

Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, 473, 506

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, 218

Calm on the bosom of thy God!, 622

Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre, 81

Came, on a Sabbath noon, my sweet, 805

Charm me asleep, and melt me so, 263

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, 256

Chloe’s a Nymph in flowery groves, 395

Christmas knows a merry, merry place, 807

Clerk Saunders and may Margaret, 371

Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee, 736

Come away, come away, death, 134

Come, dear children, let us away, 747

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, 706

Come into the garden, Maud, 708

Come, let us now resolve at last, 417

Come little babe, come silly soul, 74

Come live with me and be my Love, 121

Come not in terrors clad, to claim, 596

Come, Sleep, and with thy sweet deceiving, 207

Come, Sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, 94

Come, spur away, 300

Come then, as ever, like the wind at morning!, 870

Come thou, who art the wine and wit, 274

Come unto these yellow sands, 129

Come, worthy Greek! Ulysses, come, 112

Condemn’d to Hope’s delusive mine, 451

Corydon, arise, my Corydon!, 57

Count each affliction, whether light or grave, 733

Crabbèd Age and Youth, 56

Cupid and my Campaspe play’d, 85

Cynthia, to thy power and thee, 208

Cyriack, whose Grandsire on the Royal Bench, 320

Dark, deep, and cold the current flows, 588

Dark to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens, 817

Daughter to that good Earl, once President, 317*

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark, 587

Dear Lord, receive my son, whose winning love, 223

Dear love, for nothing less than thee, 199

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee, 202

Deep on the convent-roof the snows, 703

‘Do you remember me? or are you proud?’, 569

Does the road wind uphill all the way?, 783

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 185

Drop, drop, slow tears, 222

Earth has not anything to show more fair, 520

E’en like two little bank-dividing brooks, 276

Enough; and leave the rest to Fame!, 361

Even such is Time, that takes in trust, 78

Ever let the Fancy roam, 631

Fain would I change that note, 68

Fair Amoret is gone astray, 432

Fair and fair, and twice so fair, 101

Fair daffodils, we weep to see, 252

Fair is my Love and cruel as she’s fair, 113

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, 253

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore, 707

Fair stood the wind for France, 119

False though she be to me and love, 431

False world, good night! since thou hast brough, 190

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, 153

Fear no more the heat o’ the sun, 140

Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new, 58

First came the primrose, 767

Flowers nodding gaily, scent in air, 874

Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race, 308

Fly hence, shadows, that do keep, 235

Follow a shadow, it still flies you, 187

Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow!, 170

Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet!, 171

Foolish prater, what dost thou, 351

For a name unknown, 857

For her gait, if she be walking, 243

For knighthood is not in the feats of warre, 32

Forbear, bold youth; all’s heaven here, 397

Forget not yet the tried intent, 34

Fra bank to bank, fra wood to wood I rin, 114

Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king, 79

From harmony, from heavenly harmony, 399

From low to high doth dissolution climb, 539

From the forests and highlands, 605

From you have I been absent in the spring, 157

From you, Ianthe, little troubles pass, 559

Full fathom five thy father lies, 131

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, 248

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn, 247

Give a man a horse he can ride, 798

Give all to love, 669

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 77

Give pardon, blessèd soul, to my bold cries, 110

Give place, you ladies, and begone!, 53

Go and catch a falling star, 196

Go fetch to me a pint o’ wine, 496

Go, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill, 751

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand, 684

Go, lovely Rose, 305

God Lyæus, ever young, 214

God of our fathers, known of old, 867

God who created me, 855

Gone were but the winter cold, 591

Good-morrow to the day so fair, 268

Great men have been among us; hands that penn’d, 525

Had we but world enough, and time, 357

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!, 476

Hail holy light, ofspring of Heav’n first-born, 322

Hail, sister springs, 337

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!, 608

Hallow the threshold, crown the posts anew!, 332

Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be, 590

Happy those early days, when I, 362

Hark! ah, the Nightingale, 752

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings, 139

Hark! Now everything is still, 219

Hark! the mavis’ evening sang, 506

He first deceased; she for a little tried, 180

He has conn’d the lesson now, 660

He that is by Mooni now, 827

He that is down needs fear no fall, 366

He that loves a rosy cheek, 292

He who has once been happy is for aye, 818

Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes, 715

Hear the voice of the Bard, 488

Hear, ye ladies that despise, 213

Helen, thy beauty is to me, 694

Hence, all you vain delights, 216

Hence, heart, with her that must depart, 43

Hence loathed Melancholy, 310

Hence vain deluding joyes, 311

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 262

Here a little child I stand, 271

Here a pretty baby lies, 273

Here, ever since you went abroad, 567

Here in this sequester’d close, 824

Here she lies, a pretty bud, 272

Hey nonny no!, 59

Hey! now the day dawis, 48

Hierusalem, my happy home, 61

High-spirited friend, 191

Highway, since you my chief Parnassus be, 92

His golden locks Time hath to silver turn’d, 102

How happy is he born and taught, 179

How like a Winter hath my absence been, 156

How many times do I love thee, dear?, 668

How near me came the hand of Death, 239

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, 458

How vainly men themselves amaze, 359

Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber, 435

Hyd, Absolon, thy gilte tresses clere, 11

I am that which began, 809

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?, 621

I arise from dreams of thee, 611

I ask no kind return of love, 475

I came into the City and none knew me, 878

I cannot change as others do, 415

I cannot eat but little meat, 49

I dare not ask a kiss, 250

I did but look and love awhile, 419

I did not choose thee, dearest. It was Love, 819

I do confess thou’rt smooth and fair, 182

I do not love thee!--no! I do not love thee!, 692

I dream’d that, as I wander’d by the way, 616

I dug, beneath the cypress shade, 594

I feed a flame within, which so torments me, 401

I flung me round him, 803

I got me flowers to straw Thy way, 282

I have a mistress, for perfections rare, 299

I have had playmates, I have had companions, 577

I intended an Ode, 825

I know a little garden-close, 802

I know a thing that’s most uncommon, 440

I know my soul hath power to know all things, 181

I left thee last, a child at heart, 678

I long have had a quarrel set with Time, 823

I loved a lass, a fair one, 236

I loved him not; and yet now he is gone, 557

I loved thee once; I’ll love no more, 183

I made another garden, yea, 829

I mind me in the days departed, 679

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, 879

I, my dear, was born to-day, 425

I play’d with you ’mid cowslips blowing, 593

I pray thee, leave, love me no more, 116

I said--Then, dearest, since ’tis so, 727

I saw fair Chloris walk alone, 393

I saw my Lady weep, 66

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn, 647

I saw where in the shroud did lurk, 579

I sent a ring--a little band, 641

I sing of a maiden, 23

I strove with none, for none was worth my strife, 576

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless, 681

I that in heill was and gladnèss, 21

I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide, 538

I thought once how Theocritus had sung, 682

I thought to meet no more, so dreary seem’d, 620

I took my heart in my hand, 782

I travell’d among unknown men, 517

I wander’d lonely as a cloud, 530

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, 864

I will make you brooches and toys for your delight, 846

I wish I were where Helen lies, 387

I, with whose colours Myra dress’d her head, 96

Ichot a burde in boure bryht, 4

I’d a dream to-night, 658

I’d wed you without herds, without money or rich array, 713

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, 691

I’m wearin’ awa’, John, 512

I’ve heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, 466

If all the world and love were young, 122

If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song, 459

If doughty deeds my lady please, 469

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 604

‘If I were dead, you’d sometimes say, Poor Child!’, 761

If rightly tuneful bards decide, 461

If the quick spirits in your eye, 290

If the red slayer think he slays, 672

If there were dreams to sell, 667

If thou must love me, let it be for naught, 685

If thou wilt ease thine heart, 666

If to be absent were to be, 344

If you go over desert and mountain, 830

In a drear-nighted December, 632

In a harbour grene aslepe whereas I lay, 45

In a quiet water’d land, a land of roses, 849

In a valley of this restles mind, 24

In after days when grasses high, 826

In Clementina’s artless mien, 568

In going to my naked bed as one that would have slept, 46

In Scarlet town, where I was born, 389

In somer when the shawes be sheyne, 22

In the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands, 768

In the highlands, in the country places, 847

In the hour of death, after this life’s whim, 883

In the hour of my distress, 275

In the merry month of May, 73

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 550

Into the silver night, 845

Into the skies, one summer’s day, 756

Is it so small a thing, 754

It fell about the Martinmas, 374

It fell in the ancient periods, 670

It fell on a day, and a bonnie simmer day, 377

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, 521

It is an ancient Mariner, 549

It is not, Celia, in our power, 405

It is not death, that sometime in a sigh, 649

It is not growing like a tree, 194

It is not to be thought of that the flood, 526

It is the miller’s daughter, 701

It was a dismal and a fearful night, 352

It was a lover and his lass, 137

It was a’ for our rightfu’ King, 505

It was many and many a year ago, 695

It was not in the Winter, 651

It was not like your great and gracious ways!, 762

It was the Winter wilde, 307

Its edges foam’d with amethyst and rose, 873

Jenny kiss’d me when we met, 592

John Anderson, my jo, John, 497

Know, Celia, since thou art so proud, 293

Ladies, though to your conquering eyes, 404

Late at een, drinkin’ the wine, 370

Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son, 319

Lay a garland on my herse, 209

Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust, 95

Lenten ys come with love to toune, 3

Lestenyt, lordynges, both elde and yinge, 7

Let me go forth, and share, 853

Let me not to the marriage of true minds, 162

Let the bird of loudest lay, 144

Let us drink and be merry, dance, joke, and rejoice, 335

Life! I know not what thou art, 474

Like the Idalian queen, 225

Like thee I once have stemm’d the sea of life, 472

Like to Diana in her summer weed, 103

Like to the clear in highest sphere, 100

Lo, quhat it is to love, 44

London, thou art of townes _A per se_, 19

Long-expected One-and-twenty, 450

Look not thou on beauty’s charming, 544

Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band, 423

Loud mockers in the roaring street, 869

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, 286

Love guards the roses of thy lips, 99

Love in fantastic triumph sate, 411

Love in my bosom like a bee, 97

Love is a sickness full of woes, 111

Love is enough: though the World be a-waning, 801

Love is the blossom where there blows, 233

Love not me for comely grace, 71

Love, thou art absolute, sole Lord, 338

Love thy country, wish it well, 443

Love wing’d my Hopes and taught me how to fly, 62

Marie Hamilton’s to the kirk gane, 375

Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like, 775

Martial, the things that do attain, 41

Marvel of marvels, if I myself shall behold, 785

Mary! I want a lyre with other strings, 470

May! Be thou never graced with birds that sing, 245

May! queen of blossoms, 586

Me so oft my fancy drew, 238

Men grew sae cauld, maids sae unkind, 655

Merry Margaret, 31

Methought I saw my late espousèd Saint, 321

Mild is the parting year, and sweet, 565

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour, 524

More love or more disdain I crave, 403

Mortality, behold and fear!, 234

Most glorious Lord of Lyfe! that, on this day, 84

Mother, I cannot mind my wheel, 564

Mother of Hermes! and still youthful Maia!, 629

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, 634

Music, when soft voices die, 618

My blood so red, 385

My Damon was the first to wake, 480

My days among the Dead are past, 556

My dear and only Love, I pray, 334

My delight and thy delight, 832

My faint spirit was sitting in the light, 613

My grief on the sea, 858

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains, 624

My heart is high above, my body is full of bliss, 52

My heart is like a singing bird, 780

My heart leaps up when I behold, 532

My little Son, who look’d from thoughtful eyes, 763

My Love in her attire doth show her wit, 63

My love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming, 158

My love o’er the water bends dreaming, 797

My lute, awake! perform the last, 38

My mother bore me in the southern wild, 487

My new-cut ashlar takes the light, 865

My noble, lovely, little Peggy, 427

My Peggy is a young thing, 437

My Phillis hath the morning sun, 98

My silks and fine array, 485

My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on, 277

My soul, there is a country, 363

My thoughts hold mortal strife, 230

My true love hath my heart, and I have his, 88

Nay but you, who do not love her, 721

Near to the silver Trent, 118

Never seek to tell thy love, 492

Never weather-beaten sail more willing bent to shore, 176

New doth the sun appear, 231

News from a foreign country came, 406

No coward soul is mine, 738

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist, 628

No thyng ys to man so dere, 8

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away, 730

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 603

Not, Celia, that I juster am, 410

‘Not ours,’ say some, ‘the thought of death to dread, 854

Not unto us, O Lord, 876

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white, 705

Now the lusty spring is seen, 212

Now the North wind ceases, 774

Now winter nights enlarge, 174

Nuns fret not at their convent’s narrow room, 533

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 543

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 743

O Christ of God! whose life and death, 690

O come, soft rest of cares! come, Night!, 107

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes, 789

O fly, my Soul! What hangs upon, 287

O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure, 816

O for some honest lover’s ghost, 325

O for the mighty wakening that aroused, 676

O friend! I know not which way I must look, 523

O goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung, 626

O happy dames! that may embrace, 40

O happy Tithon! if thou know’st thy hap, 221

O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, 150

O, I hae come from far away, 731

O joy of creation, 813

O lusty May, with Flora queen!, 51

O many a day have I made good ale in the glen, 638

O Mary, at thy window be, 493

O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 740

O Memory, thou fond deceiver, 468

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?, 133

O mortal folk, you may behold and see, 33

O my Dark Rosaleen, 664

O my deir hert, young Jesus sweit, 384

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose, 503

O never say that I was false of heart, 161

O perfect Light, which shaid away, 106

O ruddier than the cherry!, 439

O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 500

O saw ye not fair Ines?, 650

O sing unto my roundelay, 479

O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, 661

O soft embalmer of the still midnight!, 636

O Sorrow!, 623

O that ’twere possible, 709

O the sad day!, 407

O thou, by Nature taught, 457

O thou that swing’st upon the waving hair, 347

O thou undaunted daughter of desires!, 339

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down, 484

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay, 509

O, to be in England, 729

O turn away those cruel eyes, 394

O waly, waly, up the bank, 388

O were my Love yon lilac fair, 502

O western wind, when wilt thou blow, 27

O wha will shoe my bonny foot?, 369

O what a plague is love!, 392

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 633

‘O which is the last rose?’, 851

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, 610

O world, be nobler, for her sake!, 871

O world, in very truth thou art too young, 822

O yonge fresshe folkes, he or she, 10

O, you plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes, 814

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, 494

Of all the flowers rising now, 757

Of all the girls that are so smart, 444

Of all the torments, all the cares, 429

Of Nelson and the North, 581

Of Neptune’s empire let us sing, 173

Of on that is so fayr and bright, 6

Oft, in the stilly night, 584

Often I think of the beautiful town, 689

Oh how comely it is and how reviving, 323

On a day--alack the day!, 124

On a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose, 776

On a time the amorous Silvy, 72

On either side the river lie, 700

On parent knees, a naked new-born child, 478

On the deck of Patrick Lynch’s boat I sat in woful plight, 734

On the Sabbath-day, 778

On the wide level of a mountain’s head, 553

Once did she hold the gorgeous East in fee, 522

One more Unfortunate, 654

One word is too often profaned, 615

Only tell her that I love, 421

O’re the smooth enameld green, 312

Orpheus with his lute made trees, 143

Others abide our question. Thou art free, 753

Out of the night that covers me, 842

Out upon it, I have loved, 326

Over hill, over dale, 127

Over the mountains, 391

Over the sea our galleys went, 716

Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day!, 205

Passing away, saith the World, passing away, 784

Passions are liken’d best to floods and streams, 75

Past ruin’d Ilion Helen lives, 561

Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on?, 882

Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, 837

Phœbus, arise!, 224

Piping down the valleys wild, 486

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 164

Praise is devotion fit for mighty minds, 303

Pray but one prayer for me ’twixt thy closed lips, 800

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 542

Proud word you never spoke, but you will speak, 562

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave, 464

Put your head, darling, darling, darling, 712

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 184

Queen of fragrance, lovely Rose, 449

Quhen Flora had o’erfret the firth, 50

Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife, 656

Remain, ah not in youth alone!, 566

Remember me when I am gone away, 787

Return, return! all night my lamp is burning, 766

‘Rise,’ said the Master, ‘come unto the feast’, 711

Robin sat on gude green hill, 16

Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, 665

Rorate coeli desuper!, 20

Rose-cheek’d Laura, come, 169

Roses, their sharp spines being gone, 141

Round the cape of a sudden came the sea, 725

Sabrina fair, 315

Safe where I cannot die yet, 786

Say, crimson Rose and dainty Daffodil, 177

Say not the struggle naught availeth, 741

Says Tweed to Till, 383

Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown’d, 534

Seamen three! What men be ye?, 595

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!, 627

See how the flowers, as at parade, 356

See the Chariot at hand here of Love, 188

See where she sits upon the grassie greene, 80

See with what simplicity, 358

See yon blithe child that dances in our sight!, 662

Sense with keenest edge unusèd, 838

Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm, 821

Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s day?, 145

Shall I strew on thee rose or rue or laurel, 810

Shall I thus ever long, and be no whit the neare?, 54

Shall I, wasting in despair, 237

She beat the happy pavèment, 345

She dwelt among the untrodden ways, 516

She fell away in her first ages spring, 83

She is not fair to outward view, 644

She knelt upon her brother’s grave, 790

She pass’d away like morning dew, 645

She stood breast-high amid the corn, 652

She walks in beauty, like the night, 600

She walks--the lady of my delight, 880

She was a phantom of delight, 529

She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning, 643

She who to Heaven more Heaven doth annex, 333

She’s somewhere in the sunlight strong, 868

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 495

Shut not so soon; the dull-eyed night, 261

Since all that I can ever do for thee, 795

Since first I saw your face I resolved to honour and renown ye, 69

Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce, 659

Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part, 117

Sing his praises that doth keep, 210

Sing lullaby, as women do, 47

Sister, awake! close not your eyes!, 67

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, 490

So shuts the marigold her leaves, 244

So, we’ll go no more a-roving, 599

Softly, O midnight Hours!, 732

Some vex their souls with jealous pain, 418

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife, 545

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king, 166

Stand close around, ye Stygian set, 571

Stay, O sweet, and do not rise!, 195

Steer, hither steer your wingèd pines, 241

Stern Daughter of the voice of God!, 531

Still do the stars impart their light, 331

Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wear, 737

Still to be neat, still to be drest, 186

Strange fits of passion have I known, 515

Strew on her roses, roses, 750

Sublime--invention ever young, 465

Sumer is icumen in, 1

Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare, 875

Sure thou didst flourish once! and many springs, 364

Surprised by joy--impatient as the Wind, 537

Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow, 811

Sweet are the rosy memories of the lips, 794

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes, 264

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 281

Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseen, 314

Sweet in her green dell the flower of beauty slumbers, 640

Sweet rois of vertew and of gentilness, 18

Sweet Spring, thou turn’st with all thy goodly train, 227

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, 249

Sweetest Saviour, if my soul, 284

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 612

Take, O take those lips away, 138

Tary no longer; toward thyn heritage, 14

Tell me not of a face that’s fair, 354

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, 343

Tell me not what too well I know, 570

Tell me where is Fancy bred, 132

Th’ expense of Spirit in a waste of shame, 163

Thank Heaven! the crisis, 696

That time of year thou may’st in me behold, 152

That which her slender waist confined, 304

That zephyr every year, 226

The beauty and the life, 229

The blessèd Damozel lean’d out, 771

The boat is chafing at our long delay, 850

The chough and crow to roost are gone, 510

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 453

The day begins to droop, 839

The days are sad, it is the Holy tide, 688

The fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays, 777

The forward youth that would appear, 355

The glories of our blood and state, 288

The gray sea and the long black land, 724

The Indian weed witherèd quite, 390

The irresponsive silence of the land, 788

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!, 601

The king sits in Dunfermline town, 368

The Lady Mary Villiers lies, 294

The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest, 301

The last and greatest Herald of Heaven’s King, 232

The leaves are falling; so am I, 575

The linnet in the rocky dells, 735

The loppèd tree in time may grow again, 108

The lovely lass o’ Inverness, 504

The man of life upright, 175

The merchant, to secure his treasure, 424

The moth’s kiss, first!, 723

The murmur of the mourning ghost, 765

The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth, 91

The rain set early in to-night, 720

The red rose whispers of passion, 831

The reivers they stole Fair Annie, 372

The ring, so worn as you behold, 482

The Rose was sick and smiling died, 255

The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er, 306

The soote season, that bud and bloom forth brings, 39

The spacious firmament on high, 433

The splendour falls on castle walls, 704

The Star that bids the Shepherd fold, 313

The sun descending in the west, 491

The sun rises bright in France, 589

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, 349

The twentieth year is wellnigh past, 471

The wine of Love is music, 799

The world is too much with us; late and soon, 535

The world’s great age begins anew, 607

The year’s at the spring, 718

The young May moon is beaming, love, 582

Thee too, modest tressèd maid, 508

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now, 154

There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men, 430

There are two births; the one when light, 330

There be none of Beauty’s daughters, 598

There is a garden in her face, 168

There is a Lady sweet and kind, 70

There is a mountain and a wood between us, 574

There is a silence where hath been no sound, 648

There is sweet music here that softer falls, 702

There lived a wife at Usher’s well, 378

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 536

There were three ravens sat on a tree, 379

There were twa sisters sat in a bour, 376

There’s a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe, 815

There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, 866

There’s a woman like a dew-drop, she’s so purer than the purest, 722

There’s not a nook within this silent Pass, 540

They are all gone into the world of light!, 365

They are waiting on the shore, 804

They flee from me that sometime did me seek, 37

They seem’d, to those who saw them meet, 710

They that have power to hurt and will do none, 155

They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead, 759

They all were looking for a king, 770

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, 381

This hinder yeir I hard be tald, 17

This is a spray the Bird clung to, 728

This little vault, this narrow room, 295

This winter’s weather it waxeth cold, 29

Thou art to all lost love the best, 267

Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, 625

Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, 398

Though beauty be the mark of praise, 189

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 518

Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer’d my way, 583

Through the black, rushing smoke-bursts, 748

Throw away Thy rod, 283

Thus the Mayne glideth, 717

Thus when the silent grave becomes, 447

Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts, 148

Thy restless feet now cannot go, 341

Thy soul within such silent pomp did keep, 420

Tiger, tiger, burning bright, 489

Time is the feather’d thing, 296

’Tis a dull sight, 697

To all you ladies now at land, 408

To fair Fidele’s grassy tomb, 460

To live within a cave--it is most good, 792

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, 159

To mute and to material things, 548

To my true king I offer’d free from stain, 657

To the Ocean now I fly, 316

To these whom death again did wed, 342

To-day, all day, I rode upon the down, 820

To-night retired, the queen of heaven, 463

Too late for love, too late for joy, 779

Too solemn for day, too sweet for night, 639

Tossing his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles, 812

True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, 367

Trust thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet?, 744

’Twas on a lofty vase’s side, 456

’Twas the dream of a God, 881

Twenty years hence my eyes may grow, 560

Under the greenwood tree, 135

Under the wide and starry sky, 848

Under yonder beech-tree single on the green-sward, 772

Underneath this myrtle shade, 350

Underneath this sable herse, 246

Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!, 683

Up the airy mountain, 769

Upon my lap my sovereign sits, 165

Urns and odours bring away!, 142

Venus, take my votive glass, 426

Verse, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying, 552

Vital spark of heav’nly flame!, 442

Waes-hael for knight and dame!, 674

We are the music-makers, 828

We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest, 340

We see them not--we cannot hear, 675

We, that did nothing study but the way, 279

We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night, 653

We’ve trod the maze of error round, 481

Weave the warp, and weave the woof, 454

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan, 217

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 105

Weep with me, all you that read, 193

Weep you no more, sad fountains, 65

Welcome, maids of honour!, 251

Welcome, welcome! do I sing, 240

Well then! I now do plainly see, 353

Were I as base as is the lowly plain, 115

Wharefore sou’d ye talk o’ love, 619

What beck’ning ghost, along the moonlight shade, 441

What bird so sings, yet so does wail?, 86

What conscience, say, is it in thee, 265

What have I done for you, 844

What is your substance, whereof are you made, 149

What needs complaints, 269

What nymph should I admire or trust, 422

What should I say?, 36

What sweet relief the showers to thirsty plants we see, 42

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 687

When by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked, 773

When, Cœlia, must my old day set, 396

When daisies pied and violets blue, 125

When, dearest, I but think of thee, 328

When Death to either shall come, 840

When Delia on the plain appears, 449

When God at first made Man, 285

When I am dead, my dearest, 781

When I consider how my light is spent, 318

When I have borne in memory what has tamed, 527

When I have fears that I may cease to be, 635

When I survey the bright, 298

When icicles hang by the wall, 126

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men’s eyes, 146

When in the chronicle of wasted time, 160

When Jessie comes with her soft breast, 791

When Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year, 693

When like the early rose, 663

When Love arose in heart and deed, 755

When Love with unconfinèd wings, 348

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 467

When maidens such as Hester die, 578

When my love was away, 836

When our two souls stand up erect and strong, 686

When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies, 872

When the fierce North-wind with his airy forces, 434

When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces, 808

When the lamp is shatter’d, 614

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 477

When the world is burning, 745

When thou must home to shades of underground, 172

When thou, poor Excommunicate, 291

When thy beauty appears, 436

When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought, 147

When we two parted, 597

When we were idlers with the loitering rills, 646

When you and I have play’d the little hour, 861

When you are old and gray and full of sleep, 863

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, 259

Where, like a pillow on a bed, 198

Where the bee sucks, there suck I, 130

Where the pools are bright and deep, 513

Where the remote Bermudas ride, 360

Whether on Ida’s shady brow, 483

While that the sun with his beams hot, 55

Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 835

Who hath his fancy pleased, 89

Who is it that, this dark night, 90

Who is Silvia? What is she?, 123

Whoe’er she be, 336

Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm, 200

Why art thou silent! Is thy love a plant, 541

Why does your brand sae drop wi’ blude, 373

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why, 416

Why, having won her, do I woo?, 760

Why I tie about thy wrist, 260

Why so pale and wan, fond lover?, 327

Why, why repine, my pensive friend, 563

Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 201

With all my will, but much against my heart, 764

With blackest moss the flower-plots, 699

With deep affection, 677

With how sad steps, O moon, thou climb’st the skies!, 93

With leaden foot Time creeps along, 452

With lifted feet, hands still, 856

With margerain gentle, 30

Worschippe ye that loveris bene this May, 15

Wouldst thou hear what Man can say, 192

Wrong not, sweet empress of my heart, 76

Wynter wakeneth al my care, 5

Years, many parti-colour’d years, 573

Ye banks and braes and streams around, 501

Ye blushing virgins happy are, 297

Ye flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, 498

Ye have been fresh and green, 270

‘Ye have robb’d,’ said he, ‘ye have slaughter’d and made an end, 860

Ye Highlands and ye Lawlands, 386

Ye learnèd sisters, which have oftentimes, 82

Ye little birds that sit and sing, 206

Ye Mariners of England, 580

Yes: in the sea of life enisled, 749

Yet if His Majesty, our sovereign lord, 60

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more, 317

You are a tulip seen to-day, 257

You brave heroic minds, 120

You meaner beauties of the night, 178

You must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, 806

You promise heavens free from strife, 758

You spotted snakes with double tongue, 128

You’ll love me yet!--and I can tarry, 719

Your beauty, ripe and calm and fresh, 302

Your eyen two wol slee me sodenly, 12

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, OXFORD

BY JOHN JOHNSON, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY