Cambridge:
at the University Press
1916
NOTE
The Editor is indebted to the following authors and publishers for
leave to reprint copyright poems: Mr W. Graham Robertson and Mr Norman
Gale; Messrs Longmans Green & Co. for a poem by Walter Ramal and for a
poem from Stevenson’s _Child’s Garden of Verse_, Messrs Chatto & Windus
for an extract from Swinburne’s _Songs Before Sunrise_ and for a poem
from Walter Thornbury’s _Ballads and Songs_, Messrs G. Routledge & Sons
for a poem by Joaquin Miller, Mr Elliot Stock for an extract from a
play by H. N. Maugham; and Mr John Lane for the Rands, Eugene Field,
and Graham Robertson poems, and for two extracts from John Davidson’s
_Fleet Street Eclogues_.
PREFACE
In compiling a selection of Poetry for Children, a conscientious Editor
is bound to find himself confronted with limitations so numerous as
to be almost disheartening. For he has to remember that his task is,
not to provide simple examples of the whole range of English poetry,
but to set up a wicket-gate giving attractive admission to that wide
domain, with its woodland glades, its pasture and arable, its walled
and scented gardens here and there, and so to its sunlit, and sometimes
misty, mountain-tops--all to be more fully explored later by those who
are tempted on by the first glimpse. And always he must be proclaiming
to the small tourists that there is joy, light and fresh air in that
delectable country.
Briefly, I think that blank verse generally, and the drama as a
whole, may very well be left for readers of a riper age. Indeed, I
believe that those who can ignore the plays of Shakespeare and his
fellow-Elizabethans till they are sixteen will be no losers in the
long run. The bulk, too, of seventeenth and eighteenth century poetry,
bending under its burden of classical form and crowded classical
allusion, requires a completed education and a wide range of reading
for its proper appreciation.
Much else also is barred. There are the questions of subject, of
archaic language and thought, and of occasional expression, which will
occur to everyone. Then there is dialect, and here one has to remember
that these poems are intended for use at the very time that a child
is painfully acquiring a normal--often quite arbitrary--orthography.
Is it fair to that child to hammer into him--perhaps literally--that
porridge is spelt porridge, and next minute to present it to him, in an
official ‘Reader,’ under the guise of parritch? I think not; and I have
accordingly kept as far as possible to the normal, though at some loss
of material.
In the output of those writers who have deliberately written for
children, it is surprising how largely the subject of _death_ is found
to bulk. Dead fathers and mothers, dead brothers and sisters, dead
uncles and aunts, dead puppies and kittens, dead birds, dead flowers,
dead dolls--a compiler of Obituary Verse for the delight of children
could make a fine fat volume with little difficulty. I have turned off
this mournful tap of tears as far as possible, preferring that children
should read of the joy of life, rather than revel in sentimental
thrills of imagined bereavement.
There exists, moreover, any quantity of verse for children, which is
merely verse and nothing more. It lacks the vital spark of heavenly
flame, and is useless to a selector of Poetry. And then there is the
whole corpus of verse--most of it of the present day--which is written
_about_ children, and this has even more carefully to be avoided. When
the time comes that we send our parents to school, it will prove very
useful to the compilers of their primers.
All these restrictions have necessarily led to two results. First,
that this collection is chiefly lyrical--and that, after all, is no
bad thing. Lyric verse may not be representative of the whole range of
English poetry, but as an introduction to it, as a Wicket-gate, there
is no better portal. The second result is, that it is but a small sheaf
that these gleanings amount to; but for those children who frankly do
not care for poetry it will be more than enough; and for those who
love it and delight in it, no ‘selection’ could ever be sufficiently
satisfying.
KENNETH GRAHAME.
_October 1915._
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE v
_For the Very Smallest Ones_
RHYMES AND JINGLES
Merry are the Bells 1
Safe in Bed 2
Jenny Wren 2
Curly Locks 3
Pussy-Cat Mew 3
Draw a Pail of Water 4
I Saw a Ship a-sailing 4
The Nut-Tree 5
My Maid Mary 5
The Wind and the Fisherman 6
Blow, Wind, Blow 6
All Busy 6
Winter has Come 7
Poor Robin 7
I have a Little Sister 7
In Marble Walls 8
FAMILIAR OBJECTS
The Moon _Eliza Lee Follen_ 8
The Star _A. & J. Taylor_ 9
Kitty _Mrs E. Prentiss_ 10
Kitty: How to Treat Her 11
Kitty: what She thinks of Herself _W. B. Rands_ 12
The Sea Shell _Amy Lowell_ 12
COUNTRY BOYS’ SONGS
The Cuckoo 13
The Bird-Scarer’s Song 13
Cradle Song 13
Good Night! _A. & J. Taylor_ 14
_For Those a Little Older_
A BUNCH OF LENT LILIES
Daffodils _W. Shakespeare_ 15
To Daffodils _R. Herrick_ 15
Daffodils _W. Wordsworth_ 16
SEASONS AND WEATHER
The Months _Sara Coleridge_ 17
The Wind in a Frolic _William Howitt_ 19
The Four Sweet Months _R. Herrick_ 22
Glad Day _W. G. Robertson_ 22
Buttercups and Daisies _Mary Howitt_ 24
The Merry Month of March _W. Wordsworth_ 24
What the Birds Say _S. T. Coleridge_ 25
Spring’s Procession _Sydney Dobell_ 26
The Call of the Woods _W. Shakespeare_ 28
A Prescription for a Spring
Morning _John Davidson_ 28
The Country Faith _Norman Gale_ 29
The Butterfly’s Ball _W. Roscoe_ 30
TASTES AND PREFERENCES
A Wish _Samuel Rogers_ 33
Wishing _W. Allingham_ 34
Bunches of Grapes _Walter Ramal_ 35
Contentment _Eugene Field_ 36
TOYS AND PLAY, IN-DOORS AND OUT
The Land of Story-Books _R. L. Stevenson_ 38
Sand Castles _W. G. Robertson_ 39
Ring o’ Roses ” 41
DREAM-LAND
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod _Eugene Field_ 42
The Drummer-Boy and the
Shepherdess _W. B. Rands_ 44
The Land of Dreams _William Blake_ 45
Sweet and Low _Lord Tennyson_ 45
Cradle Song _Sir Walter Scott_ 46
Mother and I _Eugene Field_ 47
FAIRY-LAND
The Fairies _W. Allingham_ 48
Shakespeare’s Fairies _W. Shakespeare_ 51
The Lavender Beds _W. B. Rands_ 54
Farewell to the Fairies _Richard Corbet_ 55
Death of Oberon _G. W. Thornbury_ 57
Kilmeny _James Hogg_ 58
TWO SONGS
A Boy’s Song _James Hogg_ 62
A Girl’s Song _Thomas Moore_ 63
FUR AND FEATHER
Three Things to Remember _William Blake_ 65
The Knight of Bethlehem _H. N. Maugham_ 65
The Lamb _William Blake_ 65
The Tiger ” 66
I had a Dove _J. Keats_ 67
Robin Redbreast _W. Allingham_ 68
Black Bunny _W. B. Rands_ 69
The Cow _A. & J. Taylor_ 71
The Skylark _James Hogg_ 72
CHRISTMAS POEMS
Christmas Eve _John Davidson_ 73
A Christmas Carol _R. Herrick_ 75
A Child’s Present ” 76
The Peace-Giver _A. C. Swinburne_ 77
VARIOUS
To a Singer _P. B. Shelley_ 78
The Happy Piper _William Blake_ 80
The Destruction of Sennacherib _Lord Byron_ 81
Sheridan’s Ride _T. Buchanan Read_ 83
Columbus _Joaquin Miller_ 86
Horatius _Lord Macaulay_ 88
INDEX OF AUTHORS 113
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 115
_For the Very Smallest Ones_
RHYMES AND JINGLES
_We begin with some jingles and old rhymes; for rhymes and jingles must
not be despised. They have rhyme, rhythm, melody, and joy; and it is
well for beginners to know that these are all elements of poetry, so
that they will turn to it with pleasant expectation._
MERRY ARE THE BELLS
Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring,
Merry was myself, and merry could I sing;
With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free,
And a merry sing-song, happy let us be!
Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose;
Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose;
Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free;
With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!
Merry have we met, and merry have we been;
Merry let us part, and merry meet again;
With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free,
With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be!
SAFE IN BED
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,
Bless the bed that I lie on!
Four corners to my bed,
Five angels there lie spread;
Two at my head,
Two at my feet,
One at my heart, my soul to keep.
JENNY WREN
Jenny Wren fell sick;
Upon a merry time,
In came Robin Redbreast,
And brought her sops of wine.
Eat well of the sop, Jenny,
Drink well of the wine;
Thank you Robin kindly,
You shall be mine.
Jenny she got well,
And stood upon her feet,
And told Robin plainly
She loved him not a bit.
Robin, being angry,
Hopp’d on a twig,
Saying, Out upon you,
Fye upon you,
Bold-faced jig!
CURLY LOCKS
Curly locks! Curly locks!
Wilt thou be mine?
Thou shalt not wash dishes
Nor yet feed the swine.
But sit on a cushion
And sew a fine seam,
And feed upon strawberries
Sugar and cream.
PUSSY-CAT MEW
Pussy-cat Mew jumped over a coal,
And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole.
Pussy-cat Mew shall have no more milk
Till she has mended her gown of silk.
DRAW A PAIL OF WATER
Draw a pail of water
For my Lady’s daughter.
Father’s a King,
Mother’s a Queen,
My two little sisters are dressed in green,
Stamping marigolds and parsley.
I SAW A SHIP A-SAILING
I saw a ship a-sailing,
A-sailing on the sea;
And it was full of pretty things
For baby and for me.
There were sweetmeats in the cabin,
And apples in the hold;
The sails were made of silk,
And the masts were made of gold.
The four-and-twenty sailors
That stood between the decks,
Were four-and-twenty white mice,
With chains about their necks.
The captain was a duck,
With a packet on his back;
And when the ship began to move,
The captain cried, “Quack, quack!”
THE NUT-TREE
I had a little nut-tree,
Nothing would it bear
But a silver nutmeg
And a golden pear;
The King of Spain’s daughter
She came to see me,
And all because of my little nut-tree.
I skipped over water,
I danced over sea,
And all the birds in the air couldn’t catch me.
MY MAID MARY
My maid Mary she minds the dairy,
While I go a-hoeing and a-mowing each morn;
Gaily run the reel and the little spinning-wheel,
Whilst I am singing and mowing my corn.
THE WIND AND THE FISHERMAN
When the wind is in the East,
’Tis neither good for man or beast;
When the wind is in the North,
The skilful fisher goes not forth;
When the wind is in the South,
It blows the bait in the fish’s mouth;
When the wind is in the West,
Then ’tis at the very best.
BLOW, WIND, BLOW
Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go!
That the miller may grind his corn;
That the baker may take it and into rolls make it,
And send us some hot in the morn.
ALL BUSY
The cock’s on the house-top,
Blowing his horn;
The bull’s in the barn,
A-threshing of corn;
The maids in the meadows
Are making the hay,
The ducks in the river
Are swimming away.
WINTER HAS COME
Cold and raw
The north wind doth blow
Bleak in the morning early;
All the hills are covered with snow,
And winter’s now come fairly.
POOR ROBIN
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then, poor thing?
He’ll sit in the barn,
And keep himself warm,
And hide his head under his wing, poor thing!
I HAVE A LITTLE SISTER
I have a little sister, they call her Peep, Peep,
She wades the waters, deep, deep, deep;
She climbs the mountains, high, high, high;
Poor little creature, she has but one eye.
(A star.)
IN MARBLE WALLS
In marble walls as white as milk,
Lined with a skin as soft as silk,
Within a fountain crystal-clear,
A golden apple doth appear.
No doors there are to this stronghold,
Yet thieves break in and steal the gold.
(An egg.)
FAMILIAR OBJECTS
_Here are some poems about things with which we are all quite familiar:
the Moon and the Stars that we see through our bedroom window; Pussy
purring on the hearthrug, the spotted shell on the mantelpiece._
THE MOON
O, look at the moon!
She is shining up there;
O mother, she looks
Like a lamp in the air.
Last week she was smaller,
And shaped like a bow;
But now she’s grown bigger,
And round as an O.
Pretty moon, pretty moon,
How you shine on the door,
And make it all bright
On my nursery floor!
You shine on my playthings,
And show me their place,
And I love to look up
At your pretty bright face.
And there is a star
Close by you, and maybe
That small twinkling star
Is your little baby.
ELIZA LEE FOLLEN.
THE STAR
Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are!
Up above the world so high,
Like a diamond in the sky.
When the blazing sun is gone,
When he nothing shines upon,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
Then the traveller in the dark
Thanks you for your tiny spark;
He could not see which way to go,
If you did not twinkle so.
In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.
As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveller in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.
ANN AND JANE TAYLOR.
KITTY
Once there was a little kitty
Whiter than snow;
In a barn she used to frolic,
Long time ago.
In the barn a little mousie
Ran to and fro;
For she heard the kitty coming,
Long time ago.
Two eyes had little kitty,
Black as a sloe;
And they spied the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Four paws had little kitty,
Paws soft as dough,
And they caught the little mousie,
Long time ago.
Nine teeth had little kitty,
All in a row;
And they bit the little mousie,
Long time ago.
When the teeth bit little mousie,
Little mouse cried “Oh!”
But she got away from kitty,
Long time ago.
MRS E. PRENTISS.
KITTY: HOW TO TREAT HER
I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm,
And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm;
So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away,
But Pussy and I very gently will play.
KITTY: WHAT SHE THINKS OF HERSELF
I am the Cat of Cats. I am
The everlasting cat!
Cunning, and old, and sleek as jam,
The everlasting cat!
I hunt the vermin in the night--
The everlasting cat!
For I see best without the light--
The everlasting cat!
W. B. RANDS.
THE SEA SHELL
Sea Shell, Sea Shell,
Sing me a song, O please!
A song of ships and sailor-men,
Of parrots and tropical trees;
Of islands lost in the Spanish Main
Which no man ever may see again,
Of fishes and corals under the waves,
And sea-horses stabled in great green caves--
Sea Shell, Sea Shell,
Sing me a song, O please!
AMY LOWELL.
COUNTRY BOYS’ SONGS
THE CUCKOO
The cuckoo’s a bonny bird,
She sings as she flies;
She brings us good tidings,
And tells us no lies.
She sucks little birds’ eggs,
To make her voice clear,
And never cries Cuckoo
Till the spring of the year.
THE BIRD-SCARER’S SONG
We’ve ploughed our land, we’ve sown our seed,
We’ve made all neat and gay;
Then take a bit and leave a bit,
Away, birds, away!
CRADLE SONG
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Our cottage vale is deep;
The little lamb is on the green,
With woolly fleece so soft and clean,
Sleep, baby, sleep!
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Down where the woodbines creep;
Be always like the lamb so mild,
A kind and sweet and gentle child,
Sleep, baby, sleep!
GOOD NIGHT!
Little baby, lay your head
On your pretty cradle-bed;
Shut your eye-peeps, now the day
And the light are gone away;
All the clothes are tucked in tight;
Little baby dear, good night.
Yes, my darling, well I know
How the bitter wind doth blow;
And the winter’s snow and rain
Patter on the window-pane:
But they cannot come in here,
To my little baby dear.
For the window shutteth fast,
Till the stormy night is past;
And the curtains warm are spread
Round about her cradle-bed:
So till morning shineth bright
Little baby dear, good night!
ANN AND JANE TAYLOR.
_For Those a Little Older_
A BUNCH OF LENT LILIES
_Here three Poets treat the same flower each from his own distinct and
delightful point of view. To the first it appeals as the flower of
courage, the brave early comer; to the second it is the early goer,
the flower of a too swift departure--though daffodils really bloom
for a fairly long time, as flowers go; the third is grateful for an
imperishable recollection._
DAFFODILS
... Daffodils
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty.
SHAKESPEARE.
TO DAFFODILS
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain’d his noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the evensong;
And, having pray’d together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away
Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
ROBERT HERRICK.
DAFFODILS
I wander’d lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch’d in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
SEASONS AND WEATHER
THE MONTHS
January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.
February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.
March brings breezes loud and shrill,
Stirs the dancing daffodil.
April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.
May brings flocks of pretty lambs,
Skipping by their fleecy dams.
June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children’s hands with posies.
Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots and gillyflowers.
August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.
Warm September brings the fruit,
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.
Fresh October brings the pheasant,
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.
Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast.
Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire and Christmas treat.
SARA COLERIDGE.
THE WIND IN A FROLIC
The wind one morning sprang up from sleep,
Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap!
Now for a madcap galloping chase!
I’ll make a commotion in every place!”
So it swept with a bustle right through a great town,
Creaking the signs and scattering down
Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls,
Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread stalls.
There never was heard a much lustier shout,
As the apples and oranges trundled about;
And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes
For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
Then away to the field it went blustering and humming,
And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.
It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows,
And tossed the colts’ manes all about their brows,
Till, offended at such a familiar salute,
They all turned their backs, and stood sullenly mute.
So on it went, capering and playing its pranks;
Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks;
Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray,
Or the traveller grave on the king’s highway.
It was not too nice[1] to hustle the bags
Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags;
’Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke
With the doctor’s wig, or the gentleman’s cloak.
Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, “Now,
You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you bow!”
And it made them bow without more ado,
Or it cracked their great branches through and through.
Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm,
Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm;
And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.
There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,
To see if their poultry were free from mishaps;
The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,
And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;
There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on
Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane
With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain;
For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood
With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud.
But away went the wind in its holiday glee,
And now it was far on the billowy sea,
And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow,
And the little boats darted to and fro.
But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest,
On the sea-bird’s rock in the gleaming West,
Laughing to think, in its fearful fun,
How little of mischief it had done.
WILLIAM HOWITT.
[1] _nice_: particular.
THE FOUR SWEET MONTHS
First, April, she with mellow showers
Opens the way for early flowers;
Then after her comes smiling May,
In a more sweet and rich array;
Next enters June, and brings us more
Gems than those two that went before:
Then, lastly, July comes and she
More wealth brings in than all those three.
ROBERT HERRICK.
GLAD DAY
Here’s another day, dear,
Here’s the sun again
Peeping in his pleasant way
Through the window pane.
Rise and let him in, dear,
Hail him “hip hurray!”
Now the fun will all begin.
Here’s another day!
Down the coppice path, dear,
Through the dewy glade,
(When the Morning took her bath
What a splash she made!)
Up the wet wood-way, dear,
Under dripping green
Run to meet another day,
Brightest ever seen.
Mushrooms in the field, dear,
Show their silver gleam.
What a dainty crop they yield
Firm as clouted cream,
Cool as balls of snow, dear,
Sweet and fresh and round!
Ere the early dew can go
We must clear the ground.
Such a lot to do, dear,
Such a lot to see!
How we ever can get through
Fairly puzzles me.
Hurry up and out, dear,
Then--away! away!
In and out and round about,
Here’s another day!
W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON.
BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES
Buttercups and daisies--
O the pretty flowers!
Coming ere the spring-time,
To tell of sunny hours.
When the trees are leafless;
When the fields are bare;
Buttercups and daisies
Spring up here and there.
Welcome, yellow buttercups!
Welcome, daisies white!
Ye are in my spirit
Vision’d, a delight!
Coming ere the spring-time,
Of sunny hours to tell--
Speaking to our hearts of Him
Who doeth all things well.
MARY HOWITT.
THE MERRY MONTH OF MARCH
The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!
Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Plough-boy is whooping anon, anon.
There’s joy in the mountains;
There’s life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
WHAT THE BIRDS SAY
Do you know what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet and thrush say “I love and I love!”
In the winter they’re silent--the wind is so strong;
What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing, and loving, all come back together.
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he--
“I love my love, and my love loves me!”
S. T. COLERIDGE.
SPRING’S PROCESSION
First came the primrose,
On the bank high,
Like a maiden looking forth
From the window of a tower
When the battle rolls below,
So look’d she,
And saw the storms go by.
Then came the wind-flower
In the valley left behind,
As a wounded maiden, pale
With purple streaks of woe,
When the battle has roll’d by
Wanders to and fro,
So tottered she,
Dishevell’d in the wind.
Then came the daisies,
On the first of May,
Like a banner’d show’s advance
While the crowd runs by the way,
With ten thousand flowers about them
they came trooping through the fields.
As a happy people come,
So came they,
As a happy people come
When the war has roll’d away,
With dance and tabor, pipe and drum,
And all make holiday.
Then came the cowslip,
Like a dancer in the fair,
She spread her little mat of green,
And on it danced she.
With a fillet bound about her brow,
A fillet round her happy brow,
A golden fillet round her brow,
And rubies in her hair.
SYDNEY DOBELL.
THE CALL OF THE WOODS
Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas’d with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
SHAKESPEARE.
A PRESCRIPTION FOR A SPRING MORNING
At early dawn through London you must go
Until you come where long black hedgerows grow,
With pink buds pearl’d, with here and there a tree,
And gates and stiles; and watch good country folk;
And scent the spicy smoke
Of wither’d weeds that burn where gardens be;
And in a ditch perhaps a primrose see.
The rooks shall stalk the plough, larks mount the skies,
Blackbirds and speckled thrushes sing aloud,
Hid in the warm white cloud
Mantling the thorn, and far away shall rise
The milky low of cows and farm-yard cries.
From windy heavens the climbing sun shall shine,
And February greet you like a maid
In russet cloak array’d;
And you shall take her for your mistress fine,
And pluck a crocus for her valentine.
JOHN DAVIDSON.
THE COUNTRY FAITH
Here in the country’s heart
Where the grass is green,
Life is the same sweet life
As it e’er hath been
Trust in a God still lives,
And the bell at morn
Floats with a thought of God
O’er the rising corn.
God comes down in the rain,
And the crop grows tall--
This is the country faith,
And the best of all.
NORMAN GALE.
THE BUTTERFLY’S BALL
“Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste
To the Butterfly’s Ball and the Grasshopper’s Feast;
The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has summoned the crew,
And the revels are now only waiting for you.”
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions came forth in a throng,
And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood,
Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood,
Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of Air
For an Evening’s Amusement together repair.
And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back.
And there was the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too,
With all their Relations, green, orange and blue.
And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down,
And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown;
Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring,
But they promised that evening to lay by their sting.
And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole,
And brought to the feast his blind Brother, the Mole,
And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell,
Came from a great distance, the length of an ell.
A Mushroom their Table, and on it was laid
A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made.
The Viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast.
Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise,
The Frog from a corner look’d up to the skies;
And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see,
Mounted high overhead and look’d down from a tree.
Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine,
To show his dexterity on the tight-line.
From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung,
Then quick as an arrow he darted along.
But just in the middle--oh! shocking to tell,
From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell.
Yet he touched not the ground, but with talons outspread,
Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread.
Then the Grasshopper came, with a jerk and a spring,
Very long was his leg, though but short was his Wing;
He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight,
Then chirp’d his own praises the rest of the night.
With step so majestic the Snail did advance,
And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance;
But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head,
And went in his own little chamber to bed.
Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night,
Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light.
“Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me.”
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions return’d in a throng.
WILLIAM ROSCOE.
TASTES AND PREFERENCES
A WISH
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to Heaven.
SAMUEL ROGERS.
WISHING
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose,
A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring!
The stooping boughs above me,
The wandering bee to love me,
The fern and moss to creep across,
And the Elm-tree for our King!
Nay--stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree,
A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay!
The winds would set them dancing,
The sun and moonshine glance in,
The birds would house among the boughs,
And sweetly sing!
O--no! I wish I were a Robin,
A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go;
Through forest, field, or garden,
And ask no leave or pardon,
Till Winter comes with icy thumbs
To ruffle up our wing!
Well--tell! Where should I fly to,
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell?
Before a day was over,
Home comes the rover,
For Mother’s kiss,--sweeter this
Than any other thing!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
BUNCHES OF GRAPES
“Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy;
“Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine;
“A junket of cream and a cranberry tart
For me,” says Jane.
“Love-in-a-mist,” says Timothy;
“Primroses pale,” says Elaine;
“A nosegay of pinks and mignonette
For me,” says Jane.
“Chariots of gold,” says Timothy;
“Silvery wings,” says Elaine;
“A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay
For me,” says Jane.
WALTER RAMAL.
CONTENTMENT
Once on a time an old red hen
Went strutting round with pompous clucks,
For she had little babies ten,
A part of which were tiny ducks.
“’Tis very rare that hens,” said she,
“Have baby ducks as well as chicks--
But I possess, as you can see,
Of chickens four and ducklings six!”
A season later, this old hen
Appeared, still cackling of her luck,
For, though she boasted babies ten,
Not one among them was a duck!
“’Tis well,” she murmured, brooding o’er
The little chicks of fleecy down,
“My babies now will stay ashore,
And, consequently, cannot drown!”
The following spring the old red hen
Clucked just as proudly as of yore--
But lo! her babes were ducklings ten,
Instead of chickens as before!
“’Tis better,” said the old red hen,
As she surveyed her waddling brood;
“A little water now and then
Will surely do my darlings good!”
But oh! alas, how very sad!
When gentle spring rolled round again,
The eggs eventuated bad,
And childless was the old red hen!
Yet patiently she bore her woe,
And still she wore a cheerful air,
And said: “’Tis best these things are so,
For babies are a dreadful care!”
I half suspect that many men,
And many, many women too,
Could learn a lesson from the hen
With plumage of vermilion hue.
She ne’er presumed to take offence
At any fate that might befall,
But meekly bowed to Providence--
She was contented--that was all!
EUGENE FIELD.
TOYS AND PLAY, IN-DOORS AND OUT
THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS
At evening when the lamp is lit,
Around the fire my parents sit;
They sit at home and talk and sing,
And do not play at anything.
Now, with my little gun, I crawl
All in the dark along the wall,
And follow round the forest track
Away behind the sofa back.
There, in the night, where none can spy,
All in my hunter’s camp I lie,
And play at books that I have read
Till it is time to go to bed.
These are the hills, these are the woods,
These are my starry solitudes;
And there the river by whose brink
The roaring lions come to drink.
I see the others far away
As if in firelit camp they lay,
And I, like to an Indian scout,
Around their party prowled about.
So, when my nurse comes in for me,
Home I return across the sea,
And go to bed with backward looks
At my dear land of Story-books.
R. L. STEVENSON.
SAND CASTLES
Build me a castle of sand
Down by the sea.
Here on the edge of the strand
Build it for me.
How shall a foeman invade,
Where may he land,
While we can raise with our spade
Castles of sand?
Turrets upleap and aspire,
Battlements rise
Sweeping the sea with their fire,
Storming the skies.
Pile that a monarch might own,
Mightily plann’d!
I can’t sit here on a throne,
This is too grand.
Build me a cottage of sand
Up on the hill;
Snug in a cleft it must stand
Sunny and still.
Plant it with ragwort and ling,
Bramble and bine:
Castles I’ll leave to the King,
This shall be mine.
Storm-clouds drive over the land,
High flies the spray;
Gone are our houses of sand,
Vanished away!
Look at the damage you’ve done,
Sea-wave and rain!
--“Nay, we but give you your fun
Over again.”
W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON.
RING O’ ROSES
Hush a while, my darling, for the long day closes,
Nodding into slumber on the blue hill’s crest.
See the little clouds play Ring a ring o’ roses,
Planting Fairy gardens in the red-rose West.
Greet him for us, cloudlets, say we’re not forgetting
Golden gifts of sunshine, merry hours of play.
Ring a ring o’ roses round the sweet sun’s setting,
Spread a bed of roses for the dear dead day.
Hush-a-bye, my little one, the dear day dozes,
Doffed his crown of kingship and his fair flag furled,
While the earth and sky play Ring a ring o’ roses,
Ring a ring o’ roses round the rose-red world.
W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON.
DREAM-LAND
WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe--
Sailed on a river of crystal light,
Into a sea of dew.
“Where are you going, and what do you wish?”
The old moon asked the three.
“We have come to fish for the herring fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we!”
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe,
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew.
The little stars were the herring fish
That lived in that beautiful sea--
“Now cast your nets wherever you wish--
Never afeared are we”:
So cried the stars to the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home;
’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed
As if it could not be,
And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea--
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed.
So shut your eyes while mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea,
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
EUGENE FIELD.
THE DRUMMER-BOY AND THE SHEPERDESS
Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum?
And why do you weep, sitting here on your thumb?
The soldiers are out, and the fifes we can hear;
But where is the drum of the young grenadier?
“My dear little drum it was stolen away
Whilst I was asleep on a sunshiny day;
It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee,
And sheep and a shepherdess under a tree.”
Shepherdess, shepherdess, where is your crook?
And why is your little lamb over the brook?
It bleats for its dam, and dog Tray is not by,
So why do you stand with a tear in your eye?
“My dear little crook it was stolen away
Whilst I dreamt a dream on a morning in May;
It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee,
And a drum and a drummer-boy under a tree.”
W. B. RANDS.
THE LAND OF DREAMS
“Awake, awake, my little boy!
Thou wast thy mother’s only joy;
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
O wake! thy father doth thee keep.
O what land is the land of dreams?
What are its mountains and what are its streams?”
“O father! I saw my mother there,
Among the lilies by waters fair.”
“Dear child! I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the land of dreams,
But, though calm and warm the waters wide
I could not get to the other side.”
“Father, O father! what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The land of dreams is better far,
Above the light of the morning star.”
WILLIAM BLAKE.
SWEET AND LOW
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother’s breast,
Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
CRADLE SONG
O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.
O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
O hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
MOTHER AND I
O Mother-My-Love, if you’ll give me your hand,
And go where I ask you to wander,
I will lead you away to a beautiful land--
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder.
We’ll walk in a sweet-posy garden out there,
Where moonlight and starlight are streaming,
And the flowers and the birds are filling the air
With the fragrance and music of dreaming.
There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress,
No questions or cares to perplex you;
There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress,
Nor patching of stockings to vex you.
For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream,
And sing you asleep when you’re weary,
And no one shall know of our beautiful dream
But you and your own little dearie.
And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head
In the bosom that’s sooth’d me so often,
And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead
A song which our dreaming shall soften.
So Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand,
And away through the starlight we’ll wander--
Away through the mist to the beautiful land--
The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder!
EUGENE FIELD.
FAIRY-LAND
THE FAIRIES
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
Down along the rocky shore
Some make their home,
They live on crispy pancakes
Of yellow tide-foam;
Some in the reeds
Of the black mountain-lake,
With frogs for their watch-dogs,
All night awake.
High on the hill-top
The old King sits;
He is now so old and grey
He’s nigh lost his wits.
With a bridge of white mist
Columbkill he crosses,
On his stately journeys
From Slieveleague to Rosses;
Or going up with music
On cold starry nights,
To sup with the Queen
Of the gay Northern Lights.
They stole little Bridget
For seven years long;
When she came down again
Her friends were all gone.
They took her lightly back,
Between the night and morrow,
They thought that she was fast asleep,
But she was dead with sorrow.
They have kept her ever since
Deep within the lakes,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wakes.
By the craggy hill-side,
Through the mosses bare,
They have planted thorn-trees
For pleasure here and there.
Is any man so daring
As dig one up in spite,
He shall find their sharpest thorns
In his bed at night.
Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren’t go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
Wee folk, good folk,
Trooping all together,
Green jacket, red cap,
And white owl’s feather!
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
SHAKESPEARE’S FAIRIES
_Some of them_,--
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves,
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him
When he comes back; you demi-puppets[2], that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make
Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew....
_They Dance and Play_,--
Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have, and kiss’d,--
The wild waves whist[3],--
Foot it featly[4] here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
_Bow, wow_,
The watch-dogs bark:
_Bow, wow_,
Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer
Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!
_Ariel Sings_,--
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
_A Busy One_
Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moonè’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs[5] upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
_They Sing Their Queen to Sleep_,--
You spotted snakes with double tongue,
Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong;
Come not near our fairy queen.
Philomel, with melody
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
Weaving spiders, come not here;
Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence!
Beetles black, approach not near;
Worm nor snail, do no offence.
Philomel, with melody,
Sing in our sweet lullaby;
Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby!
Never harm,
Nor spell nor charm,
Come our lovely lady nigh;
So, good night, with lullaby.
SHAKESPEARE.
[2] _Demi-puppets_: half the size of a doll.
[3] _Whist_: silent.
[4] _Featly_: neatly, elegantly.
[5] _Orbs_: circles, or fairy rings.
THE LAVENDER BEDS
The garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers,
The sunflowers and hollyhocks stood up like towers;
There were dark turncap lilies and jessamine rare,
And sweet thyme and marjoram scented the air.
The moon made the sun-dial tell the time wrong;
’Twas too late in the year for the nightingale’s song;
The box-trees were clipped, and the alleys were straight,
Till you came to the shrubbery hard by the gate.
The fairies stepped out of the lavender beds,
With mob-caps, or wigs, on their quaint little heads;
My lord had a sword and my lady a fan;
The music struck up and the dancing began.
I watched them go through with a grave minuet;
Wherever they footed the dew was not wet;
They bowed and they curtsied, the brave and the fair;
And laughter like chirping of crickets was there.
Then all on a sudden a church clock struck loud:
A flutter, a shiver, was seen in the crowd,
The cock crew, the wind woke, the trees tossed their heads,
And the fairy folk hid in the lavender beds.
W. B. RANDS.
FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES
Farewell rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
Do fare as well as they.
And though they sweep their hearths no less
Than maids were wont to do,
Yet who of late, for cleanliness,
Finds sixpence in her shoe?
At morning and at evening both,
You merry were and glad,
So little care of sleep or sloth
Those pretty ladies had.
When Tom came home from labour,
Or Cis to milking rose,
Then merrily went their tabor,
And nimbly went their toes.
Witness those rings and roundelays
Of theirs, which yet remain,
Were footed in Queen Mary’s days
On many a grassy plain;
But since of late Elizabeth,
And later, James came in,
They never danced on any heath
As when the time hath been.
By which we note the fairies
Were of the old profession,
Their songs were Ave-Maries,
Their dances were procession:
But now, alas! they all are dead,
Or gone beyond the seas;
Or farther for religion fled,
Or else they take their ease.
A tell-tale in their company
They never could endure,
And whoso kept not secretly
Their mirth, was punished sure;
It was a just and Christian deed
To pinch such black and blue:
O how the commonwealth doth need
Such justices as you!
RICHARD CORBET (1582-1635).
DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF OBERON, THE FAIRY KING
Toll the lilies’ silver bells!
Oberon, the King, is dead!
In her grief the crimson rose
All her velvet leaves has shed.
Toll the lilies’ silver bells!
Oberon is dead and gone!
He who looked an emperor
When his glow-worm crown was on.
Toll the lilies’ silver bells!
Slay the dragonfly, his steed;
Dig his grave within the ring
Of the mushrooms in the mead.
G. W. THORNBURY.
(_But he wasn’t dead really. It was all a mistake. So they didn’t slay
the dragonfly after all._)
KILMENY
(_A Story about one who went there_)
Bonny Kilmeny gaed[6] up the glen;
But it wasna to meet Duneira’s men,
Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see,
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
It was only to hear the yorlin[7] sing,
And pull the blue cress-flower round the spring;
To pull the hip and the hindberrye[8],
And the nut that hung frae the hazel-tree;
For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.
But lang may her minnie[9] look o’er the wa’,
And lang may she seek in the greenwood shaw;
Lang the Laird o’ Duneira blame,
And lang, lang greet[10] e’er Kilmeny come hame!
When many a day had come and fled,
When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,
When mass for Kilmeny’s soul had been sung,
When the bedesman had prayed and the dead-bell rung;
Late, late in a gloaming, when all was still,
When the fringe was red on the westlin[11] hill,
The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane,
The reek[12] of the cot hung o’er the plain,
Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane[13];
When the ingle[14] lowed[15] with an eery gleam,
Late, late in the gloamin’, Kilmeny came hame!
“Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?
Lang hae we sought baith holt and dene;
By linn[16], by ford, and green-wood tree,
Yet you are halesome and fair to see.
Where gat you that joup[17] of the lily sheen?
That bonny snood[18] of the birk[19] sae green?
And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?
Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?”
Kilmeny look’d up with a lovely grace,
But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face;
As still was her look, and as still was her ee,
As the stillness that lay on the emerald lea,
Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare.
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew.
But it seem’d as the harp of the sky had rung,
And the airs of heaven play’d round her tongue,
When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen,
And a land where sin had never been;
A land of love and a land of light,
Withouten sun, or moon, or night;
The land of vision it would seem,
And still an everlasting dream.
* * * * *
They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,
And she walk’d in the light of a sunless day;
The sky was a dome of crystal bright,
The fountain of vision, and fountain of light:
The emerald fields were of dazzling glow,
And the flowers of everlasting blow.
Then deep in the stream her body they laid,
That her youth and beauty might never fade;
And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie
In the stream of life that wander’d by.
And she heard a song, she heard it sung,
She kenn’d not where; but so sweetly it rung,
It fell on the ear like a dream of the morn:
“O blest be the day Kilmeny was born!”
* * * * *
To sing of the sights Kilmeny saw,
So far surpassing nature’s law,
The singer’s voice would sink away,
And the string of his harp would cease to play.
But she saw till the sorrows of man were by,
And all was love and harmony;
Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away,
Like the flakes of snow on a winter day.
* * * * *
When seven lang years had come and fled,
When grief was calm and hope was dead;
When scarce was remembered Kilmeny’s name,
Late, late in a gloaming Kilmeny came hame!
And O, her beauty was fair to see,
But still and steadfast was her ee!
Her seymar[20] was the lily flower,
And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower;
And her voice like the distant melody
That floats along the twilight sea.
But she loved to raike[21] the lanely glen,
And keepit away frae the haunts of men;
Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
To suck the flowers, and drink the spring.
But wherever her peaceful form appear’d,
The wild beasts of the hill were cheer’d;
The wolf play’d blythly round the field,
The lordly bison low’d and kneel’d;
The dun deer woo’d with manner bland,
And cower’d aneath her lily hand.
And all in a peaceful ring were hurl’d;
It was like an eve in a sinless world!
When a month and a day had come and gane,
Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene;
There laid her down on the leaves sae green,
And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen.
JAMES HOGG.
[6] _gaed_: went.
[7] _yorlin_: yellow-hammer.
[8] _hindberrye_: wild raspberry.
[9] _minnie_: mother.
[10] _greet_: weep.
[11] _westlin_: western.
[12] _reek_: smoke.
[13] _its lane_: alone.
[14] _ingle_: fire.
[15] _lowed_: flamed.
[16] _linn_: waterfall.
[17] _joup_: bodice.
[18] _snood_: hair-ribbon.
[19] _birk_: birch.
[20] _seymar_: a light robe.
[21] _raike_: wander through.
TWO SONGS
A BOY’S SONG
Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the grey trout lies asleep,
Up the river and over the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the blackbird sings the latest,
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,
Where the nestlings chirp and flee,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest,
There to track the homeward bee,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That’s the thing I never could tell.
But this I know, I love to play
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and over the lea,
That’s the way for Billy and me.
JAMES HOGG.
A GIRL’S SONG
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,
And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;
In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream
To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.
That bower and its music I never forget,
But oft when alone in the bloom of the year,
I think--is the nightingale singing there yet?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
No, the roses soon withered that hung o’er the wave,
But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone,
And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave
All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,
An essence that breathes of it many a year;
Thus bright to my soul, as ’twas then to my eyes,
Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!
THOMAS MOORE.
FUR AND FEATHER
“_Men are brethren of each other,
One in flesh and one in food;
And a sort of foster brother
Is the litter, or the brood,
Of that folk in fur or feather,
Who, with men together,
Breast the wind and weather._”
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER
A Robin Redbreast in a cage
Puts all Heaven in a rage.
A skylark wounded on the wing
Doth make a cherub cease to sing.
He who shall hurt the little wren
Shall never be beloved by men.
WILLIAM BLAKE.
THE KNIGHT OF BETHLEHEM
There was a Knight of Bethlehem,
Whose wealth was tears and sorrows;
His men-at-arms were little lambs,
His trumpeters were sparrows.
His castle was a wooden cross,
On which he hung so high;
His helmet was a crown of thorns,
Whose crest did touch the sky.
H. N. MAUGHAM.
THE LAMB
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee:
He is callèd by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!
WILLIAM BLAKE.
THE TIGER
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
In the forest of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burned that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
When thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
What the hammer, what the chain,
Knit thy strength and forged thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
WILLIAM BLAKE.
I HAD A DOVE
I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving;
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hands’ weaving.
Sweet little red feet! why should you die--
Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest tree,
Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kiss’d you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
JOHN KEATS.
ROBIN REDBREAST
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer!
For Summer’s nearly done;
The garden smiling faintly,
Cool breezes in the sun;
Our thrushes now are silent,
Our swallows flown away,--
But Robin’s here in coat of brown,
And scarlet breast-knot gay.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
Robin sings so sweetly
In the falling of the year.
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian princes,
But soon they’ll turn to ghosts;
The leathery pears and apples
Hang russet on the bough;
It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late,
’Twill soon be Winter now.
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And what will this poor Robin do?
For pinching days are near.
The fireside for the cricket,
The wheatstack for the mouse,
When trembling night-winds whistle
And moan all round the house.
The frosty ways like iron,
The branches plumed with snow,--
Alas! in winter dead and dark,
Where can poor Robin go?
Robin, Robin Redbreast,
O Robin dear!
And a crumb of bread for Robin,
His little heart to cheer.
WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.
BLACK BUNNY
It was a black Bunny, with white in its head,
Alive when the children went cosy to bed--
O early next morning that Bunny was dead!
When Bunny’s young master awoke up from sleep,
To look at the creatures young master did creep,
And saw that this black one lay all of a heap.
“O Bunny, what ails you? What does it import
That you lean on one side, with your breath coming short?
For I never before saw a thing of the sort!”
They took him so gently up out of his hutch,
They made him a sick-bed, they loved him so much;
They wrapped him up warm; they said, Poor thing, and such;
But all to no purpose. Black Bunny he died,
And rolled over limp on his little black side;
The grown-up spectators looked awkward and sighed.
While, as for those others in that congregation,
You heard voices lifted in sore lamentation;
But three-year-old Baby desired explanation:
At least, so it seemed. Then they buried their dead
In a nice quiet place, with a flag at his head;
“Poor Bunny!”--in large print--was what the flag said.
Now, as they were shovelling the earth in the hole,
Little Baby burst out, “I _don’t_ like it!”--poor soul!
And bitterly wept. So the dead had his dole.
That evening, as Babe she was cuddling to bed,
“The Bunny will come back again,” Baby said,
“And be a _white_ bunny, and never be dead!”
W. B. RANDS.
THE COW
Thank you, pretty cow, that made
Pleasant milk to soak my bread,
Every day, and every night,
Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white.
Do not chew the hemlock rank,
Growing on the weedy bank;
But the yellow cowslips eat,
They will make it very sweet.
Where the purple violet grows,
Where the bubbling water flows,
Where the grass is fresh and fine,
Pretty cow, go there and dine.
ANN AND JANE TAYLOR.
THE SKYLARK
Bird of the wilderness,
Blythesome and cumberless[22],
Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place--
O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O’er fell and fountain sheen,
O’er moor and mountain green,
O’er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow’s rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place--
O to abide in the desert with thee!
JAMES HOGG.
[22] _cumberless_: unencumbered, free from care.
CHRISTMAS POEMS
_Here one would like to have begun with some of the old-time carols.
But carols, somehow, seem to demand certain accompaniments--snow and
frost, starlight and lantern-light, a mingling of Church bells, and
above all their own simple haunting music. In cold print they do not
appeal to us to the same extent. But the poems that follow are in the
true carol-spirit._
CHRISTMAS EVE
In holly hedges starving birds
Silently mourn the setting year;
Upright like silver-plated swords
The flags stand in the frozen mere.
The mistletoe we still adore
Upon the twisted hawthorn grows:
In antique gardens hellebore
Puts forth its blushing Christmas rose.
Shrivell’d and purple, cheek by jowl,
The hips and haws hang drearily;
Roll’d in a ball the sulky owl
Creeps far into his hollow tree.
In abbeys and cathedrals dim
The birth of Christ is acted o’er;
The kings of Cologne worship him,
Balthazar, Jasper, Melchior.
The shepherds in the field at night
Beheld an angel glory-clad,
And shrank away with sore affright.
“Be not afraid,” the angel bade.
“I bring good news to king and clown,
To you here crouching on the sward;
For there is born in David’s town
A Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
“Behold the babe is swathed, and laid
Within a manger.” Straight there stood
Beside the angel all arrayed
A heavenly multitude.
“Glory to God,” they sang; “and peace,
Good pleasure among men.”
The wondrous message of release!
Glory to God again!
Hush! Hark! the waits, far up the street!
A distant, ghostly charm unfolds,
Of magic music wild and sweet,
Anomes and clarigolds.
JOHN DAVIDSON.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL
What sweeter music can we bring
Than a carol, for to sing
The birth of this our heavenly King?
Awake the voice! awake the string!
Heart, ear, and eye, and everything!
Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honour to this day,
That sees December turned to May.
If we may ask the reason, say,
The why and wherefore all things here
Seem like the spring-time of the year?
Why does the chilling winter’s morn
Smile, like a field beset with corn?
Or smell, like to a mead new-shorn,
Thus, on the sudden?
Come and see
The cause, why things thus fragrant be.
’Tis He is born, whose quickening birth
Gives light and lustre, public mirth,
To heaven, and the under-earth.
We see Him come, and know Him ours,
Who with His sunshine and His showers
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.
The darling of the world is come,
And fit it is we find a room
To welcome Him. The nobler part
Of all the house here, is the heart,
Which we will give Him; and bequeath
This holly, and this ivy wreath,
To do Him honour; who’s our King,
And Lord of all this revelling.
ROBERT HERRICK.
A CHILD’S PRESENT TO HIS CHILD-SAVIOUR
Go, pretty child, and bear this flower
Unto thy little Saviour;
And tell Him, by that bud now blown,
He is the Rose of Sharon known;
When thou hast said so, stick it there
Upon his bib, or stomacher;
And tell Him, for good handsel[23] too,
That thou hast brought a whistle new,
Made of a clean straight oaten reed,
To charm his cries at time of need.
Tell Him, for coral thou hast none;
But if thou hadst, He should have one;
But poor thou art, and known to be
Even as moneyless, as He.
Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss
From those mellifluous lips of His,
Then never take a second on,
To spoil the first impression.
ROBERT HERRICK.
[23] _handsel_: a gift for good luck.
THE PEACE-GIVER
Thou whose birth on earth
Angels sang to men,
While thy stars made mirth,
Saviour, at thy birth.
This day born again;
As this night was bright
With thy cradle-ray,
Very light of light,
Turn the wild world’s night
To thy perfect day.
Thou the Word and Lord
In all time and space
Heard, beheld, adored,
With all ages poured
Forth before thy face,
Lord, what worth in earth
Drew thee down to die?
What therein was worth,
Lord, thy death and birth?
What beneath thy sky?
Thou whose face gives grace
As the sun’s doth heat,
Let thy sunbright face
Lighten time and space
Here beneath thy feet.
Bid our peace increase,
Thou that madest morn;
Bid oppression cease;
Bid the night be peace;
Bid the day be born.
A. C. SWINBURNE.
VARIOUS
TO A SINGER
My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside the helm conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
It seems to float ever, for ever,
Upon that many-winding river,
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses!
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound.
Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
In music’s most serene dominions;
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.
And we sail on, away, afar,
Without a course, without a star,
But by the instinct of sweet music driven;
Till through Elysian garden islets
By thee, most beautiful of pilots,
Where never mortal pinnace glided,
The boat of my desire is guided:
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds on the waves doth move,
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above.
P. B. SHELLEY.
THE HAPPY PIPER
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:
“Pipe a song about a Lamb!”
So I piped with merry cheer.
“Piper, pipe that song again”;
So I piped: he wept to hear.
“Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!”
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.
“Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read.”
So he vanish’d from my sight,
And I pluck’d a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,
And I stain’d the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.
WILLIAM BLAKE.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB
The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
LORD BYRON.
_The next two spirited poems--both hailing from America--are inserted
with a view to their being useful to boys who have a taste for
recitation._
SHERIDAN’S RIDE
Up from the south at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door,
The terrible grumble and rumble and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more--
And Sheridan twenty miles away!
And wilder still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon’s bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
With Sheridan twenty miles away!
But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down;
And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed, as black as the steeds of night,
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight.
As if he knew the terrible need,
He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away!
Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south,
The dust, like the smoke from the cannon’s mouth,
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster;
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away!
The first that the General saw was the groups
Of stragglers, and then--the retreating troops!
What was done--what to do--a glance told him both;
And, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath
He dashed down the line ’mid a storm of huzzahs,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
The sight of the Master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was grey;
By the flash of his eye and his red nostril’s play
He seemed to the whole great army to say
“I have brought you Sheridan, all the way
From Winchester town to save the day!”
Hurrah, hurrah, for Sheridan!
Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky
--The American soldier’s Temple of Fame--
There, with the glorious General’s name,
Be it said in letters both bold and bright,
“Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester--twenty miles away!”
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
COLUMBUS
Behind him lay the gray Azores,
Behind, the Gates of Hercules;
Before him not the ghost of shores;
Before him only shoreless seas.
The good mate said: “Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak; what shall I say?”
“Why, say ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’”
“My men grow mutinous day by day;
My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.”
The stout mate thought of home; a spray
Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.
“What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,
If we sight naught but seas at dawn?”
“Why, you shall say at break of day:
‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’”
They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
“Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.
These very winds forget their way,
For God from these dread seas is gone.
Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say--”
He said: “Sail on! sail on! and on!”
They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate:
“This mad sea shows his teeth to-night.
He curls his lip, he lies in wait,
He lifts his teeth as if to bite!
Brave Admiral, say but one good word:
What shall we do when hope is gone?”
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
“Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!”
Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck--
A light! A light! At last a light!
It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!
It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn.
He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: “On! sail on!”
JOAQUIN MILLER.
_Macaulay’s “Lays of Ancient Rome,” of which this is the first,
deal only with the legends that Rome in her greatness liked to tell
concerning her early beginnings. Unfortunately there is no similar
group of poems treating of Imperial Rome, the centre of a world-empire;
but children must please not think of the Mistress of the World purely
as a little riverside town which could free itself from outside trouble
by chopping down a wooden bridge._
HORATIUS
Lars Porsena of Clusium
By the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it,
And named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers ride forth
East and west and south and north
To summon his array.
East and west and south and north
The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
Have heard the trumpet’s blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan
Who lingers in his home,
When Porsena of Clusium
Is on the march for Rome.
The horsemen and the footmen
Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place,
From many a fruitful plain;
From many a lonely hamlet
Which, hid by beech and pine,
Like an eagle’s nest hangs on the crest
Of purple Apennine;
From lordly Volaterræ,
Where scowls the far-famed hold
Piled by the hands of giants
For godlike kings of old;
From sea-girt Populonia
Whose sentinels descry
Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops
Fringing the southern sky;
From the proud mart of Pisæ,
Queen of the western waves,
Where ride Massilia’s triremes
Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
From where sweet Clanis wanders
Through corn and vines and flowers;
From where Cortona lifts to heaven
Her diadem of towers.
Tall are the oaks whose acorns
Drop in dark Auser’s rill;
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
Of the Ciminian hill;
Beyond all streams Clitumnus
Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves
The great Volsinian mere.
But now no stroke of woodman
Is heard by Auser’s rill;
No hunter tracks the stag’s green path
Up the Ciminian hill;
Unwatched along Clitumnus
Grazes the milk-white steer;
Unharmed the water-fowl may dip
In the Volsinian mere.
The harvests of Arretium
This year old men shall reap;
This year young boys in Umbro
Shall plunge the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna
This year the must[24] shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing girls
Whose sires have marched to Rome.
There be thirty chosen prophets,
The wisest of the land,
Who always by Lars Porsena
Both morn and evening stand:
Evening and morn the Thirty
Have turned the verses o’er,
Traced from the right on linen white
By mighty Seers of yore.
And with one voice the Thirty
Have their glad answer given:
“Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena;
Go forth, beloved of Heaven;
Go, and return in glory
To Clusium’s royal dome,
And hang round Nurscia’s altars
The golden shields of Rome.”
And now hath every city
Sent up her tale of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand,
The horse are thousands ten.
Before the gates of Sutrium
Is met the great array.
A proud man was Lars Porsena
Upon the trysting day!
For all the Etruscan armies
Were ranged beneath his eye,
And many a banished Roman,
And many a stout ally;
And with a mighty following
To join the muster came
The Tusculan Mamilius,
Prince of the Latian name.
But by the yellow Tiber
Was tumult and affright:
From all the spacious champaign
To Rome men took their flight.
A mile around the city
The throng stopped up the ways;
A fearful sight it was to see,
Through two long nights and days.
For agèd folk on crutches,
And women great with child,
And mothers sobbing over babes
That clung to them and smiled,
And sick men borne in litters
High on the necks of slaves,
And troops of sun-burned husbandmen
With reaping-hooks and staves,
And droves of mules and asses
Laden with skins of wine,
And endless flocks of goats and sheep,
And endless herds of kine,
And endless trains of waggons
That creaked beneath the weight
Of corn-sacks and of household goods,
Choked every roaring gate.
Now from the rock Tarpeian
Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages
Red in the midnight sky.
The Fathers of the City,
They sat all night and day,
For every hour some horseman came
With tidings of dismay.
To eastward and to westward
Have spread the Tuscan bands;
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote
In Crustumerium stands.
Verbenna down to Ostia
Hath wasted all the plain;
Astur hath stormed Janiculum,
And the stout guards are slain.
I wis, in all the Senate
There was no heart so bold
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,
When that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Consul,
Up rose the Fathers all;
In haste they girded up their gowns,
And hied them to the wall.
They held a council standing
Before the River-Gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,
For musing or debate.
Out spake the Consul roundly:
“The bridge must straight go down;
For, since Janiculum is lost,
Nought else can save the town.”
Just then a scout came flying,
All wild with haste and fear:
“To arms! to arms! Sir Consul:
Lars Porsena is here.”
On the low hills to westward
The Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust
Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer fast and nearer
Doth the red whirlwind come;
And louder still and still more loud
From underneath that rolling cloud
Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud,
The trampling, and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly
Now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,
In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright,
The long array of spears.
And plainly and more plainly
Above that glimmering line
Now might ye see the banners
Of twelve fair cities shine;
But the banner of proud Clusium
Was highest of them all,
The terror of the Umbrian,
The terror of the Gaul.
And plainly and more plainly
Now might the burghers know,
By port and vest, by horse and crest,
Each warlike Lucumo[25].
There Cilnius of Arretium
On his fleet roan was seen;
And Astur of the fourfold shield,
Girt with the brand none else may wield,
Tolumnius with the belt of gold,
And dark Verbenna from the hold
By reedy Thrasymene.
Fast by the royal standard
O’erlooking all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium
Sate in his ivory car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
Prince of the Latian name;
And by the left false Sextus,
That wrought the deed of shame.
But when the face of Sextus
Was seen among the foes,
A yell that rent the firmament
From all the town arose.
On the house-tops was no woman
But spat towards him, and hissed;
No child but screamed out curses,
And shook its little fist.
But the Consul’s brow was sad,
And the Consul’s speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall,
And darkly at the foe.
“Their van will be upon us
Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,
What hope to save the town?”
Then out spake brave Horatius,
The Captain of the gate:
“To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late;
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his Gods,
And for the tender mother
Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens
Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus
That wrought the deed of shame?
Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
May well be stopped by three:
Now who will stand on either hand,
And keep the bridge with me?”
Then out spake Spurius Lartius,
A Ramnian proud was he:
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
And keep the bridge with thee.”
And out spake strong Herminius,
Of Titian blood was he:
“I will abide on thy left side,
And keep the bridge with thee.”
“Horatius,” quoth the Consul,
“As thou sayest, so let it be.”
And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life
In the brave days of old.
Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the State;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great;
Then lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold;
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.
Now Roman is to Roman
More hateful than a foe,
And the Tribunes beard the high,
And the Fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,
In battle we wax cold:
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
In the brave days of old.
Now while the Three were tightening
Their harness on their backs,
The Consul was the foremost man
To take in hand an axe:
And Fathers mixed with Commons
Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,
And loosed the props below.
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
Of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded
A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,
And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
From all the vanguard rose:
And forth three chiefs came spurring
Before that deep array;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
And lifted high their shields, and flew
To win the narrow way;
Aunus from green Tifernum,
Lord of the Hill of Vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva’s mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium
Vassal in peace and war,
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
From that grey crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Nequinum lowers
O’er the pale waves of Nar.
Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
Into the stream beneath:
Herminius struck at Seius,
And clove him to the teeth:
At Picus brave Horatius
Darted one fiery thrust,
And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms
Clashed in the bloody dust.
Then Ocnus of Falerii
Rushed on the Roman Three;
And Lausulus of Urgo,
The rover of the sea;
And Aruns of Volsinium,
Who slew the great wild boar,
The great wild boar that had his den
Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen,
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
Along Albinia’s shore.
Herminius smote down Aruns:
Lartius laid Ocnus low:
Right to the heart of Lausulus
Horatius sent a blow.
“Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate!
No more, aghast and pale,
From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark
The track of thy destroying bark.
No more Campania’s hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns when they spy
Thy thrice-accursed sail.”
But now no sound of laughter
Was heard amongst the foes.
A wild and wrathful clamour
From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears’ lengths from the entrance
Halted that deep array,
And for a space no man came forth
To win the narrow way.
But hark! the cry is “Astur!”
And lo! the ranks divide;
And the great Lord of Luna
Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand
Which none but he can wield.
He smiled on those bold Romans
A smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litter
Stand savagely at bay:
But will ye dare to follow,
If Astur clears the way?”
Then, whirling up his broadsword
With both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius,
And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
Right deftly turned the blow:
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
To see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius
He leaned one breathing-space;
Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,
Sprang right at Astur’s face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet,
So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a handbreadth out
Behind the Tuscan’s head.
And the great Lord of Luna
Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus
A thunder-smitten oak:
Far o’er the crashing forest
The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low,
Gaze on the blasted head.
On Astur’s throat Horatius
Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,
Ere he wrenched out the steel.
“And see,” he cried, “the welcome,
Fair guests, that waits you here!
What noble Lucumo comes next
To taste our Roman cheer?”
But at his haughty challenge
A sullen murmur ran,
Mingled of wrath and shame and dread,
Along that glittering van.
There lacked not men of prowess,
Nor men of lordly race;
For all Etruria’s noblest
Were round the fatal place.
But all Etruria’s noblest
Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
In the path the dauntless Three:
And, from the ghastly entrance
Where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank, like boys who unaware,
Ranging the woods to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear
Lies amidst bones and blood.
Was none who would be foremost
To lead such dire attack;
But those behind cried “Forward!”
And those before cried “Back!”
And backward now and forward
Wavers the deep array;
And on the tossing sea of steel,
To and fro the standards reel;
And the victorious trumpet-peal
Dies fitfully away.
Yet one man for one moment
Strode out before the crowd;
Well known was he to all the Three,
And they gave him greeting loud.
“Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
Now welcome to thy home!
Why dost thou stay, and turn away?
Here lies the road to Rome.”
Thrice looked he at the city;
Thrice looked he at the dead;
And thrice came on in fury,
And thrice turned back in dread:
And, white with fear and hatred,
Scowled at the narrow way
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
The bravest Tuscans lay.
But meanwhile axe and lever
Have manfully been plied;
And now the bridge hangs tottering
Above the boiling tide.
“Come back, come back, Horatius!”
Loud cried the Fathers all.
“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
Back, ere the ruin fall!”
Back darted Spurius Lartius;
Herminius darted back:
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
They felt the timbers crack.
But, when they turned their faces,
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
They would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder
Fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam the mighty wreck
Lay right athwart the stream:
And a long shout of triumph
Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops
Was splashed the yellow foam.
And, like a horse unbroken
When first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard,
And tossed his tawny mane;
And burst the curb, and bounded,
Rejoicing to be free;
And whirling down, in fierce career,
Battlement, and plank, and pier,
Rushed headlong to the sea.
Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
“Down with him!” cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face.
“Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena,
“Now yield thee to our grace.”
Round turned he, as not deigning
Those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus nought spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus
The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river
That rolls by the towers of Rome.
“O Tiber! father Tiber!
To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms
Take thou in charge this day!”
So he spake, and speaking sheathèd
The good sword by his side,
And with his harness on his back
Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges
They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current,
Swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing;
And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armour,
And spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking,
But still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer,
In such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood
Safe to the landing-place:
But his limbs were borne up bravely
By the brave heart within,
And our good father Tiber
Bare bravely up his chin.
“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus;
“Will not the villain drown?
But for this stay ere close of day
We should have sacked the town!”
“Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena,
“And bring him safe to shore;
For such a gallant feat of arms
Was never seen before.”
And now he feels the bottom;
Now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers
To press his gory hands;
And now with shouts and clapping,
And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-Gate,
Borne by the joyous crowd.
They gave him of the corn-land,
That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen
Could plough from morn till night;
And they made a molten image,
And set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day
To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium
Plain for all folk to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knee:
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
And still his name sounds stirring
Unto the men of Rome,
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
To charge the Volscian home;
And wives still pray to Juno
For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
In the brave days of old.
And in the nights of winter,
When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest’s din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is opened,
And the largest lamp is lit;
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armour
And trims his helmet’s plume;
When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
LORD MACAULAY.
[24] _must_: grape-juice.
[25] _Lucumo_: Etruscan nobleman.
INDEX OF AUTHORS
PAGE
Allingham, William 34, 48, 68
Anonymous 1-8, 11, 13
Blake, William 45, 65, 66, 80
Byron, Lord 81
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 25
Coleridge, Sara 17
Corbet, Richard 55
Davidson, John 28, 73
Dobell, Sydney 26
Field, Eugene 36, 42, 47
Follen, Eliza Lee 8
Gale, Norman 29
Herrick, Robert 15, 22, 75, 76
Hogg, James 58, 62, 72
Howitt, Mary 24
Howitt, William 19
Keats, John 67
Lowell, Amy 12
Macaulay, Lord 88
Maugham, H. N. 65
Miller, Joaquin 86
Moore, Thomas 63
Prentiss, Mrs E. 10
Ramal, Walter 35
Rands, William Brighty 12, 44, 54, 69
Read, Thomas Buchanan 83
Robertson, W. Graham 22, 39, 41
Rogers, Samuel 33
Roscoe, William 30
Scott, Sir Walter 46
Shakespeare, William 15, 28, 51
Shelley, Percy Bysshe 78
Stevenson, Robert Louis 38
Swinburne, Algernon Charles 77
Taylor, Ann and Jane 9, 14, 71
Tennyson, Lord 45
Thornbury, G. W. 57
Wordsworth, William 16, 24
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
PAGE
A Robin Redbreast in a cage 65
At early dawn through London you must go 28
At evening when the lamp is lit 38
Awake, awake, my little boy 45
Behind him lay the gray Azores 86
Bird of the wilderness 72
Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go! 6
Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen 58
Build me a castle of sand 39
“Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy 35
Buttercups and daisies 24
Cold and raw 7
Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste 30
Come unto these yellow sands 51
Curly Locks! Curly Locks! 3
Daffodils 15
Do you know what the birds say? The sparrow,
the dove 25
Draw a pail of water 4
Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum 44
Fair daffodils, we weep to see 15
Farewell rewards and fairies 55
First, April, she with mellow showers 22
First came the primrose 26
Go, pretty child, and bear this flower 76
Good-bye, good-bye to Summer 68
Here in the country’s heart 29
Here’s another day, dear 22
Hush a while, my darling, for the long day closes 41
I am the Cat of Cats. I am 12
I had a dove, and the sweet dove died 67
I had a little nut-tree 5
I have a little sister, they call her Peep, Peep 7
I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm 11
I saw a ship a-sailing 4
I wander’d lonely as a cloud 16
In holly hedges starving birds 73
In marble walls as white as milk 8
It was a black Bunny, with white in its head 69
January brings the snow 17
Jenny Wren fell sick 2
Lars Porsena of Clusium 88
Little baby, lay your head 14
Little Lamb, who made thee? 65
Matthew, Mark, Luke and John 2
Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring 1
Mine be a cot beside the hill 33
My maid Mary she minds the dairy 5
My soul is an enchanted boat 78
O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight 46
O look at the moon 8
O Mother-my-Love, if you’ll give me your hand 47
Once on a time an old red hen 36
Once there was a little kitty 10
Over hill, over dale 52
Piping down the valleys wild 80
Pussy-cat Mew jumped over a coal 3
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose 34
Sea shell, Sea shell 12
Sleep, baby, sleep 13
Sweet and low, sweet and low 45
Thank you, pretty cow, that made 71
The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold 81
The cock is crowing 24
The cock’s on the housetop 6
The cuckoo’s a bonny bird 13
The garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers 54
The north wind doth blow 7
The wind one morning sprang up from sleep 19
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream 63
There was a Knight of Bethlehem 65
Thou whose birth on earth 77
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright 66
Toll the lilies’ silver bells 57
Twinkle, twinkle, little star 9
Under the greenwood tree 28
Up from the south at break of day 83
Up the airy mountain 48
We’ve plough’d our land, we’ve sown our seed 13
What sweeter music can we bring 75
When the wind is in the East 6
Where the bee sucks there suck I 52
Where the pools are bright and deep 62
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 42
Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves 51
You spotted snakes with double tongue 53
Cambridge:
PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A. AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children