[Illustration]
COME HITHER
[Illustration:
COME
HITHER
A
COLLECTION
OF RHYMES
AND POEMS
FOR THE
YOUNG OF
ALL AGES
MADE BY
WALTER DE LA MARE
AND EMBELLISHED
BY
ALEC BUCKELS
CONSTABLE & CO
LONDON BOMBAY SYDNEY
MCMXXIII.
]
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW
[Illustration:
TO
LAURA COLTMAN
IN LOVE AND
GRATITUDE
]
[Illustration]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
THE STORY OF THIS BOOK vii
MORNING AND MAY 1
MOTHER, HOME, AND SWEETHEART 19
FEASTS: FAIRS: BEGGARS: GIPSIES 63
BEASTS OF THE FIELD: FOWLS OF THE AIR 87
OUPH: ELPHIN: FAY 117
SUMMER: GREENWOOD: SOLITUDE 135
WAR 165
DANCE, MUSIC AND BELLS 195
AUTUMN LEAVES: WINTER SNOW 217
"LIKE STARS UPON SOME GLOOMY GROVE" 249
FAR 289
"LILY BRIGHT AND SHINE-A" 343
"ECHO THEN SHALL AGAIN
TELL HER I FOLLOW" 371
OLD TALES AND BALLADRY 413
EVENING AND DREAM 447
THE GARDEN 479
ABOUT AND ROUNDABOUT 495
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 671
INDEX OF AUTHORS 677
INDEX OF POEMS 683
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF THIS BOOK
In my rovings and ramblings as a boy I had often skirted the old stone
house in the hollow. But my first clear remembrance of it is of a hot
summer's day. I had climbed to the crest of a hill till then unknown to
me, and stood there, hot and breathless in the bright slippery grass,
looking down on its grey walls and chimneys as if out of a dream. And
as if out of a dream already familiar to me.
My real intention in setting out from home that morning had been to
get to a place called East Dene. My mother had often spoken to me of
East Dene--of its trees and waters and green pastures, and the rare
birds and flowers to be found there. Ages ago, she had told me, an
ancestor of our family had dwelt in this place. But she smiled a little
strangely when I asked her to take me there. "All in good time, my
dear," she whispered into my ear, "all in very good time! Just follow
your small nose." What kind of time, I wondered, was _very good time_.
And _follow my nose_--how far? Such reflections indeed only made me the
more anxious to be gone.
Early that morning, then, I had started out when the dew was still
sparkling, and the night mists had but just lifted. But my young legs
soon tired of the steep, boulder-strown hills, the chalky ravines, and
burning sun, and having, as I say, come into view of the house in the
valley, I went no further. Instead, I sat down on the hot turf--the
sweet smell of thyme in the air, a few harebells nodding around me--and
stared, down and down.
After that first visit, scarcely a week passed but that I found myself
on this hill again. The remembrance of the house stayed in my mind;
would keep returning to me, like a bird to its nest. Sometimes even in
the middle of the night I would wake up and lie unable to sleep again
for thinking of it--seeing it in my head; solemn, secret, strange.
There is a little flickering lizard called the Chameleon which, they
say, changes its colour according to the place where it happens to be.
So with this house. It was never the same for two hours together. I
have seen it gathered close up in its hollow in the livid and coppery
gloom of storm; crouched like a hare in winter under a mask of snow;
dark and silent beneath the changing sparkle of the stars; and like
a palace out of an Arabian tale in the milky radiance of the moon.
THRAE was the name inscribed on its gateway, but in letters so
faint and faded as to be almost illegible.
In a sense I was, I suppose, a trespasser in this Thrae; until at least
I became acquainted with Miss Taroone, the lady who lived in it. For
I made pretty free with her valley, paddled and fished in its stream,
and now and then helped myself to a windfall in her green bird-haunted
orchards, where grew a particularly sharp and bright-rinded apple of
which I have never heard the name. As custom gave me confidence, I
ventured nearer and nearer to the house and would sometimes take a
rest squatting on a manger in the big empty barn, looking out into
the sunshine. The wings of the flies shone like glass in its shafts
of light, and the robins whistled under its timber roof so shrill as
almost to deafen one's ears.
Few strangers passed that way. Now and then I saw in the distance
what might have been a beggar. To judge from his bundle he must have
done pretty well at the house. Once, as I turned out of a little wood
of birches, I met a dreadful-faced man in the lane who lifted up his
hand at sight of me, and with white glaring eyes, uttered a horrible
imprecation. He was chewing some fruit stolen out of the orchard, and
at the very sight of him I ran like Wat himself.
Once, too, as my head looked over the hill-crest, there stood an old
carriage and a drowsy horse drawn up beside the porch--with its slender
wooden pillars and a kind of tray above, on which rambled winter
jasmine, tufts of self-sown weeds and Traveller's Joy. I edged near
enough to see there was a crown emblazoned on the panel of the carriage
door. Nobody sat inside, and the coachman asleep on the box made me
feel more solitary and inquisitive than ever.
Yet in its time the old house must have seen plenty of company. Friends
of later years have spoken to me of it. Indeed, not far distant from
Thrae as the crow flies, there was a crossing of high roads, so that
any traveller from elsewhere not in haste could turn aside and examine
the place if he cared for its looks and was in need of a night's
lodging. Yet I do not think many such travellers--if they were men
merely of the Town--can have _chosen_ to lift that knocker or to set
ringing that bell. To any one already lost and benighted its looks
must have been forbidding.
Well, as I say, again and again, my lessons done, morning or evening
would find me either on the grass slopes above Thrae, or actually in
its valley. If I was tired, I would watch from a good distance off its
small dark windows in their stone embrasures, and up above them the
round greenish tower or turret over which a winged weather-vane twirled
with the wind. I might watch: but the only person that I ever actually
observed at the windows was an old maid with flaps to her cap, who
would sometimes shake a duster out into the air as if for a signal to
someone up in the hills.
Apart from her, I had occasionally seen Miss Taroone herself in the
overgrown garden, with her immense shears, or with her trencher of
bread-crumbs and other provender, feeding the birds. And I once stole
near enough under a hedge to watch this sight. They hopped and pecked
in a multitude beneath her hands, tits and robins, starlings and
blackbirds, and other much wilder and rarer birds, as if they had no
need here for wings, or were under an enchantment more powerful than
that of mere crumbs of bread. The meal done, the platter empty, Miss
Taroone would clap her hands, and off they would fly with a skirring of
wings, with shrill cries and snatches of song to their haunts.
She seemed to mind no weather; standing bare-headed in heavy rain or
scorching sunlight. And I confess the sight of her never failed to
alarm me. But I made up my mind always to keep my wits about me and my
eyes open; and never to be _caught_ trespassing.
Then one day, as I slid down from the roof of the barn from amid the
branches of a chestnut tree, green with its spiky balls of fruit, I
found Miss Taroone standing there in the entry, looking out on me as if
out of a frame, or like a stone figure in the niche of a church. She
made no stir herself, but her eyes did. Clear cold eyes of the colour
of pebbly water, in which I seemed to be of no more importance than a
boat floating on the sea. I could neither speak nor run away. I could
only gawk at her, my pockets bulging with the unripe chestnuts I had
pilfered, and a handsome slit in one leg of my breeches.
She asked me what I did there; my name; why I was not at school; where
I lived; and did I eat the chestnuts. It appeared she had more often
seen me--I suppose from her windows--than I had seen her. She made
no movement, never even smiled while I stammered out answers to her
questions, but merely kept her eyes steadily fixed on me, while her own
lips just opened enough to let the words out of her mouth. She listened
to me with a severe face, and said, "Well, if you are happy to be here
with the rest, so much the better."
It was a relief when she turned away, bidding me follow her--and a
foolish figure I must have cut as I clattered after her across the
cobbled yard under the old red-brick arch and so through the porch and
into the house.
When I was sat down in one of the shaded rooms within the house, she
summoned the tall gaunt old maid with the cap-flaps I had seen at the
windows, and bade her bring me some fruit and a dish of cream. Miss
Taroone watched me while I ate it. And uncommonly good it was, though
I would rather have been enjoying it alone. From the way she looked at
me it might have been supposed it was a bird or a small animal that
was sitting up at her table. The last spoonful finished, she asked me
yet more questions and appeared to be not displeased with my rambling
answers, for she invited me to come again and watched me take up my cap
and retire.
This was the first time I was ever in Miss Taroone's house--within its
solid walls I mean; and what a multitude of rooms, with their coffers
and presses and cabinets, containing I knew not what treasures and
wonders! But Thrae was not Miss Taroone's only house, for more than
once she spoke of another--named SURE VINE, as if of a family
mansion and estate, very ancient and magnificent. When, thinking of my
mother, I myself ventured a question about East Dene, her green-grey
eyes oddly settled on mine a moment, but she made no answer. I noticed
this particularly.
Soon I was almost as free and familiar in Miss Taroone's old house as
in my own father's. Yet I cannot say that she was ever anything else
than curt with me in her manner. It was a long time before I became
accustomed to the still, secret way she had of looking at me. I liked
best being in her company when she appeared, as was usually so, not to
be aware that she was not alone. She had again asked me my name "for
a sign" as she said, "to know you by"; though she always afterwards
addressed me as Simon. Certainly in those days I was "simple" enough.
My next friend was the woman whom I had seen shaking her duster out of
the upper windows. She, I discovered, was called Linnet Sara Queek
or Quek or Cuec or Cueque, I don't know how to spell it. She was an
exceedingly curious woman and looked as if she had never been any
different, though, of course, she must once have been young and have
grown up. She was bony, awkward, and angular, and when you spoke to
her, she turned on you with a look that was at the same time vacant and
piercing. At first she greeted me sourly, but soon became friendlier,
and would allow me to sit in her huge kitchen with her parrot, her
sleek tabby cat, and perhaps a dainty or two out of her larder.
She was continually muttering--though I could never quite catch what
she said; never idle; and though slow and awkward in her movements, she
did a vast deal of work. With small short-sighted eyes fixed on her
mortar she would stand pounding and pounding; or stewing and seething
things in pots--strange-looking roots and fruits and fungi. Her pantry
was crammed with pans, jars, bottles, and phials, all labelled in her
queer handwriting. An extraordinary place--especially when the sunbeams
of evening struck into it from a high window in its white-washed wall.
Linnet she might be called, but her voice was no bird's, unless the
crow's; and you would have guessed at once, at sight of her standing in
front of the vast open hearth, stooping a little, her long gaunt arms
beside her, that her other name was Sara. But she could tell curious
and rambling stories (as true as she could make them); and many of
them were about the old days in Thrae, older days in Sure Vine, and
about Miss Taroone, in whose service she had been since she was a small
child.
She told me, too, some specially good tales--as good as Grimm--about
some villages she knew of called the Ten Laps; and gave me a custard
when I asked for more. I once mentioned East Dene to her, too, and she
said there was a short cut to it (though it seemed to me a long way
about) through the quarry, by the pits, and that way round. "And then
you come to a Wall," she said, staring at me. "And you climb over."
"Did _you_?" said I, laughing; and at that she was huffed.
Boy though I was, it occurred to me that in this immense house there
must be a great deal more work than Sara could manage unaided.
Something gave me the fancy that other hands must lend their help;
but if any maids actually came in to Thrae from East Dene, or from
elsewhere, they must have come and gone very late, or early. It seemed
bad manners to be too curious. On the other hand, I rarely saw much of
the back parts of the house.
I have sometimes wondered if Thrae had not once in fact lain within
the borders of East Dene, and that being so, if Miss Taroone, like
myself, was unaware of it. It may have been merely pride that closed
her lips, for one day, she showed me, with a curious smile, how Thrae's
architect, centuries before, had planned its site. She herself led me
from room to room; and she talked as she had never talked before.
Its southernmost window looked on a valley, beyond which on clear still
days was visible the sea, and perhaps a brig or a schooner on its
surface--placid blue as turquoise. Sheer against its easternmost window
the sun mounted to his summer solstice from in between a cleft of the
hills--like a large topaz between the forks of a catapult. On one side
of this cleft valley was a windmill, its sails lanking up into the sky,
and sometimes spinning in the wind with an audible faint clatter. Who
owned the mill and what he ground I never heard.
Northwards, through a round bull's-eye window you could see, past
a maze of coppices and hills, and in the distance, the cock of a
cathedral spire. And to the west stood a wood of yew, its pool
partially greened over, grey with willows, and the haunt of rare birds.
On the one side of this pool spread exceedingly calm meadows; and on
the other, in a hollow, the graveyard lay. The stones and bones in it
were all apparently of Miss Taroone's kinsfolk. At least Linnet Sara
told me so. Nor was she mournful about it. She seemed to have nobody to
care for but her mistress; working for love, whatever her wages might
be.
It is an odd thing to say, but though I usually tried to avoid meeting
Miss Taroone, and was a little afraid of her, there was a most curious
happiness at times in being in her company. She never once asked me
about my character, never warned me of anything, never said "You must";
and yet I knew well that if in stupidity or carelessness I did anything
in her house which she did not approve of, my punishment would come.
She once told me, "Simon, you have, I see, the beginnings of a bad
feverish cold. It is because you were stupid enough yesterday to
stand with the sweat on your face talking to me in a draught. It will
probably be severe." And so it was.
She never said anything affectionate; she never lost her temper. I
never saw her show any pity or meanness or revenge. "Well, Simon,"
she would say, "Good morning"; or "Good evening" (as the case might
be); "you are always welcome. Have a good look about you. Don't waste
your time here. Even when all is said, you will not see too much of me
and mine. But don't believe _everything_ you may hear in the kitchen.
Linnet Sara is a good servant, but still a groper."
Not the least notion of what she meant occurred to me. But I peacocked
about for a while as if she had paid me a compliment. An evening or two
afterwards, and soon after sunset, I found her sitting in her westward
window. Perhaps because rain was coming, the crouching head-stones
under the hill looked to be furlongs nearer. "Sleeping, waking; waking,
sleeping, Simon;" she said, "sing while you can." Like a little owl I
fixed sober eyes on the yew-wood, but again I hadn't any inkling of
what she meant.
She would sit patiently listening to me as long as I cared to unbosom
myself to her. Her calm, severe, and yet, I think, beautiful face
is clear in my memory. It resembles a little the figure in Albrecht
Dürer's picture of a woman sitting beneath the wall of a house, with a
hound couched beside her, an inclined ladder, the rain-bowed sea in the
distance, and a bat--a tablet of magic numbers and a pent-housed bell
over her head.
Sometimes I would be questioned at home about my solitary wanderings,
but I never mentioned Miss Taroone's name, and spoke of her house a
little deceitfully, since I did not confess how much I loved being in
it.
One evening--and it was already growing late--Miss Taroone, after
steadily gazing into my eyes for a few moments, asked me if I liked
pictures. I professed that I did, though I had never spent much time
in looking at the queer portraits and charts and mementoes that hung
thick and closely on her own walls. "Well," she replied, "if you like
pictures I must first tell you about Nahum."
I could not at first make head or tail of Mr. Nahum. Even now I am
uncertain whether he was Miss Taroone's brother or her nephew or a
cousin many times removed; or whether perhaps she was really and truly
Mrs. Taroone and he her only son; or she still Miss Taroone and he an
adopted one. I am not sure even whether or not she had much love for
him, though she appeared to speak of him with pride. What I do know is
that Miss Taroone had nurtured him from his cradle, and had taught him
all the knowledge that was not already his by right of birth.
Before he was come even to be my own age, she told me, Nahum Taroone
had loved "exploring." As a boy he had ranged over the countryside for
miles around. I never dared ask her if he had sat on Linnet Sara's
"Wall"! He had scrawled plans and charts and maps, marking on them all
his wanderings. And not only the roads, paths, chaces, and tracks, the
springs and streams, but the rarer birds' nesting-places and the rarer
wild flowers, the eatable or poisonous fruits, trees, animal lairs,
withies for whips, clay for modelling, elder shoots for pitch pipes,
pebbles for his catapult, flint arrows, and everything of that kind. He
was a night-boy too; could guide himself by the stars, was a walking
almanac of the moon; and could decoy owls and nightjars, and find any
fox's or badger's earth he was after, even in a dense mist.
I came to know Mr. Nahum pretty well--so far at any rate as one can
know anybody from hearsay--before Miss Taroone referred to the pictures
again. And I became curious about him, and hoped to see this strange
traveller, and frequently hung about Thrae in mere chance of that.
Strangely enough, by the looks on her face and the tones of her voice,
Miss Taroone was inclined to mock a little at Mr. Nahum because of
his restlessness. She didn't seem to approve of his leaving her so
much--though she herself had come from Sure Vine. Her keys would jangle
at her chatelaine as if they said, "Ours secrets enough." And she
would stand listening, and mute, as if in expectation of voices or a
footfall. Then as secretly as I could, I would get away.
All old memories resemble a dream. And so too do these of Miss Taroone
and Thrae. When I was most busy and happy and engrossed in it, it
seemed to be a house which might at any moment vanish before your eyes,
showing itself to be but the outer shell or hiding place of an abode
still more enchanting.
This sounds nonsensical. But if you have ever sat and watched a
Transformation Scene in a pantomime, did you suppose, just before
the harlequin slapped with his wand on what looked like a plain
brick-and-mortar wall, that it would instantly after dissolve
into a radiant coloured scene of trees and fountains and hidden
beings--growing lovelier in their own showing as the splendour spread
and their haunts were revealed? Well, so at times I used to feel in
_Thrae_.
At last, one late evening in early summer, beckoning me with her
finger, Miss Taroone lit a candle in an old brass stick and bade me
follow her down a long narrow corridor and up a steep winding stone
staircase. "You have heard, Simon, of Mr. Nahum's round room; now you
shall see it."
On the wider step at the top, before a squat oak door, she stayed,
lifted her candle, and looked at me. "You will remember," she said,
"that what I am about to admit you into is Mr. Nahum's room; not mine.
You may look at the pictures, you may examine anything that interests
you, you may compose yourself to the view. But replace what you look
at, have a care in your handling, do nothing out of _idle_ curiosity,
and come away when you are tired. Remember that Mr. Nahum may be
returning at any hour. He would be pleased to find you here. But hasten
away out of his room the very instant you feel you have no right, lot
or pleasure to be in it. Hasten away, I mean, so that you may return to
it with a better mind and courage."
She laid two fingers on my shoulder, cast another look into my face
under her candle, turned the key in the lock, gently thrust me beyond
the door, shut it: and left me to my own devices.
What first I noticed, being for awhile a little alarmed at this strange
proceeding, was the evening light that poured in on the room from the
encircling windows. Below, by walking some little distance from room
to room, corridor to corridor, you could get (as I have said) a single
narrow view out north, south, east or west. Here, you could stand in
the middle, and turning slowly like a top on your heels, could watch
float by one after the other, hill and windmill, ocean, distant city,
dark yew-wood.
The crooning of doves was audible on the roof, swallows were coursing
in the placid and rosy air, the whole world seemed to be turning softly
out of the day's sunshine, stretching long dark shadows across hill and
valley as if in delight to be on the verge of rest and slumber again,
now that the heats of full summer were so near.
But I believe my first _thought_ was--What a boiling hot and glaring
place to sit in in the middle of the morning. And then I noticed that
heavy curtains hung on either side each rounded window, for shade,
concealment and solitude. As soon, however, as my eyes were accustomed
to the dazzle, I spent little time upon the great view, but immediately
peered about me at what was in this curious chamber.
Never have I seen in any room--and this was none so large--such a
hugger-mugger of strange objects--odd-shaped coloured shells, fragments
of quartz, thunderbolts and fossils; skins of brilliant birds;
outlandish shoes; heads, faces, masks of stone, wood, glass, wax, and
metal; pots, images, glass shapes, and what not; lanterns and bells;
bits of harness and ornament and weapons. There were, besides, two
or three ships of different rigs in glass cases, and one in a green
bottle; peculiar tools, little machines; silent clocks, instruments
of music, skulls and bones of beasts, frowsy bunches of linen or silk
queerly marked, and a mummied cat (I think). And partly concealed, as
I twisted my head, there, dangling in an alcove, I caught sight of a
full-length skeleton, one hollow eye-hole concealed by a curtain looped
to the floor from the ceiling.
I just cast my glance round on all these objects without of course
seeing them one by one. The air was clear as water in the evening
light, a little dust had fallen; all was in order, though at that first
hasty glance there seemed none. Last, but not least, there was row on
row of painted pictures. Wherever there was space on the walls free
of books, this round tower room was hung with them as close as their
frames and nails allowed. There I stood, hearing faintly the birds,
conscious of the pouring sunlight, the only live creature amidst this
departed traveller's treasures and possessions.
I was so much taken aback by it all, so mystified by Miss Taroone's
ways, so cold at sight of the harmless bones above me, and felt so
suddenly out of my familiars, that without a moment's hesitation I
turned about, flung open the door and went helter skelter clattering
down the stairs--out of the glare into the gloom.
There was no sign of Miss Taroone as I crossed through the house and
sneaked off hastily through the garden. And not until the barn had
shut me out from the lower windows behind me did I look back at the
upper ones of Mr. Nahum's tower. Until that moment I did not know how
frightened I had been. Yet why, or at what, I cannot even now decide.
But I soon overcame this folly. Miss Taroone made no inquiry how I had
fared on this first visit to Mr. Nahum's fortress. As I have said, she
seldom asked questions--except with her eyes, expressions, and hands.
But some time afterwards, and after two or three spells of exploration,
I myself began to talk to her of the strange things up there.
"I have looked at a good many, Miss Taroone. But the pictures! Some of
them are of places I _believe_ I know. I wish I could be a traveller
and see what the others are of. Did Mr. Nahum paint them all himself?"
Miss Taroone was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, her eyes
and face very intent, as always happened when Mr. Nahum's name was
mentioned.
"I know very little about them, Simon. When Nahum was younger he used
to make pictures of Thrae, and of the woods and valleys hereabouts.
There are boxfulls put away. Others are pictures brought back from
foreign parts, but many of them, as I believe," she turned her face and
looked into a shadowy corner of the room, "are pictures of nothing on
earth. He has his two worlds. Take your time. Some day you too, I dare
say, will go off on your travels. Remember that, like Nahum, you are as
old as the hills which neither spend nor waste time, but dwell in it
for ages, as if it were light or sunshine. Some day perhaps Nahum will
shake himself free of Thrae altogether. I don't _know_, myself, Simon.
This house is enough for me, and what I remember of Sure Vine, compared
with which Thrae is but the smallest of bubbles in a large glass."
I do not profess to have understood one half of what Miss Taroone meant
in these remarks. It was in English and yet in a hidden tongue.
But by this time I had grown to be bolder in her company, and pounced
on this:--"What, please Miss Taroone, do you mean by the 'two worlds'?
Or shall I ask downstairs?" I added the latter question because now and
then in the past Miss Taroone had bidden me go down to Linnet Sara for
my answers. She now appeared at first not to have heard it.
"Now I must say to you, Simon," she replied at last, folding her hands
on her knee, "wherever you may be in that body of yours, you feel you
look out of it, do you not?"
I nodded. "Yes, Miss Taroone."
"Now think, then, of Mr. Nahum's round room; where is that?"
"Up there," said I, pointing up a rambling finger.
"Ah!" cried Miss Taroone, "so it may be. But even if to-morrow you are
thousands of miles distant from here on the other side of this great
Ball, or in its bowels, or flying free--you will still carry a picture
of it, will you not? And that will be within you?"
"Yes, in my mind, Miss Taroone?" I answered rather sheepishly.
"In your mind," she echoed me, but not as if she were particularly
pleased at the fact. "Well, many of the pictures I take it in Mr.
Nahum's round tower are of _that_ world. His MIND. I have never
examined them. My duties are elsewhere. Your duty is to keep your
senses, heart and courage and to go where you are called. And in black
strange places you will at times lose yourself and find yourself,
Simon. Now Mr. Nahum is calling. Don't think of me too much. I have
great faith in him. Sit up there with him then. Share your eyes with
his pictures. And having seen them, compare them if you will. Say, This
is this, and that is that. And make of all that he has exactly what use
you can."
With this counsel in my head I once more groped my way up the corkscrew
stone staircase, and once more passed on from picture to picture; in my
engrossment actually knocking my head against the dangling foot-bones
of Mr. Nahum's treasured and now unalarming skeleton.
The pictures were of all kinds and sizes--in water colour, in chalks,
and in oil. Some I liked for their vivid colours and deep shadows, and
some I did not like at all. Nor could I always be sure even what they
were intended to represent. Many of them completely perplexed me. A few
of them seemed to me to be absurd; some made me stupidly ashamed; and
one or two of them terrified me. But I went on examining them when I
felt inclined, and a week or so after, as I was lifting out one of them
into the sunshine, by chance it twisted on its cord and disclosed its
wooden back.
And there, pasted on to it, was a scrap of yellowing paper with the
letters BLAKE, followed by a number--CXLVII, in Roman figures. As with
this one, so with the others. Each had its name and a number.
And even as I stood pondering what this might mean, my eyes rested on
a lower shelf of one of Mr. Nahum's cases of books--book-cases which
I have forgotten to say stood all round the lower part of the room. I
had already discovered that many of these books were the writings of
travellers in every part of the globe. One whole book-case consisted of
what Mr. Nahum appeared to call Kitchen Work. But the one on a lower
shelf which had now taken my attention was new to me--an enormous,
thick, home-made-looking volume covered in a greenish shagreen or
shark-skin.
Scrawled in ungainly capitals on the strip of vellum pasted to the back
of this book was its title: THEOTHERWORLDE. Would you believe it?--at
first I was stupid enough to suppose this title was one word, a word
in a strange tongue, which I pronounced to myself as best I could,
THEEOTHAWORLDIE--saying the TH as in _thimble_. And that is what,
merely for old sake's sake, I have continued to call the book in my
mind to this day!
I glanced out of the window. The upper boughs of the yew-wood and the
stones this side of it among the bright green grasses were impurpled by
the reflected sunlight. Nothing there but motionless shadows. I stood
looking vacantly out for a moment or two; then stooped and lugged out
the ponderous fusty old volume on to the floor and raised its clumsy
cover.
To my surprise and pleasure, I found, that attached within was the
drawing of a boy of about my own age, but dressed like a traveller,
whose face faintly resembled a portrait I had noticed on the walls
downstairs, though this child had wings painted to his shoulders and
there was a half circle of stars around his head. Beneath this portrait
in the book, in small letters, was scrawled in a faded handwriting,
NAHUM TARUNE. This, then, was Mr. Nahum when he was a boy. It
pleased me to find that he was no better a speller than myself. He had
not even got his own name right! I liked his face. He looked out from
under his stars at me, full in the eyes.
Next--after I had searched his looks and clothes and what he carried
pretty closely--I turned over a few of the stiff leaves and found more
of his writing with a big VII scrawled on the top. On page one of this
book you will find the writing. I should have been a stupider boy even
than I was if I had not at once turned over the pictures till I came to
that with VII on the label on the back of it. This picture was of a
Maze outlined in gaudy colours which faded towards the middle--a sort
of oasis in which grew a tree. Fabulous-looking animals and creatures
with wings sprawled around its margins. After repeated attempts I
found to my disappointment that your only way out of the oasis and the
maze was, after long groping, by the way you went in. Underneath it
was written "_This is the key._" And above it in green letters stood
this:--Behold upon the mountains the feet of him that bringeth good
tidings, that publisheth peace!
It was unfortunate that so little more of daylight was now left dying
in the sky that evening; for as yet I had not the confidence to kindle
the wax candles that stood in their brass sticks in the round tower.
It was high time for me to be getting home. In my haste to be off I
nearly collided with Miss Taroone, who happened to be standing in the
dusklight looking out from under her porch. Too much excited even to
beg her pardon, I blurted out: "Miss Taroone, I have found out what
the pictures are of. It's a Book. _Theeothaworldie._ Mr. Nahum's
portrait's in it, but they've put wings to him; and it's all in his
writing--rhymes."
She looked down at me, though I could not quite see her face.
"Then, good-night to you, Simon; and happy dreams," she said, in her
unfriendly voice.
"I like the round room better and better," I replied as heartily as I
could. "That picture of Mr. Nahum--and there are lots more, I think--is
a _little_ bit like an uncle of mine who died in Russia; my Uncle John."
"John's as good a name, I suppose, as any other, Simon," said Miss
Taroone. She stood looking out on the dusky country scene. "There's a
heavy dew tonight, and the owls are busy."
They were indeed. Their screechings sounded on all sides of me as I ran
off homewards, chanting over to myself the words that had somehow stuck
in my memory.
Well, at last I began to read in Mr. Nahum's book--I won't say page
by page, but as the fancy took me. It consisted chiefly of rhymes and
poems, and some of them had pictured capitals and were decorated in
clear bright colours like the pages of the old books illuminated by
monks centuries ago. Apart from the poems were here and there pieces
of prose. These, I found, always had some bearing on the poems, and,
like them, many of them were queerly spelt. Occasionally Mr. Nahum had
jotted down his own thoughts in the margin. But the pictures were my
first concern.
Sometimes I went off to them from the book in order to find the
particular one I wanted. And sometimes the other way round: I would
have a good long stare at a picture, then single out the proper rhyme
in the book. Often, either in one way or the other, I failed. For there
were far fewer pictures than there were pages in the book, and for
scores of pages I found no picture at all. It seemed Mr. Nahum had made
paintings only of those he liked best.
The book itself, I found, was the first of three, the other two being
similar to itself but much thicker and heavier. Into these I dipped
occasionally, but found that the rhymes in them interested me less
or were less easily understandable. Even some of those in the first
book were a little beyond my wits at the time. But experience seems to
be like the shining of a bright lantern. It suddenly makes clear in
the mind what was already there perhaps, but dim. And often though I
immediately liked what I read, long years were to go by before I really
understood it, made it my own. There would come a moment, something
would happen; and I would say to myself:--"Oh, that, then, is what
_that_ meant!"
Before going any further I must confess that I was exceedingly slow
over Mr. Nahum's writings. Even over Volume I. When first I opened its
pages I had had a poor liking for poetry because of a sort of contempt
for it. "Poetry!" I would scoff to myself, and would shut up the covers
of any such book with a kind of yawn inside me. Some of it had come my
way in lesson books. This I could gabble off like a parrot, and with as
much understanding; and I had just begun to grind out a little Latin
verse for my father.
But I had never troubled to think about it; to share my Self with it;
to examine it in order to see whether or not it was true; or to ask
why it was written in this one way and in no other way. But apart
from this, there were many old rhymes in Mr. Nahum's book--nursery
things--which I had known since I knew anything. And I still have an
old childish love for rhymes and jingles like them.
But what about the others? I began to ponder. After being so many hours
alone in Mr. Nahum's room, among his secret belongings, I almost felt
his presence there. When your mind is sunk in study, it is as if you
were in a dream. But you cannot tell where, or in whose company, you
may wake out of a dream. I remember one sultry afternoon being startled
out of my wits by a sudden clap of thunder. I looked up, to find the
whole room black, zigzag, and strange, and for a moment I fancied Mr.
Nahum was actually there behind me; and not a friendly Mr. Nahum.
That is mere fancy; though in other ways he became so real to me at
last that I would do things as if he had asked me to do them. For this
reason, I think, I persevered with his book, swallowing some of the
poems as if they were physic, simply because he had written them there.
But the more I read, the more I came to enjoy them for their own sakes.
Not all of them, of course. But I did see this, that like a carpenter
who makes a table, a man who has written a poem has written it like
that _on purpose_.
With this thought in my head I tried one day to alter the words of
one or two of the simple and easy poems; or to put the words in a
different order. And I found by so doing that you not only altered
the sound of the poem, but that even the slightest alteration in the
sound a little changed the sense. Either you lost something of the tune
and runningness; or the words did not clash right; or you blurred the
picture the words gave you; or some half-hidden meaning vanished away.
I don't mean that every poem is perfect; but only that when I changed
them it was almost always very much for the worse. I was very slow
in all this; but, still, I went on. No. III, I remember, was the old
nursery jingle, "Old King Cole":--
Old King Cole was a merry old soul,
And a merry old soul was he;
He called for his pipe,
And he called for his bowl,
And he called for his fiddlers three....
Now, suppose, instead of these four lines of the rhyme you put:--
Old King Cole was a jolly old man,
The jolliest old man alive;
He called for his cup, and he called for a pipe
And he called for his fiddlers five.
By so doing you have actually added two extra fiddlers; and yet somehow
you have taken away some of the old three's music. Or you may put:--
'Cole the First was now a monarch advanced in age, and of a convivial
temperament. On any festive occasion he would bid his retainers bring
him his goblet and smoking materials, and would command his musicians
to entertain him on their violins: which they did.'
Well, all the _facts_ are there and many more words, but scarcely a
trace of _my_ old King Cole, and not a single tweedle-eedle of the
fiddling. Would anyone trouble to learn that by heart?
Now underneath this rhyme Mr. Nahum had written a sort of historical
account of King Cole, a good deal of it in German and other languages.
All I could make out of it was this: if ever a King Cole inhabited the
world, he probably had another name; that he lived too far back in
history for anyone to make sure when he had lived or that he had lived
at all; and that his "pipe" and "bowl" probably stand for objects much
more mysterious and far less common.
Having the rhyme quite free to myself, I didn't mind reading this; but
if ever I have to give up either, I shall keep the rhyme.
Having discovered, then, that every poem must have been written as it
was written, on purpose, I took a little more pains with those I cared
for least. In some even then I could not quite piece out the meaning;
in others I could not easily catch the beat and rhythm and tune. But I
learned to read them very slowly, so as fully and quietly to fill up
the time allowed for each line and to listen to its music, and to see
and hear all that the words were saying.
Then, too, what Miss Taroone had said came back to my mind. Even when
Mr. Nahum's poems were about real things and places and people, they
were still only of places and people the words made for me in my
_mind_. I must, that is, myself imagine all they told. And I found that
the mention in a poem even of quite common and familiar things--such as
a star, or a buttercup, or a beetle--did not bring into the mind quite
the same kind of images of them as the things and creatures themselves
do in the naked eye.
Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh;
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky....
This was one of the earliest poems in Mr. Nahum's book. I had often, of
course, seen the shadows of evening--every grass-blade or pebble casts
its own; but these words not only called them vividly into my mind, but
set shadows there (shadows across the sky) that I had never really seen
at all--with my own eyes I mean. I discovered afterwards, also, that
shadows are only the absence of light, though light is needed to make
them visible. Just the same, again, with the sailors in the same poem:
Guard the sailors tossing
On the deep blue sea....
They are plain and common words, but their _order_ here is the poem's
only, and the effect they had on me, and still have, is different from
the effect of any other words on the same subject. Though, too, like
Mr. Nahum, I have now seen something of the world (have been seasick
and nearly drowned) I have never forgotten those imaginary sailors,
or that imaginary sea; can still hear the waves lapping against that
(unmentioned) ship's thin wooden walls, as if I myself were sleeping
there, down below.
So what I then read has remained a clear and single remembrance, as if
I myself had seen it in a world made different, or in a kind of vision
or dream. And I think Mr. Nahum had chosen such poems in Volume I.
as carried away the imagination like that; either into the past, or
into another mind, or into the all-but-forgotten; at times as if into
another world. And this kind has been my choice in this book.
Not that his picture to a particular poem was always the picture I
should have made of it. Take for example another nursery jingle in his
book:
'How many miles to Babylon?'
'Three score and ten.'
'Can I get there by candle-light?'
'Ay, and back again.'
Mr. Nahum's corresponding picture was not of Babylon or of a candle, or
of a traveller at all, but of a stone tomb, On its thick upper slab he
had drawn-in an old earthen lamp, with a serpent for handle--its wick
alight, and shining up on a small owl perched in the lower branches of
the thick tree above.
That is one of the pleasures of reading--you may make any picture out
of the words you can and will; and a poem may have as many different
meanings as there are different minds.
There I would sit, then, and Mr. Nahum's book made of "one little room
an everywhere." And though I was naturally rather stupid and dense,
I did in time realise that "rare poems ask rare friends," and that
even the simplest ones may have secrets which will need a pretty close
searching out.
Of course I could not copy out all of the poems even in
THEEOTHAWORLDIE, Volume I., and I took very few from Volumes
II. and III. I chose what I liked best--those that, when I read them,
never failed to carry me away, as if on a Magic Carpet, or in Seven
League Boots, into a region of their own. When the nightingale sings,
other birds, it is said, will sit and listen to him: and I remember
very well hearing a nightingale so singing on a spray in a dewy hedge,
and there were many small birds perched mute and quiet near. The cock
crows at midnight; and for miles around his kinsmen answer. The fowler
whistles his decoy for the wild duck to come. So certain rhymes and
poems affected my mind when I was young, and continue to do so now that
I am old.
To these (and the few bits of prose) which I chose from Mr. Nahum, I
added others afterwards, and they are in this book too. All of them are
in English; a few from over the ocean: but how very few they all are
by comparison with the multitudes even of their own kind. And there are
the whole world's languages besides! Even of my own favourites not all
have found a place. There was not room enough. I have left out others
also that may be found easily elsewhere. I am afraid, too, there may be
many mistakes in my copying, though I have tried to be careful.
Miss Taroone knew that I was making use of Mr. Nahum's book; though she
never questioned me about it. I came and went in her house at last like
a rabbit in a warren, a mouse in a mousery. The hours I spent in those
far-gone days in Mr. Nahum's round room! At times I wearied of it, and
hated his books, and even wished I had never so much as set eyes on
Thrae at all.
But after such sour moments, a gossip and an apple with Linnet Sara
in her kitchen, or a scamper home, or a bathe under the hazels in the
stream whose source, I believe, is in the hills beyond East Dene,
would set me to rights again. For sheer joy of return I could scarcely
breathe for a while after remounting the stone staircase, re-entering
Mr. Nahum's room, and closing the door behind me.
From above his broad scrawled pages I would lift my eyes to his windows
and stare as if out of one dream into another. How strange from across
the sky was the gentle scented breeze blowing in on my cheek, softly
stirring the dried kingfisher skin that hung from its beam; how near
understanding then the tongues of the wild birds; how close the painted
scene--as though I were but a picture too, and this my frame.
But there came a day that was to remove me out of the neighbourhood
of Miss Taroone's Thrae into a different kind of living altogether. I
was to be sent to school. After a hot debate with myself, and why I
scarcely know, I asked my father's permission to spend the night at
Miss Taroone's. He gave me a steady look and said, Yes.
I found Miss Taroone seated on the steps of her porch, and now that I
look back at her then, she curiously reminds me--though she was ages
older--of a picture you will find in the second stanza of poem No.
233 in this book. Standing before her--it was already getting towards
dark--I said I was come to bid her goodbye; and might I spend the night
in Mr. Nahum's round room. She raised her eyes on me, luminous and
mysterious as the sky itself, even though in the dusk.
"You may _say_, goodbye, Simon," she replied; "but unless I myself am
much mistaken in you, your feet will not carry you out of all thought
of me; and some day they will return to me whether you will or not."
Inside I was already in a flutter at thought of the hours to come, and
I was accustomed to her strange speeches, though this struck on my mind
more coldly than usual. I made a little jerk forwards; "I must thank
you, please Miss Taroone, for having been so kind to me," I gulped in
an awkward voice. "And I hope," I added, as she made no answer, "I hope
I haven't been much of a bother--coming like this, I mean?"
"None, Simon;" was her sole reply. The hand that I had begun to hold
out, went back into my pocket, and feeling extremely uncomfortable I
half turned away.
"Why, who knows?--" said the solemn voice, "Mr. Nahum may at this very
moment be riding home. Have a candle alight."
"Thank you, Miss Taroone. Thank you very much indeed."
With that I turned about and hastened across the darkening garden into
the house. My candlestick and matches stood ready on the old oak bench
at the foot of the tower. I lit up, and began to climb the cold steps.
My heart in my mouth, I hesitated at the hob-nailed door; but managed
at last to turn the key in the lock.
With two taller candles kindled, and its curtains drawn over the
western window, I at once began to copy out the last few things I
wanted for mine in Volume I. But there were two minds in me as midnight
drew on, almost two selves, the one busy with pen and ink, the other
stealthily listening to every faintest sound in my eyrie, a swift
glance now and then up at the darkened glass only setting me more
sharply to work. I had never before sat in so enormous a silence; the
scratching of my pen its only tongue.
Steadily burned my candles; no sound of hoofs, no owl-cry, no knocking
disturbed my peace; the nightingales had long since journeyed South.
What I had hoped for, expected, dreaded in this long vigil, I cannot
recall; all that I remember of it is that I began to shiver a little at
last, partly because my young nerves were on the stretch, and partly
because the small hours grew chill. In the very middle of the night
there came to my ear what seemed a distant talking or gabbling. It
may have been fancy; it may have been Linnet Sara. What certainly was
fancy is the notion that, as I started up out of an instant's drowse,
a stooping shape had swiftly withdrawn itself from me. But this was
merely the shadow of a dream.
I returned at last from the heavy sleep I had fallen into, my forehead
resting on the backs of my hands, and they flat on the huge open
volume, my whole body stiff with cold, and the first clear grey of
daybreak in the East. And suddenly, as my awakened eyes stared dully
about them in that thin light--the old windows, the strange outlandish
objects, the clustering pictures, the countless books, my own ugly
writing on my paper--an indescribable despair and anxiety--almost
terror even--seized upon me at the rushing thought of my own
_ignorance_; of how little I knew, of how unimportant I was. And, again
and again, my ignorance. Then I thought of Miss Taroone, of Mr. Nahum,
of the life before me, and everything yet to do. And a sullen misery
swept up in me at these reflections. And once more I wished from the
bottom of my heart that I had never come to this house.
But gradually the light broadened. And with it, confidence began to
return. The things around me that had seemed strange and hostile became
familiar again. I stood up and stretched myself and, I think, muttered
a prayer.
To this day I see the marvellous countryside of that morning with
its hills and low thick mists and woodlands stretched like a painted
scene beneath the windows--and that finger of light from the risen Sun
presently piercing across the dark air, and as if by a miracle causing
birds and water to awake and sing and shine.
With a kind of grief that was yet rapture in my mind, I stood looking
out over the cold lichen-crusted shingled roof of Thrae--towards
the East and towards those far horizons. Yet again the apprehension
(that was almost a hope) drew over me that at any moment wall and
chimney-shaft might thin softly away, and the Transformation Scene
begin. I was but just awake: and so too was the world itself, and ever
is. And somewhere--Wall or no Wall--was my mother's East Dene....
In a while I crept softly downstairs, let myself out, and ran off into
the morning. Having climbed the hill from which I had first stared down
upon Thrae, I stopped for a moment to recover my breath, and looked
back. I looked back.
The gilding sun-rays beat low upon the house in the valley. All was
still, wondrous, calm. For a moment my heart misgave me at this
farewell. The next, in sheer excitement--the cold sweet air, the
height, the morning, a few keen beckoning stars--I broke into a kind
of Indian war-dance in the thin dewy grass, and then, with a last wave
of my hand, like Mr. Nahum himself, I set off at a sharp walk on the
journey that has not yet come to an end.
[Illustration]
MORNING AND MAY
1 THIS IS THE KEY
This is the Key of the Kingdom:
In that Kingdom is a city;
In that city is a town;
In that town there is a street;
In that street there winds a lane;
In that lane there is a yard;
In that yard there is a house;
In that house there waits a room;
In that room an empty bed;
And on that bed a basket--
A Basket of Sweet Flowers:
_Of Flowers, of Flowers;_
_A Basket of Sweet Flowers_.
Flowers in a Basket;
Basket on the bed;
Bed in the chamber;
Chamber in the house;
House in the weedy yard;
Yard in the winding lane;
Lane in the broad street;
Street in the high town;
Town in the city;
City in the Kingdom--
This is the Key of the Kingdom.
_Of the Kingdom this is the Key._
2 A NEW YEAR CAROL
Here we bring new water
from the well so clear,
For to worship God with,
this happy New Year.
Sing levy dew, sing levy dew,
the water and the wine;
The seven bright gold wires
and the bugles that do shine.
Sing reign of Fair Maid,
with gold upon her toe,--
Open you the West Door,
and turn the Old Year go.
Sing reign of Fair Maid
with gold upon her chin,--
Open you the East Door,
and let the New Year in.
Sing levy dew, sing levy dew,
the water and the wine;
The seven bright gold wires
and the bugles they do shine.
3 HEY! NOW THE DAY DAWNS
"Hay, nou the day dauis; "Hey! now the day dawns;
The jolie Cok crauis; The jolly Cock crows;
Nou shroudis the shauis, Thick-leaved the greenshaws,
Throu Natur anone. Through Nature anon.
The thissell-cok cryis The thistle-cock cries
On louers wha lyis, On lovers who lies,
Nou skaillis the skyis; All cloudless the skies;
The nicht is neir gone. The night is near gone.
"The feildis ouerflouis "The fields overflow
With gowans that grouis, With daisies a-blow,
Quhair lilies lyk lou is, And lilies like fire shine,
Als rid as the rone. And red is the rowan.
The turtill that true is, The wood-dove that true is
With nots that reneuis, Her crooling reneweth,
Hir pairtie perseuis; And her sweet mate pursueth;
The nicht is neir gone. The night is near gone.
"Nou Hairtis with Hyndis, "Now Harts with their Hinds
Conforme to thair kyndis, Conform to their kinds,
Hie tursis thair tyndis, They vaunt their branched antlers,
On grund whair they grone. They bell and they groan.
Nou Hurchonis, with Hairis, Now Urchins[1] and Hares
Ay passis in pairis; Keep apassing in pairs;
Quhilk deuly declaris Which duly declares
The nicht is neir gone...." The night is near gone...."
ALEXANDER MONTGOMERIE
4 THE SLUGGARD
'Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard him complain--
"You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again;"
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber"--
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number;
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about saunt'ring, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking,
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart: "Here's a lesson for me;
That man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."
ISAAC WATTS
5 HARK, HARK, THE LARK
Hearke, hearke, the Larke at Heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,
His Steeds to water at those Springs
On chaliced Flowres that lyes:
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their Golden eyes:
With every thing that pretty is,
My Lady sweet, arise:
Arise, arise!
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
6 THE LARK NOW LEAVES HIS WATERY NEST
The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing shakes his dewy wings;
He takes your window for the East,
And to implore your light, he sings:
Awake, awake! the morn will never rise
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.
The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are
Who look for day before his mistress wakes:
Awake, awake! break through your veils of lawn;
Then draw your curtains, and begin the dawn!
SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT
7 EARLY MORN
When I did wake this morn from sleep,
It seemed I heard birds in a dream;
Then I arose to take the air--
The lovely air that made birds scream;
Just as a green hill launched the ship
Of gold, to take its first clear dip.
And it began its journey then,
As I came forth to take the air;
The timid Stars had vanished quite,
The Moon was dying with a stare;
Horses, and kine, and sheep were seen
As still as pictures, in fields green.
It seemed as though I had surprised
And trespassed in a golden world
That should have passed while men still slept!
The joyful birds, the ship of gold,
The horses, kine and sheep did seem
As they would vanish for a dream.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
8 GOOD-MORROW
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day!
With night we banish sorrow.
Sweet air, blow soft, mount, lark, aloft
To give my Love good morrow.
Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing,
To give my Love good morrow!
To give my Love good morrow
Notes from them all I'll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast!
Sing, birds, in every furrow,
And from each bill let music shrill
Give my fair Love good morrow!
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,
Stare,[2] linnet, and cock-sparrow,
You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
Sing my fair Love good morrow!
To give my Love good morrow
Sing, birds, in every furrow!
THOMAS HEYWOOD
9 THE QUESTION
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets--
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth--
Its mother's face with heaven's collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.
And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured May
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew, yet drained not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white,
And starry river-buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,--and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it--oh! to Whom?
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
10 THE FRESH AIR
The fresh air moves like water round a boat.
The white clouds wander. Let us wander too.
The whining, wavering plover flap and float.
That crow is flying after that cuckoo.
Look! Look!... They're gone. What are the great trees calling?
Just come a little farther, by that edge
Of green, to where the stormy ploughland, falling
Wave upon wave, is lapping to the hedge.
Oh, what a lovely bank! Give me your hand.
Lie down and press your heart against the ground.
Let us both listen till we understand,
Each through the other, every natural sound...
I can't hear anything to-day, can you,
But, far and near: "Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!"?
HAROLD MONRO
11 WEATHERS
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at "The Travellers' Rest,"
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
THOMAS HARDY
12 GREEN RAIN
Into the scented woods we'll go,
And see the blackthorn swim in snow.
High above, in the budding leaves,
A brooding dove awakes and grieves;
The glades with mingled music stir,
And wildly laughs the woodpecker.
When blackthorn petals pearl the breeze,
There are the twisted hawthorn trees
Thick-set with buds, as clear and pale
As golden water or green hail--
As if a storm of rain had stood
Enchanted in the thorny wood,
And, hearing fairy voices call,
Hung poised, forgetting how to fall.
MARY WEBB
13 SONG ON MAY MORNING
Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowry _May_, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip and the pale Primrose.
Hail, bounteous _May_, that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and young desire,
Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
JOHN MILTON
14 SISTER, AWAKE!
Sister, awake! close not your eyes.
The day her light discloses,
And the bright morning doth arise
Out of her bed of roses.
See the clear sun, the world's bright eye,
In at our window peeping:
Lo, how he blusheth to espy
Us idle wenches sleeping!
Therefore awake! make haste, I say,
And let us, without staying,
All in our gowns of green so gay
Into the park a-maying.
15 HERE WE COME A-PIPING
Here we come a-piping,
In Springtime and in May;
Green fruit a-ripening,
And Winter fled away.
The Queen she sits upon the strand,
Fair as lily, white as wand;
Seven billows on the sea,
Horses riding fast and free,
And bells beyond the sand.
16 AS WE DANCE ROUND
As we dance round a-ring-a-ring,
A maiden goes a-maying;
And here a flower, and there a flower,
Through mead and meadow straying:
O gentle one, why dost thou weep?--
Silver to spend with; gold to keep;
Till spin the green round World asleep,
And Heaven its dews be staying.
17 OLD MAY SONG
All in this pleasant evening, together come are we,
_For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay_;
We tell you of a blossoming and buds on every tree,
_Drawing near unto the merry month of May_.
Rise up, the master of this house, put on your charm of gold,
_For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay_;
Be not in pride offended with your name we make so bold,
_Drawing near unto the merry month of May_.
Rise up, the mistress of this house, with gold along your breast;
_For the summer springs so fresh, green and gay_;
And if your body be asleep, we hope your soul's at rest,
_Drawing near unto the merry month of May_.
Rise up, the children of this house, all in your rich attire,
_For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay_;
And every hair upon your heads shines like the silver wire:
_Drawing near unto the merry month of May_.
God bless this house and arbour, your riches and your store,
_For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay_;
We hope the Lord will prosper you, both now and evermore,
_Drawing near unto the merry month of May_.
And now comes we must leave you, in peace and plenty here,
_For the summer springs so fresh, green, and gay_;
We shall not sing you May again until another year,
_To draw you these cold winters away_.
18 SONG OF THE MAYERS
Remember us poor Mayers all,
And thus do we begin,
To lead our lives in righteousness,
Or else we die in sin.
We have been rambling all the night,
And almost all the day,
And now returning back again,
We have brought you a bunch of May.
A bunch of May we have brought you,
And at your door it stands,
It is but a sprout, but it's well budded out
By the work of our Lord's hands.
The hedges and trees they are so green,
As green as any leek,
Our Heavenly Father, He watered them
With his heavenly dew so sweet.
The heavenly gates are open wide,
Our paths are beaten plain,
And if a man be not too far gone,
He may return again.
The life of man is but a span,
It flourishes like a flower;
We are here to-day, and gone to-morrow,
And are dead in an hour.
The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,
A little before it is day,
God bless you all, both great and small,
And send you a joyful May.
19 AND AS FOR ME
... And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte,[3]
On bokės for to rede I me delyte,
And to hem yeve[4] I feyth and ful credènce,
And in myn herte have hem in reverence
So hertėley, that there is gamė noon
That fro my bokės maketh me to goon,
But hit be seldom on the holyday,
Save, certeynly, whan that the month of May
Is comen, and that I here the foulės[5] singe
And that the flourės ginnen for to springe,--
Farewel my boke, and my devocioun!
Now have I than swich[6] a condicioun,
That, of alle the flourės in the mede,
Than love I most these flourės whyte and rede,
Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun.
To hem have I so greet affeccioun,
As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May,
That in my bed ther daweth me no day,
That I nam up, and walking in the mede,
To seen this flour agein the sonnė sprede,
When hit uprysith erly by the morwe;
That blisful sightė softneth all my sorwė[7]....
And whan that hit is eve, I rennė blyve,[8]
As soon as evere the sonnė ginneth weste,
To seen this flour, how it wol go to reste,
For fere of nyght, so hateth she derknesse!...
GEOFFREY CHAUCER
20 THE SPRING
What bird so sings, yet so does wail?
O, 'tis the ravished nightingale!
"_Jug, jug, jug, jug, tereu_," she cries,
And still her woes at midnight rise.
Brave prick-song! who is't now we hear?
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gates she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Hark, hark, with what a pretty throat
Poor robin-redbreast tunes his note;
Hark, how the jolly cuckoos sing
_Cuckoo_--to welcome in the spring!
_Cuckoo_--to welcome in the spring!
JOHN LYLY
21 SPRING, THE SWEET SPRING
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing:
_Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo!_
The Palm and May make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay:
_Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo!_
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet:
_Cuckoo, jug, jug, pu we, to witta woo!_
_Spring, the sweet Spring!_
THOMAS NASH
22 A MAY DAY
... And now all nature seemed in love;
The lusty sap began to move;
New juice did stir the embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines.
The jealous trout that now did lie,
Rose at a well-dissembled fly:
There stood my friend with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.[9]
Already were the eaves possessed
With the swift pilgrim's daubèd nest:
The groves already did rejoice
In Philomel's triumphing voice.
The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled.
Joan takes her neat-rubbed pail and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;
Where, for some sturdy football swain,
Joan strokes[10] a sillabub or twain.
The field and gardens were beset
With tulip, crocus, violet;
And now, though late, the modest rose
Did more than half a blush disclose.
Thus all looked gay, all full of cheer,
To welcome the new-liveried year.
SIR HENRY WOTTON
23 EASTER
I got me flowers to straw thy way,
I got me boughs off many a tree:
But thou wast up by break of day,
And brought'st thy sweets along with thee.
The Sun arising in the East,
Though he give light, and the East perfume,[11]
If they should offer to contest
With thy arising, they presume.
Can there be any day but this,
Though many sunnes to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we misse:
There is but one, and that one ever.
GEORGE HERBERT
24 PLEASURE IT IS
Pleasure it is
To hear, iwis,[12]
The birdės sing.
The deer in the dale,
The sheep in the vale,
The corn springing;
God's purveyance
For sustenance
It is for man.
Then we always
To Him give praise,
And thank Him than,
And thank Him than.
WILLIAM CORNISH
[Illustration]
MOTHER, HOME AND SWEETHEART
25 I SING OF A MAIDEN
_I sing of a maiden_
_That is makeless,_[13]
_King of all Kings_
_To her son she ches._[14]
He came all so still
Where his mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.
He came all so still
To his mother's bower,
As dew in April
That falleth on the flower.
He came all so still
Where his mother lay,
As dew in April
That falleth on the spray.
Mother and maiden
Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
God's mother be.
~26~ LULLABY
Upon my lap my sovereign sits
And sucks upon my breast;
Meantime his love maintains my life
And gives my sense her rest.
_Sing lullaby, my little boy,_
_Sing lullaby, mine only joy!_
When thou hast taken thy repast,
Repose, my babe, on me;
So may thy mother and thy nurse
Thy cradle also be.
_Sing lullaby, my little boy,_
_Sing lullaby, mine only joy!_
I grieve that duty doth not work
All that my wishing would,
Because I would not be to thee
But in the best I should.
_Sing lullaby, my little boy,_
_Sing lullaby, mine only joy!_
Yet as I am, and as I may,
I must and will be thine,
Though all too little for thy self
Vouchsafing to be mine.
_Sing lullaby, my little boy,_
_Sing lullaby, mine only joy!_
RICHARD ROWLANDS
27 THE LITTLE BLACK BOY
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.
My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,
And, pointing to the east, began to say:
"Look on the rising sun; there God does live,
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.
"And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.
"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,
Saying: 'Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"
Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me;
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,
I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father's knee;
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
WILLIAM BLAKE
28 THE ECHOING GREEN
The Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells' cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the Echoing Green.
Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk,
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
"Such, such were the joys
When we all, girls and boys,
In our youth time were seen
On the Echoing Green."
Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening Green.
WILLIAM BLAKE
29 IF I HAD BUT TWO LITTLE WINGS
If I had but two little wings
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
30 I REMEMBER
I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups!--
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,--
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.
THOMAS HOOD
31 MIDNIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTERN
In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,
And the roof-lamp's oily flame
Played down on his listless form and face,
Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,
Or whence he came.
In the band of his hat the journeying boy
Had a ticket stuck; and a string
Around his neck bore the key of his box,
That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams
Like a living thing.
What past can be yours, O journeying boy
Towards a world unknown,
Who calmly, as if incurious quite
On all at stake, can undertake
This plunge alone?
Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,
Our rude realms far above,
Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete
This region of sin that you find you in,
But are not of?
THOMAS HARDY
32 THE RUNAWAY
Once when the sun of the year was beginning to fall
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, "Whose colt?
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his heart. He dipped his head
And snorted to us; and then he had to bolt.
We heard the muffled thunder when he fled
And we saw him or thought we saw him dim and grey
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
We said, "The little fellow's afraid of the snow.
He isn't winter broken." "It isn't play
With the little fellow at all. He's running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, 'Sakes,
It's only weather.' He'd think she didn't know.
Where is his mother? He can't be out alone."
And now he comes again with a clatter of stone
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
And all his tail that isn't hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
Whoever it is that leaves him out so late
When everything else has gone to stall and bin
Ought to be told to go and bring him in.
ROBERT FROST
33 ON EASTNOR KNOLL
Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are
Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through
The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy
Calling the cows home.
A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but
Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset
Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on
The misty hill-tops.
Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning
Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are
A silent army of phantoms thronging
A land of shadows.
JOHN MASEFIELD
34 "HOME NO MORE HOME TO ME"
Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?
Hunger my driver, I go where I must.
Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;
Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.
Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.
The true word of welcome was spoken in the door--
Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,
Kind folks of old, you come again no more.
Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,
Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child,
Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;
Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.
Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,
Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.
Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,
The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.
Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl,
Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;
Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,
Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;
Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood--
Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney--
But I go for ever and come again no more.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
35 DALYAUNCE
_Mundus._ Welcome, fayre chylde, what is thy name?
_Infans._ I wote not, syr, withouten blame.
But ofte tyme my moder in her game
Callèd me dalyaunce.
_Mundus._ Dalyaunce, my swetė chylde,
It is a name that is ryght wylde,
For whan thou waxest olde.
It is a name of no substaunce
But, my fayre chylde, what woldest thou have?
_Infans._ Syr of some comforte I you crave--
Mete and clothe my lyfe to save:
And I your true servaunt shall be.
_Mundus._ Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge.
I wyll thee fynde[15] whyle thou art yinge[16]
So thou wylte be obedyent to my byddynge.
These garments gaye I gyve to thee.
And also I gyve to thee a name,
And clepe[17] thee Wanton, in every game;
Tyll XIII yere be come and gone,
And than come agayne to me.
[_Infans is now called Wanton._]
_Wanton._ Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye,
For now I purpose me to playe.
_Mundus._ Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye.
All rychelesnesse[18] is kynde[19] for thee.
[_Mundus goes out leaving Wanton alone._]
_Wanton._ Aha, Wanton is my name!
I can many a quayntė game.
Lo, my toppe I dryve in same,
Se, it torneth rounde!
I can with my scorgė-stycke
My felowe upon the heed hytte,
And wyghtly[20] from hym make a skyppe
And blere[21] on hym my tonge.
If brother or syster do me chyde
I wyll scratche and also byte.
I can crye, and also kyke,
And mocke them all berewe.
If fader or mother wyll me smyte,
I wyll wryngė[22] with my lyppe;
And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe;
And call my damė shrewe.
Aha, a newe game have I founde:
Se this gynne[23] it renneth rounde;
And here another have I founde,
And yet mo[24] can I fynde.
I can mowė[25] on a man;
And make a lesynge[26] well I can,
And mayntayne it ryght well than.
This connynge[27] came me of kynde.
Ye, syrs,[28] I can well gelde a snayle;
And catche a cowe by the tayle;
This is a fayre connynge!
I can daunce, and also skyppe;
I can playe at the chery pytte;
And I can wystell you a fytte,[29]
Syres, in a whylowe ryne.[30]
Ye, syrs, and every daye
Whan I to scole shall take the waye
Some good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye,
Perys[31] and plommes to plucke.
I can spye a sparowes nest.
I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest,
For there begynneth a sory fest[32]
Whan the mayster sholde lyfte my docke.[33]
But, syrs, whan I was seven yere of age,
I was sent to the Worlde to takė wage.
And this seven yere I have ben his page
And kept his commaundėment....
36 CHRISTMAS AT SEA
The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.
They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.
All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.
We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.
The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.
The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.
O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.
And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.
They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
"All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call,
"By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried.
... "It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied.
She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good.
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.
And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
37 TWILIGHT
The twilight is sad and cloudy,
The wind blows wild and free,
And like the wings of sea-birds
Flash the white caps of the sea.
But in the fisherman's cottage
There shines a ruddier light,
And a little face at the window
Peers out into the night.
Close, close it is pressed to the window,
As if those childish eyes
Were looking into the darkness,
To see some form arise.
And a woman's waving shadow
Is passing to and fro,
Now rising to the ceiling,
Now bowing and bending low.
What tale do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind, bleak and wild,
As they beat at the crazy casement,
Tell to that little child?
And why do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind, wild and bleak,
As they beat at the heart of the mother,
Drive the colour from her cheek?
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
38 "HOW'S MY BOY?"
"Ho, sailor of the sea!
How's my boy--my boy?"
"What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?"
"My boy John--
He that went to sea--
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy's my boy to me.
"You come back from sea
And not know my John!
I might as well have asked some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There's not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.
"How's my boy--my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass button or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no!
Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."--
"Speak low, woman, speak low!"
"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him o'er the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?"
"That good ship went down."
"How's my boy--my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor,
I never was aboard her.
Be she afloat, or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John?"
"Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her."
"How's my boy--my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother--
How's my boy--my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy--my boy?"
SYDNEY DOBELL
39 CAM' YE BY?
Cam' ye by the salmon fishers?
Cam' ye by the roperee?
Saw ye a sailor laddie
Waiting on the coast for me?
I ken fahr[34] I'm gyain,[35]
I ken fahs[36] gyain wi' me;
I ha'e a lad o' my ain,
Ye daurna tack 'im fae[37] me.
Stockings of blue silk,
Shoes of patent leather,
Kid to tie them up,
And gold rings on his finger.
Oh for six o'clock!
Oh for seven I weary!
Oh for eight o'clock!
And then I'll see my dearie.
40 MY BOY TAMMY
"Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?
Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?"
"I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
Meadow green and mountain grey,
Courtin' o' this young thing just come frae her Mammy."
"And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?"
"I gat her down in yonder howe,[38]
Smiling on a broomy knowe,[39]
Herding ae wee Lamb and Ewe for her poor Mammy."
"What said ye to the bonny bairn, my boy Tammy?"
"I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I've walth o' plenishen and gear,[40]
Yese get it a', war't ten times mair, gin[41] ye will leave your Mammy.
"The smile gaed aff her bonny face--'I mauna leave my Mammy!
She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claes,[42]
She's been my comfort a' my days,
My Father's death brought mony waes--I canna leave my Mammy.'"
"We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-hearted Lammy,
We'll gie her meat, we'll gi'e her claes,
We'll be her comfort a' her days:"
The wee thing gi'es her hand, and says, "There, gang and ask my Mammy."
"Has she been to kirk wi' thee, my boy Tammy?"
"She has been to kirk wi' me,
And the tear was in her ee,
But Oh! she's but a young thing just come frae her Mammy."
HECTOR MACNEILL
41 ROSY APPLE, LEMON, OR PEAR
Rosy apple, lemon, or pear,
Bunch of roses she shall wear;
Gold and silver by her side,
I know who will be the bride.
Take her by her lily-white hand,
Lead her to the altar;
Give her kisses,--one, two, three,--
Mother's runaway daughter.
42 IN PRAISE OF ISABEL PENNELL
By Saint Mary, my lady,
Your mammy and your daddy
Brought forth a goodly baby!
My maiden Isabell,--
Reflaring[43] rosabell,
The flagrant camamell,
The ruddy rosary,
The sovereign rosemary,
The pretty strawberry,
The columbine, the nepte,[44]
The ieloffer[45] well set,
The proper violet,
Ennewèd, your colour
Is like the daisy flower
After the April shower!
Star of the morrow gray,
The blossom on the spray,
The freshest flower of May;
Maidenly demure,
Of womanhood the lure,
Wherefore I make you sure:
It were an heavenly health,
It were an endless wealth,
A life for God himself,
To hear this nightingale,
Among the birdės smale,
Warbling in the vale:--
_Dug, dug,_
_Iug, iug,_
_Good year and good luck,_
_With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk!_
JOHN SKELTON
43 MY SWEET SWEETING
She is so proper and so pure,
Full stedfast, stabill and demure,
There is none such, ye may be sure,
As my swete sweting.
In all thys world, as thynketh me,
Is none so plesaunt to my e'e,
That I am glad soo ofte to see,
As my swete swetyng.
When I behold my swetyng swete,
Her face, her hands, her minion fete,
They seme to me there is none so mete,
As my swete swetyng.
Above all other prayse must I,
And love my pretty pygsnye,
For none I fynd so womanly
As my swete swetyng.
44 SWEET STAY-AT-HOME
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
Thou knowest of no strange continent:
Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
A gentle motion with the deep;
Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow
For miles, as far as eyes can go;
Thou hast not seen a summer's night
When maids could sew by a worm's light;
Nor the North Sea in spring send out
Bright hues that like birds flit about
In solid cages of white ice--
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.
Thou hast not seen black fingers pick
White cotton when the bloom is thick,
Nor heard black throats in harmony;
Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie
Flat on the earth, that once did rise
To hide proud kings from common eyes.
Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom
Where green things had such little room
They pleased the eye like fairer flowers--
Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.
Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,
Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;
For thou hast made more homely stuff
Nurture thy gentle self enough;
I love thee for a heart that's kind--
Not for the knowledge in thy mind.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
45 WAITING
Rich in the waning light she sat
While the fierce rain on the window spat.
The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,
Shadows cloaked the narrow place
She sat adream in. Then she'd look
Idly upon an idle book;
Anon would rise and musing peer
Out at the misty street and drear;
Or with her loosened dark hair play,
Hiding her fingers' snow away;
And, singing softly, would sing on
When the desire of song had gone.
"O lingering day!" her bosom sighed,
"O laggard Time!" each motion cried.
Last she took the lamp and stood
Rich in its flood,
And looked and looked again at what
Her longing fingers' zeal had wrought;
And turning then did nothing say,
Hiding her thoughts away.
JOHN FREEMAN
46 THE SICK CHILD
_Child._ O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!
O mother, mother, where am I now?
Why is the room so gaunt and great?
Why am I lying awake so late?
_Mother._ Fear not at all: the night is still.
Nothing is here that means you ill--
Nothing but lamps the whole town through,
And never a child awake but you.
_Child._ Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,
Some of the things are so great and near,
Some are so small and far away,
I have a fear that I cannot say.
What have I done, and what do I fear,
And why are you crying, mother dear?
_Mother._ Out in the city, sounds begin.
Thank the kind God, the carts come in!
An hour or two more, and God is so kind,
The day shall be blue in the window blind,
Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,
And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
47 STILLNESS
When the words rustle no more,
And the last work's done,
When the bolt lies deep in the door,
And Fire, our Sun,
Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;
When from the clock's last chime to the next chime
Silence beats his drum,
And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time
Wheeling and whispering come,
She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:
Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,
I am emptied of all my dreams:
I only hear Earth turning, only see
Ether's long bankless streams,
And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.
JAMES ELROY FLECKER
48 LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE
O that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child--chase all thy fears away!"...
My Mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unseen, a kiss,
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss--
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?--It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learnt at last submission to my lot.
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped,
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall....
WILLIAM COWPER
49 THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER
When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry "'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said
"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."
And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.
And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.
Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.
And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;
So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.
WILLIAM BLAKE
50 BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL
Hie upon Hielands,
and laigh upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell
rode out on a day.
Saddled and briddled
and booted rade he;
Toom[46] hame cam' the saddle,
but never cam' he.
Down cam' his auld mither,
greetin'[47] fu' sair,
And down cam' his bonny wife,
wringin' her hair:--
"My meadow lies green,
and my corn is unshorn,
My barn is to build
and my babe is unborn."
Saddled and briddled
and booted rade he;
Toom hame cam' the saddle
but never cam' he.
51 THE ORPHAN'S SONG
I had a little bird,
I took it from the nest;
I prest it, and blest it,
And nurst it in my breast.
I set it on the ground,
I danced round and round,
And sang about it so cheerly,
With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!"
I make a little feast
Of food soft and sweet,
I hold it in my breast,
And coax it to eat;
I pit, and I pat,
I call it this and that,
And sing about it so cheerly,
With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!"
I may kiss, I may sing,
But I can't make it feed,
It taketh no heed
Of any pleasant thing.
I scolded and I socked,
But it minded not a whit,
Its little mouth was locked,
And I could not open it.
Tho' with pit, and with pat,
And with this, and with that,
I sang about it so cheerly,
With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!"
But when the day was done,
And the room was at rest,
And I sat all alone
With my birdie in my breast,
And the light had fled,
And not a sound was heard,
Then my little bird
Lifted up its head,
And the little mouth
Loosed its sullen pride,
And it opened, it opened,
With a yearning strong and wide.
Swifter than I speak
I brought it food once more,
But the poor little beak
Was locked as before.
I sat down again,
And not a creature stirred;
I laid the little bird
Again where it had laid;
And again when nothing stirred,
And not a word I said,
Then my little bird
Lifted up its head,
And the little beak
Loosed its stubborn pride,
And it opened, it opened,
With a yearning strong and wide.
It lay in my breast,
It uttered no cry,
'Twas famished,'twas famished,
And I couldn't tell why.
I couldn't tell why,
But I saw that it would die,
For all that I kept dancing round and round,
And singing about it so cheerly,
With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!"
I never look sad,
I hear what people say,
I laugh when they are gay
And they think I am glad.
My tears never start,
I never say a word,
But I think that my heart
Is like that little bird.
Every day I read,
And I sing, and I play,
But thro' the long day
It taketh no heed.
It taketh no heed
Of any pleasant thing,
I know it doth not read,
I know it doth not sing.
With my mouth I read,
With my hands I play,
My shut heart is shut,
Coax it how you may.
You may coax it how you may
While the day is broad and bright,
But in the dead night
When the guests are gone away,
And no more the music sweet
Up the house doth pass,
Nor the dancing feet
Shake the nursery glass;
And I've heard my aunt
Along the corridor,
And my uncle gaunt
Lock his chamber door;
And upon the stair
All is hushed and still,
And the last wheel
Is silent in the square;
And the nurses snore,
And the dim sheets rise and fall,
And the lamplight's on the wall,
And the mouse is on the floor;
And the curtains of my bed
Are like a heavy cloud,
And the clock ticks loud,
And sounds are in my head;
And little Lizzie sleeps
Softly at my side,
It opens, it opens,
With a yearning strong and wide!
It yearns in my breast,
It utters no cry,
'Tis famished, 'tis famished,
And I feel that I shall die,
I feel that I shall die,
And none will know why.
Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round,
And singing about me so cheerly,
With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!"
SYDNEY DOBELL
52 THE FIRST GRIEF
"Oh! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee--
Where is my brother gone?
"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight--
Oh! call my brother back.
"The flowers run wild--the flowers we sowed
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load--
Oh! call him back to me."
"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled
On earth no more thou'lt see.
"A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go--thou must play alone, my boy--
Thy brother is in heaven!"
"And has he left the birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain;
And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?
"And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more!"
FELICIA HEMANS
53 THE POPLAR FIELD
The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.
WILLIAM COWPER
54 FAREWELL
Not soon shall I forget--a sheet
Of golden water, cold and sweet,
The young moon with her head in veils
Of silver, and the nightingales.
A wain of hay came up the lane--
O fields I shall not walk again,
And trees I shall not see, so still
Against a sky of daffodil!
Fields where my happy heart had rest,
And where my heart was heaviest,
I shall remember them at peace
Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece.
The golden water sweet and cold,
The moon of silver and of gold,
The dew upon the gray grass-spears,
I shall remember them with tears.
KATHARINE TYNAN
55 "YE BANKS AND BRAES O' BONNIE DOON"
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care?
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.
Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka[48] bird sang o' its love;
And sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw[49] the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.
ROBERT BURNS
56 TO A RIVER IN THE SOUTH
Call me no more, O gentle stream,
To wander through thy sunny dream,
No more to lean at twilight cool
Above thy weir and glimmering pool.
Surely I know thy hoary dawns,
The silver crisp on all thy lawns,
The softly swirling undersong
That rocks thy reeds the winter long.
Surely I know the joys that ring
Through the green deeps of leafy spring;
I know the elfin cups and domes
That are their small and secret homes.
Yet is the light for ever lost
That daily once thy meadows crossed,
The voice no more by thee is heard
That matched the song of stream and bird.
Call me no more!--thy waters roll
Here, in the world that is my soul,
And here, though Earth be drowned in night,
Old love shall dwell with old delight.
HENRY NEWBOLT
57 THE DESERTED HOUSE
There's no smoke in the chimney,
And the rain beats on the floor;
There's no glass in the window,
There's no wood in the door;
The heather grows behind the house,
And the sand lies before.
No hand hath trained the ivy,
The walls are gray and bare;
The boats upon the sea sail by,
Nor ever tarry there.
No beast of the field comes nigh,
Nor any bird of the air.
MARY COLERIDGE
58 AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS
O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped-up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed, and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house or bush,
And tired I am of bog and road
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house--a house of my own--
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.
PADRAIC COLUM
~59~ A DESERTED HOME
Here where the fields lie lonely and untended,
Once stood the old house grey among the trees,
Once to the hills rolled the waves of the cornland--
Long waves and golden, softer than the sea's.
Long, long ago has the ploughshare rusted,
Long has the barn stood roofless and forlorn;
But oh! far away are some who still remember
The songs of the young girls binding up the corn.
Here where the windows shone across the darkness,
Here where the stars once watched above the fold,
Still watch the stars, but the sheepfold is empty;
Falls now the rain where the hearth glowed of old.
Here where the leagues of melancholy lough-sedge
Moan in the wind round the grey forsaken shore,
Once waved the corn in the mid-month of autumn,
Once sped the dance when the corn was on the floor.
SIDNEY ROYSE LYSAGHT
60 UNDER THE WOODS
When these old woods were young
The thrushes' ancestors
As sweetly sung
In the old years.
There was no garden here,
Apples nor mistletoe;
No children dear
Ran to and fro.
New then was this thatched cot,
But the keeper was old,
And he had not
Much lead or gold.
Most silent beech and yew:
As he went round about
The woods to view
Seldom he shot.
But now that he is gone
Out of most memories,
Still lingers on,
A stoat of his,
But one, shrivelled and green,
And with no scent at all,
And barely seen
On this shed wall.
EDWARD THOMAS
61 "BLOWS THE WIND TO-DAY"
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:
Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
62 THE TWA BROTHERS
There were twa brethren in the north,
They went[50] to the school thegither;
The one unto the other said,
"Will you try a warsle[51] afore?"
They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till Sir John fell to the ground,
And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch,
Gied him a deadlie wound.
"O brither dear, take me on your back,
Carry me to yon burn clear,
And wash the blood from off my wound,
And it will bleed nae mair."
He took him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon burn clear,
And washd the blood from off his wound,
And aye it bled the mair.
"O brither dear, take me on your back,
Carry me to yon kirk-yard,
And dig a grave baith wide and deep,
And lay my body there."
He's taen him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon kirk-yard,
And dug a grave baith deep and wide,
And laid his body there.
"But what will I say to my father dear,
Gin[52] he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"
"Oh say that he's to England gone,
To buy him a cask of wine."
"And what will I say to my mother dear,
Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"
"Oh say that he's to England gone,
To buy her a new silk gown."
"And what will I say to my sister dear,
Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"
"Oh say that he's to England gone,
To buy her a wedding ring."
"But what will I say to her you lo'e dear,
Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?"
"Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,
And home shall never come."
63 THE DEAD KNIGHT
The cleanly rush of the mountain air,
And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,
Are the only things that wander there,
The pitiful bones are laid at ease,
The grass has grown in his tangled hair,
And a rambling bramble binds his knees.
To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,
The only requiem-bells that rang
Were the hare-bell and the heather-bell.
Hushed he is with the holy spell
In the gentle hymn the wind sang,
And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.
He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;
The misty rain and the cold dew
Have altered him from the kingly one
(That his lady loved, and his men knew)
And dwindled him to a skeleton.
The vetches have twined about his bones,
The straggling ivy twists and creeps
In his eye-sockets; the nettle keeps
Vigil about him while he sleeps.
Over his body the wind moans
With a dreary tune throughout the day,
In a chorus wistful, eerie, thin
As the gull's cry--as the cry in the bay,
The mournful word the seas say
When tides are wandering out or in.
JOHN MASEFIELD
64 SHEATH AND KNIFE
One king's daughter said to anither,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
"We'll gae ride like sister and brither,"
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair_.
"We'll ride doun into yonder valley,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
Whare the greene green trees are budding sae gaily.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
"Wi hawke and hounde we will hunt sae rarely,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And we'll come back in the morning early."
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
They rade on like sister and brither,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And they hunted and hawket in the valley thegether.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
"Now, lady, hauld my horse and my hawk,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
For I maun na[53] ride, and I daur na[54] walk,
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair_."
"But set me doun be the rute o' this tree,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
For there ha'e I dreamt that my bed sall be."
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
The ae king's daughter did lift doun the ither,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
She was licht in her armis like ony fether.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
Bonnie Lady Ann sat doun be the tree,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And a wide grave was houkit[55] whare nane suld be.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
The hawk had nae lure, and the horse had nae master,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And the faithless hounds thro' the woods ran faster.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
The one king's daughter has ridden awa',
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
But bonnie Lady Ann lay in the deed-thraw.[56]
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._
65 I HAVE A YOUNG SISTER
I have a yong suster I have a young sister
fer beyondyn the se; Far beyond the sea;
Many be the drowryis Many are the keepsakes
that che sente me. That she's sent me.
Che sente me the cherye, She sent me a cherry--
withoutyn ony ston, It hadn't any stone;
And so che dede (the) dowe, And so she did a wood dove
withoutyn ony bon. Withouten any bone.
Sche sente me the brere, She sent me a briar
withoutyn ony rynde, Withouten any rind;
Sche bad me love my lemman She bade me love my sweetheart
withoute longgyng. Without longing in my mind.
How shuld ony cherye How should any cherry
be withoute ston? Be without a stone?
And how shuld ony dowe And how should any wood dove
ben withoute bon? Be without a bone?
How shuld any brere How should any briar,
ben withoute rynde? Be without rind?
How shuld I love my lemman And how love a sweetheart
without longyng? Without longing in my mind?
Quan the cherye was a flour, When the cherry was a flower
than hadde it non ston; Then it had no stone;
Quan the dowe was an ey, When the wood-dove was an egg
than hadde it non bon. Then it had no bone.
Quan the brere was onbred, When the briar was unbred
than hadde it non rynd; Then it had no rind;
Quan the mayden hayt that che lovit, And when a maid hath that she loves,
che is without longing. She longs not in her mind.
66 ANNABEL LEE
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
67 THE SHELL
And then I pressed the shell
Close to my ear
And listened well,
And straightway like a bell
Came low and clear
The slow, sad murmur of far distant seas,
Whipped by an icy breeze
Upon a shore
Wind-swept and desolate.
It was a sunless strand that never bore
The footprint of a man,
Nor felt the weight
Since time began
Of any human quality or stir
Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.
And in the hush of waters was the sound
Of pebbles rolling round,
For ever rolling with a hollow sound.
And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go
Swish to and fro
Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.
There was no day,
Nor ever came a night
Setting the stars alight
To wonder at the moon:
Was twilight only and the frightened croon,
Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind
And waves that journeyed blind--
And then I loosed my ear--oh, it was sweet
To hear a cart go jolting down the street!
JAMES STEPHENS
[Illustration]
FEASTS : FAIRS :
BEGGARS : GIPSIES :
68 LONDON BRIDGE
London Bridge is broken down,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
London Bridge is broken down,
_With a gay lady_.
How shall we build it up again?
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
How shall we build it up again?
_With a gay lady_.
Silver and gold will be stole away,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Silver and gold will be stole away,
_With a gay lady_.
Build it up with iron and steel,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Build it up with iron and steel,
_With a gay lady_.
Iron and steel will bend and bow,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Iron and steel will bend and bow,
_With a gay lady_.
Build it up with wood and clay,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Build it up with wood and clay,
_With a gay lady_.
Wood and clay will wash away,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Wood and clay will wash away,
_With a gay lady_.
Build it up with stone so strong,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Huzza! 'twill last for ages long,
_With a gay lady_.
69 HOLY THURSDAY
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red and blue and green,
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.
O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now, like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among.
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor;
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
WILLIAM BLAKE
70 THE MAYORS
This city and this country has brought forth many mayors
To sit in state, and give forth laws out of their old oak chairs,
With face as brown as any nut with drinking of strong ale--
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!
With scarlet gowns and broad gold lace, would make a yeoman sweat;
With stockings rolled above their knees and shoes as black as jet;
With eating beef and drinking beer, O they were stout and hale--
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!
Thus sitting at the table wide the Mayor and Aldermen
Were fit to give law to the city; each ate as much as ten:
The hungry poor entered the hall to eat good beef and ale--
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!
WILLIAM BLAKE
71 THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN
I'll sing you a good old song,
Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman
Who had an old estate,
And who kept up his old mansion
At a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve
The old poor at his gate,
Like a fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.
His hall so old was hung around
With pikes and guns and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers,
That had stood some tough old blows;
'Twas there _his worship_ held his state
In doublet and trunk hose,
And quaffed his cup of good old sack,
To warm his good old nose,
Like a fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.
When winter's cold brought frost and snow,
He opened house to all;
And though threescore and ten his years,
He featly led the ball;
Nor was the houseless wanderer
E'er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
He ne'er forgot the small;
Like a fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.
But time, though old, is strong in flight,
And years rolled swiftly by;
And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed
This good old man must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly,
Gave up life's latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reigned around,
And tears bedewed each eye,
For this fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.
Now surely this is better far
Than all the new parade
Of theatres and fancy balls,
"At home" and masquerade:
And much more economical,
For all his bills were paid.
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
And take up the old trade
Of a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.
72 BRING US IN GOOD ALE
_Bring us in good ale, and bring us in good ale;_
_For y sour blessed Ladake bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no browne bred, for that is made of brane,[57]
Nor bring us in no white bred, for therein is no gane,
_But bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no befe, for there is many bones,
But bring us in good ale, for that goth downe at ones,
_And bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fat,
But bring us in good ale, and gife us enought of that;
_And bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no mutton, for that is often lene,
Nor bring us in no tripes, for they be seldom clene,
_But bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no egges, for there are many schelles,
But bring us in good ale, and gife us nothing elles;
_And bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no butter, for therein are many hores,[58]
Nor bring us in no pigges flesch, for that will make us bores,
_But bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no podinges, for therein is all Godes good,[59]
Nor bring us in no venesen, for that is not for our blod;
_But bring us in good ale!_
Bring us in no capons flesch, for that is oftė dere,
Nor bring us in no dokes[60] flesch, for they slober in the mere,
_But bring us in good ale!_
73 THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE
A vision that appeared to me,
An apparition wonderful
I tell to all:
There was a coracle all of lard
Within a Port of New-Milk Lake
Upon the world's smooth sea.
We went into that man-of-war,
'Twas warrior-like to take the road
O'er ocean's heaving waves.
Our oar-strokes then we pulled
Across the level of the main,
Throwing the sea's harvest up
Like honey, the sea-soil.
The fort we reached was beautiful,
With works of custards thick,
Beyond the lake.
Fresh butter was the bridge in front,
The rubble dyke was fair white wheat,
Bacon the palisade.
Stately, pleasantly it sat,
A compact house and strong.
Then I went in:
The door of it was hung beef,
The threshold was dry bread,
Cheese-curds the walls....
Behind it was a well of wine,
Beer and bragget in streams,
Each full pool to the taste.
Malt in smooth wavy sea
Over a lard-spring's brink
Flowed through the floor....
A row of fragrant apple-trees,
An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,
Between it and the hill.
A forest tall of real leeks,
Of onions and of carrots, stood
Behind the house.
Within, a household generous,
A welcome of red, firm-fed men,
Around the fire:
Seven bead-strings and necklets seven
Of cheeses and of bits of tripe
Round each man's neck.
The Chief in cloak of beefy fat
Beside his noble wife and fair
I then beheld.
Below the lofty cauldron's spit
Then the Dispenser I beheld,
His fleshfork on his back.
74 STOOL-BALL
... Now milkmaids' pails are deckt with flowers,
And men begin to drink in bowers,
The mackarels come up in shoals,
To fill the mouths of hungry souls;
Sweet sillabubs, and lip-loved tansey,
For William is prepared by Nancy.
Much time is wasted now away,
At pigeon-holes, and nine-pin play,
Whilst hob-nail Dick, and simp'ring Frances,
Trip it away in country dances;
At stool-ball and at barley-break,
Wherewith they harmless pastime make....
75 MILKING PAILS
Mary's gone a-milking,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Mary's gone a-milking,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
Take your pails and go after her,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Take your pails and go after her,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_.
Buy me a pair of new milking pails,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Buy me a pair of new milking pails,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
Where's the money to come from,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Where's the money to come from,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Sell my father's feather bed,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Sell my father's feather bed,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
What's your father to sleep on,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What's your father to sleep on,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Put him in the truckle bed,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Put him in the truckle bed,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
What are the children to sleep on,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What are the children to sleep on,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Put them in the pig-sty,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Put them in the pig-sty,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
What are the pigs to lie in,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What are the pigs to lie in,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Put them in the washing-tubs,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Put them in the washing-tubs,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
What am I to wash in,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What am I to wash in,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Wash in the thimble,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Wash in the thimble,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
Thimble won't hold your father's shirt,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Thimble won't hold your father's shirt,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_.
Wash in the river,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Wash in the river,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
Suppose the clothes should blow away,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Suppose the clothes should blow away,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Set a man to watch them,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Set a man to watch them,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
Suppose the man should go to sleep,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Suppose the man should go to sleep,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Take a boat and go after them,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Take a boat and go after them,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.
Suppose the boat should be upset,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Suppose the boat should be upset,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?
Then that would be an end of you,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Then that would be an end of you,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_!
76 THE PEDLAR'S SONG
Lawne as white as driven Snow,
Cypresse blacke as ere was Crow,
Cloves as sweete as Damaske Roses,
Maskes for faces, and for noses,
Bugle-bracelet, Necke-lace Amber,
Perfume for a Ladies Chamber:
Golden Quoifes, and Stomachers
For my Lads, to give their deers:
Pins, and peaking-stickes of steele:
What Maids lacke from head to heele:
Come buy of me, come: come buy, come buy,
Buy Lads, or else your Lasses cry: Come buy.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
77 FINE KNACKS FOR LADIES
Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new,
Good pennyworths--but money cannot move:
I keep a fair but for the Fair to view--
A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,
_The heart is true_.
Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
My trifles come as treasures from my mind:
It is a priceless jewel to be plain;
Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:--
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
_Of me a grain!..._
78 OH! DEAR!
Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.
He promised he'd buy me a fairing should please me,
And then for a kiss, oh! he vowed he would tease me,
He promised he'd bring me a bunch of blue ribbons
To tie up my bonny brown hair.
And it's oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.
He promised he'd bring me a basket of posies,
A garland of lilies, a garland of roses,
A little straw hat, to set off the blue ribbons
That tie up my bonny brown hair.
And it's oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.
79 SLEDBURN FAIR
I'd oft heard tell of this Sledburn fair,
And fain I would gan thither,
'Twere in the prime of summer-time,
In fine and pleasant weather;
My Dad and Mam they did agree
That Nell and I should gae
See for to view this Sledburn fair,
And ride on Dobbin, oh....
So Nell gat on and I gat on,
And we both rode off together,
And of everybody we did meet
Enquired how far 'twas thither?
Until we came to t'other field end,
'Twas about steeple high,
"See yonder, Nell, see yonder, Nell,
There's Sledburn town," cried I.
And when we reached this famous town
We enquirèd for an alehouse,
We lookèd up and saw a sign
As high as any gallows;
We called for Harry, the ostler,
To give our horse some hay,
For we had come to Sledburn Fair
And meant to stop all day.
The landlord then himself came out
And led us up an entry;
He took us in the finest room
As if we'd been quite gentry.
And puddings and sauce they did so smell,
Pies and roast beef so rare,
"Oh, Zooks!" says Nell, "we've acted well
In coming to Sledburn Fair."
80 WIDDECOMBE FAIR
"Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your gray mare,"
All along, down along, out along, lee.
"For I want for to go to Widdecombe Fair,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
"And when shall I see again my gray mare?"
All along, down along, out along, lee.
"By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
Then Friday came and Saturday noon,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
But Tom Pearse's old mare hath not trotted home,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o' the hill,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
And he seed his old mare down a-making her will,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
So Tom Pearse's old mare her took sick and her died,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career
Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
From Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones,
And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._
81 GIPSIES
The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone;
The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,[61]
Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;
The gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,
And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,
Beneath the oak which breaks away the wind,
And bushes close in snow-like hovel warm;
There tainted mutton wastes upon the coals,
And the half-wasted dog squats close and rubs,
Then feels the heat too strong, and goes aloof;
He watches well, but none a bit can spare,
And vainly waits the morsel thrown away.
Tis thus they live--a picture to the place,
A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.
JOHN CLARE
82 THE IDLERS
The gipsies lit their fires by the chalk-pit gate anew,
And the hoppled horses supped in the further dusk and dew;
The gnats flocked round the smoke like idlers as they were
And through the goss and bushes the owls began to churr.
An ell above the woods the last of sunset glowed
With a dusky gold that filled the pond beside the road;
The cricketers had done, the leas all silent lay,
And the carrier's clattering wheels went past and died away.
The gipsies lolled and gossiped, and ate their stolen swedes,
Made merry with mouth-organs, worked toys with piths of reeds:
The old wives puffed their pipes, nigh as black as their hair,
And not one of them all seemed to know the name of care.
EDMUND BLUNDEN
83 THE WRAGGLE TAGGLE GIPSIES
There were three gipsies a-come to my door,
And down-stairs ran this a-lady, O!
One sang high, and another sang low,
And the other sang, Bonny, bonny Biscay, O!
Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown
And put on hose of leather, O!
The ragged, ragged rags about our door--
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!
It was late last night, when my lord came home,
Enquiring for his a-lady, O!
The servants said, on every hand:
"She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"
"O saddle to me my milk-white steed.
Go and fetch me my pony, O!
That I may ride and seek my bride,
Who is gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"
O he rode high and he rode low,
He rode through woods and copses too,
Until he came to an open field,
And there he espied his a-lady, O!
"What makes you leave your house and land?
What makes you leave your money, O?
What makes you leave your new-wedded lord;
To go with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O?"
"What care I for my house and my land?
What care I for my money, O?
What care I for my new-wedded lord?
I'm off with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"
"Last night you slept on a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O!
And to-night you'll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"
"What care I for a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O?
For to-night I shall sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"
84 WHERE DO THE GIPSIES COME FROM?
Where do the gipsies come from?
The gipsies come from Egypt.
The fiery sun begot them,
Their dam was the desert dry.
She lay there stripped and basking,
And gave them suck for the asking,
And an Emperor's bone to play with,
Whenever she heard them cry.
What did the gipsies do there?
They built a tomb for Pharaoh,
They built a tomb for Pharaoh,
So tall it touched the sky.
They buried him deep inside it,
Then let what would betide it,
They saddled their lean-ribbed ponies
And left him there to die.
What do the gipsies do now?
They follow the Sun, their father,
They follow the Sun, their father,
They know not whither nor why.
Whatever they find they take it,
And if it's a law they break it.
So never you talk to a gipsy,
Or look in a gipsy's eye.
H. H. BASHFORD
85 BEGGARS
What noise of viols is so sweet
As when our merry clappers ring?
What mirth doth want when beggars meet?
A beggar's life is for a king.
Eat, drink, and play, sleep when we list,
Go where we will--so stocks be missed.
Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play!
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.
The world is ours, and ours alone;
For we alone have world at will.
We purchase not--all is our own;
Both fields and street we beggars fill.
Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play!
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.
FRANK DAVIDSON
86 "WEEP, WEEP, YE WOODMEN!"
Weep, weep, ye woodmen! wail;
Your hands with sorrow wring!
Your master Robin Hood lies dead,
Therefore sigh as you sing.
Here lie his primer and his beads,
His bent bow and his arrows keen,
His good sword and his holy cross:
Now cast on flowers fresh and green.
And, as they fall, shed tears and say
Well, well-a-day! well, well-a-day!
Thus cast ye flowers fresh, and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way.
ANTHONY MUNDAY
87 MY HANDSOME GILDEROY
Gilderoy was a bonnie boy,
Had roses tull[62] his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doune:
It was, I weene, a comelie sight,
To see sae trim a boy;
He was my joy and heart's delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.
Oh! sike twe[63] charming een he had,
A breath as sweet as rose;
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes.
He gained the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir tull him was coy,
Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day,
For my dear Gilderoy.
My Gilderoy and I were born
Baith in one toun together;
We scant[64] were seven years beforn
We gan to luve each other;
Our daddies and our mammies thay
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day
'Twixt me and Gilderoy.
For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith! I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I received with joy,
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.
Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time
Among the leaves sae green:
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy;
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair
My handsome Gilderoy.
Oh! that he still had been content
Wi' me to lead his life;
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
To stir in feats of strife.
And he in many a venturous deed
His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars[65] mine heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.
And when of me his leave he tuik,
The tears they wet mine ee;
I gave tull him a parting luik,
"My benison gang wi' thee!
God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;
My heart is rent, sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy!"
My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
Was feared in ev'ry toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear
Of many a lawland loun:
Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
He was sae brave a boy;
At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winsome Gilderoy.
Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear,
To 'reave of life for ox or ass,
For sheep, or horse, or mare:
Had not their laws been made sae strick,
I neir had lost my joy;
Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek
For my dear Gilderoy.
Giff[66] Gilderoy had done amisse,
He mought hae banisht been,
Ah, what fair cruelty is this,
To hang sike handsome men!
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had so white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.
Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,
They bound him mickle strong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:
They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was so trim a boy:
Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
My handsome Gilderoy.
Thus having yielded up his breath,
I bare his corpse away;
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comely clay;
And siker[67] in a grave sae deep
I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep
My winsome Gilderoy.
[Illustration]
BEASTS OF THE FIELD FOWLS OF THE AIR.
88 BINGO
The miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door,
And his name was Little Bingo.
B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And his name was Little Bingo.
The miller he bought a cask of ale,
And he called it right good Stingo.
S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he called it right good Stingo.
The miller he went to town one day,
And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
89 THE IRISH HARPER AND HIS DOG
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said--while the sorrow was big at her heart--
"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away,
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he licked me for kindness--my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
90 POOR OLD HORSE
My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine,
My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine;
But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay,
My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say,
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._
Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm,
To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm;
But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,
In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow.
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._
Once I was fed on the very best corn and hay
That ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay;
But now there's no such doing can I find at all,
I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall.
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._
"You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow,
You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw.
You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw,
So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go."
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._
My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give,
My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live,
Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile,
Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles.
_Poor old horse: poor old horse_.
91 AY ME, ALAS, HEIGH HO!
_Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!_
Thus doth Messalina go
Up and down the house a-crying,
For her monkey lies a-dying.
Death, thou art too cruel
To bereave her of her jewel,
Or to make a seizure
Of her only treasure.
If her monkey die,
She will sit and cry,
_Fie fie fie fie fie!_
92 THE FLY
Once musing as I sat,
And candle burning by,
When all were hushed, I might discern
A simple, sely fly;
That flew before mine eyes,
With free rejoicing heart,
And here and there with wings did play,
As void of pain and smart.
Sometime by me she sat
When she had played her fill;
And ever when she rested had
About she fluttered still.
When I perceived her well
Rejoicing in her place,
"O happy fly!" (quoth I), and eke
O worm in happy case!
Which of us two is best?
I that have reason? No:
But thou that reason art without,
And therefore void of woe.
I live, and so dost thou:
But I live all in pain,
And subject am to one, alas!
That makes my grief her gain.
Thou livest, but feel'st no grief;
No love doth thee torment.
A happy thing for me it were
(If God were so content)
That thou with pen were placèd here,
And I sat in thy place:
Then I should joy as thou dost now,
And thou should'st wail thy case.
BARNABE GOOGE
93 BÊTE HUMAINE
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,
I saw the world awake; and as the ray
Touched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay,
Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies:
With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes
Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.
I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay
Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ...
Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain
And horror, at my own careless cruelty,
That in an idle moment I had slain
A creature whose sweet life it is to fly:
Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ...
Nay, they
Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?
FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG
94 THE LAMB
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid 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 called 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 callèd by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
WILLIAM BLAKE
95 THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....
A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:
There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;
A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;
That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.
But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,
The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.
That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued.
"What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.
"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping head
Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;
And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."
It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.
Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,
Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:
"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"
"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair
Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;
I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."
Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,
With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,
And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.
The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,
From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
MARY HOWITT
96 A CHILD'S PET
When I sailed out of Baltimore
With twice a thousand head of sheep,
They would not eat, they would not drink,
But bleated o'er the deep.
Inside the pens we crawled each day,
To sort the living from the dead;
And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,
Had lost five hundred head.
Yet every night and day one sheep,
That had no fear of man or sea,
Stuck through the bars its pleading face,
And it was stroked by me.
And to the sheep-men standing near,
"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:
It seems a child has lost her pet,
And cried herself to sleep."
So every time we passed it by,
Sailing to England's slaughter-house,
Eight ragged sheep-men--tramps and thieves--
Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
97 THE SNARE
I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.
But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid;
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid.
Making everything afraid,
Wrinkling up his little face,
As he cries again for aid;
And I cannot find the place!
And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare:
Little one! Oh, little one!
I am searching everywhere.
JAMES STEPHENS
98 THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT
I and my white Pangur
Have each his special art:
His mind is set on hunting mice,
Mine is upon my special craft.
I love to rest--better than any fame!--
With close study at my little book;
White Pangur does not envy me:
He loves his childish play.
When in our house we two are all alone--
A tale without tedium!
We have--sport never-ending!
Something to exercise our wit.
At times by feats of derring-do
A mouse sticks in his net,
While into my net there drops
A difficult problem of hard meaning.
He points his full shining eye
Against the fence of the wall:
I point my clear though feeble eye
Against the keenness of science.
He rejoices with quick leaps
When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:
I too rejoice when I have grasped
A problem difficult and dearly loved.
Though we are thus at all times,
Neither hinders the other,
Each of us pleased with his own art
Amuses himself alone.
He is a master of the work
Which every day he does:
While I am at my own work
To bring difficulty to clearness.
99 THE TYGER
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
WILLIAM BLAKE
100 THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN
The wanton Troopers riding by
Have shot my Fawn, and it will dye.
Ungentlemen! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any Harm: alas! nor cou'd
Thy Death yet do them any Good ...
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game; it seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me ...
With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, first
I it at mine own Fingers nurst;
And as it grew, so every Day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a Breath! And oft
I blushed to see its Foot more soft,
And white (shall I say than my Hand?)
Nay, any Ladie's of the Land.
It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet
'Twas on those little Silver Feet;
With what a pretty skipping Grace,
It oft would challenge me the Race;
And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than Hindes,
And trod as if on the Four Winds.
I have a Garden of my own,
But so with Roses over-grown,
And Lillies, that you would it guess
To be a little Wilderness;
And all the Spring Time of the Year
It only lovèd to be there.
Among the Beds of Lillies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lye;
Yet could not, till it self would rise,
Find it, although before mine Eyes:
For, in the flaxen Lillies' Shade,
It like a Bank of Lillies laid.
Upon the Roses it would feed,
Until its Lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those Roses on my Lip.
But all its chief Delight was still
On Roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure Virgin Limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of Lillies cold:
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lillies without, Roses within....
ANDREW MARVELL
101 OF ALL THE BIRDS
Of all the birds that I do know,
Philip my sparrow hath no peer;
For sit she high, or sit she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: _Yet, yet, yet_.
Come in a morning merrily
When Philip hath been lately fed;
Or in an evening soberly
When Philip list to go to bed;
It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,
How she can chirp with merry lip,
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: _Yet, yet, yet_.
She never wanders far abroad,
But is at home when I do call.
If I command she lays on load[68]
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: _Yet, yet, yet_.
And yet besides all this good sport
My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance.
And if you say but: Fend cut,[69] Phipp!
Lord, how the peat[70] will turn and skip!
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: _Yet, yet, yet_.
And to tell truth he were to blame--
Having so fine a bird as she,
To make him all this goodly game
Without suspect or jealousy--
He were a churl and knew no good,
Would see her faint for lack of food,
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: _Yet, yet, yet._
102 THE DEAD SPARROW
Tell me not of joy: there's none,
Now my little Sparrow's gone:
He, just as you,
Would try and woo,
He would chirp and flatter me;
He would hang the wing awhile--
Till at length he saw me smile
Lord, how sullen he would be!
He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting, let it go agen;
He from my lip
Would moisture sip;
He would from my trencher feed;
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry _Philip_ when he'd done.
O! whose heart can choose but bleed?
O how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt, though he did bite.
No morn did pass,
But on my glass
He would sit, and mark and do
What I did--now ruffle all
His feathers o'er, now let'em fall;
And then straightway sleek them too.
Whence will Cupid get his darts
Feathered now to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may
Not, Love, convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone;
O let mournful turtles join
With loving red-breasts, and combine
To sing dirges o'er his stone!
WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT
103 ON A LITTLE BIRD
Here lies a little bird.
Once all day long
In Martha's house was heard
His rippling song.
Tread lightly where he lies
Beneath this stone
With nerveless wings, closed eyes,
And sweet voice gone.
MARTIN ARMSTRONG
104 ADLESTROP
Yes. I remember Adlestrop--
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop--only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
EDWARD THOMAS
105 THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
106 THE THRUSH'S SONG
Dear, dear, dear,
Is the rocky glen.
Far away, far away, far away
The haunts of men.
Here shall we dwell in love
With the lark and the dove,
Cuckoo and cornrail;
Feast on the banded snail,
Worm and gilded fly;
Drink of the crystal rill
Winding adown the hill,
Never to dry.
With glee, with glee, with glee,
Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up, here
Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily,
Sing to the loved ones whose nest is near--
_Qui, qui, qui, kweeu quip,_
_Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi,_
_Too-tee, too-tee, chiu choo,_
_Chirri, chirri, chooee,_
_Quiu, qui, qui._
W. MACGILLIVRAY
107 SWEET SUFFOLK OWL
Sweet Suffolk Owl, so trimly dight
With feathers, like a lady bright,
Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,
_Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!_
Thy note that forth so freely rolls
With shrill command the mouse controls;
And sings a dirge for dying souls--
_Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!_
THOMAS VAUTOR
108 WHO? WHO?
"Who--Who--the bride will be?"
"The owl she the bride shall be."
The owl quoth,
Again to them both,
"I am sure a grim ladye;
Not I the bride can be,
I not the bride can be!"
109 WHEN CATS RUN HOME
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
110 ONCE
Once I was a monarch's daughter,
And sat on a lady's knee;
But am now a nightly rover,
Banished to the ivy tree.
Crying hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo,
Hoo, hoo, hoo, my feet are cold.
Pity me, for here you see me
Persecuted, poor, and old.
111 THE WATER-OUSEL
Where on the wrinkled stream the willows lean,
And fling a very ecstasy of green
Down the dim crystal; and the chestnut tree
Admires her large-leaved shadow, swift and free,
A water-ousel came, with such a flight
As archangels might envy. Soft and bright
Upon a water-kissing bough she lit,
And washed and preened her silver breast, though it
Was dazzling fair before. Then twittering
She sang, and made obeisance to the Spring.
And in the wavering amber at her feet
Her silent shadow, with obedience meet,
Made her quick, imitative curtsies, too.
Maybe she dreamed a nest, so safe and dear,
Where the keen spray leaps whitely to the weir;
And smooth, warm eggs that hold a mystery;
And stirrings of life and twitterings, that she
Is passionately glad of; and a breast
As silver-white as hers, which without rest
Or languor, borne by spread wings swift and strong,
Shall fly upon her service all day long.
She hears a presage in the ancient thunder
Of the silken fall, and her small soul in wonder
Makes preparation as she deems most right,
Repurifying what before was white
Against the day when, like a beautiful dream,
Two little ousels shall fly with her down stream,
And even the poor, dumb shadow-bird shall flit
With two small shadows following after it.
MARY WEBB
112 L'OISEAU BLEU
The lake lay blue below the hill.
O'er it, as I looked, there flew
Across the waters, cold and still,
A bird whose wings were palest blue.
The sky above was blue at last,
The sky beneath me blue in blue.
A moment, ere the bird had passed,
It caught his image as he flew.
MARY COLERIDGE
113 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 hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die--
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?
You lived alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
JOHN KEATS
114 PHILOMEL
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the doleful'st ditty.
That to hear it was great pity.
_Fie, fie, fie!_ now would she cry;
_Tereu, tereu!_ by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapped in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
RICHARD BARNFIELD
115 A SPARROW-HAWK
A sparhawk proud did hold in wicked jail
Music's sweet chorister, the Nightingale;
To whom with sighs she said: "O set me free,
And in my song I'll praise no bird but thee."
The Hawk replied: "I will not lose my diet
To let a thousand such enjoy their quiet."
116 THE EAGLE
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
117 THE TWA CORBIES
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane,
And tane unto the tither say:--
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
"--In behint yon auld fail dyke,[71]
I wat there lies a new-slain Knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een.
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek[72] our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane.
O'er his white banes, where they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."
118 IN THE WILDERNESS
Christ of His gentleness
Thirsting and hungering
Walked in the wilderness;
Soft words of grace He spoke
Unto lost desert-folk
That listened wondering.
He heard the bitterns call
From ruined palace-wall,
Answered them brotherly.
He held communion
With the she-pelican
Of lonely piety.
Basilisk, cockatrice,
Flocked to His homilies,
With mail of dread device,
With monstrous barbèd stings,
With eager dragon-eyes;
Great rats on leather wings
And poor blind broken things,
Foul in their miseries.
And ever with Him went,
Of all His wanderings
Comrade, with ragged coat,
Gaunt ribs--poor innocent--
Bleeding foot, burning throat,
The guileless old scape-goat;
For forty nights and days
Followed in Jesus' ways,
Sure guard behind Him kept,
Tears like a lover wept.
ROBERT GRAVES
119 STUPIDITY STREET
I saw with open eyes
Singing birds sweet
Sold in the shops
For the people to eat,
Sold in the shops of
Stupidity Street.
I saw in vision
The worm in the wheat,
And in the shops nothing
For people to eat;
Nothing for sale in
Stupidity Street.
RALPH HODGSON
120 COME WARY ONE
"'Come wary one, come slender feet,
Come pretty bird and sing to me,
I have a cage of wizard wood
With perch of ebony;
Come pretty bird, there's dainty food,
There's cherry, plum, and strawberry,
In my red cage, my wizard cage,
The cage I made for thee.'
"The bird flew down, the bird flew in,
The cherries they were dried and dead,
She tied him with a silken skein
To a perch of molten lead;
And first most dire he did complain,
And next he sulky sad did fall,
Chained to his perch, his burning perch,
He would not sing at all.
"There came an elf, a silent elf,
A silver wand hung by his side,
And when that wand lay on the door,
The door did open wide.
The pretty bird with beak he tore
That silken skein, then out flew he,
From that red cage, that greedy cage,
That cage of wizardry."
RUTH MANNING-SANDERS
121 UPON THE LARK AND THE FOWLER
Thou simple Bird what mak'st thou here to play?
Look, there's the Fowler, prethee come away.
Dost not behold the Net? Look there 'tis spread,
Venture a little further thou art dead.
Is there not room enough in all the Field
For thee to play in, but thou needs must yield
To the deceitful glitt'ring of a Glass,
Placed betwixt Nets to bring thy death to pass?
Bird, if thou art so much for dazling light,
Look, there's the Sun above thee, dart upright.
Thy nature is to soar up to the Sky,
Why wilt thou come down to the nets, and dye?
Take no heed to the Fowler's tempting Call;
This whistle he enchanteth Birds withal.
Or if thou seest a live Bird in his net,
Believe she's there 'cause thence she cannot get.
Look how he tempteth thee with his Decoy,
That he may rob thee of thy Life, thy Joy:
Come, prethee Bird, I prethee come away,
Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may?
Hadst thou not Wings, or were thy feathers pulled,
Or wast thou blind or fast asleep wer't lulled:
The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,
Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast Wings to see.
Remember that thy Song is in thy Rise,
Not in thy Fall, Earth's not thy Paradise.
Keep up aloft then, let thy circuits be
Above, where Birds from Fowlers nets are free....
JOHN BUNYAN
122 THE BIRDS
_He._ Where thou dwellest, in what Grove,
Tell me Fair One, tell me Love;
thou thy charming nest dost build,
O thou pride of every field!
_She._ Yonder stands a lonely tree,
There I live and mourn for thee;
Morning drinks my silent tear,
And evening winds my sorrow bear.
_He._ O thou summer's harmony,
I have lived and mourned for thee;
Each day I mourn along the wood,
And night hath heard my sorrows loud.
_She._ Dost thou truly long for me?
And am I thus sweet to thee?
Sorrow now is at an end,
O my Lover and my Friend!
_He._ Come, on wings of joy we'll fly
To where my bower hangs on high;
Come, and make thy calm retreat
Among green leaves and blossoms sweet.
WILLIAM BLAKE
123 TWO PEWITS
Under the after-sunset sky
Two pewits sport and cry,
More white than is the moon on high
Riding the dark surge silently;
More black than earth. Their cry
Is the one sound under the sky.
They alone move, now low, now high,
And merrily they cry
To the mischievous Spring sky,
Plunging earthward, tossing high,
Over the ghost who wonders why
So merrily they cry and fly,
Nor choose 'twixt earth and sky,
While the moon's quarter silently
Rides, and earth rests as silently.
EDWARD THOMAS
124 TO A WATERFOWL
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--
The desert and illimitable air,--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou'rt gone: the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
125 MIDNIGHT
... Midnight was come, when every vital thing
With sweet sound sleep their weary limbs did rest,
The beasts were still, the little birds that sing
Now sweetly slept, beside their mother's breast,
The old and all were shrouded in their nest:
The waters calm, the cruel seas did cease,
The woods, and fields, and all things held their peace.
The golden stars were whirled amid their race,
And on the earth did laugh with twinkling light,
When each thing, nestled in his resting-place,
Forgat day's pain with pleasure of the night:
The hare had not the greedy hounds in sight,
The fearful deer of death stood not in doubt,
The partridge dreamed not of the falcon's foot.
The ugly bear now minded not the stake,
Nor how the cruel mastives do him tear;
The stag lay still unrousèd from the brake;
The foamy boar feared not the hunter's spear:
All things were still, in desert, bush, and brere:[73]
With quiet heart, now from their travails ceased,
Soundly they slept in midst of all their rest.
THOMAS SACKVILLE, LORD BUCKHURST
[Illustration]
ELPHIN : OUPH : FAY.
126 COME UNTO THESE YELLOW SANDS
(_Ariel singing_) Come unto these yellow sands,
And then take hands:
Curtsied when you have, and kist,
The wilde waves whist:
Foote it featly heere, and there,
And sweete Sprights the burthen beare.
Harke, harke, _bowgh wawgh_:
The watch-dogges barke, _bowgh wawgh_.
Hark, hark, I heare,
The straine of strutting Chanticlere
Cry _Cockadidle-dowe_.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
127 THE ELVES' DANCE
Round about, round about
In a fair ring-a,
Thus we dance, thus we dance
And thus we sing-a,
Trip and go, to and fro
Over this green-a,
All about, in and out,
For our brave Queen-a.
128 BY THE MOON
By the Moone we sport and play,
With the night begins our day:
As we daunce the deaw doth fall,
Trip it little urchins all:
Lightly as the little Bee,
Two by two, and three by three:
And about go we, and about go wee.
"I do come about the coppes,
Leaping upon flowers toppes:
Then I get upon a flie,
Shee carries me above the skie:
And trip and goe."
"When a deawe drop falleth downe,
And doth light upon my crowne,
Then I shake my head and skip,
And about I trip.
Two by two, and three by three:
And about go we, and about go wee."
THOMAS RAVENSCROFT
129 FOR A MOCKING VOICE
Who calls? Who calls? Who?
Did you call? Did you?--
I call! I call! I!
Follow where I fly.--
Where? O where? O where?
On Earth or in the Air?--
Where you come, I'm gone!
Where you fly, I've flown!--
Stay! ah, stay! ah, stay,
Pretty Elf, and play!
Tell me where you are--
_Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!_
ELEANOR FARJEON
130 WHERE THE BEE SUCKS
Where the Bee sucks, there suck I,
In a Cowslip's bell I lie,
There I cowch when Owles do crie;
On the Batt's back I doe flie
After Sommer merrily.
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the Bow.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
131 ECHO
How see you Echo? When she calls I see
Her pale face looking down through some great tree,
Whose world of green is like a moving sea,
That shells re-echo.
I see her with a white face like a mask,
That vanishes to come again; damask
Her cheek, but deeply pale,
Her eyes are green,
With a silver sheen,
And she mocks the thing you ask.
"O Echo!" (hear the children calling) "are you there?"...
"Where?"...
When the wind blows over the hill,
She hides with a vagrant will,
And call you may loud, and call you may long,
She lays finger on lip when the winds are strong,
And for all your pains she is still.
But when young plants spring, and the chiff-chaffs sing,
And the scarlet capped woodpecker flies through the vale,
She is out all day,
Through the fragrant May,
To babble and tattle her Yea and Nay.
"O Echo!" (still the children call) "Where are you? where?"...
"Air...."
VISCOUNTESS GREY
132 THE SPLENDOUR FALLS
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
133 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 gray
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 lake,
On a bed of flag-leaves,
Watching till she wake.
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 to dig one up in spite,
He shall find the thornies set
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
134 OVERHEARD ON A SALTMARSH
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
Give them me.
No.
Give them me. Give them me.
No.
Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.
Goblin, why do you love them so?
They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
Give me your beads, I want them.
No.
I will howl in a deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give them me. Give them.
No.
HAROLD MONRO
135 THE FAIRY THORN
"Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel;
For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep:
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;
And Anna laid the rock[74] and the weary wheel aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleep song they leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air.
And linking hand and hand, and singing as they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.
The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;
The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,
Oh, never carolled bird like them!
But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,
And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw,
Are hushed the maidens' voices, as cowering down they lie
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath,
And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between,
A power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,
And they sink down together on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side to side,
They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair.
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed,
Soft o'er their bosom's beating--the only human sound--
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,
Like a river in the air, gliding round.
Nor scream can any raise, nor prayer can any say,
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three--
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,
By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,
And the curls elastic falling, as her head withdraws;
They feel her sliding arms from their trancèd arms unfold,
But they dare not look to see the cause:
For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies
Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,
Till out of Night the Earth has rolled her dewy side,
With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning-tide,
The maidens' trance dissolveth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain--
They pined away and died within the year and day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
SAMUEL FERGUSON
136 THE QUEEN OF ELFLAND
True Thomas lay oer yond grassy bank,
And he beheld a ladie gay,
A ladie that was brisk and bold,
Come riding oer the fernie brae.
Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantel of the velvet fine,
At ilka tett of her horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine.
True Thomas he took off his hat,
And bowed him low down till his knee:
"All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven!
For your peer on earth I never did see."
"O no, O no, True Thomas," she says,
"That name does not belong to me;
I am but the queen of fair Elfland,
And I'm come here for to visit thee....
"But ye maun go wi me now, Thomas,
True Thomas, ye maun go wi me,
For ye maun serve me seven years,
Thro weel or wae as may chance to be.
"Then harp and carp, Thomas," she said,
"Then harp and carp alang wi me;
But it will be seven years and a day
Till ye win back to yere ain countrie."
She turned about her milk-white steed,
And took True Thomas up behind,
And aye wheneer her bridle rang,
The steed flew swifter than the wind.
For forty days and forty nights
He wade thro red blude to the knee,
And he saw neither sun nor moon,
But heard the roaring of the sea.
O they rade on, and further on,
Until they came to a garden green:
"Light down, light down, ye ladie free,
Some of that fruit let me pull to thee."
"O no, O no, True Thomas," she says,
"That fruit maun not be touched by thee,
For a' the plagues that are in hell
Light on the fruit of this countrie.
"But I have a loaf here in my lap,
Likewise a bottle of claret wine,
And now ere we go farther on,
We'll rest a while, and ye may dine."
When he had eaten and drunk his fill:--
"Lay down your head upon my knee,"
The lady sayd, "ere we climb yon hill
And I will show you fairlies three.
"O see not ye yon narrow road,
So thick beset wi thorns and briers?
That is the path of righteousness,
Tho after it but few enquires.
"And see not ye that braid braid road,
That lies across yon lillie leven?
That is the path of wickedness,
Tho some call it the road to heaven.
"And see not ye that bonny road,
Which winds about the fernie brae?
That is the road to fair Elfland,
Where you and I this night maun gae
"But Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue,
Whatever you may hear or see,
For gin ae word you should chance to speak,
You will neer get back to your ain countrie."
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green,
And till seven years were past and gone
True Thomas on earth was never seen.
137 LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O, what can ail thee, knight at arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lilly on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful--a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said--
I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed full sore:
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:
They cry'd--"La belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starved lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
JOHN KEATS
138 SABRINA
"Sabrina fair
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honour's sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save!...
By all the _Nymphs_ that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head
From thy coral-pav'n bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answered have.
Listen and save!"
"By the rushy-fringèd bank,
Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,
My sliding Chariot stayes,
Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen
Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green
That in the channell strayes,
Whilst from off the waters fleet
Thus I set my printless feet
O're the Cowslips Velvet head,
That bends not as I tread,
Gentle swain at thy request
I am here."
JOHN MILTON
139 NOW THE HUNGRY LION ROARS
"Now the hungry Lyon rores,
And the Wolfe behowls the Moone:
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary taske fordone.
Now the wasted brands doe glow,
Whil'st the scritch-owle scritching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shrowd.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his spright,
In the Church-way paths to glide.
And we Fairies, that do runne
By the triple _Hecate_'s teame,
From the presence of the Sunne,
Following darknesse like a dreame,
Now are frollicke; not a Mouse
Shall disturbe this hallowed house.
I am sent with broome before,
To sweep the dust behinde the doore."
"Through the house give glimmering light,
By the dead and drowsie fier;
Everie Elfe and Fairie spright
Hop as light as bird from brier!..."
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
140 THE FAIRIES FEAST
... _Awn._ Who feasts tonight?
_Some Elves._ Prince Olbin is truth-plight
To Rosalind, daughter of the Faery Queen.
_Other Elves._ She's a mannikin changeling; her name shows it.
_Other Elves._ We have heard tell; that she as dream is fair.
_Awn._ I've heard old Paigle say, fays gave for her
To humans, in the cradle, Moonsheen bright.
_Other Elves._ And Eglantine should wedded be this night,
To Ivytwine, in the laughing full moon.
_Moth._ I was there and saw it: on hoar roots,
All gnarled and knotty, of an antique oak, ...
Crowned, some with plighted frets of violets sweet;
Other, with flower-cups many-hewed, had dight
Their locks of gold; the gentle faeries sate:
All in their watchet cloaks: were dainty mats
Spread under them, of dwarve-wives rushen work:
And primroses were strewed before their feet.
They at banquet sate, from dim of afternoon ...
(_Enter more elves running._)
_Howt._ Whence come ye foothot?
_One of the new-come Elves._ O Awn, O Howt!
Not past a league from hence, lies close-cropped
plot,
Where purple milkworts blow, which conies haunt,
Amidst the windy heath. We saw gnomes dance
There; that not bigger been than harvest mice.
Some of their heads were deckt, as seemed to us,
With moonbeams bright: and those tonight hold feast:
Though in them there none utterance is of speech.
_Awn._ Be those our mothers' cousins, dainty of grace:
But seld now, in a moonlight, are they seen.
They live not longer than do humble been.
_Elves._ We saw of living herb, intressed with moss,
Their small wrought cabins open on the grass.
_Awn._ Other, in gossamer bowers, wonne underclod.
_Elves._ And each gnome held in hand a looking glass;
Wherein he keeked, and kissed oft the Moons face.
_Awn._ Are they a faery offspring, without sex,
Of the stars' rays.
_Elves._ They'd wings on their flit feet;
That seemed, in their oft shining, glancing drops
Of rain, which beat on bosom of the grass:
Wherein be some congealed as adamant.
We stooped to gaze (a neighbour tussock hidus,)
On sight so fair: their beauty being such,
That seemed us it all living thought did pass.
Yet were we spied! for looked down full upon us,
Disclosing then murk skies, Moons clear still face.
In that they shrunk back, and clapped tó their doors....
CHARLES M. DOUGHTY
[Illustration]
SUMMER : GREENWOOD SOLITUDE.
141 THE HUNT IS UP
The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well nigh day;
And Harry our King is gone hunting
To bring his deer to bay.
The east is bright with morning light,
And darkness it is fled;
And the merry horn wakes up the morn
To leave his idle bed.
Behold the skies with golden dyes
Are glowing all around;
The grass is green, and so are the treen
All laughing at the sound.
The horses snort to be at sport,
The dogs are running free,
The woods rejoice at the merry noise
Of _Hey tantara tee ree!_
The sun is glad to see us clad
All in our lusty green,
And smiles in the sky as he riseth high
To see and to be seen.
Awake all men, I say again,
Be merry as you may;
For Harry our King is gone hunting,
To bring his deer to bay.
142 THE CHEERFUL HORN
The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,
And we'll a-'untin' goo;
The cheerful arn he blaws in the marn,
And we'll a-'untin' goo,
And we'll a-'untin' goo,
And we'll a-'untin' goo ...
Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,
And I'll zing Tally ho!
Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,
And I'll zing Tally ho!
The vox jumps awer the 'edge zo 'igh,
An' the 'ouns all atter un goo;
Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,
And I'll zing Tally ho!
Then never despoise the soldjer lod,
Thof 'is ztaition be boot low;
Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,
And I'll zing Tally ho!
Then push about the coop, my bwoys,
An' we will wumwards goo,
Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,
And I'll zing Tally ho!
If you áx me the zénze of this zóng vur to téll,
Or the reäzon vur to zhow;
Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo,
Woy, I doän't exacaly knoo:
Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,
And I'll zing Tally ho!
Var all my vancy dwells upon Nancy,
And I'll zing Tally ho!
143 JOHN PEEL
D'ye ken John Peel with his coat so gay?
D'ye ken John Peel at the break of the day?
D'ye ken John Peel when he's far, far away,
With his hounds and his horn in the morning?
'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,
And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,
For Peel's _View-hollo_ would awaken the dead,
Or a fox from his lair in the morning.
D'ye ken that bitch whose tongue is death?
D'ye ken her sons of peerless faith?
D'ye ken that a fox with his last breath
Cursed them all as he died in the morning?
Yes, I ken John Peel and Ruby too
Ranter and Royal and Bellman as true;
From the drag to the chase, from the chase to a view,
From a view to the death in the morning.
And I've followed John Peel both often and far
O'er the rasper-fence and the gate and the bar,
From Low Denton Holme up to Scratchmere Scar,
When we vied for the brush in the morning.
Then here's to John Peel with my heart and soul,
Come fill--fill to him another strong bowl:
And we'll follow John Peel through fair and through foul,
While we're waked by his horn in the morning.
'Twas the sound of his horn called me from my bed,
And the cry of his hounds has me oft-times led,
For Peel's _View-hollo_ would awaken the dead
Or a fox from his lair in the morning.
JOHN WOODCOCK GRAVES
144 THE SCHOOLBOY
I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.
But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn,
The little ones spend the day
In sighing and dismay.
Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learning's bower,
Worn thro' with the dreary shower.
How can the bird that is born for joy
Sit in a cage and sing?
How can a child, when fears annoy,
But droop his tender wing,
And forget his youthful spring?
O! father and mother, if buds are nipped,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are stripped
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care's dismay,
How shall the summer arise in joy,
Or the summer fruits appear?
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy,
Or bless the mellowing year,
When the blasts of winter appear?
WILLIAM BLAKE
145 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 their 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
146 MARKET DAY
Who'll walk the fields with us to town,
In an old coat and a faded gown?
We take our roots and country sweets,
Where high walls shade the steep old streets,
And golden bells and silver chimes
Ring up and down the sleepy times.
The morning mountains smoke like fires;
The sun spreads out his shining wires;
The mower in the half-mown lezza
Sips his tea and takes his pleasure.
Along the lane slow waggons amble.
The sad-eyed calves awake and gamble;
The foal that lay so sorrowful
Is playing in the grasses cool.
By slanting ways, in slanting sun,
Through startled lapwings now we run
Along the pale green hazel-path,
Through April's lingering aftermath
Of lady's smock and lady's slipper;
We stay to watch a nesting dipper.
The rabbits eye us while we pass,
Out of the sorrel-crimson grass;
The blackbird sings, without a fear,
Where honeysuckle horns blow clear--
Cool ivory stained with true vermilion,
And here, within a silk pavilion,
Small caterpillars lie at ease.
The endless shadows of the trees
Are painted purple and cobalt;
Grandiloquent, the rook-files halt,
Each one aware of you and me,
And full of conscious dignity.
Our shoes are golden as we pass
With pollen from the pansied grass.
Beneath an elder--set anew
With large clean plates to catch the dew--
On fine white cheese and bread we dine.
The clear brook-water tastes like wine.
If all folk lived with labour sweet
Of their own busy hands and feet,
Such marketing, it seems to me,
Would make an end of poverty.
MARY WEBB
147 UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE
Under the greenewood tree,
Who loves to lye with me,
And turne his merrie Note
Unto the sweet Bird's throte:
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Heere shall he see no enemie
But Winter and rough Weather.
Who doth ambition shunne
And loves to live i' the Sunne,
Seeking the food he eates
And pleased with what he gets:
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
Here shall he see no enemie
But Winter and rough Weather.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
148 IN SUMMER
In somer when the shawes be sheyne,[75]
And leves be large and long,
Hit[76] is full merry in feyre foreste
To here the foulys[77] song.
To se the dere draw to the dale
And leve the hillės hee,
And shadow him in the levės grene
Under the green-wode tree.
Hit befell on Whitsontide
Early in a May mornyng,
The Sonne up fairė gan shyne,
And the briddis mery gan syng.
"This is a mery mornyng," said Litulle Johne,
"By Hym that dyed on tree;
A more mery man than I am one
Lyves not in Christiantė.
"Pluk up thi hert, my dere mayster,"
Litulle Johne can say,
"And thank hit is a fulle fayre tyme
In a mornynge of May."
149 LUBBER BREEZE
The four sails of the mill
Like stocks stand still;
Their lantern-length is white
On blue more bright.
Unruffled is the mead,
Where lambkins feed
And sheep and cattle browse
And donkeys drowse.
Never the least breeze will
The wet thumb chill
That the anxious miller lifts,
Till the vane shifts.
The breeze in the great flour-bin
Is snug tucked in;
The lubber, while rats thieve,
Laughs in his sleeve.
T. STURGE MOORE
150 A SUMMER'S DAY
"The ample heaven of fabrik sure,
In cleannes dois surpas
The chrystall and the silver pure,
Or clearest poleist[78] glas.
The shadow of the earth anon
Removes and drawės by,
Sine in the east, when it is gon,
Appears a clearer sky.
Quhilk sune[79] perceives the little larks,
The lapwing and the snyp,
And tune their sangs, like Nature's clarks
Our medow, mure and stryp.[80]
The time sa tranquil is and still,
That na where sall ye find,
Saife on ane high and barren hill,
Ane aire of peeping wind.
All trees and simples[81] great and small,
That balmie leife do beir,
Nor thay were painted on a wall,
Na mair they move or steir[82]...."
ALEXANDER HUME
151 LEISURE
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
152 THE HAPPY COUNTRYMAN
Who can live in heart so glad
As the merry country lad?
Who upon a fair green balk[83]
May at pleasure sit and walk,
And amid the azure skies
See the morning sun arise,--
While he hears in every spring
How the birds do chirp and sing:
Or before the hounds in cry
See the hare go stealing by:
Or along the shallow brook,
Angling with a baited hook,
See the fishes leap and play
In a blessèd sunny day:
Or to hear the partridge call,
Till she have her covey all:
Or to see the subtle fox,
How the villain plies the box:
After feeding on his prey,
How he closely sneaks away,
Through the hedge and down the furrow
Till he gets into his burrow:
Then the bee to gather honey,
And the little black-haired coney,
On a bank for sunny place,
With her forefeet wash her face:
Are not these, with thousands moe[84]
Than the courts of kings do know,
The true pleasing spirit's sights
That may breed true love's delights?...
NICHOLAS BRETON
153 "O FOR A BOOKE"
O for a Booke and a shadie nooke,
eyther in-a-doore or out;
With the grene leaves whispering overhede,
or the Streete cryes all about.
Where I maie Reade all at my ease,
both of the Newe and Olde;
For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke,
is better to me than Golde.
154 GREEN BROOM
There was an old man lived out in the wood,
His trade was a-cutting of Broom, green Broom;
He had but one son without thrift, without good,
Who lay in his bed till 'twas noon bright noon.
The old man awoke, one morning and spoke,
He swore he would fire the room, that room,
If his John would not rise and open his eyes,
And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom.
So Johnny arose, and he slipped on his clothes,
And away to the wood to cut Broom, green Broom,
He sharpened his knives, for once he contrives
To cut a great bundle of Broom, green Broom.
When Johnny passed under a lady's fine house,
Passed under a lady's fine room, fine room,
She called to her maid, "Go fetch me," she said,
"Go fetch me the boy that sells Broom, green Broom."
When Johnny came in to the lady's fine house,
And stood in the lady's fine room, fine room;
"Young Johnny," she said, "Will you give up your trade,
And marry a lady in bloom, full bloom?"
Johnny gave his consent, and to church they both went,
And he wedded the lady in bloom, full bloom,
At market and fair, all folks do declare,
There is none like the Boy that sold Broom, green Broom.
155 THE TWELVE OXEN
I have twelfė oxen that be faire and brown,
And they go a grasing down by the town.
With hey! with how! with hoy!
Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and white,
And they go a grasing down by the dyke.
With hey! with how! with hoy!
Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and blak,
And they go a grasing down by the lake.
With hey! with how! with hoy!
Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
I have twelfė oxen, and they be faire and rede,
And they go a grasing down by the mede
With hey! with how! with hoy!
Saweste not you mine oxen, you litill prety boy?
156 LAVENDER'S BLUE
Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,
When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen
Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?
'Twas mine one heart, dilly dilly, that told me so.
Call up your men, dilly dilly, set them to work,
Some with a rake, dilly dilly, some with a fork,
Some to make hay, dilly dilly, some to thresh corn,
Whilst you and I, dilly dilly, keep ourselves warm....
157 THE GARDEN
... What wondrous life is this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas,
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot
Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets[85] and claps its silver wings,
And, till prepared for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light....
Such was the happy Garden-state
While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises 'twere in one,
To live in Paradise alone....
ANDREW MARVELL
158 CHERRY-RIPE
Cherrie Ripe, Ripe, Ripe, I cry,
Full and faire ones; come and buy:
If so be you ask me where
They doe grow? I answer, There,
Where my _Julia's_ lips doe smile;
There's the Land, or Cherrie Ile:
Whose Plantations fully show
All the yeare, where Cherries grow.
ROBERT HERRICK
159 CHERRY-RIPE
There is a Garden in her face
Where Roses and white Lillies grow;
A heav'nly paradice is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow, which none may buy,
Till _Cherry Ripe_ themselves doe cry.
Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter showes,
They look like Rose-buds filled with snow.
Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
Till _Cherry Ripe_ themselves doe cry.
Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
Threat'ning with piercing frownes to kill
All that approach with eye or hand
These sacred Cherries to come nigh,
Till _Cherry Ripe_ themselves doe cry.
THOMAS CAMPION
160 SONG
What is there hid in the heart of a rose,
Mother-mine?
Ah, who knows, who knows, who knows?
A Man that died on a lonely hill
May tell you, perhaps, but none other will,
Little child.
What does it take to make a rose,
Mother-mine?
The God that died to make it knows
It takes the world's eternal wars,
It takes the moon and all the stars,
It takes the might of heaven and hell
And the everlasting Love as well,
Little child.
ALFRED NOYES
161 THE MYSTERY
He came and took me by the hand
Up to a red rose tree,
He kept His meaning to Himself
But gave a rose to me.
I did not pray Him to lay bare
The mystery to me,
Enough the rose was Heaven to smell,
And His own face to see.
RALPH HODGSON
162 THE ROSE
A Rose, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;
A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danced about it morn and noon,
And learnèd bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade.
But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.
God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.
WILLIAM BROWNE
163 SONG
Ask me no more, where Jove bestows
When June is past the fading rose;
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.
Ask me no more, whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day;
For in pure love heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.
Ask me no more, whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past;
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters and keeps warm her note.
Ask me no more, where those stars light[86]
That downwards fall in dead of night;
For in your eyes they sit and there
Fixèd become as in their sphere.
Ask me no more if east or west
The Phœnix builds her spicy nest;
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosom dies.
THOMAS CAREW
164 THE BOWER OF BLISS
(_The "daintie Paradise of the Enchauntresse" whereinto the Palmer
brought Sir Guyon._)
... And in the midst of all, a fountaine stood,
Of richest substaunce that on earth might bee,
So pure and shiny, that the silver flood
Through every channell running, one might see;
Most goodly it with pure imageree
Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes,
Of which some seemed with lively jollitee
To fly about, playing their wanton toyes,
Whiles others did them selves embay in liquid joyes.
And over all, of purest gold was spred
A trayle of yvie in his native hew:
For the rich mettall was so colouréd,
That wight, who did not well-advised it vew,
Would surely deeme it to be yvie treu.
Lowe his lascivious arms adown did creepe,
That themselves dipping in the silver dew,
Their fleecy flowres they tenderly did steepe,
Which drops of Cristall seemd for wantonnes to weepe.
Infinit streames continually did well
Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,
The which into an ample laver fell,
And shortly grew to so great quantitie,
That like a little lake it seemed to bee;
Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,
That through the waves one might the bottom see,
All paved beneath with Jaspar shining bright
That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle upright.
And all the margent round about was set
With shady lawrell-trees, thence to defend
The sunny beames, which on the billows bet,
And those which therein bathèd, mote[87] offend....
Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound,
Of all that mote delight a daintie eare,
Such as att once might not on living ground,
Save in this Paradise, be heard elswhere:
Right hard it was, for wight, which did it heare,
To read, what manner musicke that mote bee:
For all that pleasing is to living care,
Was there consorted in one harmonie,
Birdes, voyces, instruments, windes, waters, all agree.
The joyous birdes, shrouded in cheareful shade,
Their notes unto the voice attempred sweet;
Th' Angelicall soft trembling voyces made
To th' instruments divine respondence meet:
The silver sounding instruments did meet
With the base murmure of the waters fall:
The waters fall with difference discreet,
Now soft, now loud, unto the wind did call:
The gentle warbling wind low answerèd to all.
EDMUND SPENSER
165 SMALL FOUNTAINS
... Jarring the air with rumour cool,
Small fountains played into a pool
With sound as soft as the barley's hiss
When its beard just sprouting is;
Whence a young stream, that trod on moss,
Prettily rimpled the court across.
And in the pool's clear idleness,
Moving like dreams through happiness,
Shoals of small bright fishes were;
In and out weed-thickets bent
Perch and carp, and sauntering went
With mounching jaws and eyes a-stare;
Or on a lotus leaf would crawl,
A brinded loach to bask and sprawl,
Tasting the warm sun ere it dipt
Into the water; but quick as fear
Back his shining brown head slipt
To crouch on the gravel of his lair,
Where the cooled sunbeams broke in wrack,
Spilt shattered gold about his back....
LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE
166 THE INVITATION, TO JANE
Best and brightest, come away!
Fairer far than this fair Day,
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born;
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free.
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear....
Radiant sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
And the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun;
Where the lawns and pastures be,
And the sand-hills of the sea;--
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
The wind-flowers, and violets,
Which yet join not scent to hue,
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal sun.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
167 THE RECOLLECTION
... We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam;
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep
The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise!
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced,
And soothed by every azure breath,
That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own:
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep
Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.
How calm it was!--The silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller with her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seemed, from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,--
A spirit interfused around,
A thrilling, silent life--
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature's strife;--
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere....
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
168 THE GOAT PATHS
The crooked paths go every way
Upon the hill--they wind about
Through the heather in and out
Of the quiet sunniness.
And there the goats, day after day,
Stray in sunny quietness,
Cropping here and cropping there,
As they pause and turn and pass,
Now a bit of heather spray,
Now a mouthful of the grass.
In the deeper sunniness,
In the place where nothing stirs,
Quietly in quietness,
In the quiet of the furze,
For a time they come and lie
Staring on the roving sky.
If you approach they run away,
They leap and stare, away they bound,
With a sudden angry sound,
To the sunny quietude;
Crouching down where nothing stirs
In the silence of the furze,
Couching down again to brood
In the sunny solitude.
If I were as wise as they,
I would stray apart and brood,
I would beat a hidden way
Through the quiet heather spray
To a sunny solitude;
And should you come I'd run away,
I would make an angry sound,
I would stare and turn and bound
To the deeper quietude,
To the place where nothing stirs
In the silence of the furze.
In that airy quietness
I would think as long as they;
Through the quiet sunniness
I would stray away to brood
By a hidden beaten way
In a sunny solitude,
I would think until I found
Something I can never find,
Something lying on the ground,
In the bottom of my mind.
JAMES STEPHENS
169 UNDER A WILTSHIRE APPLE TREE
Some folks as can afford,
So I've heard say,
Set up a sort of cross
Right in the garden way
To mind 'em of the Lord.
But I, when I do see
Thik[88] apple tree
An' stoopin' limb
All spread wi' moss,
I think of Him
And how He talks wi' me.
I think of God
And how He trod
That garden long ago;
He walked, I reckon, to and fro
And then sat down
Upon the groun'
Or some low limb
What suited Him,
Such as you see
On many a tree,
And on thik very one
Where I at set o' sun
Do sit and talk wi' He.
And, mornings, too, I rise and come
An' sit down where the branch be low;
A bird do sing, a bee do hum,
The flowers in the border blow,
And all my heart's so glad and clear
As pools be when the sun do peer,
As pools a-laughing in the light
When mornin' air is swep' an' bright,
As pools what got all Heaven in sight,
So's my heart's cheer
When He be near.
He never pushed the garden door,
He left no footmark on the floor;
I never heard 'Un stir nor tread
And yet His Hand do bless my head,
And when 'tis time for work to start
I takes Him with me in my heart.
And when I die, pray God I see
At very last thik apple tree
An' stoopin' limb,
And think of Him
And all He been to me.
ANNA BUNSTON DE BARY
170 WONDER
How like an Angel came I down!
How bright were all things here!
When first among His works I did appear
O how their Glory me did crown!
The world resembled His ETERNITY,
In which my soul did walk;
And every thing that I did see
Did with me talk.
The skies in their magnificence,
The lively, lovely air,
Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair!
The stars did entertain my sense,
And all the works of God, so bright and pure,
So rich and great did seem,
As if they ever must endure
In my esteem....
The streets were paved with golden stones,
The boys and girls were mine,
Oh how did all their lovely faces shine!
The sons of men were holy ones,
In joy and beauty they appeared to me,
And every thing which here I found,
While like an Angel I did see,
Adorned the ground.
Rich diamond and pearl and gold
In every place was seen;
Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green,
Mine eyes did everywhere behold.
Great wonders clothed with glory did appear,
Amazement was my bliss,
That and my wealth was everywhere;
No joy to this!...
THOMAS TRAHERNE
171 SONG
How sweet I roamed from field to field
And tasted all the summer's pride,
Till I the Prince of Love beheld
Who in the sunny beams did glide!
He showed me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
He led me through his gardens fair
Where all his golden pleasures grow.
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;
He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;
Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.
WILLIAM BLAKE
172 THE BOOK
Of this fair volume which we World do name
If we the sheets and leaves could turn with care,
Of Him who it corrects and did it frame,
We clear might read the art and wisdom rare:
Find out His power which wildest powers doth tame,
His providence extending everywhere,
His justice which proud rebels doth not spare,
In every page, no period of the same.
But silly we, like foolish children, rest
Well pleased with coloured vellum, leaves of gold,
Fair dangling ribbands, leaving what is best,
On the great Writer's sense ne'er taking hold;
Or, if by chance we stay our minds on aught,
It is some picture on the margin wrought.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND
173 TETHY'S FESTIVAL
Are they shadows that we see?
And can shadows pleasure give?
Pleasures only shadow's be,
Cast by bodies we conceive;
And are made the things we deem
In those figures which they seem.
But those pleasures vanish fast,
Which by shadow's are exprest;
Pleasures are not, if they last;
In their passing is their best:
Glory is more bright and gay
In a flash, and so away.
Feed apace then, greedy eyes,
On the wonder you behold:
Take it sudden, as it flies,
Though you take it not to hold.
When your eyes have done their part
Thought must length'n it in the heart.
SAMUEL DANIEL
[Illustration]
WAR
174 A WAR SONG TO ENGLISHMEN
Prepare, prepare the iron helm of War,
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
And casts them out upon the darkened earth!
Prepare, prepare!
Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand! prepare
Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth;
Prepare your arms for glorious victory;
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!
Prepare, prepare!
Whose fatal scroll is that? Methinks 'tis mine!
Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue?
Had I three lives, I'd die in such a cause,
And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field.
Prepare, prepare!
The arrows of Almighty God are drawn!
Angels of Death stand in the lowering heavens!
Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light,
And walk together on the clouds of heaven!
Prepare, prepare!
Soldiers, prepare! Our cause is Heaven's cause;
Soldiers, prepare! Be worthy of our cause:
Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky:
Prepare, O troops, that are to fall to-day!
Prepare, prepare!
Alfred shall smile, and make his harp rejoice;
The Norman William, and the learned Clerk,
And Lion Heart, and black-browed Edward, with
His loyal Queen, shall rise, and welcome us!
Prepare, prepare!
WILLIAM BLAKE
175 FOR SOLDIERS
Ye buds of Brutus' land, courageous youths, now play your parts;
Unto your tackle stand, abide the brunt with valiant hearts.
For news is carried to and fro, that we must forth to warfare go:
Men muster now in every place, and soldiers are prest forth apace.
Faint not, spend blood,
To do your Queen and country good;
Fair words, good pay,
Will make men cast all care away.
The time of war is come, prepare your corslet, spear and shield;
Methinks I hear the drum strike doleful marches to the field;
Tantarâ, tantarâ, ye trumpets sound, which makes our hearts with
joy abound.
The roaring guns are heard afar, and everything denounceth war.
Serve God; stand stout;
Bold courage brings this gear about.
Fear not; fate run[89];
Faint heart fair lady never won.
Ye curious[90] carpet-knights, that spend the time in sport and
play;
Abroad and see new sights, your country's cause calls you away;
Do not to make your ladies' game, bring blemish to your worthy name.
Away to field and win renown, with courage beat your enemies down.
Stout hearts gain praise,
When dastards sail in Slander's seas;
Hap what hap shall,
We sure shall die but once for all.
Alarm methinks they cry, Be packing, mates, begone with speed;
Our foes are very nigh; shame have that man that shrinks at need!
Unto it boldly let us stand, God will give Right the upper hand.
Our cause is good, we need not doubt, in sign of coming give a shout.
March forth, be strong,
Good hap will come ere it be long.
Shrink not, fight well,
For lusty lads must bear the bell.
All you that will shun evil, must dwell in warfare every day;
The world, the flesh, and devil, always do seek our soul's decay;
Strive with these foes with all your might, so shall you fight
a worthy fight.
That conquest doth deserve most praise, where vice do yield
to virtue's ways.
Beat down foul sin,
A worthy crown then shall ye win;
If ye live well,
In heaven with Christ our souls shall dwell.
HUMPHREY GIFFORD
176 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword;
His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on."
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat;
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
JULIA WARD HOWE
177 "I HEARD A SOLDIER"
I heard a soldier sing some trifle
Out in the sun-dried veldt alone:
He lay and cleaned his grimy rifle
Idly, behind a stone.
"If after death, love, comes a waking,
And in their camp so dark and still
The men of dust hear bugles, breaking
Their halt upon the hill,
"To me the slow, the silver pealing
That then the last high trumpet pours
Shall softer than the dawn come stealing,
For, with its call, comes yours!"
What grief of love had he to stifle,
Basking so idly by his stone,
That grimy soldier with his rifle
Out in the veldt, alone?
HERBERT TRENCH
178 THE DUG-OUT
Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled,
And one arm bent across your sullen cold
Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you,
Deep-shadowed from the candle's guttering gold;
And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder;
Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head ...
You are too young to fall asleep for ever;
And when you sleep you remind me of the dead.
SIEGFRIED SASSOON
179 NOCTURNE
Be thou at peace this night
Wherever be thy bed,
Thy slumbering be light,
The fearful dreams be dead
Within thy lovely head;
God keep thee in His sight.
No hint of love molest
Thy quiet mind again;
Night fold thee to her breast
And hush thy crying pain;
Let memory in vain
Conspire against thy rest.
So may thy thoughts be lost
In the full hush of sleep.
Lest any sight accost
Thine eyes to make them weep,
In darkness buried deep
For ever be my ghost.
EDWARD L. DAVISON
180 THE DEAD
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
RUPERT BROOKE
181 THE END
After the blast of lightning from the east,
The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne;
After the drums of time have rolled and ceased,
And, from the bronze west, long retreat is blown--
Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth
All death will he annul, all tears assuage?--
Or fill these void veins full again with youth,
And wash, with an immortal water, Age?
When I do ask white Age, he saith, "Not so:
My head hangs weighed with snow."
And when I hearken to the Earth, she saith:
"My fiery heart sinks aching. It is death.
Mine ancient scars shall not be glorified.
Nor my titanic tears, the seas, be dried."
WILFRED OWEN
182 THE CROWNS
Cherry and pear are white,
Their snows lie sprinkled on the land like light
On darkness shed.
Far off and near
The orchards toss their crowns of delight,
And the sun casts down
Another shining crown.
The wind tears and throws down
Petal by petal the crown
Of cherry and pear till the earth is white,
And all the brightness is shed
In the orchards far off and near,
That tossed by the road and under the green hill;
And the wind is fled.
Far, far off the wind
Has shaken down
A brightness that was as the brightness of cherry or pear
When the orchards shine in the sun.
--Oh there is no more fairness
Since this rareness,
The radiant blossom of English earth--is dead!
JOHN FREEMAN
183 CORONACH[91]
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,[92]
Sage counsel in cumber,[93]
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever.
SIR WALTER SCOTT
184 THE CHILDREN'S BELLS
Where are your Oranges?
Where are your Lemons?
What, are you silent now,
Bells of St. Clement's?[94]
You, of all bells that rang
Once in old London,
You, of all bells that sang,
Utterly undone?
You whom all children know
Ere they know letters,
Making Big Ben himself
Call you his betters?
Where are your lovely tones
Fruitful and mellow,
Full-flavoured orange-gold,
Clear lemon-yellow?
Ring again, sing again,
Bells of St. Clement's!
Call as you swing again,
"Oranges! Lemons!"
Fatherless children
Are listening near you--
Sing for the children,
The fathers will hear you.
ELEANOR FARJEON
185 MEN WHO MARCH AWAY
We be the King's men, hale and hearty,
Marching to meet one Buonaparty;
If he won't sail, lest the wind should blow,
We shall have marched for nothing, O!
Right fol-lol!
We be the King's men, hale and hearty,
Marching to meet one Buonaparty;
If he be sea-sick, says "No, no!"
We shall have marched for nothing, O!
Right fol-lol!
We be the king's men hale and hearty,
Marching to meet one Buonaparty;
Never mind, mates; we'll be merry, though
We may have marched for nothing, O!
Right fol-lol!
THOMAS HARDY
186 BUDMOUTH DEARS
When we lay where Budmouth Beach is,
O, the girls were fresh as peaches,
With their tall and tossing figures and their eyes of blue and brown!
And our hearts would ache with longing
As we paced from our sing-songing,
With a smart _Clink! Clink!_ up the Esplanade and down.
They distracted and delayed us
By the pleasant pranks they played us,
And what marvel, then, if troopers, even of regiments of renown,
On whom flashed those eyes divine, O,
Should forget the countersign, O,
As we tore _Clink! Clink!_ back to camp above the town.
Do they miss us much, I wonder,
Now that war has swept us sunder,
And we roam from where the faces smile to where the faces frown?
And no more behold the features
Of the fair fantastic creatures,
And no more _Clink! Clink!_ past the parlours of the town?
Shall we once again there meet them?
Falter fond attempts to greet them?
Will the gay sling-jacket glow again beside the muslin gown?
Will they archly quiz and con us
With a sideway glance upon us,
While our spurs Clink! Clink! up the Esplanade and down?
THOMAS HARDY
187 TRAFALGAR
In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round
the land,
And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were
blocked with sand,
And we heard the drub of Dead-man's Bay, where bones of
thousands are,
We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgár.
(_All_) Had done,
Had done,
For us at Trafalgar!
"Pull hard, and make the Nothe, or down we go!" one says,
says he.
We pulled; and bedtime brought the storm; but snug at
home slept we.
Yet all the while our gallants after fighting through the
day,
Were beating up and down the dark, sou'-west of Cadiz Bay.
The dark,
The dark,
Sou'-west of Cadiz Bay!
The victors and the vanquished then the storm it tossed and
tore,
As hard they strove, those worn-out men, upon that surly
shore;
Dead Nelson and his half-dead crew, his foes from near and
far,
Were rolled together on the deep that night at Trafalgar!
The deep,
The deep,
That night at Trafalgar!
THOMAS HARDY
188 MESSMATES
He gave us all a good-bye cheerily
At the first dawn of day;
We dropped him down the side full drearily
When the light died away.
It's a dead dark watch that he's a-keeping there,
And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there,
Where the Trades and the tides roll over him
And the great ships go by.
He's there alone with green seas rocking him
For a thousand miles round;
He's there alone with dumb things mocking him,
And we're homeward bound.
It's a long, lone watch that he's a-keeping there,
And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there,
While the months and the years roll over him
And the great ships go by.
I wonder if the tramps come near enough
As they thrash to and fro,
And the battle-ships' bells ring clear enough
To be heard down below;
If through all the lone watch that he's a-keeping there,
And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there,
The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him
When the great ships go by.
HENRY NEWBOLT
189 SONG FOR ALL SEAS, ALL SHIPS
To-day a rude brief recitative,
Of ships sailing the seas, each with its special flag or
ship-signal,
Of unnamed heroes in the ships--of waves spreading and
spreading far as the eye can reach,
Of dashing spray, and the winds piping and blowing,
And out of these a chant for the sailors of all nations,
Fitful, like a surge.
Of sea-captains young or old, and the mates, and of all
intrepid sailors,
Of the few, very choice, taciturn, whom fate can never
surprise nor death dismay,
Picked sparingly without noise by thee, old ocean, chosen
by thee,
Thou sea that pickest and cullest the race in time, and
unitest nations,
Suckled by thee, old husky nurse, embodying thee,
Indomitable, untamed as thee....
Flaunt out, O sea, your separate flags of nations!
Flaunt out visible as ever the various ship-signals!
But do you reserve especially for yourself and for the soul
of man one flag above all the rest,
A spiritual woven signal for all nations, emblem of man elate
above death,
Token of all brave captains and all intrepid sailors and
mates,
And all that went down doing their duty,
Reminiscent of them, twined from all intrepid captains young
or old,
A pennant universal, subtly waving all time, o'er all, brave
sailors,
All seas, all ships.
WALT WHITMAN
190 HOHENLINDEN
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye Brave,
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
THOMAS CAMPBELL
191 HAME, HAME, HAME
Hame, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be:
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,
The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame! O hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning now to fa';
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But we'll water it with the blude of usurping tyrannie,
And fresh it shall blaw in my ain countrie!
O, there's nocht now frae ruin my countrie can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.
The great now are gane, who attempted to save;
The green grass is growing abune their graves;
Yet the sun through the mirk seems to promise to me--
I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be;
O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
192 DARK ROSALEEN
O my dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
There's wine from the royal Pope
Upon the ocean green,
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My dark Rosaleen!
Over hills and through dales
Have I roamed for your sake;
All yesterday I sailed the sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,
I dashed across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Oh! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened through my blood,
My dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest,
To and fro do I move.
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My dark Rosaleen!
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yèt will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen;
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
'Tis you shall have the golden throne,
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone,
My dark Rosaleen!
Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly for your weal:
Your holy delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home, in your emerald bowers,
From morning's dawn till e'en,
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
You'll think of me through daylight hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My dark Rosaleen!
I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills!
And one beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My dark Rosaleen!
My fond Rosaleen!
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My dark Rosaleen!
Oh! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames wrap hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan-cry
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you shall fade, ere you can die,
My dark Rosaleen!
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
193 MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY
"My Luve's in Germany;
Send him hame, send him hame;
My Luve's in Germany,
Send him hame:
My Luve's in Germany,
Fighting for Royalty;
He may ne'er his Jeanie see;
Send him hame, send him hame;
He may ne'er his Jeanie see,
Send him hame.
"He's brave as brave can be,
Send him hame, send him hame;
He's brave as brave can be,
Send him hame.
He's brave as brave can be,
He wad rather fa' than flee;
But his life is dear to me,
Send him hame, send him hame;
Oh! his life is dear to me,
Send him hame.
"Our faes are ten to three,
Send him hame, send him hame;
Our faes are ten to three,
Send him hame.
Our faes are ten to three,
He maun either fa' or flee,
In the cause o' Loyalty;
Send him hame, send him hame;
In the cause o' Loyalty,
Send him hame."
"Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
Bonnie Dame, winsome Dame;
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
Winsome Dame.
Your luve ne'er learnt to flee,
But he fell in Germany,
Fighting brave for Loyalty,
Mournfu' Dame, bonnie Dame,
Fighting brave for Loyalty,
Mournfu' Dame!"
"He'll ne'er come owre the sea,
Willie's slain, Willie's slain;
He'll ne'er come owre the sea,
Willie's gane!
He'll ne'er come owre the sea,
To his Love and ain Countrie--
This warld's nae mair for me,
Willie's gane, Willie's gane!
This warld's nae mair for me
Willie's slain!"
194 A WEARY LOT IS THINE
"A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,
A doubtlet of the Lincoln green--
No more of me you knew,
My love!
No more of me you knew.
"This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again."
He turned his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,
He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said, "Adieu for evermore,
My love!
And adieu for evermore."
SIR WALTER SCOTT
195 CHARLIE HE'S MY DARLING
An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling!
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier!
'Twas on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie cam' to our town,
The young Chevalier!
As he was walking up the street,
The city for to view,
O, there he spied a bonnie lass
The window lookin' through.
Sae light's he jimpèd up the stair,
An' tirlèd at the pin;
An' wha sae ready as hersel
To let the laddie in?
He set Jenny on his knee,
A' in his Highland dress;
For brawlie weel he kenned the way
To please a lassie best.
It's up yon heathery mountain,
An' down yon scroggy glen,
We daur na gang a-milking
For Charlie an' his men!
An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling!
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier!
196 THE FAREWELL
It was a' for our rightfu' king
We left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' king
We e'er saw Irish land,
My dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.
Now a' is done that man can do,
And a' is done in vain;
My love, and native land, farewell,
For I maun cross the main,
My dear,
For I maun cross the main.
He turned him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With Adieu for evermore,
My dear,
Adieu for evermore.
The sodger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear,
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folks bound to sleep;
I think on him that's far awa',
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.
ROBERT BURNS
197 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST
I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning:--
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning;
The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering:
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray.
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching--
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie--
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, be guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning:
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
JEAN ELLIOT
198 "AS I WAS GOING"
As I was going by Charing Cross,
I saw a black man upon a black horse;
They told me it was King Charles the First;
Oh dear, my heart was ready to burst!
199 OF THE GREAT AND FAMOUS
EVER TO BE HONOURED KNIGHT, SIR FRANCIS DRAKE, AND OF MY
LITTLE-LITTLE SELFE.
The Dragon that our Seas did raise his Crest
And brought back heapes of gold unto his nest,
Unto his Foes more terrible than Thunder,
Glory of his age, After-ages' wonder,
Excelling all those that excelled before;
It's feared we shall have none such any more;
Effecting all he sole did undertake,
Valiant, just, wise, milde, honest, Godly _Drake_.
This man when I was little I did meete
As he was walking up Totnes' long street.
He asked me whose I was? I answered him.
He asked me if his good friend were within?
A faire red Orange in his hand he had,
He gave it me whereof I was right glad,
Takes and kist me, and prayes _God blesse my boy_:
Which I record _with comfort_ to this day.
Could he on me have breathèd with his breath,
His gifts, Elias-like, after his death,
Then had I beene enabled for to doe
Many brave things I have a heart unto.
I have as great desire as e're had _hee_
To joy, annoy, friends, foes; but 'twill not be.
ROBERT HAYMAN
200 A LAMENTATION
All looks be pale, hearts cold as stone,
For Hally now is dead and gone.
Hally in whose sight,
Most sweet sight,
All the earth late took delight.
Every eye, weep with me,
Joys drowned in tears must be.
His ivory skin, his comely hair,
His rosy checks so clear and fair,
Eyes that once did grace
His bright face,
Now in him all want their place.
Eyes and hearts, weep with me,
For who so kind as he?
His youth was like an April flower,
Adorned with beauty, love, and power.
Glory strewed his way,
Whose wreaths gay
Now are all turnèd to decay.
Then, again, weep with me,
None feel more cause than we.
No more may his wished sight return.
His golden lamp no more can burn.
Quenched is all his flame,
His hoped fame
Now hath left him nought but name.
For him all weep with me,
Since more him none shall see.
THOMAS CAMPION
201 WHAT IF SOME LITTLE PAIN THE PASSAGE HAVE
... What if some little paine the passage have,
That makes fraile flesh to feare the bitter wave?
Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease,
And layes the soule to sleepe in quiet grave?
Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas,
Ease after warre, death after live does greatly please....
EDMUND SPENSER
202 HENRY BEFORE AGINCOURT: OCTOBER 25, 1415
... Our King went up upon a hill high
And looked down to the valleys low:
He saw where the Frenchmen came hastily
As thick as ever did hail or snow.
Then kneeled our King down, in that stound,[95]
And all his men on every side:
Every man made a cross and kissed the ground,
And on their feet fast gan abide.
Our King said, "Sirs, what time of the day?"
"My Liege," they said, "it is nigh Prime."
"Then go we to our journey,
By the grace of JESU, it is good time:
For saints that lie in their shrine
To GOD for us be praying.
All the Religious of England, in this time,
_Ora pro nobis_ for us they sing."
ST. GEORGE was seen over the host:
Of very truth this sight men did see.
Down was he sent by the HOLY GHOST,
To give our King the victory....
JOHN LYDGATE
203 ALEXANDER THE GREAT
Four men stood by the grave of a man,
The grave of Alexander the Proud:
They sang words without falsehood
Over the prince from fair Greece.
Said the first man of them:
"Yesterday there were around the king
The men of the world--a sad gathering!
Though to-day he is alone."
"Yesterday the king of the brown world
Rode upon the heavy earth:
Though to-day it is the earth
That rides upon his neck."
"Yesterday," said the third wise author,
"Philip's son owned the whole world:
To-day he has nought
Save seven feet of earth."
"Alexander the liberal and great
Was wont to bestow silver and gold:
To-day," said the fourth man,
"The gold is here, and it is nought."
Thus truly spoke the wise men
Around the grave of the high-king:
It was not foolish women's talk
What those four sang.
204 THE MYRTLE BUSH GREW SHADY
"The myrtle bush grew shady
Down by the ford."--
"Is it even so?" said my lady.
"Even so!" said my lord.
"The leaves are set too thick together
For the point of a sword."
"The arras in your room hangs close,
No light between!
You wedded one of those
That see unseen."--
"Is it even so?" said the King's Majesty.
"Even so!" said the Queen.
MARY COLERIDGE
205 THE FORT OF RATHANGAN
The fort over against the oak-wood,
Once it was Bruidge's, it was Cathal's,
It was Aed's, it was Ailill's,
It was Conaing's, it was Cuiline's,
And it was Maelduin's;
The fort remains after each in his turn--
And the kings asleep in the ground.
[Illustration]
DANCE,
MUSIC AND BELLS.
206 A PIPER
A piper in the streets to-day
Set up, and tuned, and started to play,
And away, away, away on the tide
Of his music we started; on every side
Doors and windows were opened wide,
And men left down their work and came,
And women with petticoats coloured like flame.
And little bare feet that were blue with cold,
Went dancing back to the age of gold,
And all the world went gay, went gay,
For half an hour in the street to-day.
SEUMAS O'SULLIVAN
207 THE LITTLE DANCERS
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky
Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street
Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.
Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;
And all is dark, save where come flooding rays
From a tavern window: there, to the brisk measure
Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,
Two children, all alone and no one by,
Holding their tattered frocks, through an airy maze
Of motion, lightly threaded with nimble feet,
Dance sedately: face to face they gaze,
Their eyes shining, grave with a perfect pleasure.
LAURENCE BINYON
208 TWO NUT TREES
i
I had a little nut tree,
Nothing would it bear,
But a silver nutmeg,
And a golden pear.
The King of Spain's daughter
Came to visit me,
And all was because of
My little nut tree.
I skipped over water
I danced over sea,
And all the birds in the air
Could not catch me.
THOMAS ANON
ii
The King of China's daughter
So beautiful to see
With her face like yellow water, left
Her nutmeg tree.
Her little rope for skipping
She kissed and gave it me--
Made of painted notes of singing-birds
Among the fields of tea.
I skipped across the nutmeg grove,--
I skipped across the sea;
But neither sun nor moon, my dear,
Has yet caught me.
EDITH SITWELL
209 WHEN THE GREEN WOODS LAUGH
When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;
When the meadows laugh with lively green,
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"
When the painted birds laugh in the shade,
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live, and be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"
WILLIAM BLAKE
210 FA LA LA
My mistress frowns when she should play;
I'll please her with a _Fa la la_.
Sometimes she chides, but I straightway
Present her with a _Fa la la_.
You lovers that have loves astray
May win them with a _Fa la la_.
Quick music's best, for still they say
None pleaseth like your _Fa la la_.
211 IT WAS A LOVER
It was a Lover, and his lasse,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_,
That ore the greene corne-field did passe,
In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.
Between the acres of the Rie,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_,
These prettie Country folks would lie,
In spring time, the onely pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.
This Carroll they began that houre,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_,
How that a life was but a Flower,
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When Birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet Lovers love the spring.
And therefore take the present time,
_With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino_;
For love is crownèd with the prime
In spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, _hey ding a ding, ding_:
Sweet lovers love the spring.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
212 HEY, NONNY NO!
_Hey, nonny no!_
Men are fools that wish to die!
Is't not fine to dance and sing
When the bells of death do ring?
Is't not fine to swim in wine,
And turn upon the toe,
And sing _Hey nonny no!_
When the winds blow and the seas flow?
_Hey, nonny no!_
213 TARANTELLA
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of the tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the dark of the vine verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn't got a penny,
And who weren't paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of the clapper to the spin
Out and in--
And the Ting, Tong, Tang of the guitar!
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,
Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground.
No sound:
Only the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.
HILAIRE BELLOC
214 "I LOVED A LASS"
I loved a lass, a fair one,
As fair as e'er was seen;
She was indeed a rare one,
Another Sheba Queen:
But, fool as then I was,
I thought she loved me too:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!..._
And as abroad we walkèd
As lovers' fashion is,
Oft as we sweetly talkèd
The sun would steal a kiss.
The wind upon her lips
Likewise most sweetly blew;
But now, alas! she has left me
_Falero, lero, loo!_
Many a merry meeting
My love and I have had;
She was my only sweeting,
She made my heart full glad;
The tears stood in her eyes
Like to the morning dew:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!_
Her cheeks were like the cherry,
Her skin was white as snow;
When she was blithe and merry
She angel-like did show;
Her waist exceeding small,
The fives did fit her shoe:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!_
In summer time or winter
She had her heart's desire;
I still did scorn to stint her
From sugar, sack, or fire;
The world went round about,
No cares we ever knew:
But now, alas! she has left me,
_Falero, lero, loo!..._
No riches now can raise me,
No want make me despair;
No misery amaze me,
Nor yet for want I care.
I have lost a world itself,
My earthly heaven, adieu,
Since she, alas! hath left me,
_Falero, lero, loo...._
GEORGE WITHER
215 GREEN GRASS
_A dis, a dis, a green grass,_
_A dis, a dis, a dis_;
Come all you pretty fair maids
And dance along with us.
For we are going roving,
A roving in this land;
We take this pretty fair maid,
We take her by the hand.
She shall get a duke, my dear,
As duck do get a drake;
And she shall have a young prince,
For her own fair sake.
And if this young prince chance to die,
She shall get another;
The bells will ring, and the birds will sing,
And we clap hands together.
216 THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER
When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,
Full well I served my master for more than seven year,
Till I took up to poaching--as you shall quickly hear:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
As mé and my cómrade were setting of a snare,
Twas then we spied the gamekeeper, for him we did not care,
For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
As me and my comrade were setting four or five,
And taking on 'em up again we caught a hare alive,
We took the hare alive, my boys, and through the woods did steer:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
I threw him on my shoulder, and then we trudged home,
We took him to a neighbour's house and sold him for a crown
We sold him for a crown, my boys, but I did not tell you where:
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire,
Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare,
Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer:[96]
Oh, 'tis my delight on a shining night
In the season of the year!
217 THE MEN OF GOTHAM
Seamen three! What men be ye?
Gotham's three wise men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine--
_And your ballast is old wine_.
Who art thóu, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree,
In a bowl Care may not be--
_In a bowl Care may not be_.
Fear ye not the waves that roll?
No; in charmèd bowl we swim.
What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.
The bowl goes trim. The moon doth shine.
And our ballast is old wine--
_And your ballast is old wine_.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
218 EARLY MORNING MEADOW SONG
Now some may drink old vintage wine
To ladies gowned with rustling silk,
But we will drink to dairymaids,
And drink to them in rum and milk--
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!
The merry skylarks soar and sing,
And seem to Heaven very near--
Who knows what blessed inns they see,
What holy drinking songs they hear?
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!
The mushrooms may be priceless pearls
A queen has lost beside the stream;
But rum is melted rubies when
It turns the milk to golden cream!
O, it's up in the morning early,
When the dew is on the grass,
And St. John's bell rings for matins,
And St. Mary's rings for mass!
CHARLES DALMON
219 DABBLING IN THE DEW
Oh, where are you going to, my pretty little dear,
With your red rosy cheeks and your coal-black hair?
I'm going a-milking, kind sir, she answered me:
And it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to clothe you, my pretty little dear,
In a green silken gown and the amethyst rare?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to carry you, my pretty little dear,
In a chariot with horses, a grey gallant pair?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
Suppose I were to feast you, my pretty little dear,
With dainties on silver, the whole of the year?
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O but London's a city, my pretty little dear,
And all men are gallant and brave that are there--
O no, sir, O no, sir, kind sir, she answered me,
For it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
O fine clothes and dainties and carriages so rare
Bring grey to the cheeks and silver to the hair;
What's a ring on the finger if rings are round the eye?
But it's dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaids fair!
220 BONNY LASSIE O!
O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O!
To meet the cooler air and walk an angel there,
With the dark dishevelled hair,
Bonny lassie O!
The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O!
Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see
The shed I've made for thee,
Bonny lassie O!
'Tis agen the running brook, bonny lassie O!
In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky,
And a bush to keep us dry,
Bonny lassie O!
There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O!
There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold,
And the arum leaves unrolled,
Bonny lassie O!
O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O!
With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin
Blushing, thy praise to win,
Bonny lassie O!
I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O!
When the bee sips in the bean, and grey willow branches lean,
And the moonbeam looks between,
Bonny lassie O!
JOHN CLARE
221 THE MAD MAID'S SONG
Good-morrow to the Day so fair,
Good-morning, Sir, to you:
Good-morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.
Good-morning to this Prim-rose too,
Good-morrow to each maid,
That will with flowers the Tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.
Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me,
Alack and welladay!
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee
Which bore my Love away.
Ile seek him in your Bonnet brave,
Ile seek him in your eyes;
Nay, now, I think they've made his grave
I' the bed of strawburies.
Ile seek him there; I know, ere this,
The cold, cold Earth doth shake him;
But I will go, or send a kiss
By you, Sir, to awake him.
Pray hurt him not, though he be dead,
He knowes well who do love him,
And who with green-turfes reare his head,
And who do rudely move him.
He's soft and tender (Pray take heed);
With bands of Cowslips bind him,
And bring him home--but 't is decreed
That I shall never find him.
ROBERT HERRICK
222 TELL ME WHERE IS FANCIE BRED
Tell me where is Fancie bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourishèd?
Replie, replie!
It is engendered in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and Fancie dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancie's knell:
Ile begin it:
_Ding, dong, bell._
_All._ _Ding, dong, bell._
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
223 MUSIC
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory--
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
224 THE BELLS OF SHANDON
With deep affection and recollection
I often think of the Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would, in the days of childhood,
Fling around my cradle their magic spells.
On this I ponder where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music spoke naught to thine;
For memory, dwelling on each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
I've heard bells tolling old "Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious, swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly.
O! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
There's a bell in Moscow; while on Tower and Kiosk, O!
In St. Sophia the Turkman gets,
And loud in air, calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom I freely grant them;
But there is an anthem more dear to me,--
'Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
FRANCIS MAHONY (FATHER PROUT)
225 UPON A RING OF BELLS
Bells have wide mouths and tongues, but are too weak,
Have they not help, to sing, or talk or speak.
But if you move them they will mak't appear,
By speaking they'll make all the Town to hear.
When Ringers handle them with Art and Skill,
They then the ears of their Observers fill,
With such brave Notes, they ting and tang so well
As to out strip all with their ding, dong, Bell.
_Comparison_
These Bells are like the Powers of my Soul;
Their Clappers to the Passions of my mind;
The Ropes by which my Bells are made to tole,
Are Promises (I by experience find.)
My body is the Staple where they hang,
My graces they which do ring ev'ry Bell:
Nor is there any thing gives such a tang,
When by these Ropes these Ringers ring them well.
Let not my Bells these Ringers want, nor Ropes;
Yea let them have room for to swing and sway:
To toss themselves deny them not their Scopes.
Lord! in my Steeple give them room to play.
If they do tole, ring out, or chime all in,
They drown the tempting tinckling Voice of Vice:
Lord! when my Bells have gone, my Soul has bin
As 'twere a tumbling in this Paradice!
Or if these Ringers do the Changes ring,
Upon my Bells, they do such Musick make,
My Soul then (Lord) cannot but bounce and sing,
So greatly her they with their Musick take.
But Boys (my Lusts) into my Belfry go,
And pull these Ropes, but do no Musick make
They rather turn my Bells by what they do,
Or by disorder make my Steeple shake.
Then, Lord! I pray thee keep my Belfry Key,
Let none but Graces meddle with these Ropes:
And when these naughty Boys come, say them Nay.
From such Ringers of Musick there's no hopes.
O Lord! If thy poor Child might have his will,
And might his meaning freely to thee tell;
He never of this Musick has his fill,
There's nothing to him like thy ding, dong, Bell.
JOHN BUNYAN
226 THE BELFRY
Dark is the stair, and humid the old walls
Wherein it winds, on worn stones, up the tower.
Only by loophole chinks at intervals
Pierces the late glow of this August hour.
Two truant children climb the stairway dark,
With joined hands, half in glee and half in fear,
The boy mounts brisk, the girl hangs back to hark
If the gruff sexton their light footsteps hear.
Dazzled at last they gain the belfry-room.
Barred rays through shutters hover across the floor
Dancing in dust; so fresh they come from gloom
That breathless they pause wondering at the door.
How hushed it is! what smell of timbers old
From cobwebbed beams! The warm light here and there
Edging a darkness, sleeps in pools of gold,
Or weaves fantastic shadows through the air.
How motionless the huge bell! Straight and stiff,
Ropes through the floor rise to the rafters dim.
The shadowy round of metal hangs, as if
No force could ever lift its gleamy rim.
A child's awe, a child's wonder, who shall trace
What dumb thoughts on its waxen softness write
In such a spell-brimmed, time-forgotten place,
Bright in that strangeness of approaching night?
As these two gaze, their fingers tighter press;
For suddenly the slow bell upward heaves
Its vast mouth, the cords quiver at the stress,
And ere the heart prepare, the ear receives
Full on its delicate sense the plangent stroke
Of violent, iron, reverberating sound.
As if the tower in all its stones awoke,
Deep echoes tremble, again in clangour drowned,
That starts without a whir of frighted wings
And holds these young hearts shaken, hushed, and thrilled,
Like frail reeds in a rushing stream, like strings
Of music, or like trees with tempest filled,
And rolls in wide waves out o'er the lone land,
Tone following tone toward the far-setting sun,
Till where in fields long shadowed reapers stand
Bowed heads look up, and lo, the day is done....
LAURENCE BINYON
227 IL PENSEROSO
... Sweet bird that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musicall, most melancholy!
Thee chauntress of the Woods among
I woo to hear thy eeven-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the Heaven's wide pathles way,
And oft, as if her head she bowed,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off _Curfeu_ sound
Over some wide-watered shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar:
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som still removèd place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belman's drousie charm
To bless the dores from nightly harm....
JOHN MILTON
228 CHIMES
Brief, on a flying night,
From the shaken tower,
A flock of bells take flight,
And go with the hour.
Like birds from the cote to the gales,
Abrupt--O hark!
A fleet of bells set sails,
And go to the dark.
Sudden the cold airs swing,
Alone, aloud,
A verse of bells takes wing
And flies with the cloud.
ALICE MEYNELL
229 CITIES DROWNED
Cities drowned in olden time
Keep, they say, a magic chime
Rolling up from far below
When the moon-led waters flow.
So within me, ocean deep,
Lies a sunken world asleep.
Lest its bells forget to ring,
Memory! set the tide a-swing!
HENRY NEWBOLT
230 THE BELL-MAN
From noise of Scare-fires rest ye free,
From Murders--_Benedicite_.
From all mischances, that may fright
Your pleasing slumbers in the night:
Mercie secure ye all, and keep
The Goblin from ye, while ye sleep.
Past one aclock, and almost two,
My Masters all, _Good day to you_!
ROBERT HERRICK
[Illustration]
AUTUMN LEAVES: WINTER SNOW.
231 TO MEADOWS
Ye have been fresh and green,
Ye have been filled with flowers:
And ye the Walks have been
Where Maids have spent their houres.
You have beheld, how they
With _Wicker Arks_ did come
To kisse, and beare away
The richer Couslips home.
Ye have heard them sweetly sing
And seen them in a Round:
Each Virgin, like a Spring,
With Hony-succles crowned.
But now, we see, none here,
Whose silverie feet did tread,
And with dishevelled Haire,
Adorned this smoother Mead.
Like Unthrifts, having spent,
Your stock, and needy grown,
Ye are left here to lament
Your poore estates, alone.
ROBERT HERRICK
232 THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT
The days are cold, the nights are long,
The North wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at the sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane
Bedropped with rain:
Then, little darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.
DOROTHY WORDSWORTH
233 TO AUTUMN
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells--
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river-sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
JOHN KEATS
234 THE SOLITARY REAPER
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo bird.
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
235 "THE HEAVING ROSES OF THE HEDGE ARE STIRRED"
The heaving roses of the hedge are stirred
By the sweet breath of summer, and the bird
Makes from within his jocund voice be heard.
The winds that kiss the roses sweep the sea
Of uncut grass, whose billows rolling free
Half drown the hedges which part lea from lea.
But soon shall look the wondering roses down
Upon an empty field cut close and brown,
That lifts no more its height against their own.
And in a little while those roses bright,
Leaf after leaf, shall flutter from their height,
And on the reapèd fields lie pink and white.
And yet again the bird that sings so high
Shall ask the snow for alms with piteous cry;
Take fright in his bewildering bower, and die.
CANON DIXON
236 AUTUMN
A DIRGE
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying;
And the year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.
Come, months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
For the year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling.
Come, months, come away;
Put on white, black, and grey;
Let your light sisters play--
Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
237 "WHEN THAT I WAS AND A LITTLE TINY BOY"
When that I was and a little tinie boy,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_:
A foolish thing was but a toy,
_For the raine it raineth every day_.
But when I came to man's estate,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_:
'Gainst Knaves and Theeves men shut their gate,
_For the raine it raineth every day_.
But when I came, alas, to wive,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_:
By swaggering could I never thrive,
_For the raine it raineth every day_.
But when I came unto my beds,
_With hey, ho, the wind and the raine_,
With tos-pottes still had drunken heades,--
_For the raine it raineth every day_.
A great while ago the world begon,
_With hey, ho, the winde and the raine_,
But that's all one, our Play is done,
_And we'll strive to please you every day_.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
238 SONG
The feathers of the willow
Are half of them grown yellow
Above the swelling stream;
And ragged are the bushes,
And rusty are the rushes
And wild the clouded gleam.
The thistle now is older,
His stalk begins to moulder,
His head is white as snow;
The branches all are barer,
The linnet's song is rarer
The robin pipeth now.
CANON DIXON
239 FALL, LEAVES, FALL
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me,
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night's decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
EMILY BRONTË
240 THE SANDS OF DEE
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;"
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.
"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair--
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.
CHARLES KINGSLEY
241 BREAK, BREAK, BREAK
Break, break, break,
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
242 ODE TO THE WEST WIND
I
O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!
II
Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!
III
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystàlline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O, uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O, wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
243 THAT WIND
That wind, I used to hear it swelling;
With joy divinely deep;
You might have seen my hot tears welling,
But rapture made me weep.
I used to love on winter nights
To lie and dream alone
Of all the rare and real delights
My lonely years had known;
And oh!--above the best--of those
That coming time should bear,
Like heaven's own glorious stars they rose,
Still beaming bright and fair.
EMILY BRONTË
244 A FROSTY NIGHT
_Mother._ Alice, dear, what ails you,
Dazed and white and shaken?
Has the chill night numbed you?
Is it fright you have taken?
_Alice._ Mother, I am very well,
I felt never better;
Mother, do not hold me so,
Let me write my letter.
_Mother._ Sweet, my dear, what ails you?
_Alice._ No, but I am well.
The night was cold and frosty,
There's no more to tell.
_Mother._ Ay, the night was frosty,
Coldly gaped the moon,
Yet the birds seemed twittering
Through green boughs of June.
Soft and thick the snow lay,
Stars danced in the sky,
Not all the lambs of May-day
Skip so bold and high.
Your feet were dancing, Alice,
Seemed to dance on air,
You looked a ghost or angel
In the starlight there.
Your eyes were frosted starlight,
Your heart, fire, and snow.
Who was it said "I love you?"
_Alice._ Mother, let me go!
ROBERT GRAVES
245 IN A DREAR-NIGHTED DECEMBER
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passèd joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbèd sense to steal it,
Was never said in rhyme.
JOHN KEATS
246 A SONG OF WINTER
Cold cold!
Cold to-night is broad Moylurg,
Higher the snow than the mountain-range,
The deer cannot get at their food.
Cold till Doom!
The storm has spread over all:
A river is each furrow upon the slope,
Each ford a full pool.
A great tidal sea is each loch,
A full loch is each pool:
Horses cannot get over the ford of Ross,
No more can two feet get there.
The fish of Ireland are a-roaming,
There is no strand which the wave does not pound,
Not a town there is in the land,
Not a bell is heard, no crane talks.
The wolves of Cuan-wood get
Neither rest nor sleep in their lair,
The little wren cannot find
Shelter in her nest on the slope of Lon.
Keen wind and cold ice
Has burst upon the little company of birds,
The blackbird cannot get a lee to her liking,
Shelter for its side in Cuan-wood.
Cosy our pot on its hook,
Crazy the hut on the slope of Lon:
The snow has crushed the wood here,
Toilsome to climb up Ben-bo.
Glenn Rye's ancient bird
From the bitter wind gets grief;
Great her misery and her pain,
The ice will get into her mouth.
From flock and from down to rise--
Take it to heart!--were folly for thee;
Ice in heaps on every ford--
That is why I say "cold"!
247 COLD BLOWS THE WIND
Cauld blows the wind frae north to south,
And drift is driving sairly;
The sheep are couring[97] in the heugh,[98]
Oh sirs! it's winter fairly.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed,
Than rise in the morning early.
Loud rairs the blast amang the woods,
The branches tirling barely,
Amang the chimley taps it thuds,
And frost is nippin sairly.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
To sit a' the night I'd rather agree,
Than rise in the morning early.
The sun peeps o'er the southlan' hill,
Like ony tim'rous carlie[99];
Just blinks a wee, then sinks again,
And that we find severely.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
When snaw blaws into the chimley cheek,
Wha'd rise in the morning early.
Nae linties[100] lilt on hedge or bush,
Poor things, they suffer sairly;
In cauldrife[101] quarters a' the night,
A' day they feed but sparely.
Now up in the morning's no' for me,
Up in the morning early;
Nae fate can be waur,[102] in winter time,
Than rise in the morning early.
JOHN HAMILTON
248 SKATING
... So through the darkness and the cold we flew,
And not a voice was idle; with the din
Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;
The leafless trees and every icy crag
Tinkled like iron; while far distant hills
Into the tumult sent an alien sound
Of melancholy not unnoticed, while the stars
Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west
The orange sky of evening died away.
Not seldom from the uproar I retired
Into a silent bay, or sportively
Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng,
To cut across the reflex of a star
That fled, and, flying still before me, gleamed
Upon the glassy plain; and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side
Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
In rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,
Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs
Wheeled by me--even as if the earth had rolled
With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watched
Till all was tranquil as a dreamless sleep....
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
249 LONDON SNOW
When men were all asleep the snow came flying,
In large white flakes falling on the city brown,
Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying,
Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town;
Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing;
Lazily and incessantly floating down and down:
Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing;
Hiding difference, making unevenness even,
Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing.
All night it fell, and when full inches seven
It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness,
The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven;
And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness
Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare:
The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness;
The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air;
No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling,
And the busy morning cries came thin and spare.
Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling,
They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze
Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing;
Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees;
Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder,
"O look at the trees!" they cried, "O look at the trees!"
With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder,
Following along the white deserted way,
A country company long dispersed asunder:
When now already the sun, in pale display
Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below
His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day.
For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow;
And trains of sombre men, past tale of number,
Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go:
But even for them awhile no cares encumber
Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken,
The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber
At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm
they have broken.
ROBERT BRIDGES
250 FOR SNOW
Oh the falling Snow!
Oh the falling Snow!
Where does it all come from?
Whither does it go?
Never never laughing,
Never never weeping,
Falling in its Sleep,
Forever ever sleeping--
From what Sleep of Heaven
Does it flow, and go
Into what Sleep of Earth,
The falling falling Snow?
ELEANOR FARJEON
251 VELVET SHOES
Let us walk in the white snow
In a soundless space;
With footsteps quiet and slow,
At a tranquil pace,
Under veils of white lace.
I shall go shod in silk,
And you in wool,
White as a white cow's milk,
More beautiful
Than the breast of a gull.
We shall walk through the still town
In a windless peace;
We shall step upon white down,
Upon silver fleece,
Upon softer than these.
We shall walk in velvet shoes:
Wherever we go
Silence will fall like dews
On white silence below.
We shall walk in the snow.
ELINOR WYLIE
252 LUCY GRAY
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
"To-night will be a stormy night--
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, Child, to light
Your mother through the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do:
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!"
At this the father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;--and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb:
But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.
They wept--and, turning homeward, cried
"In heaven we all shall meet!"
--When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone-wall:
And then an open field they crossed,
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came:
They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!
--Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
253 GONE WERE BUT THE WINTER COLD
"Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.
"Cauld's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death is at my e'en
Closing them to sleep,
"Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither sae dear;
I'll meet them baith in heaven
At the Spring o' the year."
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM
254 A CHILD'S WINTER EVENING
The smothering dark engulfs relentlessly
With nightmare tread approaching steadfastly;
All horrors thicken as the daylight fails
And, is it wind, or some lost ghost that wails?
Tongue cannot tell the stories that beset,
With livid pictures blackness dense as jet,
Or that wild questioning--whence we are; and why;
If death is darkness; and why I am I.
The children look through the uneven pane
Out to the world, to bring them joy again;
But only snowflakes melting into mire
Without, within the red glow of the fire.
They long for something wonderful to break
This long-drawn winter wistfulness, and take
Shape in the darkness; threatening like Fate
There comes a hell-like crackling from the grate.
But hand in hand they urge themselves anear
And watch the cities burning bright and clear;
Faces diabolical and cliffs and halls
And strangely-pinnacled, molten castle walls.
Tall figures flicker on the ceiling stark
Then grimly fade into one ominous dark;
Dream terrors iron-bound throng on them apace,
And dusk with fire, and flames with shadows race.
GWEN JOHN
255 A CAROL FOR SAINT STEPHEN'S DAY
Seynt Stevene was a clerk,
In kyng Herowdės halle,
And servyd him of bred and cloth,
As every kyng befalle.
Stevyn out of Kechoun cam,
Wyth boris bed on honde,
He saw a sterr was fayr and bryght
Over Bedlem stonde.
He kyst adoun the bores hed,
And went into the halle:
"I forsake the, kyng Herowde,
And thi werkės alle.
"I forsak the, kyng Herowde,
And thi werkės alle:
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Is better than we alle."
"Quhat eylyt the, Stevene?
Quhat is the befalle?
Lakkyt the eyther mete or drynk
In kyng Herowdės halle?"
"Lakyt me neyther mete ne drynk
In kyng Herowdės halle;
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Is better than we alle."
"Quhat eylyt the, Stevyn, art thu wod?
Or thu gynnyst to brede?
Lakyt the eyther gold or fe,
Or ony rychė wede?"
"Lakyt me neyther gold ne fe,
Ne non rychė wede;
Ther is a chyld, in Bedlem born,
Shal helpyn us at our nede."
"That is al so soth, Stevyn,
Al so soth, I wys,
As this capon crowė schel
That lyth her in myn dych."
That word was not so sonė seyd,
That wordė in that halle,
The capon crew, _Christus natus est!_
Among the lordės alle.
"Rysyt up, myn túrmentowres
Be to and al be on,
And ledyt Stevyn out of this town,
And stonyt hym wyth ston."
Tokyn hem Stevene,
And stonyd hym in the way:
And therfor is his evyn
On Crystės owyn day.
256 THE BURNING BABE
As I in hoary winter's night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat,
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye
To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright,
Did in the air appear:
Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,
Such floods of tears did shed,
As though his floods should quench his flames,
Which with his tears were fed:
"Alas!" quoth he, "but newly born,
In fiery heats I fry,[103]
Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire, but I!
My faultless breast the furnace is,
The fuel wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke,
The ashes shames and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals;
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men's defilèd souls:
For which, as now on fire I am,
To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
To wash them in my blood."
With this he vanished out of sight,
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I called unto my mind
That it was Christmas Day.
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
257 THE HOLLY AND THE IVY
The holly and the ivy,
Now both are full-well grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.
_O the rising of the sun,_
_The running of the deer,_
_The playing of the merry Organ,_
_Sweet singing in the quire._
_Sweet singing in the quire._
The holly bears a blossom,
As white as lily-flower;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
To be our sweet Saviour.
_O the rising of the sun_,...
The holly bears a berry,
As red as any blood;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
To do poor sinners good.
_O the rising of the sun_,...
The holly bears a prickle,
As sharp as any thorn;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
On Christmas Day in the morn.
_O the rising of the sun_,...
The holly bears a bark,
As bitter as any gall;
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ,
For to redeem us all.
_O the rising of the sun_,...
The holly and the ivy,
Now both are full well grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood,
The holly bears the crown.
_O the rising of the sun,_
_The running of the deer,_
_The playing of the merry Organ,_
_Sweet singing in the quire._
_Sweet singing in the quire._
258 WELCOME YULE!
... Wolcum be thu, hevene kyng,
Wolcum, born in on morwenyng,
Wolcum for home[104] we shal syng,
Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye Stefne and Jon,
Wolcum Innocentes everychon,
Wolcum Thomas martyr on,
Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye, good newe yere,
Wolcum twelthe-day, bothe infer,[105]
Wolcum syentės lef[106] and der,
Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye Candylmesse,
Wolcum be ye qwyn of blys,
Wolcum both to mor and lesse,
Wolcum yol.
Wolcum be ye that am her,[107]
Wolcum alle and mak good cher,
Wolcum alle another yer,
Wolcum yol.
259 NAY, IVY, NAY
_Nay, Ivy, nay,_
_Hyt shal not be, I wys;_
_Let Holy hafe the maystry,_
_As the maner[108] ys._
Holy stond in the halle,
Fayre to behold;
Ivy stond wythout the dore,
She ys ful sore a-cold.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...
Holy and hys mery men,
They dawnsyn and they syng;
Ivy and hur maydenys,
They wepyn and they wryng.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...
Ivy hath a kybe,[109]
She kaght yt wyth the colde,
So mot thay all haf ae,
That wyth Ivy hold.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...
Holy hath berys,
As rede as any rose,
The foster[110] and the hunter
Kepe hem[111] fro the doos.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...
Ivy hath berys,
As blake as any slo,
Ther com the oulė,
And ete hym as she goo.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...
Holy hath byrdys,
A ful fayre flok,
The nyghtyngale, the poppynguy,
The gayntyl lavyrok.
_Nay, Ivy, nay_ ...
Gode Ivy [tell me]
What byrdys ast thu?[112]
Non but the howlat,
That kreye[113] how, how!
_Nay, Ivy, nay,
Hyt shal not be, I wys,
Let Holy hafe the maystry,
As the maner ys._
260 TU-WHIT TO-WHO
When Isicles hang by the wall,
And Dicke the shepheard blowes his naile,
And Tom beares Logges into the hall,
And Milke comes frozen home in paile:
When blood is nipt, and waies be fowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle,
_Tu-whit to-who_
A merrie note,
While greasie Jone doth keele[114] the pot.
When all aloud the winde doth blow,
And coifing drownes the Parson's saw;
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marrian's nose lookes red and raw;
When roasted Crabs[115] hisse in the bowle,
Then nightly sings the staring Owle,
_Tu-whit to-who_
A merrie note,
While greasy Jone doth keele the pot.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
261 BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND
Blow, blow, thou winter winde,
Thou art not so unkinde
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keene,
Because thou art not seene,
Although thy breath be rude.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho, unto the green holly,
Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly,
This Life is most jolly.
Freize, freize, thou bitter skie,
That dost not bight so nigh
As benefitts forgot;
Though thou the waters warpe,
Thy sting is not so sharpe,
As friend remembered not.
Heigh ho! sing heigh ho! unto the green holly,
Most friendship is fayning, most Loving meere folly:
Then heigh ho, the holly,
This Life is most jolly.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
[Illustration]
"LIKE STARS UPON SOME GLOOMY GROVE"
262 SPRING QUIET
Gone were but the Winter,
Come were but the Spring,
I would go to a covert
Where the birds sing.
Where in the whitethorn
Singeth a thrush,
And a robin sings
In the holly-bush.
Full of fresh scents
Are the budding boughs
Arching high over
A cool green house:
Full of sweet scents,
And whispering air
Which sayeth softly:
"We spread no snare;
"Here dwell in safety,
Here dwell alone,
With a clear stream
And a mossy stone.
"Here the sun shineth
Most shadily;
Here is heard an echo
Of the far sea,
Though far off it be."
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
263 A WIDOW BIRD
A widow bird sat mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The frozen wind crept on above,
The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
And little motion in the air
Except the mill-wheel's sound.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
264 ECHO'S LAMENT FOR NARCISSUS
Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;
Yet, slower yet; O faintly, gentle springs;
List to the heavy part the music bears;
Woe weeps out her division when she sings.
Droop herbs and flowers;
Fall grief in showers,
Our beauties are not ours;
O, I could still,
Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
Drop, drop, drop, drop,
Since nature's pride is now a withered daffodil.
BEN JONSON
265 THIS LIFE
This Life, which seems so fair,
Is like a bubble blown up in the air
By sporting children's breath,
Who chase it everywhere,
And strive who can most motion it bequeath.
And though it sometimes seem of its own might
Like to an eye of gold to be fixed there,
And firm to hover in that empty height,
That only is because it is so light.
But in that pomp it doth not long appear;
For when' tis most admired--in a thought,
Because it erst[116] was nought, it turns to nought.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND
266 SWEET CONTENT
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O, sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O, punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O, sweet content! O, sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crispèd spring?
O, sweet content!
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O, punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden bears,
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O, sweet content! O, sweet, O, sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labour bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny, hey nonny, nonny!
THOMAS DEKKER
267 OH, SWEET CONTENT
Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweat
To tears of joy, and shines the roughest face;
How often have I sought you high and low,
And found you still in some lone quiet place;
Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams,
With no life heard beyond that merry sound
Of moths that on my lighted ceiling kiss
Their shadows as they dance and dance around;
Or in a garden, on a summer's night,
When I have seen the dark and solemn air
Blink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright face
Twitch with the stars that shine in thousands there.
WILLIAM H. DAVIES
268 RARELY, RARELY, COMEST THOU
Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.
How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.
As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.
Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure,
Thou wilt never come for pity,
Thou wilt come for pleasure.
Pity then will cut away,
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
I love all that thòu lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,
And the starry night,
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.
I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.
I love tranquil solitude
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.
I love Love--though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee--
Thou art love and life! O come,
Make once more my heart thy home!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
269 BIRTHRIGHT
Lord Rameses of Egypt sighed
Because a summer evening passed;
And little Ariadne cried
That summer fancy fell at last
To dust; and young Verona died
When beauty's hour was overcast.
Theirs was the bitterness we know
Because the clouds of hawthorn keep
So short a state, and kisses go
To tombs unfathomably deep,
While Rameses and Romeo
And little Ariadne sleep.
JOHN DRINKWATER
270 O SORROW!
... "O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The natural hue of health, from vermeil lips?--
To give maiden blushes
To the white rose bushes?
Or is't thy dewy hand the daisy tips?
"O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye?--
To give the glow-worm light?
Or, on a moonless night,
To tinge, on siren shores, the salt sea-spry?
"O Sorrow,
Why dost borrow
The mellow ditties from a mourning tongue?--
To give at evening pale
Unto the nightingale,
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among?
"O sorrow,
Why dost borrow
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?--
A lover would not tread
A cowslip on the head,
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day--
Nor any drooping flower
Held sacred for thy bower,
Wherever he may sport himself and play.
"To Sorrow,
I bade good-morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly;
She is so constant, to me, and so kind:
I could deceive her
And so leave her,
But oh! she is so constant and so kind....
"Come then, Sorrow!
Sweetest Sorrow!
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast:
I thought to leave thee
And deceive thee,
But now of all the world I love thee best.
"There is not one,
No, no, not one
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid;
Thou art her mother,
And her brother,
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade."...
JOHN KEATS
271 WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED
When the lamp is shattered,
The light in the dust lies dead--
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute:--
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingled
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possest.
O Love, who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee
As the storm rocks the ravens on high:
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee to naked laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
272 ONCE
He sees them pass
As the light is graying,
Each lad and lass
In their beauty gaying
And a voice in his aching heart is saying:
"Once--once even I
Was straight as these,
As clear of eye,
And as apt to please
When I tuned my voice to balladries.
Now my eyes are dim,
Their old fires forsaking,
And each wasted limb
As a branch is shaking,
And my grief-bowed heart will soon be breaking.
--Ah, if One comes not
Beckoning nigh
To that land where hums not
One small fly,
These Strong and Fair shall be as I."
ERIC N. BATTERHAM
273 UPON THE IMAGE OF DEATH
Before my face the picture hangs
That dailie should put me in minde
Of those cold qualms and bitter pangs
That shortly I am like to finde:
But yet, alas! full little I
Do think hereon, that I must die.
I often look upon a face
Most uglie, grislie, bare, and thin;
I often view the hollow place
Where eyes and nose have sometime been;
I see the bones across that lie;
Yet little think, that I must die.
I read the label underneathe,
That telleth me whereto I must:
I see the sentence eke that saithe
"Remember, man, that thou art duste;"
But yet, alas, but seldom I
Do think indeed, that I must die!
Continually at my bed's head
An hearse doth hang, which doth me tell
That I, ere morning, may be dead,
Though now I feel myself full well:
But yet, alas, for all this, I
Have little minde that I must die!
The gowne which I do use to weare,
The knife, wherewith I cut my meate,
And eke that old and ancient chair
Which is my only usual seate,
All these do tell me I must die;
And yet my life amende not I!
My ancestors are turned to clay,
And many of my mates are gone;
My youngers daily drop away;--
And can I think to 'scape alone?
No, no, I know that I must die;
And yet my life amende not I!
Not Solomon, for all his wit,
Nor Samson, though he were so strong,
No king, nor ever person yet,
Could 'scape, but Death laid him along!
Wherefore I know that I must die;
And yet my life amende not I!
Though all the east did quake to hear
Of Alexander's dreadful name,
And all the west did likewise fear
The sound of Julius Caesar's fame,
Yet both by death in duste now lie;
Who then can 'scape, but he must die?
If none can 'scape Death's dreadful darte,
If rich and poor his beck obey,
If strong, if wise, if all do smarte,
Then I to 'scape shall have no way.
O grant me grace, O God, that I
My life may mende, sith I must die!
ROBERT SOUTHWELL
274 ADIEU! FAREWELL EARTH'S BLISS!
Adieu! farewell earth's bliss!
This world uncertain is:
Fond are life's lustful joys,
Death proves them all but toys.
None from his darts can fly:
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Rich men, trust not in wealth,
Gold cannot buy you health;
Physic himself must fade;
All things to end are made;
The plague full swift goes by:
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Beauty is but a flower
Which wrinkles will devour:
Brightness falls from the air;
Queens have died young and fair
Dust hath closed Helen's eye:
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Strength stoops unto the grave
Worms feed on Hector brave;
Swords may not fight with fate;
Earth still holds ope her gate;
_Come! come!_ the bells do cry:
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Wit with his wantonness,
Tasteth death's bitterness.
Hell's executioner
Hath no ears for to hear
What vain art can reply.
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
Haste, therefore, each degree
To welcome destiny!
Heaven is our heritage;
Earth but a player's stage.
Mount we unto the sky!
I am sick, I must die--
_Lord, have mercy on us!_
THOMAS NASH
275 MESSAGES
What shall I your true-love tell,
Earth-forsaking maid?
What shall I your true-love tell,
When life's spectre's laid?
"Tell him that, our side the grave,
Maid may not conceive
Life should be so sad to have,
That's so sad to leave!"
What shall I your true-love tell,
When I come to him?
What shall I your true-love tell--
Eyes growing dim!
"Tell him this, when you shall part
From a maiden pined;
That I see him with my heart,
Now my eyes are blind."
What shall I your true-love tell?
Speaking-while is scant.
What shall I your true-love tell,
Death's white postulant?
"Tell him--love, with speech at strife,
For last utterance saith:
I, who loved with all my life,
Love with all my death."
FRANCIS THOMPSON
276 DOUBTS
When she sleeps, her soul, I know,
Goes a wanderer on the air,
Wings where I may never go,
Leaves her lying, still and fair,
Waiting, empty, laid aside,
Like a dress upon a chair....
This I know, and yet I know
Doubts that will not be denied.
For if the soul be not in place,
What has laid trouble in her face?
And, sits there nothing ware and wise
Behind the curtains of her eyes,
What is it, in the self's eclipse,
Shadows, soft and passingly,
About the corners of her lips,
The smile that is essential she?
And if the spirit be not there,
Why is fragrance in the hair?
RUPERT BROOKE
277 HARK
Hark! now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud.
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay's now competent.
A long war disturbed your mind;
Here your perfect peace is signed.
Of what is't fools make such vain keeping?--
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And (the foul fiend more to check)
A crucifix let bless your neck:
'Tis now full tide 'tween night and day;
End your groan, and come away.
JOHN WEBSTER
278 A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
When thou from hence away art past,
_Every nighte and alle_,
To Whinny-muir thou comest at last;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
_Every nighte and alle_,
Sit thee down and put them on;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gav'st nane,
_Every nighte and alle_,
The whinnes sall prick thee to the bare bane;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
From Whinny-muir that thou may'st pass,
_Every nighte and alle_,
To Brig o' Dread thou comest at last,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
From Brig o' Dread that thou may'st pass,
_Every nighte and alle_,
To Purgatory fire thou com'st at last,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire sall never make thee shrink;
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
If meat and drink thou ne'er gav'st nane
_Every nighte and alle_,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
_Every nighte and alle_,
Fire and sleet and candle-lighte,
_And Christe receive thy saule_.
279 HE IS THE LONELY GREATNESS
He is the lonely greatness of the world--
(His eyes are dim),
His power it is holds up the Cross
That holds up Him.
He takes the sorrow of the threefold hour--
(His eyelids close),
Round Him and round, the wind--His Spirit--where
It listeth blows.
And so the wounded greatness of the World
In silence lies--
And death is shattered by the light from out
Those darkened eyes.
MADELEINE CARON ROCK
280 "O SING UNTO MY ROUNDELAY"
O sing unto my roundelay,
O drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holyday
Like a running river be!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Black his cryne[117] as the winter night,
White his rode[118] as the summer snow,
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree....
See, the white moon shines on high;
Winter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree....
With my hands I'll dent[119] the briars
Round his holy corse to gre;[120]
Ouph[121] and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree....
THOMAS CHATTERTON
281 FEAR NO MORE
Feare no more the heate o' th' Sun,
Nor the fureous Winters rages,
Thou thy worldly task hast don,
Home art gon, and tane thy wages.
Golden Lads and Girles all must,
As Chimney-Sweepers, come to dust.
Feare no more the frowne o' th' Great,
Thou art past the Tirants stroake,
Care no more to cloath, and eate,
To thee the Reede is as the Oake:
The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must,
All follow this, and come to dust.
Feare no more the Lightning flash,
Nor the all-dreaded Thunder-stone,
Feare not Slander, Censure rash,
Thou hast finished joy and mone.
All Lovers young, all Lovers must,
Consigne to thee, and come to dust....
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
282 A LAND DIRGE
Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover
The friendless bodies of unburied men.
Call unto his funeral dole
The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,
To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,
And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm;
But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,
For with his nails he'll dig them up again.
JOHN WEBSTER
283 THE GRAVE OF LOVE
I dug, beneath the cypress shade,
What well might seem an elfin's grave;
And every pledge in earth I laid,
That erst thy false affection gave.
I pressed them down the sod beneath;
I placed one mossy stone above;
And twined the rose's fading wreath
Around the sepulchre of love.
Frail as thy love, the flowers were dead
Ere yet the evening sun was set:
But years shall see the cypress spread,
Immutable as my regret.
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
284 THE BURIAL
All the flowers of the spring
Meet to perfume our burying;
These have but their growing prime,
And man does flourish but his time.
Survey our progress from our birth--
We are set, we grow, we turn to earth,
Courts adieu, and all delights,
All bewitching appetites!
Sweetest breath and clearest eye,
Like perfumes go out and die;
And consequently this is done
As shadows wait upon the sun.
Vain the ambition of kings
Who seek by trophies and dead things
To leave a living name behind,
And weave but nets to catch the wind.
JOHN WEBSTER
285 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY
Mortality, behold and fear!
What a change of flesh is here!
Think how many royal bones
Sleep within these heaps of stones;
Here they lie had realms and lands,
Who now want strength to stir their hands;
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust
They preach:--"In greatness is no trust."
Here's an acre sown indeed
With the richest royallest seed
That the Earth did e'er suck in
Since the first man died for sin:
Here the bones of birth have cried:--
"Though gods they were, as men they died!"
Here are sands, ignoble things,
Dropt from the ruined sides of Kings:
Here's a world of pomp and state
Buried in dust, once dead by fate.
FRANCIS BEAUMONT
286 A FUNERALL SONG
(_Lamenting Syr Phillip Sidney_)
Come to me, grief, for ever;
Come to me, tears, day and night;
Come to me, plaint, ah, helpless;
Just grief, heart tears, plaint worthy.
Go from me dread to die now;
Go from me care to live more;
Go from me joys all on earth;
Sidney, O Sidney is dead.
He whom the court adornèd,
He whom the country courtesied,
He who made happy his friends,
He that did good to all men.
Sidney, the hope of land strange,
Sidney, the flower of England,
Sidney, the spirit heroic,
Sidney is dead, O dead.
Dead? no, no, but renownèd,
With the Anointed onèd;[122]
Honour on earth at his feet,
Bliss everlasting his seat.
Come to me, grief, for ever;
Come to me, tears, day and night;
Come to me, plaint, ah, helpless;
Just grief, heart tears, plaint worthy.
287 ON JOHN DONNE'S BOOK OF POEMS
I see in his last preached and printed Booke,
His Picture in a sheet. In Pauls I looke,
And see his Statue in a sheete of stone,
And sure his body in the grave hath one.
Those sheetes present him dead; these, if you buy,
You have him living to Eternity.
JOHN MARRIOT
288 O, LIFT ONE THOUGHT
Stop, Christian passer-by!--Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he.
O, lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C.;
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death.
Mercy for praise--to be forgiven for fame
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
289 ELEGY
_To the Memory of an unfortunate Lady._
... Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age,
Dull, sullen prisoners in the body's cage;
Dim lights of life, that burn a length of years,
Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres;
Like eastern kings, a lazy state they keep,
And close confined to their own palace, sleep....
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.
So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth and fame.
How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee:
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Ev'n he whose soul now melts in mournful lays
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart:
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!
ALEXANDER POPE
290 UPON A CHILD THAT DIED
Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who, as soone, fell fast asleep,
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings; but not stir
The earth, that lightly covers her.
ROBERT HERRICK
291 THE TURNSTILE
Ah! sad wer we as we did peäce
The wold church road, wi' downcast feäce,
The while the bells, that mwoaned so deep
Above our child a-left asleep,
Wer now a-zingėn all alive
Wi' tother bells to meäke the vive.
But up at woone pleäce we come by,
'Twer hard to keep woone's two eyes dry;
On Steän-cliff road, 'ithin the drong,
Up where, as vo'k do pass along,
The turnėn stile, a-païnted white,
Do sheen by day an' show by night.
Vor always there, as we did goo
To church, thik stile did let us drough,
Wi' spreadėn eärms that wheeled to guide
Us each in turn to tother zide.
An' vu'st ov all the traïn he took
My wife, wi' winsome gaït an' look;
An' then zent on my little maïd,
A-skippen onward, over-jaÿ'd
To reach ageän the pleäce o' pride,
Her comely mother's left han' zide.
An' then, a-wheelėn roun', he took
On me, 'ithin his third white nook.
An' in the fourth, a-sheäken wild,
He zent us on our giddy child.
But eesterday he guided slow
My downcast Jenny, vull o' woe,
An' then my little maïd in black,
A-walkėn softly on her track;
An' after he'd a-turned ageän,
To let me goo along the leäne,
He had noo little bwoy to vill
His last white eärms, an' they stood still.
WILLIAM BARNES
292 THE EXEQUY
... Sleep on, my Love, in thy cold bed
Never to be disquieted!
My last good-night! Thou wilt not wake
Till I thy fate shall overtake:
Till age, or grief, or sickness must
Marry my body to that dust
It so much loves; and fill the room
My heart keeps empty in that tomb.
Stay for me there: I will not fail
To meet thee in that hollow vale.
And think not much of my delay:
I am already on the way,
And follow thee with all the speed
Desire can make, or sorrows breed.
Each minute is a short degree
And every hour a step towards thee....
HENRY KING
293 "I FOUND HER OUT THERE"
I found her out there
On a slope few see,
That falls westwardly
To the salt-edged air,
Where the ocean breaks
On the purple strand,
And the hurricane shakes
The solid land.
I brought her here,
And have laid her to rest
In a noiseless nest
No sea beats near.
She will never be stirred
In her loamy cell
By the waves long heard
And loved so well.
So she does not sleep
By those haunted heights
The Atlantic smites
And the blind gales sweep,
Whence she often would gaze
At Dundagel's famed head,
While the dipping blaze
Dyed her face fire-red;
And would sigh at the tale
Of sunk Lyonnesse,
As a wind-tugged tress
Flapped her cheek like a flail;
Or listen at whiles
With a thought-bound brow
To the murmuring miles
She is far from now.
Yet her shade, maybe,
Will creep underground
Till it catch the sound
Of that western sea
As it swells and sobs
Where she once domiciled,
And joys in its throbs
With the heart of a child.
THOMAS HARDY
294 I NEVER SHALL LOVE THE SNOW AGAIN
I never shall love the snow again
Since Maurice died:
With corniced drift it blocked the lane
And sheeted in a desolate plain
The country side.
The trees with silvery rime bedight
Their branches bare.
By day no sun appeared; by night
The hidden moon shed thievish light
In the misty air.
We fed the birds that flew around
In flocks to be fed:
No shelter in holly or brake they found.
The speckled thrush on the frozen ground
Lay frozen and dead.
We skated on stream and pond; we cut
The crinching snow
To Doric temple or Arctic hut;
We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut
By the fireside glow.
Yet grudged we our keen delights before
Maurice should come.
We said, In-door or out-of-door
We shall love life for a month or more,
When he is home.
They brought him home; 'twas two days late
For Christmas day:
Wrapped in white, in solemn state,
A flower in his hand, all still and straight
Our Maurice lay.
And two days ere the year outgave
We laid him low.
The best of us truly were not brave,
When we laid Maurice down in his grave
Under the snow.
ROBERT BRIDGES
295 THE COMFORTERS
When I crept over the hill, broken with tears,
When I crouched down on the grass, dumb in despair,
I heard the soft croon of the wind bend to my ears,
I felt the light kiss of the wind touching my hair.
When I stood lone on the height my sorrow did speak,
As I went down the hill, I cried and I cried,
The soft little hands of the rain stroking my cheek,
The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
When I went to thy grave, broken with tears,
When I crouched down in the grass, dumb in despair,
I heard the sweet croon of the wind soft in my ears,
I felt the kind lips of the wind touching my hair.
When I stood lone by thy cross, sorrow did speak,
When I went down the long hill, I cried and I cried,
The soft little hands of the rain stroked my pale cheek,
The kind little feet of the rain ran by my side.
DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
296 THE CHILDLESS FATHER
"Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."
--Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
Fresh sprigs of green boxwood, not six months before,
Filled the funeral basin at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed;
One child did it bear, and that child was his last.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!"
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
"The key I must take, for my Helen is dead."
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
297 "LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"
Lydia is gone this many a year,
Yet when the lilacs stir,
In the old gardens far or near,
This house is full of her.
They climb the twisted chamber stair;
Her picture haunts the room;
On the carved shelf beneath it there,
They heap the purple bloom.
A ghost so long has Lydia been,
Her cloak upon the wall,
Broidered, and gilt, and faded green,
Seems not her cloak at all.
The book, the box on mantle laid,
The shells in a pale row,
Are those of some dim little maid,
A thousand years ago.
And yet the house is full of her,
She goes and comes again;
And longings thrill, and memories stir,
Like lilacs in the rain.
Out in their yards the neighbours walk,
Among the blossoms tall;
Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk,
Of Lydia not at all.
LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE
298 REMEMBRANCE
Cold in the earth--and the deep snow piled above thee,
Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave!
Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee,
Severed at last by Time's all-severing wave?
Now--when alone--do my thoughts no longer hover
Over the mountains, on that northern shore,
Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover
Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth--and fifteen wild Decembers,
From those brown hills, have melted into spring:
Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers
After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee,
While the world's tide is bearing me along;
Other desires and other hopes beset me,
Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lightened up my heaven,
No second morn has ever shone for me;
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given,
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished,
And even Despair was powerless to destroy;
Then did I learn how existence could be cherished,
Strengthened, and fed, without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion--
Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine;
Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten
Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish,
Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain;
Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish,
How could I seek the empty world again?
EMILY BRONTË
299 SONG
When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember
And haply may forget.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
300 "WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST"
Where shall the lover rest
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast
Parted for ever?--
Where, through groves deep and high
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die
Under the willow.
_Eleu loro_
Soft shall be his pillow.
There through the summer day
Cool streams are laving:
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever,
Never again to wake
Never, O never!
_Eleu loro_
Never, O never!
SIR WALTER SCOTT
301 REMEMBER
Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
302 READEN OV A HEAD-STWONE
As I wer readėn ov a stwone,
In Grenley churchyard, all alwone,
A little maïd ran up, wi' pride
To zee me there; an' pushed azide
A bunch o' bennets, that did hide
A verse her father, as she zaïd,
Put up above her mother's head
To tell how much he loved her.
The verse wer short, but very good,
I stood an' larn'd en where I stood:--
"Mid[123] God, dear Meäry, gi'e me greäce
"To vind, lik' thee, a better pleäce,
"Where I, oonce mwore, mid zee thy feäce;
"An' bring thy children up, to know
"His word, that they mid come an' show
"Thy soul how much I loved thee."
"Where's father, then," I zaid, "my chile?"
"Dead, too," she answered wi' a smile;
"An' I an' brother Jem do bide
"At Betty White's, o'tother zide
"O' road." "Mid He, my chile," I cried,
"That's father to the fatherless,
"Become thy father now, an' bless
"An' keep, an' leäd, an' love thee."
--Though she've a-lost, I thought, so much,
Still He don't let the thoughts o't touch
Her litsome heart, by day or night;
An' zoo, if we could teäke it right,
Do show He'll meäke his burdens light
To weaker souls; an' that his smile,
Is sweet upon a harmless chile,
When they be dead that loved it.
WILLIAM BARNES
303 GOLDEN SLUMBERS
Golden slumbers kiss your eyes,
Smiles awake you when you rise.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
Care is heavy, therefore sleep you;
You are care, and care must keep you.
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby:
Rock them, rock them, lullaby.
THOMAS DEKKER
304 MATER DOLOROSA
I'd a dream to-night
As I fell asleep,
O! the touching sight
Makes me still to weep:
Of my little lad,
Gone to leave me sad,
Ay, the child I had,
But was not to keep.
As in heaven high,
I my child did seek,
There in train came by
Children fair and meek,
Each in lily white,
With a lamp alight;
Each was clear to sight,
But they did not speak.
Then, a little sad,
Came my child in turn,
But the lamp he had
O it did not burn!
He, to clear my doubt,
Said, half-turned about,
"Your tears put it out;
Mother, never mourn."
WILLIAM BARNES
305 WEEP YOU NO MORE
Weep you no more, sad fountains!
What need you flow so fast?
Look how the snowy mountains
Heaven's sun doth gently waste!
But my sun's heavenly eyes
View not your weeping,
That now lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
Sleep is a reconciling,
A rest that peace begets:
Doth not the sun rise smiling
When fair at even he sets?
Rest you then, rest, sad eyes!
Melt not in weeping,
While she lies sleeping
Softly, now softly lies
Sleeping.
306 FAERY SONG
Shed no tear--O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Weep no more--O weep no more!
Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
Dry your eyes--O dry your eyes!
For I was taught in Paradise
To ease my breast of melodies--
Shed no tear.
Overhead--look overhead
'Mong the blossoms white and red--
Look up, look up--I flutter now
On this flush pomegranate bough--
See me--'tis this silvery bill
Ever cures the good man's ill--
Shed no tear--O shed no tear!
The flower will bloom another year.
Adieu--Adieu--I fly, adieu,
I vanish in the heaven's blue--
Adieu, Adieu!
JOHN KEATS
307 THE WORLD OF LIGHT
They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the Sun's remove.
I see them walking in an Air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy hope! and high humility,
High as the Heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have showed them me,
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the Jewel of the Just!
Shining nowhere but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know
At first sight if the bird be flown;
But what fair Well, or Grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep,
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep....
HENRY VAUGHAN
308 SILENT IS THE HOUSE
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep:
One alone looks out o'er the snow-wreaths deep,
Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze
That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor;
Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door;
The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far:
I trim it well, to be the wanderer's guiding-star.
Frown, my haughty sire; chide, my angry dame;
Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame!
But neither sire, nor dame, nor prying serf shall know,
What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air,
Safe in secret power from lurking human snare;
What loves me, no word of mine shall e'er betray,
Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear--
Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air:
He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me;
Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy.
EMILY BRONTË
309 THE MISTRESS OF VISION
... Secret was the garden;
Set i' the pathless awe
Where no star its breath can draw.
Life, that is its warden,
Sits behind the fosse of death. Mine eyes saw not, and I saw.
It was a mazeful wonder;
Thrice three times it was enwalled
With an emerald--
Sealèd so asunder.
All its birds in middle air hung a-dream, their music thralled.
The Lady of fair weeping,
At the garden's core,
Sang a song of sweet and sore
And the after-sleeping;
In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.
With sweet-pangèd singing,
Sang she through a dream-night's day;
That the bowers might stay,
Birds bate their winging,
Nor the wall of emerald float in wreathèd haze away....
Her song said that no springing
Paradise but evermore
Hangeth on a singing
That has chords of weeping,
And that sings the after-sleeping
To souls which wake too sore.
"But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the dead his singing-lore,
All its art of sweet and sore
He learns, in Elenore!"
Where is the land of Luthany,
Where is the tract of Elenore?
I am bound therefor.
"Pierce thy heart to find the key;
With thee take
Only what none else would keep;
Learn to dream when thou dost wake,
Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.
Learn to water joy with tears,
Learn from fears to vanquish fears;
To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,
Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;
Plough thou the rock until it bear;
Know, for thou else couldst not believe;
Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;
Die, for none other way canst live.
When earth and heaven lay down their veil,
And that apocalypse turns thee pale;
When thy seeing blindeth thee
To what thy fellow-mortals see;
When their sight to thee is sightless;
Their living, death; their light, most lightless;
Search no more--
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
Where is the land of Luthany,
And where the region Elenore?
I do faint therefor.
"When to the new eyes of thee
All things by immortal power,
Near or far,
Hiddenly
To each other linkèd are,
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star;
When thy song is shield and mirror
To the fair snake-curlèd Pain,
Where thou dar'st affront her terror
That on her thou may'st attain
Perséan conquest; seek no more,
O seek no more!
Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
So sang she, so wept she,
Through a dream-night's day;
And with her magic singing kept she--
Mystical in music--
The garden of enchanting
In visionary May;
Songless from my spirits' haunting,
Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortal mornings grey....
FRANCIS THOMPSON
[Illustration]
FAR
310 TOM O' BEDLAM
The moon's my constant mistress,
And the lovely owl my marrow;
The flaming drake,
And the night-crow, make
Me music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo;
For oft, when he lies sleeping,
I behold the stars
At mortal wars,
And the rounded welkin weeping.
The moon embraces her shepherd,
And the Queen of Love her warrior;
While the first does horn
The stars of the morn,
And the next the heavenly farrier.
With a heart of furious fancies,
Whereof I am commander:
With a burning spear,
And a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander;
With a Knight of ghosts and shadows,
I summoned am to Tourney:
Ten leagues beyond
The wide world's end;
Methinks it is no journey.
311 THE NIGHT-PIECE
Her Eyes the Glow-worme lend thee,
The Shooting Starres attend thee;
And the Elves also,
Whose little eyes glow,
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No _Will-o' th'-Wispe_ mis-light thee;
Nor Snake, or Slow-worme bite thee:
But on, on thy way
Not making a stay,
Since Ghost ther's none to affright thee.
Let not the darke thee cumber;
What though the Moon does slumber?
The Starres of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like Tapers cleare without number....
ROBERT HERRICK
312 MY PLAID AWA'
"My plaid awa', my plaid awa',
And ore the hill and far awa',
And far awa' to Norrowa,
My plaid shall not be blown awa'."
The elphin knight sits on yon hill,
_Ba, ba, lilli ba_,
He blowes it east, he blowes it west,
He blowes it where he lyketh best ...
"My plaid awa', my plaid awa',
And ore the hill and far awa'."
313 BUCKEE BENE
Buckee, Buckee, biddy Bene,
Is the way now fair and clean?
Is the goose ygone to nest,
And the fox ygone to rest?
Shall I come away?
314 WHAT'S IN THERE?
Faht's in there?
Gold and money.
Fahr's[124] my share o't?
The moosie ran awa' wi't.
Fahr's the moosie?
In her hoosie.
Fahr's her hoosie?
In the wood.
Fahr's the wood?
The fire brunt it.
Fahr's the fire?
The water quencht it.
Fahr's the water?
The broon bull drank it.
Fahr's the broon bull?
Back a Burnie's hill.
Fahr's Burnie's hill?
A' claid wi' snaw.
Fahr's the snaw?
The sun meltit it.
Fahr's the sun?
Heigh, heigh up i' the air!"
315 THE WEE WEE MAN
As I was wa'king all alone,
Between a water and a wa',
And there I spy'd a Wee Wee Man,
And he was the least that ere I saw.
His legs were scarce a shathmont's length
And thick and thimber was his thigh;
Between his brows there was a span,
And between his shoulders there was three.
He took up a meikle stane,
And he flang't as far as I could see;
Though I had been a Wallace wight,
I couldna' liften't to my knee.
"O Wee Wee Man, but thou be strang!
O tell me where thy dwelling be?"
"My dwelling's down at yon bonny bower;
O will you go with me and see?"
On we lap, and awa' we rade,
Till we came to yon bonny green;
We lighted down for to bait our horse,
And out there came a lady fine.
Four and twenty at her back,
And they were a' clad out in green;
Though the King of Scotland had been there,
The warst o' them might hae been his queen.
On we lap, and awa' we rade,
Till we came to yon bonny ha',
Whare the roof was o' the beaten gould,
And the floor was o' the cristal a'.
When we came to the stair-foot,
Ladies were dancing, jimp and sma',
But in the twinkling of an eye,
My Wee Wee Man was clean awa'.
316 I SAW A PEACOCK
I saw a peacock with a fiery tail
I saw a blazing comet drop down hail
I saw a cloud wrappèd with ivy round
I saw an oak creep on along the ground
I saw a pismire swallow up a whale
I saw the sea brim full of ale
I saw a Venice glass five fathom deep
I saw a well full of men's tears that weep
I saw red eyes all of a flaming fire
I saw a house bigger than the moon and higher
I saw the sun at twelve o'clock at night
I saw the Man that saw this wondrous sight.
317 GIRAFFE AND TREE
Upon a dark ball spun in Time
Stands a Giraffe beside a Tree:
Of what immortal stuff can that
The fading picture be?
So, thought I, standing by my love
Whose hair, a small black flag,
Broke on the universal air
With proud and lovely brag:
It waved among the silent hills,
A wind of shining ebony
In Time's bright glass, where mirrored clear
Stood the Giraffe beside a Tree.
WALTER J. TURNER
318 THE WATER LADY
Alas, the moon should ever beam
To show what man should never see!
I saw a maiden on a stream,
And fair was she!
I stayed awhile, to see her throw
Her tresses back, that all beset
The fair horizon of her brow
With clouds of jet.
I stayed a little while to view
Her cheek, that wore in place of red
The bloom of water, tender blue,
Daintily spread.
I stayed to watch, a little space,
Her parted lips if she would sing;
The waters closed above her face
With many a ring.
And still I stayed a little more,
Alas! she never comes again;
I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.
I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine,
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she's divine!
THOMAS HOOD
319 THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
W. B. YEATS
320 THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods ...
But there is no road through the woods!
RUDYARD KIPLING
321 THE FALLOW DEER AT THE LONELY HOUSE
One without looks in to-night
Through the curtain-chink
From the sheet of glistening white;
One without looks in to-night
As we sit and think
By the fender-brink.
We do not discern those eyes
Watching in the snow;
Lit by lamps of rosy dyes
We do not discern those eyes
Wondering, aglow,
Fourfooted, tiptoe.
THOMAS HARDY
322 DEER
Shy in their herding dwell the fallow deer.
They are spirits of wild sense. Nobody near
Comes upon their pastures. There a life they live,
Of sufficient beauty, phantom, fugitive,
Treading as in jungles free leopards do,
Printless as evelight, instant as dew.
The great kine are patient, and home-coming sheep
Know our bidding. The fallow deer keep
Delicate and far their counsels wild,
Never to be folded reconciled
To the spoiling hand as the poor flocks are;
Lightfoot, and swift, and unfamiliar,
These you may not hinder, unconfined
Beautiful flocks of the mind.
JOHN DRINKWATER
323 THE TWO SWANS
(A FAIRY TALE)
Immortal Imogen, crowned queen above
The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear
A fairy dream in honour of true love--
True above ills, and frailty, and all fear--
Perchance a shadow of his own career
Whose youth was darkly prisoned and long twined
By serpent-sorrow, till white Love drew near,
And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind
A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind.
I saw a tower builded on a lake,
Mocked by its inverse shadow, dark and deep--
That seemed a still intenser night to make,
Wherein the quiet waters sunk to sleep,--
And, whatsoe'er was prisoned in that keep,
A monstrous Snake was warden:--round and round
In sable ringlets I beheld him creep,
Blackest amid black shadows, to the ground,
Whilst his enormous head the topmost turret crowned:
From whence he shot fierce light against the stars,
Making the pale moon paler with affright;
And with his ruby eye out-threatened Mars--
That blazed in the mid-heavens, hot and bright--
Nor slept, nor winked, but with a steadfast spite
Watched their wan looks and tremblings in the skies;
And that he might not slumber in the night,
The curtain-lids were plucked from his large eyes,
So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize.
Prince or princess in dismal durance pent,
Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate,
Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent,
Watching the lonely waters soon and late,
And clouds that pass and leave them to their fate,
Or company their grief with heavy tears:--
Meanwhile that Hope can spy no golden gate
For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears
They weep and pine away as if immortal years.
No gentle bird with gold upon its wing
Will perch upon the grate--the gentle bird
Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring
Freedom's sweet keynote and commission-word
Learned of a fairy's lips, for pity stirred--
Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest!
Watched by that cruel Snake and darkly heard,
He leave a widow on her lonely nest,
To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast.
No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark,
Will seek the fruitful perils of the place,
To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark
That bear that serpent-image on their face.
And Love, brave Love! though he attempt the base,
Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win
His captive lady from the strict embrace
Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within
His sable folds--like Eve enthralled by the old Sin.
But there is none--no knight in panoply,
Nor Love, intrenched in his strong steely coat:
No little speck--no sail--no helper nigh,
No sign--no whispering--no plash of boat:--
The distant shores show dimly and remote,
Made of a deeper mist,--serene and grey,--
And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float
Over the gloomy wave, and pass away,
Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play.
And bright and silvery the willows sleep
Over the shady verge--no mad winds tease
Their hoary heads; but quietly they weep
Their sprinkling leaves--half fountains and half trees:
There lilies be--and fairer than all these,
A solitary Swan her breast of snow
Launches against the wave that seems to freeze
Into a chaste reflection, still below,
Twin-shadow of herself wherever she may go.
And forth she paddles in the very noon
Of solemn midnight, like an elfin thing
Charmed into being by the argent moon--
Whose silver light for love of her fair wing
Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping
Her dainty plumage:--all around her grew
A radiant circlet, like a fairy ring;
And all behind, a tiny little clue
Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue.
And sure she is no meaner than a fay
Redeemed from sleepy death, for beauty's sake,
By old ordainment:--silent as she lay,
Touched by a moonlight wand I saw her wake,
And cut her leafy slough and so forsake
The verdant prison of her lily peers,
That slept amidst the stars upon the lake--
A breathing shape--restored to human fears,
And new-born love and grief--self-conscious of her tears.
And now she clasps her wings around her heart,
And near that lonely isle begins to glide,
Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start
Turns her impatient head from side to side
In universal terrors--all too wide
To watch; and often to that marble keep
Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied
Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep
That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep.
And well she may, to spy that fearful thing
All down the dusky walls in circlets wound;
Alas! for what rare prize, with many a ring
Girding the marble casket round and round?
His folded tail, lost in the gloom profound,
Terribly darkeneth the rocky base;
But on the top his monstrous head is crowned
With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face
Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place.
Alas! of the hot fires that nightly fall,
No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite,
So he may never see beneath the wall
That timid little creature, all too bright,
That stretches her fair neck, slender and white,
Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries
Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night
With song--but, hush--it perishes in sighs,
And there will be no dirge sad-swelling, though she dies!
She droops--she sinks--she leans upon the lake,
Fainting again into a lifeless flower;
But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake
Her spirit from its death, and with new power
She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower
Of tender song, timed to her falling tears--
That wins the shady summit of that tower,
And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears,
Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears.
And, lo! the scaly beast is all deprest,
Subdued like Argus by the might of sound--
What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest
To magic converse with the air, and bound
The many monster eyes, all slumber-drowned:--
So on the turret-top that watchful Snake
Pillows his giant head, and lists profound,
As if his wrathful spite would never wake,
Charmed into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sake!
His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown,
And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies,
To drink that dainty flood of music down--
His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs--
And whilst his hollow ear entrancèd lies,
His looks for envy of the charmèd sense
Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes,
Stung into pain by their own impotence,
Distil enormous tears into the lake immense.
Oh, tuneful Swan! oh, melancholy bird!
Sweet was that midnight miracle of song,
Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word
To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong--
Hinting a piteous tale--perchance how long
Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake,
What time disguised thy leafy mates among--
And no eye knew what human love and ache
Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break.
Therefore no poet will ungently touch
The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew
Trembles like tears; but ever hold it such
As human pain may wander through and through,
Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue--
Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entombed,
By magic spells. Alas! who ever knew
Sorrow in all its shades, leafy and plumed,
Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed?
And now the wingèd song has scaled the height
Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair,
And soon a little casement flashing bright
Widens self-opened into the cool air--
That music like a bird may enter there
And soothe the captive in his stony cage;
For there is nought of grief, or painful care,
But plaintive song may happily engage
From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage.
And forth into the light, small and remote,
A creature, like the fair son of a king,
Draws to the lattice in his jewelled coat
Against the silver moonlight glistening,
And leans upon his white hand listening
To that sweet music that with tenderer tone
Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing
Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan,
Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone!
And while he listens, the mysterious song,
Woven with timid particles of speech,
Twines into passionate words that grieve along
The melancholy notes, and softly teach
The secrets of true love,--that trembling reach
His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun
He missions like replies, and each to each
Their silver voices mingle into one,
Like blended streams that make one music as they run.
"Ah, Love! my hope is swooning in my heart,--"
"Ay, sweet! my cage is strong and hung full high--"
"Alas! our lips are held so far apart,
Thy words come faint,--they have so far to fly!--"
"If I may only shun that serpent-eye!--"
"Ah me! that serpent-eye doth never sleep;--"
"Then nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die!--"
"Alas, alas! that word has made me weep!
For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep!"
"My marble keep! it is my marble tomb--"
"Nay, sweet! but thou hast there thy living breath--"
"Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom;--"
"But I will come to thee and sing beneath,
And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath;--"
"Nay, I will find a path from these despairs."
"Ah! needs then thou must tread the back of death,
Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs.--
Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares!"
Full sudden at these words, the princely youth
Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still
Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth,
But numbed to dulness by the fairy skill
Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill
For intense fear) that charmed him as he lay--
Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will,
Held some short throbs by natural dismay,
Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way.
Now dimly seen--now toiling out of sight,
Eclipsed and covered by the envious wall;
Now fair and spangled in the sudden light,
And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall:
Now dark and sheltered by a kindly pall
Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe;
Slowly he winds adown--dimly and small,
Watched by the gentle Swan that sings below,
Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow.
But nine times nine the Serpent folds embrace
The marble walls about--which he must tread
Before his anxious foot may touch the base:
Long is the dreary path, and must be sped!
But Love, that holds the mastery of dread,
Braces his spirit, and with constant toil
He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread,
Impatient plunges from the last long coil:
So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil!
The song is hushed, the charm is all complete,
And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake:
But scarce their tender bills have time to meet,
When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake--
His steely scales a fearful rustling make,
Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell
The sable storm;--the plumy lovers quake--
And feel the troubled waters pant and swell,
Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell.
His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death,
His horrible pursuit--his red eyes glare
The waters into blood--his eager breath
Grows hot upon their plumes:--now, minstrel fair!
She drops her ring into the waves, and there
It widens all around, a fairy ring
Wrought of the silver light--the fearful pair
Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling
The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.
Bending their course over the pale grey lake,
Against the pallid East, wherein light played
In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake
Circled them round continually, and bayed
Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade
The sanctuary ring: his sable mail
Rolled darkly through the flood, and writhed and made
A shining track over the waters pale,
Lashed into boiling foam by his enormous tail.
And so they sailed into the distance dim,
Into the very distance--small and white,
Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim
Over the brooklets--followed by the spite
Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright
Worried them on their course, and sore annoy,
Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light,
And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy,
Locked in embrace of sweet unutterable joy!
Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers
Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes
Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers
The Oriental sun began to rise,
Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies;
Wherewith that sable Serpent far away
Fled, like a part of night--delicious sighs
From waking blossoms purified the day,
And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray.
THOMAS HOOD
324 THE EARL OF MAR'S DAUGHTER
It was intill a pleasant time,
Upon a simmer's day,
The noble Earl of Mar's daughter
Went forth to sport and play.
As thus she did amuse hersell,
Below a green aik tree,
There she saw a sprightly doo[125]
Set on a tower sae hie.
"O Cow-me-doo, my love sae true,
If ye'll come down to me,
Ye'se hae a cage o' guid red gowd
Instead o' simple tree:
"I'll put gowd hingers[126] roun' your cage,
And siller roun' your wa';
I'll gar[127] ye shine as fair a bird
As ony o' them a'."
But she hadnae these words well spoke,
Nor yet these words well said,
Till Cow-me-doo flew frae the tower
And lighted on her head.
Then she has brought this pretty bird
Hame to her bowers and ha',
And made him shine as fair a bird
As ony o' them a'.
When day was gane, and night was come,
About the evening tide
This lady spied a sprightly youth
Stand straight up by her side.
"From whence came ye, young man?" she said;
"That does surprise me sair;
My door was bolted right secure,
What way hae ye come here?"
"O had[128] your tongue, ye lady fair,
Lat a' your folly be;
Mind ye not on your turtle-doo
Last day ye brought wi' thee?"
"O tell me mair, young man," she said,
"This does surprise me now;
What country hae ye come frae?
What pedigree are you?"
"My mither lives on foreign isles,
She has nae mair but me;
She is a queen o' wealth and state,
And birth and high degree.
"Likewise well skilled in magic spells,
As ye may plainly see,
And she transformed me to yon shape,
To charm such maids as thee.
"I am a doo the live-lang day,
A sprightly youth at night;
This aye gars me appear mair fair
In a fair maiden's sight.
"And it was but this verra day
That I came ower the sea;
Your lovely face did me enchant;
I'll live and dee wi' thee."
"O Cow-me-doo, my luve sae true,
Nae mair frae me ye'se gae";
"That's never my intent, my luve,
As ye said, it shall be sae...."
325 THE BROOMFIELD HILL
_Brome, brome on hill,_
_The gentle brome on hill, hill,_
_Brome, brome on Hive hill,_
_The gentle brome on Hive hill,_
_The brome stands on Hive hill-a...._
"O where were ye, my milk-white steed,
That I hae coft[129] sae dear,
That wadna' watch and waken me
When there was maiden here?"
"I stampèd wi' my foot, master,
And gard my bridle ring,
But na kin thing wald waken ye,
Till she was past and gane."
"And wae betide ye, my gay goss-hawk,
That I did love sae dear,
That wadna' watch and waken me
When there was maiden here."
"I clappèd wi' my wings, master,
And aye my bells I rang,
And aye cryed, Waken, waken, master,
Before the ladye gang."
"But haste and haste, my guide white steed,
To come the maiden till,
Or a' the birds of gude green wood
Of your flesh shall have their fill."
"Ye need no burst your gude white steed
Wi' racing o'er the howm;[130]
Nae bird flies faster through the wood,
Than she fled through the broom."
326 THE CHANGELING
Toll no bell for me, dear Father, dear Mother,
Waste no sighs;
There are my sisters, there is my little brother
Who plays in the place called Paradise,
Your children all, your children for ever;
But I, so wild,
Your disgrace, with the queer brown face, was never,
Never, I know, but half your child!
In the garden at play, all day, last summer,
Far and away I heard
The sweet "tweet-tweet" of a strange new-comer,
The dearest, clearest call of a bird.
It lived down there in the deep green hollow,
My own old home, and the fairies say
The word of a bird is a thing to follow,
So I was away a night and a day.
One evening, too, by the nursery fire,
We snuggled close and sat round so still,
When suddenly as the wind blew higher,
Something scratched on the window-sill,
A pinched brown face peered in--I shivered;
No one listened or seemed to see;
The arms of it waved and the wings of it quivered,
Whoo--I knew it had come for me!
Some are as bad as bad can be!
All night long they danced in the rain,
Round and round in a dripping chain,
Threw their caps at the window-pane,
Tried to make me scream and shout
And fling the bedclothes all about:
I meant to stay in bed that night,
And if only you had left a light
They would never have got me out!
Sometimes I wouldn't speak, you see,
Or answer when you spoke to me,
Because in the long, still dusks of Spring
You can hear the whole world whispering;
The shy green grasses making love,
The feathers grow on the dear grey dove,
The tiny heart of the redstart beat,
The patter of the squirrel's feet,
The pebbles pushing in the silver streams,
The rushes talking in their dreams,
The swish-swish of the bat's black wings,
The wild-wood bluebell's sweet ting-tings,
Humming and hammering at your ear,
Everything there is to hear
In the heart of hidden things.
But not in the midst of the nursery riot,
That's why I wanted to be quiet,
Couldn't do my sums, or sing,
Or settle down to anything.
And when, for that, I was sent upstairs
I _did_ kneel down to say my prayers;
But the King who sits on your high church steeple
Has nothing to do with us fairy people!
'Times I pleased you, dear Father, dear Mother,
Learned all my lessons and liked to play,
And dearly I loved the little pale brother
Whom some other bird must have called away.
Why did they bring me here to make me
Not quite bad and not quite good,
Why, unless They're wicked, do They want, in spite, to take me
Back to Their wet, wild wood?
Now, every night I shall see the windows shining,
The gold lamp's glow, and the fire's red gleam,
While the best of us are twining twigs and the rest of us are whining
In the hollow by the stream.
Black and chill are Their nights on the wold;
And They live so long and They feel no pain:
I shall grow up, but never grow old,
I shall always, always be very cold,
I shall never come back again!
CHARLOTTE MEW
327 THE HOST OF THE AIR
O'Driscoll drove with a song
The wild duck and the drake
From the tall and the tufted reeds
Of the drear Hart Lake.
And he saw how the reeds grew dark
At the coming of night tide,
And dreamed of the long dim hair
Of Bridget his bride.
He heard while he sang and dreamed
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
And he saw young men and young girls
Who danced on a level place
And Bridget his bride among them,
With a sad and a gay face.
The dancers crowded about him,
And many a sweet thing said,
And a young man brought him red wine
And a young girl white bread.
But Bridget drew him by the sleeve,
Away from the merry bands,
To old men playing at cards
With a twinkling of ancient hands.
The bread and the wine had a doom,
For these were the host of the air;
He sat and played in a dream
Of her long dim hair.
He played with the merry old men
And thought not of evil chance,
Until one bore Bridget his bride
Away from the merry dance.
He bore her away in his arms,
The handsomest young man there,
And his neck and his breast and his arms
Were drowned in her long dim hair.
O'Driscoll scattered the cards
And out of his dream awoke:
Old men and young men and young girls
Were gone like a drifting smoke;
But he heard high up in the air
A piper piping away,
And never was piping so sad,
And never was piping so gay.
W. B. YEATS
328 THE LOVE-TALKER
I met the Love-Talker one eve in the glen,
He was handsomer than any of our handsome young men,
His eyes were blacker than the sloe, his voice sweeter far
Than the crooning of old Kevin's pipes beyond in Coolnagar.
I was bound for the milking with a heart fair and free--
My grief! my grief! that bitter hour drained the life from me;
I thought him human lover, though his lips on mine were cold,
And the breath of death blew keen on me within his hold.
I know not what way he came, no shadow fell behind,
But all the sighing rushes swayed beneath a faery wind,
The thrush ceased its singing, a mist crept about,
We two clung together--with the world shut out.
Beyond the ghostly mist I could hear my cattle low,
The little cow from Ballina, clean as driven snow,
The dun cow from Kerry, the roan from Inisheer,
Oh, pitiful their calling--and his whispers in my ear!
His eyes were a fire; his words were a snare;
I cried my mother's name, but no help was there;
I made the blessed Sign; then he gave a dreary moan,
A wisp of cloud went floating by, and I stood alone.
Running ever through my head, is an old-time rune--
"Who meets the Love-Talker must weave her shroud soon."
My mother's face is furrowed with the salt tears that fall,
But the kind eyes of my father are the saddest sight of all.
I have spun the fleecy lint, and now my wheel is still,
The linen length is woven for my shroud fine and chill,
I shall stretch me on the bed where a happy maid I lay--
Pray for the soul of Mairė Og at dawning of the day!
ETHNA CARBERY
329 MARIANA
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the garden-wall.
The broken sheds looked sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
_She only said, "My life is dreary,_
_He cometh not," she said;_
_She said, "I am aweary, aweary,_
_I would that I were dead!"_
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
_She only said, "The night is dreary,_
_He cometh not," she said;_
_She said, "I am aweary, aweary,_
_I would that I were dead!"_
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the grey-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
_She only said, "The day is dreary,_
_He cometh not," she said;_
_She said, "I am aweary, aweary,_
_I would that I were dead!"_
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blackened waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The clustered marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarlèd bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding grey.
_She only said, "My life is dreary,_
_He cometh not," she said;_
_She said, "I am aweary, aweary,_
_I would that I were dead!"_
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
_She only said, "The night is dreary,_
_He cometh not," she said;_
_She said, "I am aweary, aweary,_
_I would that I were dead!"_
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creaked;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked,
Or from the crevice peered about.
Old faces glimmered thro' the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
_She only said, "My life is dreary,_
_He cometh not," she said;_
_She said, "I am aweary, aweary,_
_I would that I were dead!"_
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
_Then, said she, "I am very dreary,_
_He will not come," she said;_
_She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,_
_Oh God, that I were dead!"_
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
330 KEITH OF RAVELSTON
The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,
"Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!"
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill,
And thro' the silver meads;
Ravelston, Ravelston,
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she!
She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro' the Monday morn.
His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine!
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.
Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.
Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Step out three steps, where Andrew stood--
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear!
She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine;
Oh, Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
SYDNEY DOBELL
331 UNWELCOME
We were young, we were merry, we were very very wise,
And the door stood open at our feast,
When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast,
The loudest voice was still.
The jest died away on our lips as they passed,
And the rays of July struck chill.
The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,
The white bread black as soot.
The hound forgot the hand of her lord,
She fell down at his foot.
Low let me lie, where the dead dog lies,
Ere I sit me down again at a feast,
When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
MARY COLERIDGE
332 ON YES TOR
Beneath our feet, the shuddering bogs
Made earthquakes of their own,
For greenish-grizzled furtive frogs
And lizards lithe and brown;
And high to east and south and west,
Girt round the feet with gorse,
Lay, summering, breast by giant breast,
The titan brood of tors;
Golden and phantom-pale they lay,
Calm in the cloudless light,
Like gods that, slumbering, still survey
The obsequious infinite.
Plod, plod, through herbage thin or dense;
Past chattering rills of quartz;
Across brown bramble-coverts, whence
The shy black ouzel darts;
Through empty leagues of broad, bare lands,
Beneath the empty skies,
Clutched in the grip of those vast hands,
Cowed by those golden eyes,
We fled beneath their scornful stare,
Like terror-hunted dogs,
More timid than the lizards were,
And shyer than the frogs.
EDMUND GOSSE
333 THE WITCHES' SONG
"I have beene all day looking after
A raven feeding upon a quarter;
And, soone as she turned her back to the south,
I snatched this morsell out of her mouth."...
"I last night lay all alone
O' the ground, to heare the madrake grone;
And pluckt him up, though he grew full low:
And, as I had done, the cocke did crow."...
"And I ha' been plucking (plants among)
Hemlock, henbane, adders-tongue,
Night-shade, moone-wort, libbards-bane;
And twise by the dogges was like to be tane."...
"Yes: I have brought, to helpe your vows,
Hornèd poppie, cypresse boughes,
The fig-tree wild, that grows on tombes,
And juice that from the larch-tree comes,
The basiliske's bloud, and the viper's skin;
And now our orgies let's begin."
BEN JONSON
334 THE RAVEN
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore,
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door:--
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore:"
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore:
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;
'Tis the wind and nothing more."
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door,
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door:
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,--
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore:
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered,--"Other friends have flown
before;
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore:
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and
door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore,
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath
sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!
Whether Tempter sent or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted,
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore:
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked,
upstarting
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!
EDGAR ALLAN POE
335 THE WITCH'S BALLAD
O, I hae come from far away,
From a warm land far away,
A southern land across the sea,
With sailor-lads about the mast,
Merry and canny, and kind to me.
And I hae been to yon town
To try my luck in yon town;
Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too.
Right braw we were to pass the gate,
Wi' gowden-clasps on girdles blue.
Mysie smiled wi' miminy mouth,
Innocent mouth, miminy mouth;
Elspie wore a scarlet gown.
Nort's grey eyes were unco' gleg.[131]
My Castile comb was like a crown.
We walk'd abreast all up the street,
Into the market up the street;
Our hair with marigolds was wound,
Our bodices with love-knots laced,
Our merchandise with tansy bound.
Nort had chickens, I had cocks;
Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks;
Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,--
For a wee groat or a pound
We lost nae time wi' gives and takes.
--Lost nae time for well we knew,
In our sleeves full well we knew,
When the gloaming came that night,
Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock
Would be found by candle-light.
And when our chaffering all was done,
All was paid for, sold and done,
We drew a glove on ilka hand,
We sweetly curtsied, each to each.
And deftly danced a saraband.
The market-lassies looked and laughed,
Left their gear, and looked and laughed;
They made as they would join the game,
But soon their mithers, wild and wud,[132]
With whack and screech they stopped the same.
Sae loud the tongues o' randies[133] grew,
The flytin'[134] and the skirlin' grew,
At all the windows in the place,
Wi' spoons or knives, wi' needle or awl,
Was thrust out every hand and face.
And down each stair they thronged anon,
Gentle, semple, thronged anon;
Souter[135] and tailor, frowsy Nan,
The ancient widow young again,
Simpering behind her fan.
Without a choice, against their will,
Doited,[136] dazed, against their will,
The market lassie and her mither,
The farmer and his husbandman,
Hand in hand dance a' thegither.
Slow at first, but faster soon,
Still increasing, wild and fast,
Hoods and mantles, hats and hose,
Blindly doffed and cast away,
Left them naked, heads and toes.
They would have torn us limb from limb,
Dainty limb from dainty limb;
But never one of them could win
Across the line that I had drawn
With bleeding thumb a-widdershin.
But there was Jeff the provost's son,
Jeff the provost's only son;
There was Father Auld himsel',
The Lombard frae the hostelry,
And the lawyer Peter Fell.
All goodly men we singled out,
Waled[137] them well, and singled out,
And drew them by the left hand in;
Mysie the priest, and Elspie won
The Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle,
I mysel' the provost's son.
Then, with cantrip[138] kisses seven,
Three times round with kisses seven,
Warped and woven there spun we
Arms and legs and flaming hair,
Like a whirlwind on the sea.
Like a wind that sucks the sea,
Over and in and on the sea,
Good sooth it was a mad delight;
And every man of all the four
Shut his eyes and laughed outright.
Laughed as long as they had breath,
Laughed while they had sense or breath;
And close about us coiled a mist
Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies,
Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.
Drawn up I was right off my feet,
Into the mist and off my feet;
And, dancing on each chimney-top,
I saw a thousand darling imps
Keeping time with skip and hop.
And on the provost's brave ridge-tile,
On the provost's grand ridge-tile,
The Blackamoor first to master me
I saw, I saw that winsome smile,
The mouth that did my heart beguile,
And spoke the great Word over me,
In the land beyond the sea.
I called his name, I called aloud,
Alas! I called on him aloud;
And then he filled his hand with stour,[139]
And threw it towards me in the air;
My mouse flew out, I lost my pow'r!
My lusty strength, my power were gone;
Power was gone, and all was gone.
He will not let me love him more!
Of bell and whip and horse's tail
He cares not if I find a store.
But I am proud if he is fierce!
I am as proud as he is fierce;
I'll turn about and backward go,
If I meet again that Blackamoor,
And he'll help us then, for he shall know
I seek another paramour.
And we'll gang once more to yon town,
Wi' better luck to yon town;
We'll walk in silk and cramoisie,
And I shall wed the provost's son
My lady of the town I'll be!
For I was born a crowned king's child,
Born and nursed a king's child,
King o' a land ayont the sea,
Where the Blackamoor kissed me first,
And taught me art and glamourie.
Each one in her wame shall hide
Her hairy mouse, her wary mouse,
Fed on madwort and agramie,--
Wear amber beads between her breasts,
And blind-worm's skin about her knee.
The Lombard shall be Elspie's man,
Elspie's gowden husband-man;
Nort shall take the lawyer's hand;
The priest shall swear another vow;
We'll dance again the saraband!
WILLIAM BELL SCOTT
336 ANNAN WATER
Annan Water's wading deep,
"And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny;
And I am loath she should wet her feet,
Because I love her best of ony."
He's loupen on his bonny gray,
He rode the right gate[140] and the ready;[141]
For all the storm he wadna stay,
For seeking of his bonny lady.
And he has ridden o'er field and fell,
Through moor, and moss, and many a mire;
His spurs of steel were sair to bide,
And from her four feet flew the fire.
"My bonny gray, now play your part!
If ye be the steed that wins my dearie,
With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye,
And never spur shall make you wearie."
The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare;
But when she wan the Annan Water,
She should not have ridden the ford that night
Had a thousand marks been wadded at her.
"O boatman, boatman, put off your boat,
Put off your boat for golden money!"
But for all the gold in fair Scotland,
He dared not take him through to Annie.
"O I was sworn so late yestreen,
Not by a single oath, but mony!
I'll cross the drumly stream to-night,
Or never could I face my honey."
The side was steep, and the bottom deep,
From bank to brae the water pouring;
The bonny gray mare she swat for fear,
For she heard the Water-Kelpy roaring.
He spurred her forth into the flood,
I wot she swam both strong and steady;
But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail,
And he never saw his bonny lady!
337 SONG
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh:
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea,
The lark, his lay who thrilled all day,
Sits hushed his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?--
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier;
The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know--
But where is County Guy?
SIR WALTER SCOTT
338 DEADMAN'S DIRGE
Prayer unsaid, and Mass unsung,
Deadman's dirge must still be rung:
_Dingle-dong_, the dead-bells sound!
Mermen chant his dirge around!
Wash him bloodless, smooth him fair,
Stretch his limbs, and sleek his hair:
_Dingle-dong_, the dead-bells go!
Mermen swing them to and fro!
In the wormless sand shall he
Feast for no foul glutton be:
_Dingle-dong_, the dead-bells chime!
Mermen keep the tone and time!
We must with a tombstone brave
Shut the shark out from his grave:
_Dingle-dong_, the dead-bells toll!
Mermen dirgers ring his knoll!
Such a slab will we lay o'er him,
All the dead shall rise before him:
_Dingle-dong_, the dead-bells boom!
Mermen lay him in his tomb!
GEORGE DARLEY
339 BOATS AT NIGHT
How lovely is the sound of oars at night
And unknown voices, borne through windless air,
From shadowy vessels floating out of sight
Beyond the harbour lantern's broken glare
To those piled rocks that make on the dark wave
Only a darker stain. The splashing oars
Slide softly on as in an echoing cave
And with the whisper of the unseen shores
Mingle their music, till the bell of night
Murmurs reverberations low and deep
That droop towards the land in swooning flight
Like whispers from the lazy lips of sleep.
The oars grow faint. Below the cloud-dim hill
The shadows fade and now the bay is still.
EDWARD SHANKS
340 A VOICE SINGS
Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
Lest a blacker charm compel!
So shall the midnight breezes swell
With thy deep long-lingering knell.
And at evening evermore,
In a chapel on the shore,
Shall the chaunters, sad and saintly,
Yellow tapers burning faintly,
Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
_Miserere Domine!_
Hark, the cadence dies away
On the quiet moonlight sea:
The boatmen rest their oars; and say,
_Miserere Domine!_
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
341 THE WANDERING SPECTRE
Wae's me, wae's me,
The acorn's not yet
Fallen from the tree
That's to grow the wood,
That's to make the cradle,
That's to rock the bairn,
That's to grow a man,
That's to lay me.
342 LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT
On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose.
Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend
Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened,
Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose.
Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.
And now upon his western wing he leaned,
Now his huge bulk o'er Afric's sands careened,
Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows.
Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars
With memory of the old revolt from Awe,
He reached a middle height, and at the stars,
Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank.
Around the ancient track marched rank on rank,
The army of unalterable law.
GEORGE MEREDITH
343 THERE WAS A KNIGHT
There was a knicht riding frae the east,
_Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_.
Who had been wooing at monie a place,
_As the doo[142] flies owre the mulberry tree_.
He cam' unto a widow's door,
And speird[143] whare her three dochters were.
"The auldest ane's to a washing gane,
The second's to a baking gane."
"The youngest ane's to a wedding gane,
And it will be nicht or[144] she be hame."
He sat him doun upon a stane,
Till thir three lasses cam' tripping hame.
The auldest ane she let him in,
And pinned the door wi' a siller pin.
The second ane she made his bed,
And laid saft pillows unto his head.
The youngest ane was bauld[145] and bricht,
And she tarried for words wi' this unco knicht.--
"Gin ye will answer me questions ten,
The morn ye sall me made my ain:--
"O what is higher nor[146] the tree?
And what is deeper nor the sea?
"Or what is heavier nor the lead?
And what is better nor the bread?
"Or what is whiter nor the milk?
Or what is safter nor the silk?
"Or what is sharper nor a thorn?
Or what is louder nor a horn?
"Or what is greener nor the grass?
Or what is waur[147] nor a woman was?"
"O heaven is higher nor the tree,
And hell is deeper nor the sea.
"O sin is heavier nor the lead,
The blessing's better nor the bread.
"The snaw is whiter nor the milk,
And the down is safter nor the silk.
"Hunger is sharper nor a thorn,
And shame is louder nor a horn.
"The pies are greener nor the grass,
And Clootie's waur nor a woman was."
As sune as she the fiend did name,
_Jennifer gentle an' rosemaree_,
He flew awa' in a blazing flame,
_As the doo flies owre the mulberry tree_.
344 THE FALSE KNIGHT UPON THE ROAD
"O whare are ye gaun?"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"I'm gaun to the scule."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"What is that upon your back?"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"Atweel[148] it is my bukes."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"What's that ye've got in your arm?"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"Atweel it is my peit."[149]
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"Wha's aucht[150] they sheep?"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"They're mine and my mither's."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"How monie o' them are mine?"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"A' they that hae blue tails."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"I wiss ye were on yon tree:"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"And a gude ladder under me."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"And the ladder for to break:"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"And you for to fa' down."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"I wiss ye were in yon sie:"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"And a gude bottom[151] under me."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
"And the bottom for to break:"
_Quo' the fause knicht upon the road_:
"And ye to be drowned."
_Quo' the wee boy, and still he stude_.
345 CHRISTABEL
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
_Tu-whit!----Tu-whoo!_
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothèd knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest mistletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.--
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek--
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan--
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair....
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
346 THE FRUIT PLUCKER
Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress,
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.
It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more beloved than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,
That beauteous Boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,
In place so silent and so wild--
Has he no friend, no loving mother near?
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
347 THE HAUNTED PALACE
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace--
Radiant palace--reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This--all this--was in the olden
Time long ago),
And every gentle air that dallied
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid
A wingèd odour went away.
Wanderers, in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tunèd law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene),
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home, the glory,
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh--but smile no more.
EDGAR ALLAN POE
348 THE HOUSE OF RICHESSE
NEIGHBOURING THE GATE OF HELL INTO WHICH MAMMON LED THE ELFIN
KNIGHT
... That houses forme within was rude and strong,
Like an huge cave, hewne out of rocky clift,
From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong,
Embost with massy gold of glorious gift,
And with rich metall loaded every rift,
That heavy ruine they did seeme to threat;
And over them _Arachne_ high did lift
Her cunning web, and spred her subtile net,
Enwrappèd in fowle smoke and clouds more blacke then jet.
Both roofe, and floore, and wals were all of gold,
But overgrowne with dust and old decay,
And hid in darkenesse, that none could behold
The hew thereof: for vew of chearefull day
Did never in that house it selfe display,
But a faint shadow of uncertain light;
Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away:
Or as the Noone cloathèd with clowdy night,
Does shew to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.
In all that rowme was nothing to be seene,
But huge great yron chests and coffers strong,
All bard with double bends,[152] that none could weene
Them to efforce by violence or wrong;
On every side they placèd were along.
But all the ground with sculs was scatterèd,
And dead mens bones, which round about were flong,
Whose lives, it seemèd, whilome there were shed,
And their vile carcases now left unburièd....
EDMUND SPENSER
349 THE OLD CITY
Thou hast come from the old city,
From the gate and the tower,
From King and priest and serving man
And burnished bower,
From beggar's whine and barking dogs,
From prison sealed--
Thou hast come from the old city
Into the field.
The gables in the old city
Are stooping awry,
They gloom upon the muddy lanes
And smother the sky,
And nightly through those mouldy lanes,
Moping and slow,
They who builded the old city
The cold ghosts go.
There is plague in the old city,
And the priests are sped
To graveyard and vault
To bury the dead;
Brittle bones and dusty breath
To death must yield--
Fly, fly, from the old city
Into the field!
RUTH MANNING-SANDERS
350 THE TWO SPIRITS
_First Spirit._ O Thou, who plumed with strong desire
Wouldst float above the earth, beware!
A shadow tracks the flight of fire--
Night is coming!
Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there--
Night is coming!
_Second Spirit._ The deathless stars are bright above;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day!
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where'er they move;
The meteors will linger round my flight;
And make night day.
_First Spirit._ But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain;
See, the bounds of the air are shaken--
Night is coming!
The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain--
Night is coming!
_Second Spirit._ I see the light, and I hear the sound;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempests dark,
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day:
And then, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound;
My moon-like flight thou then may'st mark
On high, far away.
Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice
'Mid Alpine mountains;
And that the languid storm pursuing
That wingèd shape, for ever flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing
Its aëry fountains.
Some say, when nights are dry and clear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day;
And a silver shape, like his early love, doth pass
Up-borne by her wild and glittering hair,
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,
He finds night day.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
[Illustration]
"LILY BRIGHT AND SHINE-A"
351 SILLY SWEETHEART
Silly Sweetheart, say not nay,
Come away:
All I tell is sweet and merry;
Soon rings evensong, and soon
Where was blossom hangs a berry;
Where was darkness shines a moon.
Prythee, Sweetheart, then I say,
Come, come away.
O away,
Come away:
Maids there are with cheeks like roses,
Thine are roses in the snow.
Fie, the lass whose dainty nose is
Tilted not as one I know.
Nought heeds she, Alackaday!
My, Come, come away.
O away,
Come away:
Honeycomb by bees made sweet is;
Dew on apple, bloom on plum;
Hearken, my heart's lightest beat is
Drumming, drumming; haste and come
Say not nay, then;
Make no stay, then;
Dance thy dainty foot and straying
Come, come away!
352 HERE COMES A LUSTY WOOER
"Here comes a lusty wooer,
_My a dildin, my a daldin_;
Here comes a lusty wooer,
_Lily bright and shine-a_."
"Pray who do you woo?
_My a dildin, my a daldin_;
Pray who do you woo?
_Lily bright and shine-a_."
"Woo! Your fairest daughter!
_My a dildin, my a daldin_;
Woo! your fairest daughter!
_Lily bright and shine-a_."
"There! there! she is for you,
_My a dildin, my a daldin_;
There! there! she is for you,
_Lily bright and shine-a_."
353 THREE KNIGHTS FROM SPAIN
We are three Brethren come from Spain,
_All in French garlands_;
We are come to court your daughter Jane,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
My daughter Jane!--she is too young,
_All in French garlands_;
She cannot bide your flattering tongue,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
Be she young, or be she old,
_All in French garlands_;
'Tis for a bride she must be sold,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
A bride, a bride, she shall not be
_All in French garlands_;
Till she go through this world with me,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
Then shall you keep your daughter Jane,
_All in French garlands_;
Come once, we come not here again,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
Turn back, turn back, you Spanish Knights,
_All in French garlands_;
Scour, scour your spurs, till they be bright,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
Sharp shine our spurs, all richly wrought,
_All in French garlands_;
In towns afar our spurs were bought
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
Smell my lilies, smell my roses,
_All in French garlands_;
Which of my maidens do you choose?
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
Not she. Not she. Thy youngest, Jane!
_All in French garlands_;
We ride--and ride not back again,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
In every pocket a thousand pound,
_All in French garlands_;
On every finger a gay gold ring,
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
_And adieu to you, my darlings_.
354 THE WHUMMIL BORE
Seven lang years I hae served the King,
_Fa fa fa fa lilly_:
And I never got a sight of his daughter but ane:
_With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle_,
_Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally_.
I saw her thro' a whummil bore,
_Fa fa fa fa lilly_:
And I ne'er got a sight of her no more.
_With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle_,
_Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally_.
Twa was putting on her gown,
_Fa fa fa fa lilly_:
And ten was putting pins therein.
_With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle_.
_Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally._
Twa was putting on her shoon,
_Fa fa fa fa lilly_:
And twa was buckling them again.
_With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle_.
_Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally._
Five was combing down her hair,
_Fa fa fa fa lilly_:
And I ne'er got a sight of her nae mair.
_With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle_,
_Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally_.
Her neck and breast was like the snow,
_Fa fa fa fa lilly_:
Then from the bore I was forced to go.
_With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle_,
_Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally_.
355 HEY, WULLY WINE
Hey, Wully wine, and How, Wully wine,
I hope for hame ye'll no' incline;
Ye'll better light, and stay a' night,
And I'll gie thee a lady fine.
I maun ride hame, I maun gang hame,
And bide nae langer here;
The road is lang, the mirk soon on,
And howlets mak' me fear.
Light down, and bide wi' us a' night,
We'll choose for ye a bonnie lass,
Ye'll get your wield and pick o' them a'
And the time it soon awa' will pass.
Wha will ye gie, if I wi' ye bide,
To be my bonny bonny bride,
And lie down lovely by my side?
I'll gie thee Kate o' Dinglebell,
A bonny body like yersell.
I'll stick her high in yon pear-tree
Sweet and meek, and sae is she:
I' lo'ed her ance, but she's no' for me,
Yet I thank ye for your courtesy.
I'll gie thee Rozie o' the Cleugh,
I'm sure she'll please thee weel eneugh.
Up wi' her on the bare bane dyke,
She'll be rotten or[153] I'll be ripe:
She's made for some ither, and no' me,
Yet I thank ye for your courtesy.
Then I'll gie ye Nell o' sweet Sprinkell,
Owre Galloway she bears the bell.
I'll set her up in my bed-head,
And feed her wi' new milk and bread;
She's for nae ither, but just for me,
Sae I thank ye for your courtesy.
356 DOWN IN YONDER MEADOW
Down in yonder meadow where the green grass grows,
Pretty Pollie Pillicote bleaches her clothes.
She sang, she sang, she sang, oh, so sweet,
She sang, _Oh, come over!_ across the street.
He kissed her, he kissed her, he bought her a gown,
A gown of rich cramasie out of the town.
He bought her a gown and a guinea gold ring,
A guinea, a guinea, a guinea gold ring;
Up street, and down, shine the windows made of glass,
Oh, isn't Pollie Pillicote a braw young lass?
Cherries in her cheeks, and ringlets her hair,
Hear her singing _Handy, Dandy_ up and down the stair.
357 QUOTH JOHN TO JOAN
Quoth John to Joan, will thou have me:
I prithee now, wilt? and I'll marry thee,
My cow, my calf, my house, my rents,
And all my lands and tenements:
Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do?
I cannot come every day to woo.
I've corn and hay in the barn hard-by,
And three fat hogs pent up in the sty,
I have a mare and she is coal black,
I ride on her tail to save my back.
Then, say, my Joan, will not that do?
I cannot come every day to woo.
I have a cheese upon the shelf,
And I cannot eat it all myself;
I've three good marks that lie in a rag,
In a nook of the chimney, instead of a bag.
Then, say, my Joan, will not that do?
I cannot come every day to woo.
To marry I would have thy consent,
But faith I never could compliment;
I can say nought but "Hoy, gee ho!"
Words that belong to the cart and the plough.
Oh, say, my Joan, will not that do?
I cannot come every day to woo.
358 MY MISTRESS IS AS FAIR AS FINE
My mistress is as fair as fine,
Milk-white fingers, cherry nose.
Like twinkling day-stars look her eyne,
Lightening all things where she goes.
Fair as Phoebe, though not so fickle,
Smooth as glass, though not so brickle.
My heart is like a ball of snow
Melting at her lukewarm sight;
Her fiery lips like night-worms glow,
Shining clear as candle-light.
Neat she is, no feather lighter;
Bright she is, no daisy whiter.
359 DIAPHENIA
Diaphenia, like the daffdowndilly,
White as the sun, fair as the lily,
Heigh ho, how I do love thee!
I do love thee as my lambs
Are belovèd of their dams--
How blest were I if thou wouldst prove me.
Diaphenia, like the spreading roses,
That in thy sweets all sweets encloses,
Fair sweet, how I do love thee!
I do love thee as each flower
Loves the sun's life-giving power,
For, dead, thy breath to life might move me.
Diaphenia, like to all things blessèd,
When all thy praises are expressèd,
Dear joy, how I do love thee!
As the birds do love the Spring,
Or the bees their careful king.
Then in requite, sweet virgin, love me!
HENRY CONSTABLE
360 AEGLAMOUR'S LAMENT
Here she was wont to go, and here, and here!
Just where those daisies, pinks, and violets grow:
The world may find the spring by following her;
For other print her airy steps ne'er left:
Her treading would not bend a blade of grass,
Or shake the downy blow-ball from his stalk;
But like the soft west-wind she shot along;
And where she went, the flowers took thickest root
As she had sowed them with her odourous foot.
BEN JONSON
361 MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART
My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange one for the other given;
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driven.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his because in me it bides.
His heart his wound receivèd from my sight,
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me on him his heart did light,
So still methought in me his heart did smart.
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,
My true love hath my heart, and I have his.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY
362 A BIRTHDAY
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a watered shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickest fruit.
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down;
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;
Work it in gold and silver grapes,
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;
Because the birthday of my life
Is come, my love is come to me.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
363 LIFE OF LIFE
"VOICE IN THE AIR, SINGING"
Life of Life! thy lips enkindle
With their love the breath between them;
And thy smiles before they dwindle
Make the cold air fire; then screen them
In those looks, where whoso gazes
Faints, entangled in their mazes.
Child of Light! thy limbs are burning
Through the vest which seeks to hide them;
As the radiant lines of morning
Through the clouds ere they divide them;
And this atmosphere divinest
Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest.
Fair are others; none beholds thee,
But thy voice sounds low and tender
Like the fairest, for it folds thee
From the sight, that liquid splendour,
And all feel, yet see thee never,
As I feel now, lost for ever!
Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest
Its dim shapes are clad with brightness,
And the souls of whom thou lovest
Walk upon the winds with lightness,
Till they fail, as I am failing,
Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
364 A SONNET OF THE MOON
Look how the pale Queen of the silent night
Doth cause the ocean to attend upon her,
And he, as long as she is in his sight,
With his full tide is ready her to honour:
But when the silver waggon of the Moon
Is mounted up so high he cannot follow,
The sea calls home his crystal waves to moan,
And with low ebb doth manifest his sorrow.
So you that are the sovereign of my heart,
Have all my joys attending on your will,
My joys low-ebbing when you do depart,
When you return, their tide my heart doth fill.
So as you come, and as you do depart,
Joys ebb and flow within my tender heart.
CHARLES BEST
365 THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE
O many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
That came not of stream or malt, like the brewing of men:
My bed was the ground; my roof, the green-wood above;
And the wealth that I sought, one far kind glance from my Love.
Alas, on that night when the horses I drove from the field
That I was not near from terror my angel to shield!
She stretched forth her arms; her mantle she flung to the wind,
And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find.
O would that a freezing sleet-winged tempest did sweep,
And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep;
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or a pinnace, to save--
With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.
'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,
The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides:
I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes among,
The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.
JEREMIAH JOHN CALLANAN
366 O WHAT IF THE FOWLER
O what if the fowler my blackbird has taken?
The roses of dawn blossom over the sea;
Awaken, my blackbird, awaken, awaken,
And sing to me out of my red fuchsia tree!
O what if the fowler my blackbird has taken?
The sun lifts his head from the lip of the sea--
Awaken, my blackbird, awaken, awaken,
And sing to me out of my red fuchsia tree!
O what if the fowler my blackbird has taken?
The mountain grows white with the birds of the sea;
But down in my garden forsaken, forsaken,
I'll weep all the day by my red fuchsia tree!
CHARLES DALMON
367 WHITHER AWAY?
"Where are you going, Master mine?"
"Mistress of mine, farewell!
Pledge me a cup of golden wine!
Light shall be dark and darkness shine
Before I tell!"
"O go you by the firwoods blue?
And by the Fairies' Trysting Tree?"
"No, for the path is grown with rue
And nightshade's purple fruit, since you
Walked there with me!"
"O go you by the pastures high--
A grassy road and daisies fair?"
"No, for I saw them fade and die
On the bright evening, love, that I
Sat with you there."
MARY COLERIDGE
368 BONNY BARBARA ALLAN
It was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a falling,
That Sir John Graeme, in the West Country,
Fell in love with Barbara Allan.
He sent his man down through the town,
To the place where she was dwelling:
"O haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan."
O hooly, hooly[154] rose she up,
To the place where he was lying,
And when she drew the curtain by;--
"Young man, I think you're dying."
"O it's I'm sick, and very, very sick,
And 't is a' for Barbara Allan."--
"O the better for me ye's never be,
Tho your heart's blood were a spilling.
"O dinna ye mind, young man," said she,
"When ye was in the tavern a-drinking,
That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slighted Barbara Allan?"
He turned his face unto the wall,
And death was with him dealing:
"Adieu, adieu, my dear friends all,
And be kind to Barbara Allan."
She had not gane a mile but twa,
When she heard the dead-bell ringing,
And every jow that the dead-bell gied,
It cryed, _Woe to Barbara Allan_!
"O mother, mother, make my bed!
O make it saft and narrow!
Since my love died for me to-day,
I'll die for him to-morrow."
369 PROUD MAISIE
Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?"
"When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye."
"Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?"
"The grey-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly."
"The glowworm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing
Welcome, proud lady."
SIR WALTER SCOTT
370 A LEAVE TAKING
Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear.
Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
She would not know.
Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
Saying, "If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap."
All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep,
She would not weep.
Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love.
Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Though all the stars made gold of all the air,
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair;
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
She would not care.
Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She, too, remembering days and words that were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
She would not see.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
371 THE UNQUIET GRAVE
"The wind doth blow to-day, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true love,
In cold grave she was lain.
"I'll do as much for my true love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day."
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
"Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?"
"'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek."
"You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.
"'Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that ere was seen
Is withered to a stalk.
"The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away."
372 A LAMENT: 1547
"Departe, departe, departe--
Allace! I most departe
From hir that hes my hart,
With hairt full soir;
Aganis my will in deid,
And can find no remeid:
I wait the pains of deid--
Can do no moir....
"Adew, my ain sueit thing,
My joy and comforting,
My mirth and sollesing
Of erdly gloir:
Fair weill, my lady bricht,
And my remembrance rycht;
Fair weill and haif gud nycht:
I say no moir."
ALEXANDER SCOTT
373 I DIED TRUE
Lay a garland on my hearse
Of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear;
Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth.
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth!
JOHN FLETCHER
374 SONG
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his Cockle hat and staffe,
And his Sandal shoone.
He is dead and gone Lady,
He is dead and done,--
At his head a grasse-greene Turfe,
At his heeles a stone.
White his Shrowd as the Mountain Snow,
Larded with sweet flowers:
Which bewept to the grave did not go,
With true-love showres.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
375 IT WAS THE TIME OF ROSES
It was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast:
It was the time of roses--
We plucked them as we passed!
That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet!
O, no--the world was newly crowned
With flowers, when first we met.
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast:
It was the time of roses--
We plucked them as we passed."...
THOMAS HOOD
376 AULD ROBIN GRAY
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye[155] at hame,
And a' the warld to rest are gane,
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,
While my gudeman[156] lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride,
But saving a croun he had naething else beside:
To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea,
And the croun and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa a week but only twa,
When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa;
My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--
And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin;
I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e
Said:--"Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!"
My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack;
His ship it was a wrack.... Why didna Jamie dee?
Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?
My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak,
But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break:
They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea,
Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he--
Till he said:--"I'm come hame to marry thee."
O, sair, sair did we greet,[157] and muckle[158] did we say;
We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away;
I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee,
And why was I born to say, Wae's me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;
I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gude wife ay to be,
For auld Robin Gray, he is kind unto me.
LADY ANNE LINDSAY
377 THE LAWLANDS O' HOLLAND
"The love that I hae chosen,
I'll therewith be content;
The saut sea sall be frozen
Before that I repent.
Repent it sall I never
Until the day I dee;
But the Lawlands o' Holland
Hae twinned my love and me.
"My love he built a bonny ship,
And set her to the main,
Wi' twenty-four brave mariners
To sail her out and hame.
But the weary wind began to rise,
The sea began to rout,
And my love and his bonny ship
Turned withershins about.
"There sall nae mantle cross my back,
No kaim gae in my hair,
Neither sall coal nor candle-light
Shine in my bower mair;
Nor sall I choose anither love,
Until the day I dee,
Sin' the Lawlands o' Holland,
Hae twinned my love and me."
"Noo haud your tongue, my daughter dear,
Be still, and bide content;
There's ither lads in Galloway;
Ye needna sair lament."
"O there is nane in Galloway,
There's nane at a' for me.
I never lo'ed a lad but ane,
And he's drowned in the sea."
378 THE CHURCHYARD ON THE SANDS
My love lies in the gates of foam,
The last dear wreck of shore;
The naked sea-marsh binds her home,
The sand her chamber door.
The gray gull flaps the written stones,
The ox-birds chase the tide;
And near that narrow field of bones
Great ships at anchor ride.
Black piers with crust of dripping green,
One foreland, like a hand,
O'er intervals of grass between
Dim lonely dunes of sand.
A church of silent weathered looks,
A breezy reddish tower,
A yard whose wounded resting-nooks
Are tinged with sorrel flower.
In peace the swallow's eggs are laid
Along the belfry walls;
The tempest does not reach her shade,
The rain her silent halls.
But sails are sweet in summer sky,
The lark throws down a lay;
The long salt levels steam and dry,
The cloud-heart melts away.
And patches of the sea-pink shine,
The pied crows poise and come;
The mallow hangs, the bind-weeds twine,
Where her sweet lips are dumb.
The passion of the wave is mute;
No sound or ocean shock;
No music save the thrilling flute
That marks the curlew flock....
LORD DE TABLEY
379 ROSE AYLMER
Ah, what avails the sceptred race,
Ah, what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and sighs
I consecrate to thee.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
380 TO HELEN
Helen, thy beauty is to me
Like those Nicæan barks of yore,
That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,
The weary, wayworn wanderer bore
To his own native shore.
On desperate seas long wont to roam,
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
Thy Naiad air, have brought me home
To the glory that was Greece
And the grandeur that was Rome.
Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
How statue-like I see thee stand,
The agate lamp within thy hand!
Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
Are Holy Land!
EDGAR ALLAN POE
381 "THERE IS A LADY SWEET AND KIND"
There is a Lady sweet and kind,
Was never face so pleased my mind;
I did but see her passing by,
And yet I love her till I die.
Her gesture, motion, and her smiles,
Her wit, her voice, my heart beguiles,
Beguiles my heart, I know not why,
And yet I love her till I die....
Cupid is wingèd and doth range,
Her country so my love doth change:
But change she earth, or change she sky,
Yet will I love her till I die.
THOMAS FORD
382 "LOVE NOT ME FOR COMELY GRACE"
Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for my constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
So thou and I shall sever:
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.
383 NOW WOLDE
Now wolde I faine some merthės[159] make,
All only for my lady sake,
When her I see;
But now I am so far fro her
It will not be.
Though I be far out of her sight
I am her man both day and night
And so will be.
Therefore wolde; as I love her,
She lovèd me.
When she is mery, then I am glad;
When she is sory, then I am sad;
And causė why,[160]
For he liveth not that loveth her
As well as I.
She saith that she hath seen it written
That "seldom seen is soon forgotten";
It is not so.
For in good feith, save only her,
I love no mo.[161]
384 EGYPT'S MIGHT IS TUMBLED DOWN
Egypt's might is tumbled down
Down a-down the deeps of thought;
Greece is fallen and Troy town,
Glorious Rome hath lost her crown,
Venice' pride is nought.
But the dreams their children dreamed
Fleeting, unsubstantial, vain,
Shadowy as the shadows seemed,
Airy nothing, as they deemed,
These remain.
MARY COLERIDGE
385 DREAM LOVE
Young Love lies sleeping
In May-time of the year.
Among the lilies,
Lapped in the tender light:
White lambs come grazing,
White doves come building there;
And round about him
The May-bushes are white.
Soft moss the pillow
For oh, a softer cheek;
Broad leaves cast shadow
Upon the heavy eyes:
There winds and waters
Grow lulled and scarcely speak;
There twilight lingers
The longest in the skies.
Young Love lies dreaming;
But who shall tell the dream?
A perfect sunlight
On rustling forest tips;
Or perfect moonlight
Upon a rippling stream;
Or perfect silence,
Or song of cherished lips.
Burn odours round him
To fill the drowsy air;
Weave silent dances
Around him to and fro;
For oh, in waking
The sights are not so fair,
And song and silence
Are not like these below.
Young Love lies dreaming
Till summer days are gone,--
Dreaming and drowsing
Away to perfect sleep:
He sees the beauty
Sun hath not looked upon,
And tastes the fountain
Unutterably deep.
Him perfect music
Doth hush unto his rest,
And through the pauses
The perfect silence calms.
Oh, poor the voices
Of earth from east to west,
And poor earth's stillness
Between her stately palms.
Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?
Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
386 AT COMMON DAWN
At common dawn there is a voice of bird
So sweet, 'tis kin to pain;
For love of earthly life it needs be heard,
And lets not sleep again.
This bird I did one time at midnight hear
In wet November wood
Say to himself his lyric faint and clear
As one at daybreak should.
He ceased; the covert breathed no other sound,
Nor moody answer made;
But all the world at beauty's worship found,
Was waking in the glade.
VIVIAN LOCKE ELLIS
[Illustration]
"ECHO THEN SHALL AGAIN TELL HER I FOLLOW."
387 GLYCINE'S SONG
A sunny shaft did I behold,
From sky to earth it slanted:
And poised therein a bird so bold--
Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!
He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled
Within that shaft of sunny mist;
His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,
All else of amethyst!
And thus he sang: "Adieu! adieu!
Love's dreams prove seldom true.
The blossoms, they make no delay:
The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.
Sweet month of May,
We must away;
Far, far away!
To-day! to-day!"
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
388 THE CRYSTAL CABINET
The Maiden caught me in the wild,
Where I was dancing merrily;
She put me into her Cabinet,
And locked me up with a golden key.
This Cabinet is formed of Gold
And Pearl and Crystal shining bright,
And within it opens into a World
And a little lovely Moony Night.
Another England there I saw
Another London with its Tower,
Another Thames and other Hills,
And another pleasant Surrey Bower.
Another Maiden like herself,
Translucent, lovely, shining clear,
Threefold each in the other closed--
O, what a pleasant trembling fear!
O, what a smile! a Threefold Smile
Filled me, that like a flame I burned;
I bent to kiss the lovely Maid,
And found a Threefold Kiss returned.
I strove to seize the inmost form
With ardour fierce and hands of flame,
But burst the Crystal Cabinet,
And like a Weeping Babe became--
A Weeping Babe upon the wild,
And Weeping Woman pale reclined,
And in the outward air again
I filled with woes the passing wind.
WILLIAM BLAKE
389 THE CHASE
Art thou gone in haste?
I'll not forsake thee;
Runn'st thou ne'er so fast?
I'll overtake thee:
O'er the dales, o'er the downs,
Through the green meadows,
From the fields through the towns,
To the dim shadows.
All along the plain,
To the low fountains,
Up and down again
From the high mountains;
Echo then shall again
Tell her I follow,
And the floods to the woods
Carry my holla!
_Holla!_
_Ce! la! ho! ho! hu!_
WILLIAM ROWLEY
390 TONY O!
Over the bleak and barren snow
A voice there came a-calling;
"Where are you going to, Tony O!
Where are you going this morning?"
"I am going where there are rivers of wine,
The mountains bread and honey;
There Kings and Queens do mind the swine,
And the poor have all the money."
COLIN FRANCIS
391 ROMANCE
When I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Took me by the hand.
My father died, my brother too,
They passed like fleeting dreams.
I stood where Popocatapetl
In the sunlight gleams.
I dimly heard the master's voice
And boys far-off at play,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had stolen me away.
I walked in a great golden dream
To and fro from school--
Shining Popocatapetl
The dusty streets did rule.
I walked home with a gold dark boy,
And never a word I'd say,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had taken my speech away:
I gazed entranced upon his face
Fairer than any flower--
O shining Popocatapetl
It was thy magic hour:
The houses, people, traffic seemed
Thin fading dreams by day,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
They had stolen my soul away!
WALTER J. TURNER
392 HALLO MY FANCY
In melancholic fancy,
Out of myself,
In the vulcan dancy,
All the world surveying,
Nowhere staying,
Just like a fairy elf;
Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping,
Out o'er the hill, the trees and valleys tripping,
Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping,--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_
Amidst the misty vapours
Fain would I know
What doth cause the tapers;
Why the clouds benight us
And affright us.
While we travel here below;
Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder,
And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder,
And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_
Fain would I know the reason,
Why the little ant,
All the summer season,
Layeth up provision
On condition
To know no winter's want.
And how housewives, that are so good and painful,
Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful;
And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_...
Amidst the foamy ocean,
Fain would I know
What doth cause the motion,
And returning
In its journeying,
And doth so seldom swerve?
And how the little fishes that swim beneath salt waters,
Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matter
An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater!--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_
Fain would I be resolvèd
How things are done;
And where the bull was calvèd
Of bloody Phalaris,
And where the tailor is
That works to the man i' the moon!
Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly;
And how the little fairies do dance and leap so lightly,
And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_
In conceit like Phaeton
I'll mount Phoebus' chair
Having ne'er a hat on,
All my hair a-burning
In my journeying;
Hurrying through the air.
Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing
And see how they on foamy bits are playing,
All the stars and planets I will be surveying!--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_
O from what ground of nature
Doth the pelican,
That self devouring creature
Prove so forward
And untoward,
Her vitals for to strain!
And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds a-lying,
Do not lament his pangs by howling and by crying,
And why the milk-swan doth sing when she's a-dying--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_
Fain would I conclude this,
At least make essay;
What similitude is:
Why fowls of a feather
Flock and fly together,
And lambs know beasts of prey;
How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures,
Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters,
And suffer none to live who slothing lose their features--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_...
To know this world's centre
Height, depth, breadth and length,
Fain would I adventure
To search the hid attractions
Of magnetic actions
And adamantine strength.
Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain,
Where the moon sojourns, if there be tree or fountain;
If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in--
_Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?_...
Hallo my fancy, hallo,
Stay, stay at home with me,
I can no longer follow,
For thou hast betrayed me,
And bewrayed me;
It is too much for thee.
Stay, stay at home with me, leave off thy lofty soaring;
Stay then at home with me, and on thy books be poring;
For he that goes abroad, lays little up in storing--
Thou'rt welcome my fancy, welcome home to me.
WILLIAM CLELAND
393 SONNET
There was an Indian, who had known no change,
Who strayed content along a sunlit beach
Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange
Commingled noise: looked up; and gasped for speech.
For in the bay, where nothing was before,
Moved on the sea, by magic, huge canoes,
With bellying clothes on poles, and not one oar,
And fluttering coloured signs and clambering crews.
And he, in fear, this naked man alone,
His fallen hands forgetting all their shells,
His lips gone pale, knelt low behind a stone,
And stared, and saw, and did not understand,
Columbus's doom-burdened caravels
Slant to the shore, and all their seamen land.
J. C. SQUIRE
394 ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen:
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
JOHN KEATS
395 "TO SEA"
To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er;
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore;
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,
And unseen Mermaids' pearly song
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:
To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.
To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark
Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark,
Break the caved Tritons' azure day,
Like mighty eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.
The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full: To sea, to sea!
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES
396 BERMUDAS
Where the remote Bermudas ride,
In the Ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song:
"What should we do but sing His praise,
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage:
He gave us this eternal Spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air:
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by His hand
From Lebanon, He stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergris on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,
Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay."
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
ANDREW MARVELL
397 THE OLD SHIPS
I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep
Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,
With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep
For Famagusta and the hidden sun
That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;
And all those ships were certainly so old--
Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun
Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,
The pirate Genoese
Hell-raked them till they rolled
Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.
But now through friendly seas they softly run,
Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,
Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.
But I have seen
Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn
And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay
A drowsy ship of some yet older day;
And, wonder's breath indrawn,
Thought I--who knows--who knows--but in that same
(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new
--Stern painted brighter blue--)
That talkative, bald-headed seaman came
(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)
From Troy's doom-crimson shore,
And with great lies about his wooden horse
Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.
It was so old a ship--who knows, who knows?
--And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain
To see the mast burst open with a rose,
And the whole deck put on its leaves again.
JAMES ELROY FLECKER
398 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
IN SEVEN PARTS
ARGUMENT: _How a Ship having passed the Line is driven by
storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how
from thence she made her course to the Tropical Latitude
of the great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that
befell; and in what manner the Ancient Mariner came back to
his own Country._
PART I
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din."
He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.
"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
He holds him with his glittering eye--
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
"The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
The Sun came up upon the left,
Out of the sea came he!
And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon--"
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.
"And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine."
"God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--
Why look'st thou so?"
--"With my cross-bow
I shot the ALBATROSS."