See how the world its veterans rewards!

A youth of frolic, an old age of cards;

Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,

Young without lovers, old without a friend;

A fop their passion, but their prize a sot;

Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot.

Ah! Friend,[144] to dazzle let the vain design;

To raise the thought and touch the heart be thine!

That charm shall grow, while what fatigues the Ring[145]

Flaunts and goes down, an unregarded thing.

So when the sun's broad beam has tired the sight,

All mild ascends the moon's more sober light,

Serene in virgin majesty she shines,

And unobserved, the glaring orb declines.

Oh! blest with temper, whose unclouded ray

Can make to-morrow cheerful as to-day;

She who can love a sister's charms, or hear

Sighs for a daughter with unwounded ear;

She who ne'er answers till a husband cools,

Or, if she rules him, never shows she rules;

Charms by accepting, by submitting sways,

Yet has her humour most when she obeys;

Let fops or fortune fly which way they will,

Disdains all loss of tickets or Codille;[146]

Spleen, vapours, or small-pox, above them all,

And mistress of herself though china fall....

Be this a woman's fame; with this unblest,

Toasts live a scorn, and queens may die a jest.

This Phoebus promised (I forget the year)

When those blue eyes first opened on the sphere;

Ascendant Phoebus watched that hour with care,

Averted half your parents' simple prayer;

And gave you beauty, but denied the pelf

That buys your sex a tyrant o'er itself.

The generous God who wit and gold refines,

And ripens spirits as he ripens mines,

Kept dross for duchesses, the world shall know it,

To you gave sense, good-humour, and a poet.

[Footnote 142: A reference to Addison's tragedy of _Cato_.]

[Footnote 143: Young lawyers resident in the

temple. See Spenser's _Prothalamion_.]

[Footnote 144: Martha Blount, a dear friend of the poet's.]

[Footnote 145: The fashionable promenade in Hyde Park.]

[Footnote 146: The "pool" in the game of ombre.]

* * * * *

JOSEPH ADDISON.

SIGNOR NICOLINI AND THE LION.

[From the _Spectator_.]

There is nothing that of late years has afforded matter of greater

amusement to the town than Signor Nicolini's combat with a lion in the

Haymarket, which has been very often exhibited to the general

satisfaction of most of the nobility and gentry in the kingdom of Great

Britain....But before I communicate my discoveries I must acquaint the

reader that upon my walking behind the scenes last winter, as I was

thinking on something else, I accidentally jostled against a monstrous

animal that extremely startled me, and, upon my nearer survey of it,

appeared to be a lion rampant. The lion, seeing me very much surprised,

told me in a gentle voice that I might come by him if I pleased; "for,"

says he, "I do not intend to hurt any body." I thanked him very kindly

and passed by him, and in a little time after saw him leap upon the

stage and act his part with very great applause. It has been observed by

several that the lion has changed his manner of acting twice or thrice

since his first appearance, which will not seem strange when I acquaint

the reader that the lion has been changed upon the audience three

several times.

The first lion was a candle-snuffer, who, being a fellow of a testy,

choleric temper, overdid his part, and would not suffer himself to be

killed so easily as he ought to have done; besides, it was observed of

him that he grew more surly every time he came out of the lion; and

having dropt some words in ordinary conversation, as if he had not

fought his best, and that he suffered himself to be thrown upon his back

in the scuffle, and that he would wrestle with Mr. Nicolini for what he

pleased, out of his lion's skin, it was thought proper to discard him;

and it is verily believed to this day that had he been brought upon the

stage another time he would certainly have done mischief. Besides, it

was objected against the first lion that he reared himself so high upon

his hinder paws, and walked in so erect a position, that he looked more

like an old man than a lion.

The second lion was a tailor by trade, who belonged to the playhouse,

and had the character of a mild and peaceful man in his profession. If

the former was too furious, this was too sheepish, for his part;

inasmuch that, after a short, modest walk upon the stage, he would fall

at the first touch of 'Hydaspes'[147] without grappling with him and

giving him an opportunity of showing his variety of Italian trips; it is

said, indeed, that he once gave him a rip in his flesh-colored doublet;

but this was only to make work for himself in his private character of a

tailor. I must not omit that it was this second lion who treated me with

so much humanity behind the scenes.

The acting lion at present is, as I am informed, a country gentleman who

does it for his diversion, but desires his name may be concealed. He

says very handsomely, in his own excuse, that he does not act for gain,

that he indulges an innocent pleasure in it, and that it is better to

pass away an evening in this manner than in gaming and drinking; but at

the same time says, with a very agreeable raillery upon himself, that if

his name should be known the ill-natured world might call him _the ass

in the lion's skin_. This gentleman's temper is made out of such a happy

mixture of the mild and the choleric that he outdoes both his

predecessors, and has drawn together greater audiences than have been

known in the memory of man.

I must not conclude my narrative without taking notice of a groundless

report that has been raised to a gentleman's disadvantage, of whom I

must declare myself an admirer; namely, that Signor Nicolini and the

lion have been seen sitting peaceably by one another and smoking a pipe

together behind the scenes, by which their common enemies would

insinuate that it is but a sham combat which they represent upon the

stage; but upon inquiry I find that if any such correspondence has

passed between them it was not till the combat was over, when the lion

was to be looked upon as dead, according to the received rules of the

drama. Besides, this is what is practiced every day in Westminster Hall,

where nothing is more usual than to see a couple of lawyers, who have

been tearing each other to pieces in the court, embracing one another as

soon as they are out of it.

[Footnote 147: In the opera of _Hydaspes_, presented at the Haymarket

in 1710, the hero, whose part was taken by Signor Nicolini, kills a lion in

the amphitheater.]

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

DETACHED PASSAGES FROM BOSWELL'S LIFE.

We talked of the education of children, and I asked him what he thought

was best to teach them first. _Johnson_: Sir, it is no matter what you

teach them first, any more than what leg you shall put into your

breeches first. Sir, while you are considering which of two things you

should teach your child first, another boy has learnt them both.

Sir, a woman's preaching is like a dog's walking on his hind legs. It is

not done well, but you are surprised to see it done at all.

A gentleman who had been very unhappy in marriage married immediately

after his wife died. Johnson said it was a triumph of hope over

experience.

He would not allow Scotland to derive any credit from Lord Mansfield,

for he was educated in England. "Much," said he, "may be made of a

Scotchman if he be _caught_ young." _Johnson_: An old tutor of a college

said to one of his pupils, "Read over your compositions, and wherever

you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine strike it

out." A gentleman who introduced his brother to Dr. Johnson was earnest

to recommend him to the doctor's notice, which he did by saying: "When

we have sat together some time you'll find my brother grow very

entertaining."

"Sir," said Johnson, "I can wait."

"Greek, sir," said he, "is like lace; every man gets as much of it as he

can."

Lord Lucan tells a very good story, that when the sale of Thrale's

brewery was going forward, Johnson appeared bustling about with an

inkhorn and pen in his button-hole, like an exciseman, and on being

asked what he really considered to be the value of the property which

was to be disposed of, answered, "We are not here to sell a parcel of

boilers and vats, but the potentiality of growing rich beyond the dreams

of avarice."

_Johnson_: My dear friend, clear your _mind_ of cant. You may _talk_ as

other people do; you may say to a man, "Sir, I am your most humble

servant." You are _not_ his most humble servant. You may say, "These are

bad times; it is a melancholy thing to be reserved to such times." You

don't mind the times. You tell a man, "I am sorry you had such bad

weather the last day of your journey and were so much wet." You don't

care sixpence whether he is wet or dry. You may _talk_ in this manner;

it is a mode of talking in society, but don't _think_ foolishly.

A lively saying of Dr. Johnson to Miss Hannah More, who had expressed a

wonder that the poet who had written _Paradise Lost_ should write such

poor sonnets: "Milton, madam, was a genius that could cut a colossus

from a rock, but could not carve heads upon cherry-stones."

A gentleman having said that a _congé d'elire_ has not, perhaps, the

force of a command, but may be considered only as a strong

recommendation. "Sir," replied Johnson, "it is such a recommendation as

if I should throw you out of a two pair of stairs window, and recommend

you to fall soft."

Happening one day to mention Mr. Flaxman, the doctor replied, "Let me

hear no more of him, sir; that is the fellow who made the index to my

_Ramblers_, and set down the name of Milton thus: 'Milton, _Mr_, John.'"

Goldsmith said that he thought he could write a good fable, mentioned

the simplicity which that kind of composition requires, and observed

that, in most fables, the animals introduced seldom talk in character.

"For instance," said he, "the fable of the little fishes, who saw birds

fly over their heads, and, envying them, petitioned Jupiter to be

changed into birds. The skill," continued he, "consists in making them

talk like little fishes." While he indulged himself in this fanciful

reverie, he observed Johnson shaking his sides and laughing. Upon which

he smartly proceeded, "Why, Dr. Johnson, this is not so easy as you seem

to think; for if you were to make little fishes talk, they would talk

like WHALES."

He expressed a particular enthusiasm with respect to visiting the wall

of China. I caught it for the moment, and said I really believed I

should go and see the wall of China, had I not children of whom it was

my duty to take care. "Sir," said he, "by doing so, you would do what

would be of importance in raising your children to eminence. There would

be a luster reflected upon them from your spirit and curiosity. They

would be at all times regarded as the children of a man who had gone to

view the wall of China--I am serious, sir."

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

THE VILLAGE PASTOR AND SCHOOL-MASTER.

[From _The Deserted Village_.]

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild;

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place.

Unskillful he to fawn or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour:

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train--

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast.

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire and talked the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave e'er charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side....

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.

The service past, around the pious man,

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

E'en children followed with endearing wile

And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

With blossomed furze unprofitable gay,

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,

The village master taught his little school.

A man severe he was, and stern to view;

I knew him well, and every truant knew.

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

The day's disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes (for many a joke had he);

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Conveyed the dismal, tidings when he frowned

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore for learning was his fault.

The village all declared how much he knew--

'Twas certain he could write and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, times and tides presage,

And e'en the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,

For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still,

While words of learned length and thundering sound

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew

That one small head could carry all he knew.

* * * * *

EDMUND BURKE.

THE DECAY OF LOYALTY.

[From _Reflections on the Revolution in France_.]

It is sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France,[148]

then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this

orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw

her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere

she just began to move in; glittering like the morning star, full of

life and splendor and joy. O, what a revolution! and what a heart must I

have to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall. Little

did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of

enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged

to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom;

little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen

upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of

cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from the

scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the

age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calculators

has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never,

never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that

proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the

heart which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an

exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defense of

nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise is gone! It

is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which

felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage, whilst it mitigated

ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice

itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness....On the scheme

of this barbarous philosophy, which is the offspring of cold hearts and

muddy understandings, and which is as void of solid wisdom as it is

destitute of all taste and elegance, laws are to be supported only by

their own terms, and by the concern which each individual may find in

them from his own private speculations, or can spare to them from his

own private interests. In the groves of their academy, at the end of

every vista, you see nothing but the gallows. Nothing is left which

engages the affections on the part of the commonwealth. On the

principles of this mechanic philosophy, our institutions can never be

embodied, if I may use the expresssion, in persons; so as to create in

us love, veneration, admiration, or attachment. But that sort of reason

which banishes the affections is incapable of filling their place. These

public affections, combined with manners, are required sometimes as

supplements, sometimes as corrections, always as aids, to law. The

precept given by a wise man, as well as a great critic, for the

construction of poems, is equally true as to states. _Non satis est

pulchra esse poemata, dulcia sunto_. There ought to be a system of

manners in every nation which a well-formed mind would be disposed to

relish. To make us love our country, our country ought to be lovely.

[Footnote 148: Marie Antoinette.]

* * * * *

THOMAS GRAY.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's[149] holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:

Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade,

Ah fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood strayed,

A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow,

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing

My weary soul they seem to soothe,

And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen

Full many a sprightly race,

Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace,

Who, foremost now delight to cleave

With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral?

What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,

Their morning labors ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare discry:

Still as they run they look behind,

They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast:

Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,

Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer of vigour born;

The thoughtless day, the easy night,

The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom

The little victims play.

No sense have they of ill to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:

Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey the murth'rous band!

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,

The vultures of the mind,

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;

Or pining Love shall waste their youth,

Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That only gnaws the secret heart,

And Envy wan, and faded Care,

Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high,

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy,

The stings of Falsehood those shall try,

And hard Unkindness' altered eye,

That mocks the tear it forced to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defiled,

And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.

Lo in the vale of years beneath

A grisly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen:

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

That every laboring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow consuming Age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,

Condemned alike to groan,

The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate?

Since sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too swiftly flies,

Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more; where ignorance is bliss,

'Tis folly to be wise.

[Footnote 149: Henry VI., founder of Eton College.]

* * * * *

WILLIAM COWPER.

FROM LINES ON THE RECEIPT OF 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 smile 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?

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!

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.

WINTER EVENING.

[From _The Task_.]

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn

Throws up a steaming column, and the cups

That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in....

O winter! ruler of the inverted year,

Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled,

Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheek

Fringed with a beard made white with other snows

Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,

A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along its slippery way;

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemest,

And dreaded as thou art. Thou holdest the sun

A prisoner in the yet undawning east,

Shortening his journey between morn and noon,

And hurrying him, impatient of his stay,

Down to the rosy west; but kindly still

Compensating his loss with added hours

Of social converse and instructive ease,

And gathering, at short notice, in one group

The family dispersed, and fixing thought,

Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.

I crown thee king of intimate delights,

Fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness,

And all the comforts that the lowly roof

Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours

Of long uninterrupted evening know.

* * * * *

MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN.

[From _The Task_.]

O for a lodge in some vast wilderness,

Some boundless contiguity of shade,

Where rumor of oppression and deceit,

Of unsuccessful or successful war

Might never reach me more! My ear is pained,

My soul is sick with every day's report

Of wrong or outrage with which earth is filled.

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart,

It does not feel for man; the natural bond

Of brotherhood is severed as the flax

That falls asunder at the touch of fire.

* * * * *

ROBERT BURNS.

TAM O'SHANTER.

When chapman billies[150] leave the street,

And drouthy[151] neebors neebors meet,

As market-days are wearing late

An' folk begin to tak the gate;[152]

While we sit bousing at the nappy,[153]

An' getting fou[154] and unco[155] happy,

We think na on the lang Scots miles,

The mosses,[156] waters, slaps,[157] and styles,

That lie between us and our hame,

Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,

Gathering her brows like gathering storm,

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O'Shanter,

As he frae Ayr ae[158] night did canter,

(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,

For honest men and bonnie lasses.)

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise

As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!

She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,[159]

A blethering,[160] blustering, drunken blellum;[161]

That frae November till October,

Ae market-day thou wasna sober;

That ilka melder,[162] wi' the miller,

Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

That every naig was ca'd[163] a shoe on,

The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;

That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,

Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday.

She prophesy'd that, late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,

Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,

By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,[164]

To think how monie counsels sweet,

How monie lengthened, sage advices

The husband frae the wife despises! . .

Nae man can tether time or tide;

The hour approaches Tam maun[165] ride;

That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,

That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;

And sic[166] a night he taks the road in,

As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;

The rattling showers rose on the blast;

The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;

Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:

That night, a child might understand,

The Deil had business on his hand.

(Mounted on his gray mare Maggie, Tarn pursues his homeward way in

safety till, reaching Kirk-Alloway, he sees the windows in a blaze, and,

looking in, beholds a dance of witches, with Old Nick playing the

fiddle. Most of the witches are any thing but inviting, but there is one

winsome wench, called Nannie, who dances in a "cutty-sark," or short

smock.)

But here my muse her wing maun cower;

Sic flights are far beyond her power;

To sing how Nannie lap and flang[167]

(A souple jade she was, and strang),

And how Tam stood like are bewitched,

And thought his very e'en enriched.

Even Satan glowered and fidged fu' fain,[168]

And hotch'd[169] and blew wi' might and main;

Till first ae caper, syne[170] anither,

Tam tint[171] his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"

And in an instant all was dark:

And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,

When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,[172]

When plundering herds assail their byke;[173]

As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;

As eager runs the market-crowd

When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud.

So Maggie runs, the witches follow

Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow,

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'![174]

In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!

In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin':

Kate soon will be a woefu' woman.

Now do thy speedy utmost Meg,

And win the key-stane of the brig;[175]

There at them thou thy tail may toss,

A running stream they dare na cross,

But ere the key-stane she could make,

The fient[176] a tale she had to shake,

For Nannie, far before the rest,

Hard upon noble Maggie pressed,

And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;[177]

But little wist she Maggie's mettle--

Ae spring brought aff her master hale,[178]

But left behind her ain gray tail;

The carlin[179] claught[180] her by the rump,

And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

[Footnote 150: Peddler fellows.]

[Footnote 151: Thirsty.]

[Footnote 152: Road home.]

[Footnote 153: Ale.]

[Footnote 154: Full.]

[Footnote 155: Uncommonly.]

[Footnote 156: Swamps.]

[Footnote 157: Gaps in a hedge.]

[Footnote 158: One.]

[Footnote 159: Good-for-nothing.]

[Footnote 160: Babbling.]

[Footnote 161: Gossip.]

[Footnote 162: Every time corn was sent to the mill.]

[Footnote 163: Driven.]

[Footnote 164: Makes me weep.]

[Footnote 165: Must.]

[Footnote 166: Such.]

[Footnote 167: Leaped and flung.]

[Footnote 168: Stared and fidgeted with eagerness.]

[Footnote 169: Hitched about.]

[Footnote 170: Then.]

[Footnote 171: Lost.]

[Footnote 172: Fuss.]

[Footnote 173: Hive.]

[Footnote 174: Deserts.]

[Footnote 175: Bridge.]

[Footnote 176: Devil.]

[Footnote 177: Aim.]

[Footnote 178: Whole.]

[Footnote 179: Hag.]

[Footnote 180: Caught.]

JOHN ANDERSON.

John Anderson, my jo,[181] John,

When we were first acquent,

Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;[182]

But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snow;

But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;

And monie a canty[183] day, John,

We've had wi' are anither:

Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo.

[Footnote 181: Sweetheart.]

[Footnote 182: Smooth]

[Footnote 183: Merry.]

* * * * *

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

SONNET.

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

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers--

For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

THE PRE-EXISTENCE OF THE SOUL.

[From Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early

Childhood.]

Our birth is but a sleep, and a forgetting:

The soul that rises with us, our life's star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar;

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy:

Shades of the prison-house begin to close

Upon the growing boy;

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,

He sees it in his joy.

The youth, who daily farther from the east

Must travel, still is Nature's priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended;

At length the man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day....

O joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live,

That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benedictions: not, indeed,

For that which is most worthy to be blest;

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast--

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts, before which our mortal nature

Did tremble, like a guilty thing surprised:

But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,

Are yet a master light of all our seeing;

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make

Our noisy years seem moments in the being

Of the eternal silence: truths that wake

To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,

Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy.

Hence, in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

LUCY.

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye:

Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

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 chant

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travelers 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.

SKATING AT NIGHT.

[From the _Prelude_.]

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 sparking 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

The 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.

* * * * *

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

THE SONG OF THE SPIRITS.

[From _The Ancient Mariner_.]

Sometimes, a-dropping from the sky,

I heard the skylark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are,

How they seemed to fill the sea and air

With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments,

And now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel's song

That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

THE LOVE OF ALL CREATURES.

[From the same.]

O wedding guest, this soul hath been

Alone on a wide, wide sea:

So lonely 'twas that God himself

Scarce seemèd there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage feast,

'Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk

With a goodly company.

To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men and babes and loving friends,

And youths and maidens gay.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

To thee, thou wedding guest;

He prayeth well who loveth well

Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best who loveth best

All things both great and small;

For the dear God who loveth us,

He made and loveth all.

ESTRANGEMENT OF FRIENDS.

[From _Christabel_.]

Alas! they had been friends in youth

But whispering tongues can poison truth,

And constancy lives in realms above,

And life is thorny and youth is vain,

And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness in the brain.

And thus it fared, as I divine,

With Roland and Sir Leoline.

Each spake words of high disdain

And insult to his heart's best brother;

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining.

They stood aloof, the scars remaining,

Like cliffs that had been rent asunder:

A dreary sea now flows between,

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder

Can wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once has been.

WALTER SCOTT.

NATIVE LAND.

[From _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_.]

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said.

This is my own, my native land?

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he hath turned,

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go mark him well;

For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch concentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit fair renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

O Caledonia! stern and wild,

Meet nurse for a poetic child!

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,

Land of the mountain and the flood,

Land of my sires! what mortal hand

Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand?

Still, as I view each well-known scene,

Think what is now, and what hath been,

Seems as, to me, of all bereft

Sole friends thy woods and streams are left:

And thus I love them better still

Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,

Though none should guide my feeble way

Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,

Although it chill my withered cheek;

Still lay my head by Teviot's stone,

Though there, forgotten and alone,

The bard may draw his parting groan.

SUNSET ON THE BORDER.

[From _Marmion_.]

Day set on Norham's castled steep

And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,

And Cheviot's mountains lone:

The battled towers, the donjon keep,

The loop-hole grates where captives

The flanking walls that round it sweep,

In yellow luster shone.

The warriors on the turrets high,

Moving athwart the evening sky

Seemed forms of giant height:

Their armor; as it caught the rays,

Flashed back again the western blaze,

In lines of dazzling light.

St. George's banner, broad and gay,

Now faded, as the fading ray

Less bright, and less was flung;

The evening gale had scarce the power

To wave it on the donjon tower,

So heavily it hung.

The scouts had parted on their search,

The castle gates were barred;

Above the gloomy portal arch,

Timing his footsteps to a march,

The warden kept his guard;

Low humming, as he passed along,

Some ancient border-gathering song.

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[184] gentlemen

Kirkward shall carry ye."

"Who makes the bridal bed,

Birdie, say truly?"

"The gray-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly.

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady;

The owl from the steeple sing

Welcome, proud lady."

[Footnote 184: Brave, fine.]

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew, summon Clan-Conuil.

Come away, come away, hark to the summons!

Come in your war array, gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen and from mountain so rocky,

The war-pipe and pennon are at Inverlochy.

Come every hill-plaid and true heart that wears one,

Come every steel blade and strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, the flock without shelter;

Leave the corpse uninterred, the bride at the altar;

Leave the deer, leave the steer, leave nets and barges:

Come with your fighting gear, broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come when forests are rended;

Come as the waves come when navies are stranded;

Faster come, faster come; faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom, tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; see how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades, forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, knell for the onset!

* * * * *

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I arise from dreams of thee

In the first sweet sleep of night,

When the winds are breathing low

And the stars are shining bright.

I arise from dreams of thee,

And a spirit in my feet

Has led me--who knows how?--

To thy chamber-window, sweet.

The wandering airs they faint

On the dark, the silent stream;

The champak odours fail

Like sweet thoughts in a dream;

The nightingale's complaint,

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine,

O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!

My heartbeats loud and fast:

O! press it close to thine again,

Where it will break at last.

VENICE.

[From _Lines Written in the Euganean Hills_.]

Sun-girt city, thou hast been

Ocean's child, and then his queen;

Now is come a darker day

And thou soon must be his prey,

If the power that raised thee here

Hallow so thy watery bier.

A less drear ruin then than now,

With thy conquest-branded brow

Stooping to the slave of slaves

From thy throne among the waves,

Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew

Flies, as once before it flew,

O'er thine isles depopulate,

And all is in its ancient state;

Save where many a palace gate

With green sea-flowers overgrown,

Like a rock of ocean's own

Topples o'er the abandoned sea

As the tides change sullenly.

The fisher on his watery way

Wandering at the close of day,

Will spread his sail and seize his oar

Till he pass the gloomy shore,

Lest thy dead should, from their sleep

Bursting o'er the starlight deep,

Lead a rapid masque of death

O'er the waters of his path.

A LAMENT.

O world! O life! O time!

On whose last steps I climb,

Trembling at that where I had stood before,

When will return the glory of your prime?

No more--O, never more!

Out of the day and night

A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring and summer and winter hoar

Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight

No more--O, never more!

THE POET'S DREAM.

[From _Prometheus Unbound_.]

On a poet's lips I slept

Dreaming like a love-adept

In the sound his breathing kept.

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,

But feeds on the aerial kisses

Of shapes that haunt thought's wildernesses.

He will watch from dawn to gloom

The lake-reflected sun illume

The yellow bees in the ivy bloom,

Nor heed nor see what things they be;

But from these create he can

Forms more real than living man,

Nurslings of immortality.

GEORGE GORDON BYRON.

ELEGY ON THYRZA.

And thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth:

And form so soft and charms so rare,

Too soon returned to earth:

Though earth received them in her bed,

And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,

There is an eye which could not brook

A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low

Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved and long must love

Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell

'Tis nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past

And canst not alter now.

The love where death has set his seal

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see

Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,

Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep

I envy now too much to weep,

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have passed away,

I might have watched through long decay.

The flower in ripened bloom unmatched

Must fall the earliest prey;

Though by no hand untimely snatched,

The leaves must drop away:

And yet it were a greater grief

To watch it withering leaf by leaf,

Than see it plucked to-day;

Since earthly eye but ill can bear

To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade;

The night that followed such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath past,

And thou wert lovely to the last,

Extinguished, not decayed;

As stars that shoot along the sky

Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed,

To think I was not near to keep

One vigil o'er thy bed;

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,

To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;

And show that love, however vain,

Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free,

The loveliest things that still remain,

Than thus remember thee!

The all of thine that cannot die

Through dark and dread Eternity,

Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears

Than aught, except its living years.

THE BALL AT BRUSSELS ON THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO.

[From _Childe Harold_.]

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered there

Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet--

But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!...

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

And cheeks all pale which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess

If evermore should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills

Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:

How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,

Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills

Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears.

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,

Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave--alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow,

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

JOHN KEATS.

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN.

Thou still unravished bride of quietness!

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time,

Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme;

What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape

Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?

What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?

What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet; but those unheard

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;

Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:

Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;

Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,

Though winning near the goal--yet do not grieve:

She cannot fade though thou hast not thy bliss,

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;

And happy melodist, unwearied

Forever piping songs forever new;

More happy love! more happy, happy love!

Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting and forever young;

All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed,

A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?

To what green altar, O mysterious priest,

Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?

What little town by river or sea-shore,

Or mountain built with peaceful citadel,

Is emptied of its folk this pious morn?

Ah! little town, thy streets forever more

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell

Why thou art desolate can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede

Of marble men and maidens overwrought,

With forest branches and the trodden weed;

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought

As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

When old age shall this generation waste,

Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe

Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,

"Beauty is truth, truth beauty"--that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

MADELINE.

[From _The Eve of St. Agnes_.]

Out went the taper as she hurried in;

Its little smoke in pallid moonshine died;

She closed the door, she panted, all akin

To spirits of the air and visions wide;

No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!

But to her heart her heart was voluble,

Paining with eloquence her balmy side;

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell.

A casement high and triple-arched there was,

All garlanded with carven imageries

Of fruits and flowers and bunches of knot-grass,

And diamonded with panes of quaint device,

Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes

As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings;

And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries,

And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings,

A shielded scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings.

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,

And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast

As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon;

Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together pressed,

And on her silver cross soft amethyst,

And on her hair a glory, like a saint:

She seemed a splendid angel, newly dressed,

Save wings, for heaven: Porphyro grew faint:

She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint.

CHARLES DICKENS.

BOB SAWYER'S BACHELOR PARTY.

[From _Pickwick Papers_.]

After supper another jug of punch was put on the table, together with a

paper of cigars and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then there was an

awful pause; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common

occurrence in this sort of places, but a very embarrassing one,

notwithstanding.

The fact is that the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment

boasted four; we do not record this circumstance as at all derogatory to

Mrs. Raddle, for there was never a lodging-house yet that was not short

of glasses. The landlady's glasses were little thin blown-glass

tumblers, and those which had been borrowed from the public-house were

great, dropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a huge gouty leg.

This would have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the company

with the real state of affairs; but the young woman of all work had

prevented the possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of

any gentleman upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man's glass

away long before he had finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite

the winks and interruptions of Mr. Bob Sawyer, that it was to be

conveyed down-stairs and washed forthwith....

The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of equanimity

which he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His

face brightened up, and he began to feel quite convivial.

"Now, Betsy," said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing,

at the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses that the girl had

collected in the center of the table; "Now, Betsy, the warm water; be

brisk, there's a good girl."

"You can't have no warm water," replied Betsy.

"No warm water!" exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer.

"No," said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more

decided negative than the most copious language could have conveyed.

"Missis Raddle said you wasn't to have none."

The surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new

courage to the host.

"Bring up the warm water instantly--instantly!" said Mr. Bob Sawyer,

with desperate sternness.

"No; I can't," replied the girl. "Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen

fire afore she went to bed, and locked up the kettle."

"O, never mind, never mind. Pray don't disturb yourself about such a

trifle," said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer's

passions, as depicted on his countenance, "cold water will do very

well."

"O, admirably," said Mr. Benjamin Allen.

"My landlady is subject to slight attacks of mental derangement,"

remarked Bob Sawyer, with a ghastly smile; "I fear I must give her

warning."

"No, don't," said Ben Allen.

"I fear I must," said Bob, with heroic firmness. "I'll pay her what I

owe her and give her warning to-morrow morning."

Poor fellow! How devoutly he wished he could!...It was at the end of

the chorus to the first verse that Mr. Pickwick held up his hand in a

listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence was restored, "Hush! I

beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from up-stairs."

A profound silence immediately ensued, and Mr. Bob Sawyer was observed

to turn pale.

"I think I hear it now," said Mr. Pickwick. "Have the goodness to open

the door."

The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed.

"Mr. Sawyer--Mr. Sawyer," screamed a voice from the two-pair landing.

"It's my landlady," said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great

dismay. "Yes, Mrs. Raddle."

"What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer?" replied the voice, with great

shrillness and rapidity of utterance. "'Aint it enough to be swindled

out of one's rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused and

insulted by your friends that dares to call themselves men, without

having the house turned out of window, and noise enough made to bring

the fire-engines here at two o'clock in the morning? Turn them wretches

away."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," said the voice of Mr. Raddle,

which appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes.

"Ashamed of themselves!" said Mrs. Raddle. "Why don't you go down and

knock 'em every one down-stairs? You would, if you was a man."

"I should if I was a dozen men, my dear," replied Mr. Raddle,

pacifically; "but they've rather the advantage of me in numbers, my

dear."

"Ugh, you coward!" replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. "Do you

mean to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer?"

"They're going, Mrs. Raddle, they're going," said the miserable Bob.

"I'm afraid you'd better go," said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. "I

_thought_ you were making too much noise."

"It's a very unfortunate thing," said the prim man. "Just as we were

getting so comfortable, too." The fact was that the prim man was just

beginning to have a dawning recollection of the story he had forgotten.

"It's hardly to be borne," said the prim man, looking round; "hardly to

be borne, is it?"

"Not to be endured," replied Jack Hopkins; "let's have the other verse,

Bob; come, here goes."

"No, no, Jack, don't," interposed Bob Sawyer; "it's a capital song, but

I am afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very

violent people, the people of the house."

"Shall I step up-stairs and pitch into the landlord?" inquired Hopkins,

"or keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase? You may

command me, Bob."

"I am very much indebted to you for your friendship and good-nature,

Hopkins," said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, "but I am of opinion that

the best plan to avoid any farther dispute is for us to break up at

once."

"Now, Mr. Sawyer," screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, "are them

brutes going?"

"They're only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle," said Bob; "they are

going directly."

"Going!" said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her night-cap over the bannisters,

just as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the

sitting-room. "Going! What did they ever come for."

"My dear ma'am," remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up.

"Get along with you, you old wretch!" replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily

withdrawing her night-cap. "Old enough to be his grandfather, you

villain! You're worse than any of 'em."

Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried

down-stairs into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr.

Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass.

WILLIAM MAKEPIECE THACKERAY.

BECKY GOES TO COURT AND DINES AT GAUNT HOUSE.

[From _Vanity Fair_.]

The particulars of Becky's costume were in the newspapers--feathers,

lappets, superb diamonds, and all the rest. Lady Crackenbury read the

paragraph in bitterness of spirit, and discoursed to her followers about

the airs which that woman was giving herself. Mrs. Bute Crawley and her

young ladies in the country had a copy of the _Morning Post_ from town,

and gave a vent to their honest indignation. "If you had been

sandy-haired, green-eyed, and a French rope-dancer's daughter," Mrs.

Bute said to her eldest girl (who, on the contrary, was a very swarthy,

short, and snub-nosed young lady), "you might have had superb diamonds,

forsooth, and have been presented at court by your cousin, the Lady

Jane. But you're only a gentlewoman, my poor dear child. You have only

some of the best blood in England in your veins, and good principles and

piety for your portion. I myself, the wife of a baronet's younger

brother, too, never thought of such a thing as going to court--nor would

other people if good Queen Charlotte had been alive." In this way the

worthy rectoress consoled herself; and her daughters sighed, and sat

over the _Peerage_ all night....

When the ladies of Gaunt House were at breakfast that morning Lord

Steyne (who took his chocolate in private, and seldom disturbed the

females of his household, or saw them except upon public days, or when

they crossed each other in the hall, or when from his pit-box at the

opera he surveyed them in their box in the grand tier)--his lordship, we

say, appeared among the ladies and the children, who were assembled over

the tea and toast, and a battle royal ensued apropos of Rebecca.

"My Lady Steyne," he said, "I want to see the list for your dinner on

Friday; and I want you, if you please, to write a card for Colonel and

Mrs. Crawley."

"Blanche writes them," Lady Steyne said, in a flutter. "Lady Gaunt

writes them."

"I will not write to that person," Lady Gaunt said, a tall and stately

lady, who looked up for an instant and then down again after she had

spoken. It was not good to meet Lord Steyne's eyes for those who had

offended him.

"Send the children out of the room. Go!" said he, pulling at the

bell-rope. The urchins, always frightened before him, retired; their

mother would have followed too. "Not you." he said. "You stop."

"My Lady Steyne," he said, "once more, will you have the goodness to go

to the desk and write that card for your dinner on Friday?"

"My Lord, I will not be present at it," Lady Gaunt said; "I will go

home."

"I wish you would, and stay there. You will find the bailiffs at

Bare-acres very pleasant company; and I shall be freed from lending

money to your relations, and from your own damned tragedy airs. Who are

you, to give orders here? You have no money. You've got no brains. You

were here to have children, and you have not had any. Gaunt's tired of

you; and George's wife is the only person in the family who doesn't wish

you were dead. Gaunt would marry again if you were."

"I wish I were," her ladyship answered, with tears and rage in her eyes.

"You, forsooth, must give yourself airs of virtue; while my wife, who is

an immaculate saint, as every body knows, and never did wrong in her

life, has no objection to meet my young friend, Mrs. Crawley. My Lady

Steyne knows that appearances are sometimes against the best of women;

that lies are often told about the most innocent of them. Pray, madam,

shall I tell you some little anecdotes about my Lady Bareacres, your

mamma?"

"You may strike me if you like, sir, or hit any cruel blow," Lady Gaunt

said. To see his wife and daughter suffering always put his lordship

into a good humor.

"My sweet Blanche," he said, "I am a gentleman, and never lay my hand

upon a woman, save in the way of kindnesss. I only wish to correct

little faults in your character. You women are too proud, and sadly lack

humility, as Father Mole, I'm sure, would tell my Lady Steyne if he were

here. You musn't give yourselves airs: you must be meek and humble, my

blessings. For all Lady Steyne knows, this calumniated, simple,

good-humored Mrs. Crawley is quite innocent--even more innocent than

herself. Her husband's character is not good, but it is as good as

Bareacres's, who has played a little and not payed a great deal, who

cheated you out of the only legacy you ever had, and left you a pauper

on my hands. And Mrs. Crawley is not very well born; but she is not

worse than Fanny's illustrious ancestor, the first de la Jones."

"The money which I brought into the family, sir," Lady George cried

out--

"You purchased a contingent reversion with it," the marquis said,

darkly. "If Gaunt dies, your husband may come to his honors; your little

boys may inherit them, and who knows what besides? In the meanwhile,

ladies, be as proud and virtuous as you like abroad, but don't give _me_

any airs. As for Mrs. Crawley's character, I sha'n't demean myself or

that most spotless and perfectly irreproachable lady, by even hinting

that it even requires a defense. You will be pleased to receive her with

the utmost cordiality, as you will receive all persons whom I present in

this house. This house?" He broke out with a laugh. "Who is the master

of it, and what is it? This temple of virtue belongs to me. And if I

invite all Newgate or all Bedlam here, by----they shall be welcome."

After this vigorous allocution, to one of which sort Lord Steyne treated

his "Hareem" whenever symptoms of insubordination appeared in his

household, the crestfallen women had nothing for it but to obey. Lady

Gaunt wrote the invitation which his lordship required, and she and her

mother-in-law drove in person, and with bitter and humiliated hearts, to

leave the cards on Mrs. Rawdon, the reception of which caused that

innocent woman so much pleasure.

GEORGE ELIOT.

PASSAGES FROM ADAM BEDE.

It was a wood of beeches and limes, with here and there a light,

silver-stemmed birch--just the sort of wood most haunted by the nymphs;

you see their white sun-lit limbs gleaming athwart the boughs or peeping

from behind the smooth-sweeping outline of a tall lime; you hear their

soft liquid laughter--but if you look with a too curious sacrilegious

eye they vanish behind the silvery beeches, they make you believe that

their voice was only a running brooklet, perhaps they metamorphose

themselves into a tawny squirrel that scampers away and mocks you from

the topmost bough. Not a grove with measured grass or rolled gravel for

you to tread upon, but with narrow, hollow-shaped earthy paths, edged

with faint dashes of delicate moss--paths which look as if they were

made by the free will of the trees and underwood, moving reverently

aside to look at the tall queen of the white-footed nymphs.

There are various orders of beauty, causing men to make fools of

themselves in various styles, from the desperate to the sheepish; but

there is one order of beauty which seems made to turn the heads not only

of men, but of all intelligent mammals, even of women. It is a beauty

like that of kittens, or very small downy ducks making gentle rippling

noises with their soft bills, or babies just beginning to toddle and to

engage in conscious mischief--a beauty with which you can never be

angry, but that you feel ready to crush for inability to comprehend the

state of mind into which it throws you....It is of little use for me to

tell you that Hetty's cheek was like a rose-petal, that dimples played

about her pouting lips, that her large dark eyes hid a soft roguishness

under their long lashes, and that her curly hair, though all pushed back

under her round cap while she was at work, stole back in dark delicate

rings on her forehead, and about her white shell-like ears; it is of

little use for me to say how lovely was the contour of her

pink-and-white neckerchief, tucked into her low plum-colored stuff

bodice, or how the linen butter-making apron, with its bib, seemed a

thing to be imitated in silk by duchesses, since it fell in such

charming lines, or how her brown stockings and thick-soled buckled shoes

lost all that clumsiness which they must certainly have had when empty

of her foot and ankle--of little use unless you have seen a woman who

affected you as Hetty affected her beholders, for otherwise, though you

might conjure up the image of a lovely woman, she would not in the least

resemble that distracting kitten-like maiden. I might mention all the

divine charms of a bright spring day, but if you had never in your life

utterly forgotten yourself in straining your eyes after the mounting

lark, or in wandering through the still lanes when the fresh-opened

blossoms fill them with a sacred, silent beauty like that of fretted

aisles, where would be the use of my descriptive catalogue? I could

never make you know what I meant by a bright spring day. Hetty's was a

spring-tide beauty; it was the beauty of young frisking things,

round-limbed, gambolling, circumventing you by a false air of

innocence--the innocence of a young star-browed calf, for example, that,

being inclined for a promenade out of bounds, leads you a severe

steeple-chase over hedge and ditch, and only comes to a stand in the

middle of a bog.

Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it. Nature, that great

tragic dramatist, knits us together by bone and muscle, and divides us

by the subtler web of our brains; blends yearning and repulsion, and

ties us by our heart-strings to the beings that jar us at every

movement. We hear a voice with the very cadence of our own uttering the

thoughts we despise; we see eyes--ah! so like our mother's--averted from

us in cold alienation; and our last darling child startles us with the

air and gestures of the sister we parted from in bitterness long years

ago. The father to whom we owe our best heritage--the mechanical

instinct, the keen sensibility to harmony, the unconscious skill of the

modeling hand--galls us, and puts us to shame by his daily errors. The

long-lost mother, whose face we begin to see in the glass as our own

wrinkles come, once fretted our young souls with her anxious humors and

irrational persistence.

It was to Adam the time that a man can least forget in after life--the

time when he believes that the first woman he has ever loved betrays by

a slight something--a word, a tone, a glance, the quivering of a lip or

an eyelid--that she is at least beginning to love him in return....So

unless our early gladness vanishes utterly from our memory, we can never

recall the joy with which we laid our heads on our mother's bosom or

rode on our father's back in childhood; doubtless that joy is wrought up

into our nature, or as the sunlight of long-past mornings is wrought up

into the soft mellowness of the apricot; but it is gone forever from our

imagination as we can only _believe_ in the joy of childhood. But the

first glad moment in our first love is a vision which returns to us to

the last, and brings with it a thrill of feeling intense and special as

the recurrent sensation of a sweet odor breathed in a far-off hour of

happiness. It is a memory that gives a more exquisite touch to

tenderness, that feeds the madness of jealousy, and adds the last

keenness to the agony of despair.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

MIDNIGHT IN THE CITY.

[From _Sartor Resartus_.]

"_Ach, mein Lieber!_" said he once, at midnight, when we had returned

from the Coffee-house in rather earnest talk, "it is a true sublimity to

dwell here. These fringes of lamp-light, struggling up through smoke and

thousand-fold exhalation, some fathoms into the ancient reign of night,

what thinks Boötes of them, as he leads his Hunting-Dogs over the Zenith

in their leash of sidereal fire? That stifled hum of Midnight, when

Traffic has lain down to rest; and the chariot-wheels of Vanity, still

rolling here and there through distant streets, are bearing her to Halls

roofed-in and lighted to the due pitch for her; and only Vice and

Misery, to prowl or to moan like night-birds, are abroad: that hum, I

say, like the stertorous, unquiet slumber of sick Life, is heard in

Heaven! O, under that hideous coverlet of vapours and putrefactions and

unimaginable gases, what a Fermenting-vat lies simmering and hid! The

joyful and the sorrowful are there; men are dying there, men are being

born: men are praying,--on the other side of a brick partition men are

cursing; and around them all is the vast, void Night. The proud Grandee

still lingers in his perfumed saloons, or reposes within damask

curtains; Wretchedness cowers into truckle-beds, or shivers

hunger-stricken into its lair of straw: in obscure cellars,

_Rouge-et-Noir_ languidly emits its voice-of-destiny to haggard, hungry

Villains; while Councillors of State sit plotting, and playing their

high chess-game, whereof the pawns are Men. The Lover whispers his

mistress that the coach is ready; and she, full of hope and fear, glides

down to fly with him over the borders: the Thief, still more silently,

sets-to his picklocks and crowbars, or lurks in wait till the watchmen

first snore in their boxes. Gay mansions, with supper-rooms and

dancing-rooms, are full of light and music and high-swelling hearts;

but, in the Condemned Cells, the pulse of life beats tremulous and

faint, and blood-shot eyes look out through the darkness, which is

around and within, for the light of a stern last morning. Six men

are to be hanged on the morrow: comes no hammering from the

_Rabenstein_?--their gallows must even now be o' building. Upward of

five hundred thousand two-legged animals without feathers lie round us

in horizontal positions; their heads all in night-caps and full of the

foolishest dreams. Riot cries aloud, and staggers and swaggers in his

rank dens of shame; and the Mother, with streaming hair, kneels over her

pallid dying infant, whose cracked lips only her tears now moisten.--All

these heaped and huddled together, with nothing but a little carpentry

and masonry between them;--crammed in, like salted fish in their

barrel;--or weltering, shall I say, like an Egyptian pitcher of tamed

Vipers, each struggling to get its _head above_ the other: _such_ work

goes on under that smoke-counterpane!--But I, _mein Werther,_ sit above

it all; I am alone with the Stars."

GHOSTS.

[From the Same.]

Again, could any thing be more miraculous than an actual authentic

Ghost? The English Johnson longed, all his life to see one; but could

not, though he went to Cock Lane, and thence to the church-vaults, and

tapped on coffins. Foolish Doctor! Did he never, with the mind's eye as

well as with the body's, look around him into that full tide of human

Life he so loved; did he never so much as look into himself? The good

Doctor was a Ghost, as actual and authentic as heart could wish;

well-nigh a million of Ghosts were travelling the streets by his side.

Once more I say, sweep away the illusion of Time; compress the

threescore years into three minutes: what else was he, what else are we?

Are we not Spirits, that are shaped into a body, into an Appearance; and

that fade away again into air, and Invisibility? This is no metaphor,

it is a simple scientific _fact_: we start out of Nothingness, take

figure, and are Apparitions; round us, as round the veriest spectre, is

Eternity; and to Eternity minutes are as years and æons. Come there not

tones of Love and Faith, as from celestial harp-strings, like the Song

of beatified souls? And again, do not we squeak and gibber (in our

discordant, screech-owlish debatings and recriminatings); and glide

bodeful and feeble and fearful; or uproar (_poltern_), and revel in our

mad Dance of the Dead,--till the scent of the morning-air summons us to

our still Home; and dreamy Night becomes awake and Day? Where now is

Alexander of Macedon: does the steel Host, that yelled in fierce

battle-shouts, at Issus and Arbela, remain behind him; or have they all

vanished utterly, even as perturbed Goblins must? Napoleon too, and his

Moscow Retreats and Austerlitz Campaigns! Was it all other than the

veriest Spectre-hunt; which has now, with its howling tumult that made

Night hideous, flitted away?--Ghosts! There are nigh a thousand million

walking the Earth openly at noontide; some half-hundred have vanished

from it, some half-hundred have arisen in it, ere thy watch ticks

once....

Thus, like some wild-flaming, wild-thundering train of Heaven's

Artillery, does this mysterious Mankind thunder and flame, in

long-drawn, quick-succeeding grandeur, through the unknown Deep. Thus,

like a God-created, fire-breathing Spirit-host, we emerge from the

Inane; haste stormfully across the astonished Earth; then plunge again

into the Inane. Earth's mountains are levelled, and her seas filled up,

in our passage: can the Earth, which is but dead and a vision, resist

Spirits which have reality and are alive? On the hardest adamant some

foot-print of us is stamped in; the last Rear of the host will read

traces of the earliest Van. But whence?--O Heaven, whither? Sense knows

not; Faith knows not; only that it is through Mystery to Mystery, from

God and to God.

"We _are such stuff_

As Dreams are made of, and our little Life

Is rounded with a sleep!"

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

[From _The Princess_.]

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy autumn fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more....

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O death in life, the days that are no more.

THE PASSING OF ARTHUR.

[From _Morte D'Arthur_.]

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfills himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

May He within himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell: I am going a long way

With these thou seest--if indeed I go--

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns,

And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail

Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan

That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood

With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull

Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away.

BUGLE SONG.

[From _The Princess_.]

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.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

Break, break, break

On thy cold gray 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.

PEACE OR WAR?

[From _Maud_.]

Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by,

When the poor are hovelled and hustled together, each sex, like swine,

When only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie;

Peace in her vineyard--yes!--but a company forges the wine.

And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head,

Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the trampled wife,

While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the poor for bread,

And the spirit of murder works in the very means of life.

And Sleep must lie down armed, for the villainous centre-bits

Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moonless nights,

While another is cheating the sick of a few last gasps, as he sits

To pestle a poisoned poison behind his crimson lights.

When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee,

And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's bones,

Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land and by sea,

War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hundred thrones.

STANZAS FROM IN MEMORIAM.

I envy not in any moods

The captive void of noble rage,

The linnet born within the cage,

That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes

His license in the fields of time,

Unfettered by the sense of crime,

To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,

The heart that never plighted troth,

But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;

Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whatever befall;

I feel it when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

SONG FROM MAUD.

Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown;

Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,

And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves

On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,

To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night has the casement jessamine stirred

To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay.

When will the dancers leave her alone?

She is weary of dance and play."

Now half to the setting moon are gone,

And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone

The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, "The brief night goes

In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those

For one that will never be thine?

But mine, but mine," so I swore to the rose,

"For ever and ever mine."

ROBERT BROWNING.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:

A mile or so away

On a little mound, Napoleon

Stood on our storming-day;

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,

Legs wide, arms locked behind,

As if to balance the prone brow

Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans

That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader Lannes

Waver at yonder wall"--

Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew

A rider, bound on bound

Full-galloping; nor bridle drew

Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,

And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:

You hardly could suspect--

(So tight he kept his lips compressed,

Scarce any blood came through)

You looked twice ere you saw his breast

Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace

We've got you Ratisbon!

The Marshal's in the market-place,

And you'll be there anon

To see your flag-bird flap his vans

Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chiefs eye flashed; his plans

Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently

Softened itself, as sheathes

A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes;

"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And his chief beside,

Smiling the boy fell dead.

THE LOST LEADER.

Just for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat--

Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,

Lost all the others, she lets us devote;

They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,

So much was theirs who so little allowed:

How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!

We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,

Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakspere was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley were with us--they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering--not through his presence;

Songs may inspirit us--not from his lyre;

Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire:

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,

One more devil's triumph and sorrow for angels,

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain,

Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,

Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

MEETING AT NIGHT.

The gray sea and the long black land,

And the yellow half-moon large and low;

And the startled little waves that leap

In fiery ringlets from their sleep,

As I gain the cove with pushing prow

And quench its speed in the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;

Three fields to cross till a farm appears;

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch

And blue spurt of a lighted match,

And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,

Than the two hearts beating each to each!

WORK AND WORTH.

[From _Rabbi Ben Ezra_.]

Not on the vulgar mass

Called "work" must sentence pass,

Things done, that took the eye and had the price;

O'er which, from level stand,

The low world laid its hand,

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb

And finger failed to plumb,

So passed in making up the main account;

All instincts immature,

All purposes unsure,

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed

Into a narrow act,

Fancies that broke through language and escaped;

All I could never be,

All men ignored in me,

This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.

O, to be in England

Now that April's there,

And whoever wakes in England

Sees, some morning, unaware,

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf

Round the elm-tree hole are in tiny leaf,

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough

In England--now!

And after April, when May follows,

And the white throat builds, and all the swallows!

Hark where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover

Blossoms and dew-drops--at the bent spray's edge--

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture

The first fine careless rapture!

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew

The buttercups, the little children's dower,

Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!