He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd

To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevail'd,

That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;

And such as storms allow,

The cask, the coop, the floated cord,

Delay'd not to bestow.

But he (they knew) nor ship nor shore,

Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he

Their haste himself condemn,

Aware that flight, in such a sea,

Alone could rescue them;

Yet bitter felt it still to die

Deserted, and his friends so nigh.

He long survives, who lives an hour

In ocean, self-upheld;

And so long he, with unspent power,

His destiny repell'd;

And ever, as the minutes flew,

Entreated help, or cried 'Adieu!'

At length, his transient respite past,

His comrades, who before

Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more;

For then, by toil subdued, he drank

The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No poet wept him; but the page

Of narrative sincere,

That tells his name, his worth, his age,

Is wet with Anson's tear:

And tears by bards or heroes shed

Alike immortalize the dead.

I therefore purpose not, or dream,

Descanting on his fate,

To give the melancholy theme

A more enduring date:

But misery still delights to trace

Its semblance in another's case.

No voice divine the storm allay'd,

No light propitious shone,

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,

We perish'd, each alone:

But I beneath a rougher sea,

And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.

_W. Cowper_

CCVI

_TOMORROW_

In the downhill of life, when I find I'm declining,

May my fate no less fortunate be

Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,

And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,

While I carol away idle sorrow,

And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn

Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,

As the sunshine or rain may prevail;

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,

With a barn for the use of the flail:

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;

I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,

Or what honours may wait him Tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely

Secured by a neighbouring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly

By the sound of a murmuring rill:

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,

With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,

With my friends may I share what Today may afford,

And let them spread the table Tomorrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail cov'ring

Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,

On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hov'ring,

Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again:

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;

As this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today,

May become Everlasting Tomorrow.

_J. Collins_

CCVII

Life! I know not what thou art,

But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met

I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear--

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

--Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime

Bid me Good Morning.

_A. L. Barbauld_

The Golden Treasury

Book Fourth

CCVIII

_TO THE MUSES_

Whether on Ida's shady brow,

Or in the chambers of the East,

The chambers of the sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceased;

Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth,

Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove

Beneath the bosom of the sea,

Wandering in many a coral grove,--

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love

That bards of old enjoy'd in you!

The languid strings do scarcely move,

The sound is forced, the notes are few.

_W. Blake_

CCIX

_ODE ON THE POETS_

Bards of Passion and of Mirth

Ye have left your souls on earth!

Have ye souls in heaven too,

Double-lived in regions new?

--Yes, and those of heaven commune

With the spheres of sun and moon;

With the noise of fountains wond'rous

And the parle of voices thund'rous;

With the whisper of heaven's trees

And one another, in soft ease

Seated on Elysian lawns

Browsed by none but Dian's fawns;

Underneath large blue-bells tented,

Where the daisies are rose-scented,

And the rose herself has got

Perfume which on earth is not;

Where the nightingale doth sing

Not a senseless, trancéd thing,

But divine melodious truth;

Philosophic numbers smooth;

Tales and golden histories

Of heaven and its mysteries.

Thus ye live on high, and then

On the earth ye live again;

And the souls ye left behind you

Teach us, here, the way to find you,

Where your other souls are joying,

Never slumber'd, never cloying.

Here, your earth-born souls still speak

To mortals, of their little week;

Of their sorrows and delights;

Of their passions and their spites;

Of their glory and their shame;

What doth strengthen and what maim:--

Thus ye teach us, every day,

Wisdom, though fled far away.

Bards of Passion and of Mirth

Ye have left your souls on earth!

Ye have souls in heaven too,

Double-lived in regions new!

_J. Keats_

CCX

_ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER_

Much have I travell'd 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-brow'd 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

Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

_J. Keats_

CCXI

_LOVE_

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,

All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I

Live o'er again that happy hour,

When midway on the mount I lay,

Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene

Had blended with the lights of eve;

And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the arméd man,

The statue of the arméd knight;

She stood and listen'd to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,

My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!

She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air,

I sang an old and moving story--

An old rude song, that suited well

That ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes and modest grace;

For well she knew, I could not choose

But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore

Upon his shield a burning brand;

And that for ten long years he woo'd

The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!

The deep, the low, the pleading tone

With which I sang another's love

Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,

With downcast eyes, and modest grace;

And she forgave me, that I gazed

Too fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scorn

That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,

And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,

Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,

And sometimes from the darksome shade,

And sometimes starting up at once

In green and sunny glade,--

There came and look'd him in the face

An angel beautiful and bright;

And that he knew it was a Fiend,

This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,

He leap'd amid a murderous band,

And saved from outrage worse than death

The Lady of the Land;--

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;

And how she tended him in vain--

And ever strove to expiate

The scorn that crazed his brain;--

And that she nursed him in a cave,

And how his madness went away,

When on the yellow forest-leaves

A dying man he lay;--

His dying words--but when I reach'd

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;

The music and the doleful tale,

The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,

An undistinguishable throng,

And gentle wishes long subdued,

Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,

She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;

And like the murmur of a dream,

I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved--she stepp'd aside,

As conscious of my look she stept--

Then suddenly, with timorous eye

She fled to me and wept.

She half inclosed me with her arms,

She press'd me with a meek embrace;

And bending back her head, look'd up,

And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,

And partly 'twas a bashful art

That I might rather feel, than see,

The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,

And told her love with virgin pride;

And so I won my Genevieve,

My bright and beauteous Bride.

_S. T. Coleridge_

CCXII

_ALL FOR LOVE_

O talk not to me of a name great in story;

The days of our youth are the days of our glory;

And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty

Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?

'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled:

Then away with all such from the head that is hoary--

What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,

'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,

Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover

She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;

Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;

When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,

I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

_Lord Byron_

CCXIII

_THE OUTLAW_

O Brignall banks are wild and fair,

And Greta woods are green,

And you may gather garlands there

Would grace a summer-queen.

And as I rode by Dalton-Hall

Beneath the turrets high,

A Maiden on the castle-wall

Was singing merrily:

'O Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green;

I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen.'

'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,

To leave both tower and town,

Thou first must guess what life lead we

That dwell by dale and down.

And if thou canst that riddle read,

As read full well you may,

Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed

As blithe as Queen of May.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,

And Greta woods are green;

I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen.

'I read you, by your bugle-horn

And by your palfrey good,

I read you for a ranger sworn

To keep the king's greenwood.'

'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,

And 'tis at peep of light;

His blast is heard at merry morn,

And mine at dead of night.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,

And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there

To reign his Queen of May!

'With burnish'd brand and musketoon

So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold Dragoon

That lists the tuck of drum.'

'I list no more the tuck of drum,

No more the trumpet hear;

But when the beetle sounds his hum

My comrades take the spear.

And O! though Brignall banks be fair

And Greta woods be gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare

Would reign my Queen of May!

'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,

A nameless death I'll die;

The fiend whose lantern lights the mead

Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met

Beneath the greenwood bough,--

What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now.'

_Chorus_

'Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green,

And you may gather garlands there

Would grace a summer-queen.'

_Sir W. Scott_

CCXIV

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like Thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmed ocean's pausing,

The waves lie still and gleaming,

And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep,

Whose breast is gently heaving

As an infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee

To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

_Lord Byron_

CCXV

_THE INDIAN SERENADE_

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

Hath 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 belovéd as thou art!

Oh 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 heart beats loud and fast;

Oh! press it close to thine again

Where it will break at last.

_P. B. Shelley_

CCXVI

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies,

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellow'd to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress

Or softly lightens o'er her face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow

But tell of days in goodness spent,--

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

_Lord Byron_

CCXVII

She was a Phantom of delight

When first she gleam'd upon my sight;

A lovely Apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;

But all things else about her drawn

From May-time and the cheerful dawn;

A dancing shape, an image gay,

To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,

A Spirit, yet a Woman too!

Her household motions light and free,

And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet

Sweet records, promises as sweet;

A creature not too bright or good

For human nature's daily food,

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,

A traveller between life and death:

The reason firm, the temperate will,

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;

A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd

To warn, to comfort, and command;

And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel-light.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXVIII

She is not fair to outward view

As many maidens be;

Her loveliness I never knew

Until she smiled on me.

O then I saw her eye was bright,

A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,

To mine they ne'er reply,

And yet I cease not to behold

The love-light in her eye:

Her very frowns are fairer far

Than smiles of other maidens are.

_H. Coleridge_

CCXIX

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;

Thou needest not fear mine;

My spirit is too deeply laden

Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;

Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion

With which I worship thine.

_P. B. Shelley_

CCXX

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!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXXI

I travell'd among unknown men

In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore

A second time; for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd

The bowers where Lucy play'd;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXXII

_THE EDUCATION OF NATURE_

Three years she grew in sun and shower;

Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown:

This Child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

'Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,

Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

'She shall be sportive as the fawn

That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;

And her's shall be the breathing balm,

And her's the silence and the calm

Of mute insensate things.

'The floating clouds their state shall lend

To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

Ev'n in the motions of the storm

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

'The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake--The work was done--

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXXIII

A slumber did my spirit seal;

I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force;

She neither hears nor sees;

Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXXIV

_A LOST LOVE_

I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;

Thy thrilling voice I hear;

And former hours and scenes retrace,

Too fleeting, and too dear!

Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,

Though none is nigh to share;

And life has nought beside for me

So sweet as this despair.

There are crush'd hearts that will not break;

And mine, methinks, is one;

Or thus I should not weep and wake,

And thou to slumber gone.

I little thought it thus could be

In days more sad and fair--

That earth could have a place for me,

And thou no longer there.

Yet death cannot our hearts divide,

Or make thee less my own:

'Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side

Than watching here alone.

Yet never, never can we part,

While Memory holds her reign:

Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart

Till we shall meet again.

_H. F. Lyte_

CCXXV

_LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER_

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound

Cries 'Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry!'

'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?'

'O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

'And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together,

For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

'His horsemen hard behind us ride--

Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride,

When they have slain her lover?'

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:

It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:--

'And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white

I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of Heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode arméd men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,

'Though tempests round us gather;

I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,--

When, oh! too strong for human hand

The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,--

His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade

His child he did discover:--

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief

'Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!--Oh, my daughter!'

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

_T. Campbell_

CCXXVI

_LUCY GRAY_

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:

And when I cross'd 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 snapp'd 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 wander'd up and down;

And many a hill did Lucy climb:

But never reach'd 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 track'd the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn hedge,

And by the long stone-wall:

And then an open field they cross'd:

The marks were still the same;

They track'd them on, nor ever lost;

And to the bridge they came:

They follow'd 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.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXXVII

_JOCK OF HAZELDEAN_

'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?

Why weep ye by the tide?

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride:

And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen'--

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale;

Young Frank is chief of Errington

And lord of Langley-dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen'--

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you the foremost o' them a'

Shall ride our forest-queen'--

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there:

They sought her baith by bower and ha';

The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

_Sir W. Scott_

CCXXVIII

_LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY_

The fountains mingle with the river

And the rivers with the ocean,

The winds of heaven mix for ever

With a sweet emotion;

Nothing in the world is single,

All things by a law divine

In one another's being mingle--

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,

And the waves clasp one another;

No sister-flower would be forgiven

If it disdain'd its brother:

And the sunlight clasps the earth,

And the moonbeams kiss the sea--

What are all these kissings worth,

If thou kiss not me?

_P. B. Shelley_

CCXXIX

_ECHOES_

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To Music at night

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away o'er lawns and lakes

Goes answering light!

Yet Love hath echoes truer far

And far more sweet

Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star,

Of horn or lute or soft guitar

The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh,--in youth sincere

And only then,

The sigh that's breathed for one to hear--

Is by that one, that only Dear

Breathed back again.

_T. Moore_

CCXXX

_A SERENADE_

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 thrill'd all day,

Sits hush'd 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 W. Scott_

CCXXXI

_TO THE EVENING STAR_

Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even,

Companion of retiring day,

Why at the closing gates of heaven,

Beloved Star, dost thou delay?

So fair thy pensile beauty burns

When soft the tear of twilight flows;

So due thy plighted love returns

To chambers brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love

So kind a star thou seem'st to be,

Sure some enamour'd orb above

Descends and burns to meet with thee.

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour

When all unheavenly passions fly,

Chased by the soul-subduing power

Of Love's delicious witchery.

O! sacred to the fall of day

Queen of propitious stars, appear,

And early rise, and long delay,

When Caroline herself is here!

Shine on her chosen green resort

Whose trees the sunward summit crown,

And wanton flowers, that well may court

An angel's feet to tread them down:--

Shine on her sweetly scented road

Thou star of evening's purple dome,

That lead'st the nightingale abroad,

And guid'st the pilgrim to his home.

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath

Embalms the soft exhaling dew,

Where dying winds a sigh bequeath

To kiss the cheek of rosy hue:--

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air,

Her silken tresses darkly flow

And fall upon her brow so fair,

Like shadows on the mountain snow.

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline

In converse sweet to wander far--

O bring with thee my Caroline,

And thou shalt be my Ruling Star!

_T. Campbell_

CCXXXII

_TO THE NIGHT_

Swiftly walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave

Where, all the long and lone daylight,

Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear

Which make thee terrible and dear,--

Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray

Star-inwrought;

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,

Kiss her until she be wearied out:

Then wander o'er city and sea and land,

Touching all with thine opiate wand--

Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh'd for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turn'd to his rest

Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried

Wouldst thou me?

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,

Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee

Shall I nestle near thy side?

Wouldst thou me?--And I replied

No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,

Soon, too soon--

Sleep will come when thou art fled;

Of neither would I ask the boon

I ask of thee, belovéd Night--

Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!

_P. B. Shelley_

CCXXXIII

_TO A DISTANT FRIEND_

Why art thou silent? Is thy love a plant

Of such weak fibre that the treacherous air

Of absence withers what was once so fair?

Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?

Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant,

Bound to thy service with unceasing care--

The mind's least generous wish a mendicant

For nought but what thy happiness could spare.

Speak!--though this soft warm heart, once free to hold

A thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,

Be left more desolate, more dreary cold

Than a forsaken bird's-nest fill'd with snow

'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine--

Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXXXIV

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow;

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me--

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee

Who knew thee too well:

Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met:

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?--

With silence and tears.

_Lord Byron_

CCXXXV

_HAPPY INSENSIBILITY_

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 passéd joy?

To know the change and feel it,

When there is none to heal it

Nor numbéd sense to steal it--

Was never said in rhyme.

_J. Keats_

CCXXXVI

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!_

Where shall the traitor rest,

He, the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,

Ruin, and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying;

_Eleu loro

There shall he be lying._

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the falsehearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap

Ere life be parted:

Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it

Never, O never!

_Eleu loro

Never, O never!_

_Sir W. Scott_

CCXXXVII

_LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI_

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

Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has wither'd 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 lily 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 look'd 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 sidelong would she bend, 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 wept and sigh'd full sore;

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

With kisses four.

'And there she lulléd me asleep,

And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide!

The latest dream I ever dream'd

On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all:

They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam

With horrid warning gapéd wide,

And I awoke and found me here

On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,

And no birds sing.'

_J. Keats_

CCXXXVIII

_THE ROVER_

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 doublet 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 turn'd 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 W. Scott_

CCXXXIX

_THE FLIGHT OF LOVE_

When the lamp is shatter'd

The light in the dust lies dead--

When the cloud is scatter'd,

The rainbow's glory is shed.

When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remember'd 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 ruin'd 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 possesst.

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 storms rock 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 naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

_P. B. Shelley_

CCXL

_THE MAID OF NEIDPATH_

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see,

And lovers' ears in hearing;

And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering.

Disease had been in Mary's bower

And slow decay from mourning,

Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower

To watch her Love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,

Her form decay'd by pining,

Till through her wasted hand, at night,

You saw the taper shining.

By fits a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;

By fits so ashy pale she grew

Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers to see and hear

Seem'd in her frame residing;

Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear

She heard her lover's riding;

Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd

She knew and waved to greet him,

And o'er the battlement did bend

As on the wing to meet him.

He came--he pass'd--an heedless gaze

As o'er some stranger glancing;

Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,

Lost in his courser's prancing--

The castle-arch, whose hollow tone

Returns each whisper spoken,

Could scarcely catch the feeble moan

Which told her heart was broken.

_Sir W. Scott_

CCXLI

Earl March look'd on his dying child,

And, smit with grief to view her--

The youth, he cried, whom I exiled

Shall be restored to woo her.

She's at the window many an hour

His coming to discover:

And he look'd up to Ellen's bower

And she look'd on her lover--

But ah! so pale, he knew her not,

Though her smile on him was dwelling--

And am I then forgot--forgot?

It broke the heart of Ellen.

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs,

Her cheek is cold as ashes;

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes

To lift their silken lashes.

_T. Campbell_

CCXLII

Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art--

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,

And watching, with eternal lids apart,

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:--

No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,

Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest;

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever,--or else swoon to death.

_J. Keats_

CCXLIII

_THE TERROR OF DEATH_

When I have fears that I may cease to be

Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,

Before high-piléd books, in charact'ry

Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;

When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,

Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,

And think that I may never live to trace

Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;

And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour!

That I shall never look upon thee more,

Never have relish in the faery power

Of unreflecting love--then on the shore

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think

Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

_Keats_

CCXLIV

_DESIDERIA_

Surprized by joy--impatient as the wind--

I turn'd to share the transport--Oh! with whom

But Thee--deep buried in the silent tomb,

That spot which no vicissitude can find?

Love, faithful love recall'd thee to my mind--

But how could I forget thee? Through what power

Even for the least division of an hour

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind

To my most grievous loss!--That thought's return

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;

That neither present time, nor years unborn

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXLV

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

To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye;

And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air

To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there

And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky!

Then I sing the wild song it once was rapture to hear

When our voices, commingling, breathed like one on the ear;

And as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,

I think, oh my Love! 'tis thy voice, from the Kingdom of Souls

Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.

_T. Moore_

CCXLVI

_ELEGY ON THYRZA_

And thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;

And forms so soft and charms so rare

Too soon return'd 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 lours,

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 pass'd away

I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey;

Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,

The leaves must drop away.

And yet it were a greater grief

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,

Than see it pluck'd today;

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 follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath past,

And thou wert lovely to the last,

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

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.

_Lord Byron_

CCXLVII

One word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdain'd

For thee to disdain it.

One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother,

And pity from thee more dear

Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;

But wilt thou accept not

The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heavens reject not:

The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow,

The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?

_P. B. Shelley_

CCXLVIII

_GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK_

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 Inverlocky.

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 uninterr'd,

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!

_Sir W. Scott_

CCXLIX

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast

And fills the white and rustling sail

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While like the eagle free

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my lads,

The good ship tight and free--

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornéd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

But hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free--

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

_A. Cunningham_

CCL

Ye Mariners of England

That guard our native seas!

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again

To match another foe:

And sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave--

For the deck it was their field of fame,

And Ocean was their grave:

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell

Your manly hearts shall glow,

As ye sweep through the deep,

While the stormy winds do blow;

While the battle rages loud and long

And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below--

As they roar on the shore,

When the stormy winds do blow;

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England

Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart

And the star of peace return.

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!

Our song and feast shall flow

To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;

When the fiery fight is heard no more,

And the storm has ceased to blow.

_T. Campbell_

CCLI

_BATTLE OF THE BALTIC_

Of Nelson and the North

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:

As they drifted on their path

There was silence deep as death,

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.

But the might of England flush'd

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;--

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--

Then ceased--and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail;

Or in conflagration pale

Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then

As he hail'd them o'er the wave,

'Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save:--

So peace instead of death let us bring:

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet

With the crews, at England's feet,

And make submission meet

To our King.'

Then Denmark bless'd our chief

That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day:

While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep

Full many a fathom deep

By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride

Once so faithful and so true,

On the deck of fame that died,

With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls

And the mermaid's song condoles

Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

_T. Campbell_

CCLII

_ODE TO DUTY_

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!

O Duty! if that name thou love

Who art a light to guide, a rod

To check the erring, and reprove;

Thou who art victory and law

When empty terrors overawe;

From vain temptations dost set free,

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye

Be on them; who, in love and truth

Where no misgiving is, rely

Upon the genial sense of youth:

Glad hearts! without reproach or blot,

Who do thy work, and know it not:

Oh! if through confidence misplaced

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.

Serene will be our days and bright

And happy will our nature be

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security.

And they a blissful course may hold

Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold,

Live in the spirit of this creed;

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried,

No sport of every random gust,

Yet being to myself a guide,

Too blindly have reposed my trust:

And oft, when in my heart was heard

Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd

The task, in smoother walks to stray;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul

Or strong compunction in me wrought,

I supplicate for thy controul,

But in the quietness of thought:

Me this uncharter'd freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance-desires:

My hopes no more must change their name;

I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear

The Godhead's most benignant grace;

Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face:

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds,

And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong;

And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power!

I call thee: I myself commend

Unto thy guidance from this hour;

Oh let my weakness have an end!

Give unto me, made lowly wise,

The spirit of self-sacrifice;

The confidence of reason give;

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live.

_W. Wordsworth._

CCLIII

_ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON_

Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,

For there thy habitation is the heart--

The heart which love of Thee alone can bind;

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd,

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom,

Their country conquers with their martyrdom,

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.

Chillon! thy prison is a holy place

And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod,

Until his very steps have left a trace

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod,

By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!

For they appeal from tyranny to God.

_Lord Byron_

CCLIV

_ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802_

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea,

One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice:

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him,--but hast vainly striven:

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

--Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft;

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left--

For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be

That Mountain floods should thunder as before,

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLV

_ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC._

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee

And was the safeguard of the West; the worth

Of Venice did not fall below her birth,

Venice, the eldest child of Liberty.

She was a maiden city, bright and free;

No guile seduced, no force could violate;

And when she took unto herself a mate,

She must espouse the everlasting Sea.

And what if she had seen those glories fade,

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay,--

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid

When her long life hath reach'd its final day:

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade

Of that which once was great is pass'd away.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLVI

_LONDON, 1802_

O Friend! I know not which way I must look

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest

To think that now our life is only drest

For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,

Or groom!--We must run glittering like a brook

In the open sunshine, or we are unblest;

The wealthiest man among us is the best:

No grandeur now in nature or in book

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense,

This is idolatry; and these we adore:

Plain living and high thinking are no more:

The homely beauty of the good old cause

Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence,

And pure religion breathing household laws.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLVII

_THE SAME_

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men:

Oh! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea,

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free;

So didst thou travel on life's common way

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLVIII

When I have borne in memory what has tamed

Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

The student's bower for gold,--some fears unnamed

I had, my Country!--am I to be blamed?

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men;

And I by my affection was beguiled:

What wonder if a Poet now and then,

Among the many movements of his mind,

Felt for thee as a lover or a child!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLIX

_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 array'd

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,

And furious every charger neigh'd

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven;

Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven;

And louder than the bolts of Heaven

Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow

On Linden's hills of stainéd 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.

_T. Campbell_

CCLX

_AFTER BLENHEIM_

It was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,

And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun;

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round

Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found

That was so large and smooth and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh

''Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he,

'Who fell in the great victory.

'I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about;

And often when I go to plough

The ploughshare turns them out.

For many thousand men,' said he,

'Were slain in that great victory.'

'Now tell us what 'twas all about,'

Young Peterkin he cries;

And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;

'Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for.'

'It was the English,' Kaspar cried,

'Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for

I could not well make out.

But every body said,' quoth he,

'That 'twas a famous victory.

'My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly:

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

'With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then

And new-born baby died:

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

'They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

'Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won

And our good Prince Eugene;'

'Why 'twas a very wicked thing!'

Said little Wilhelmine;

'Nay ... nay ... my little girl,' quoth he,

'It was a famous victory.

'And every body praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win.'

'But what good came of it at last?'

Quoth little Peterkin:--

'Why that I cannot tell,' said he,

'But 'twas a famous victory.'

_R. Southey_

CCLXI

_PRO PATRIA MORI_

When he who adores thee has left out the name

Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame

Of a life that for thee was resign'd!

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,

Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,

I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;

Every thought of my reason was thine:

In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above

Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live

The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give

Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

_T. Moore_

CCLXII

_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA_

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried;

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning;

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done

When the clock struck the hour for retiring:

And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.

_C. Wolfe_

CCLXIII

_SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN_

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,

An old man dwells, a little man,--

'Tis said he once was tall.

Full five-and-thirty years he lived

A running huntsman merry;

And still the centre of his cheek

Is red as a ripe cherry.

No man like him the horn could sound,

And hill and valley rang with glee,

When Echo bandied, round and round,

The halloo of Simon Lee.

In those proud days he little cared

For husbandry or tillage;

To blither tasks did Simon rouse

The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;

And often, ere the chase was done,

He reel'd and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world

At which his heart rejoices;

For when the chiming hounds are out,

He dearly loves their voices.

But oh the heavy change!--bereft

Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see!

Old Simon to the world is left

In liveried poverty:--

His master's dead, and no one now

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick,

His body, dwindled and awry,

Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.

One prop he has, and only one,--

His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall,

Upon the village common.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,

Not twenty paces from the door,

A scrap of land they have, but they

Are poorest of the poor.

This scrap of land he from the heath

Enclosed when he was stronger;

But what to them avails the land

Which he can till no longer?

Oft, working by her husband's side,

Ruth does what Simon cannot do;

For she, with scanty cause for pride,

Is stouter of the two.

And, though you with your utmost skill

From labour could not wean them,

'Tis little, very little, all

That they can do between them.

Few months of life has he in store

As he to you will tell,

For still, the more he works, the more

Do his weak ankles swell.

My gentle Reader, I perceive

How patiently you've waited,

And now I fear that you expect

Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind

Such stores as silent thought can bring,

O gentle Reader! you would find

A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short,

And you must kindly take it:

It is no tale; but, should you think,

Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see

This old Man doing all he could

To unearth the root of an old tree,

A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock totter'd in his hand;

So vain was his endeavour

That at the root of the old tree

He might have work'd for ever.

'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee,

Give me your tool,' to him I said;

And at the word right gladly he

Received my proffer'd aid.

I struck, and with a single blow

The tangled root I sever'd,

At which the poor old man so long

And vainly had endeavour'd.

The tears into his eyes were brought,

And thanks and praises seem'd to run

So fast out of his heart, I thought

They never would have done.

--I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed

With coldness still returning;

Alas! the gratitude of men

Hath oftener left me mourning.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLXIV

_THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES_

I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women:

Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,

Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces,

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

_C. Lamb_

CCLXV

_THE JOURNEY ONWARDS_

As slow our ship her foamy track

Against the wind was cleaving,

Her trembling pennant still look'd back

To that dear isle 'twas leaving.

So loth we part from all we love,

From all the links that bind us;

So turn our hearts, as on we rove,

To those we've left behind us!

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years

We talk with joyous seeming--

With smiles that might as well be tears,

So faint, so sad their beaming;

While memory brings us back again

Each early tie that twined us,

Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then

To those we've left behind us!

And when, in other climes, we meet

Some isle or vale enchanting,

Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,

And nought but love is wanting;

We think how great had been our bliss

If Heaven had but assign'd us

To live and die in scenes like this,

With some we've left behind us!

As travellers oft look back at eve

When eastward darkly going,

To gaze upon that light they leave

Still faint behind them glowing,--

So, when the close of pleasure's day

To gloom hath near consign'd us,

We turn to catch one fading ray

Of joy that's left behind us.

_T. Moore_

CCLXVI

_YOUTH AND AGE_

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast,

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,

Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene,--

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me!

_Lord Byron_

CCLXVII

_A LESSON_

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,

That shrinks like many more from cold and rain,

And the first moment that the sun may shine,

Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm,

Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,

Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm

In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past,

And recognized it, though an alter'd form,

Now standing forth an offering to the blast,

And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice,

'It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold;

This neither is its courage nor its choice,

But its necessity in being old.

'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;

It cannot help itself in its decay;

Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,'--

And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray.

To be a prodigal's favourite--then, worse truth,

A miser's pensioner--behold our lot!

O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth

Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLXVIII

_PAST AND PRESENT_

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.

_T. Hood_

CCLXIX

_THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS_

Oft in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

When I remember all

The friends so link'd together

I've seen around me fall

Like leaves in wintry weather,

I feel like one

Who treads alone

Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled

Whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed!

Thus in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

_T. Moore_

CCLXX

_STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES_

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,

The waves are dancing fast and bright,

Blue isles and snowy mountains wear

The purple noon's transparent might:

The breath of the moist earth is light

Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight--

The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'--

The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple sea-weeds strown;

I see the waves upon the shore

Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:

I sit upon the sands alone;

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion--

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within nor calm around,

Nor that content, surpassing wealth,

The sage in meditation found,

And walk'd with inward glory crown'd--

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;

Others I see whom these surround--

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child,

And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear,--

Till death like sleep might steal on me,

And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea

Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

_P. B. Shelley_

CCLXXI

_THE SCHOLAR_

My days among the Dead are past;

Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,

The mighty minds of old:

My never-failing friends are they,

With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal

And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel

How much to them I owe,

My cheeks have often been bedew'd

With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with them

I live in long-past years,

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,

Partake their hopes and fears,

And from their lessons seek and find

Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon

My place with them will be,

And I with them shall travel on

Through all Futurity;

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,

That will not perish in the dust.

_R. Southey_

CCLXXII

_THE MERMAID TAVERN_

Souls of Poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Have ye tippled drink more fine

Than mine host's Canary wine?

Or are fruits of Paradise

Sweeter than those dainty pies

Of venison? O generous food!

Drest as though bold Robin Hood

Would, with his Maid Marian,

Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day

Mine host's sign-board flew away

Nobody knew whither, till

An astrologer's old quill

To a sheepskin gave the story,

Said he saw you in your glory,

Underneath a new-old sign

Sipping beverage divine,

And pledging with contented smack

The Mermaid in the Zodiac.

Souls of Poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

_J. Keats_

CCLXXIII

_THE PRIDE OF YOUTH_

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 gray-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 W. Scott_

CCLXXIV

_THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS_

One more Unfortunate

Weary of breath

Rashly importunate,

Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;

Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments

Clinging like cerements;

Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;

Take her up instantly,

Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully;

Think of her mournfully,

Gently and humanly;

Not of the stains of her--

All that remains of her

Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny

Into her mutiny

Rash and undutiful:

Past all dishonour,

Death has left on her

Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers,

One of Eve's family--

Wipe those poor lips of hers

Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses

Escaped from the comb,

Her fair auburn tresses;

Whilst wonderment guesses

Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one

Still, and a nearer one

Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity

Of Christian charity

Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful!

Near a whole city full,

Home she had none.

Sisterly, brotherly,

Fatherly, motherly

Feelings had changed:

Love, by harsh evidence,

Thrown from its eminence;

Even God's providence

Seeming estranged.

Where the lamps quiver

So far in the river,

With many a light

From window and casement,

From garret to basement,

She stood, with amazement,

Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March

Made her tremble and shiver

But not the dark arch,

Or the black flowing river:

Mad from life's history,

Glad to death's mystery

Swift to be hurl'd--

Any where, any where

Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,

No matter how coldly

The rough river ran,--

Over the brink of it,

Picture it--think of it,

Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it,

Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,

Lift her with care;

Fashion'd so slenderly,

Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly

Stiffen too rigidly,

Decently, kindly,

Smooth and compose them,

And her eyes, close them,

Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring

Thro' muddy impurity,

As when with the daring

Last look of despairing

Fix'd on futurity.

Perishing gloomily,

Spurr'd by contumely,

Cold inhumanity,

Burning insanity,

Into her rest.

--Cross her hands humbly

As if praying dumbly,

Over her breast!

Owning her weakness,

Her evil behaviour,

And leaving, with meekness,

Her sins to her Saviour!

_T. Hood_

CCLXXV

_ELEGY_

Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom!

On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year,

And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream

Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,

And feed deep thought with many a dream,

And lingering pause and lightly tread;

Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,

That Death nor heeds nor hears distress:

Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less?

And thou, who tell'st me to forget,

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

_Lord Byron_

CCLXXVI

_HESTER_

When maidens such as Hester die

Their place ye may not well supply,

Though ye among a thousand try

With vain endeavour.

A month or more hath she been dead,

Yet cannot I by force be led

To think upon the wormy bed

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,

A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate

That flush'd her spirit:

I know not by what name beside

I shall it call: if 'twas not pride,

It was a joy to that allied

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,

Which doth the human feeling cool;

But she was train'd in Nature's school,

Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind;

A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbour! gone before

To that unknown and silent shore,

Shall we not meet, as heretofore

Some summer morning--

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray

Hath struck a bliss upon the day,

A bliss that would not go away,

A sweet fore-warning?

_C. Lamb_

CCLXXVII

_TO MARY_

If I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had past

The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook

That I must look in vain!

But when I speak--thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;

And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene--

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been.

While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;

But there I lay thee in thy grave--

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore!

_C. Wolfe_

CCLXXVIII

_CORONACH_

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 raindrops 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 searest,

But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,

Sage counsel in cumber,

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 W. Scott_

CCLXXIX

_THE DEATH BED_

We watch'd her breathing thro' the night,

Her breathing soft and low,

As in her breast the wave of life

Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seem'd to speak,

So slowly moved about,

As we had lent her half our powers

To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,

Our fears our hopes belied--

We thought her dying when she slept,

And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad

And chill with early showers,

Her quiet eyelids closed--she had

Another morn than ours.

_T. Hood_

CCLXXX

_AGNES_

I saw her in childhood--

A bright, gentle thing,

Like the dawn of the morn,

Or the dews of the spring:

The daisies and hare-bells

Her playmates all day;

Herself as light-hearted

And artless as they.

I saw her again--

A fair girl of eighteen,

Fresh glittering with graces

Of mind and of mien.

Her speech was all music;

Like moonlight she shone;

The envy of many,

The glory of one.

Years, years fleeted over--

I stood at her foot:

The bud had grown blossom,

The blossom was fruit.

A dignified mother,

Her infant she bore;

And look'd, I thought, fairer

Than ever before.

I saw her once more--

'Twas the day that she died;

Heaven's light was around her,

And God at her side;

No wants to distress her,

No fears to appal--

O then, I felt, then

She was fairest of all!

_H. F. Lyte_

CCLXXXI

_ROSABELLE_

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell;

Soft is the note, and sad the lay

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!

Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

'The blackening wave is edged with white;

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

'Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'

''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball,

But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well,

But that my sire the wine will chide

If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'

--O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,

Each Baron, for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale;

Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold--

Lie buried within that proud chapelle;

Each one the holy vault doth hold--

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.

And each Saint Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

_Sir W. Scott_

CCLXXXII

_ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN_

I saw where in the shroud did lurk

A curious frame of Nature's work;

A flow'ret crushéd in the bud,

A nameless piece of Babyhood,

Was in her cradle-coffin lying;

Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:

So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb

For darker closets of the tomb!

She did but ope an eye, and put

A clear beam forth, then straight up shut

For the long dark: ne'er more to see

Through glasses of mortality.

Riddle of destiny, who can show

What thy short visit meant, or know

What thy errand here below?

Shall we say, that Nature blind

Check'd her hand, and changed her mind

Just when she had exactly wrought

A finish'd pattern without fault?

Could she flag, or could she tire,

Or lack'd she the Promethean fire

(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)

That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?

Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure

Life of health, and days mature:

Woman's self in miniature!

Limbs so fair, they might supply

(Themselves now but cold imagery)

The sculptor to make Beauty by.

Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry

That babe or mother, one must die;

So in mercy left the stock

And cut the branch; to save the shock

Of young years widow'd, and the pain

When Single State comes back again

To the lone man who, reft of wife,

Thenceforward drags a maiméd life?

The economy of Heaven is dark,

And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark

Why human buds, like this, should fall,

More brief than fly ephemeral

That has his day; while shrivell'd crones

Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;

And crabbéd use the conscience sears

In sinners of an hundred years.

--Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,

Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss:

Rites, which custom does impose,

Silver bells, and baby clothes;

Coral redder than those lips

Which pale death did late eclipse;

Music framed for infants' glee,

Whistle never tuned for thee;

Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,

Loving hearts were they which gave them.

Let not one be missing; nurse,

See them laid upon the hearse

Of infant slain by doom perverse.

Why should kings and nobles have

Pictured trophies to their grave,

And we, churls, to thee deny

Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--

A more harmless vanity?

_C. Lamb_

CCLXXXIII

_IN MEMORIAM_

A child's a plaything for an hour;

Its pretty tricks we try

For that or for a longer space,--

Then tire, and lay it by.

But I knew one that to itself

All seasons could control;

That would have mock'd the sense of pain

Out of a grievéd soul.

Thou straggler into loving arms,

Young climber up of knees,

When I forget thy thousand ways

Then life and all shall cease!

_M. Lamb_

CCLXXXIV

_THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET_

Where art thou, my beloved Son,

Where art thou, worse to me than dead?

Oh find me, prosperous or undone!

Or if the grave be now thy bed,

Why am I ignorant of the same

That I may rest; and neither blame

Nor sorrow may attend thy name?

Seven years, alas! to have received

No tidings of an only child--

To have despair'd, have hoped, believed,

And been for evermore beguiled,--

Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss!

I catch at them, and then I miss;

Was ever darkness like to this?

He was among the prime in worth,

An object beauteous to behold;

Well born, well bred; I sent him forth

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:

If things ensued that wanted grace

As hath been said, they were not base;

And never blush was on my face.

Ah! little doth the young-one dream

When full of play and childish cares,

What power is in his wildest scream

Heard by his mother unawares!

He knows it not, he cannot guess;

Years to a mother bring distress;

But do not make her love the less.

Neglect me! no, I suffer'd long

From that ill thought; and being blind

Said 'Pride shall help me in my wrong:

Kind mother have I been, as kind

As ever breathed:' and that is true;

I've wet my path with tears like dew,

Weeping for him when no one knew.

My Son, if thou be humbled, poor,

Hopeless of honour and of gain,

Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;

Think not of me with grief and pain:

I now can see with better eyes;

And worldly grandeur I despise

And fortune with her gifts and lies.

Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,

And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;

They mount--how short a voyage brings

The wanderers back to their delight!

Chains tie us down by land and sea;

And wishes, vain as mine, may be

All that is left to comfort thee.

Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan

Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men;

Or thou upon a desert thrown

Inheritest the lion's den;

Or hast been summon'd to the deep

Thou, thou, and all thy mates, to keep

An incommunicable sleep.

I look for ghosts: but none will force

Their way to me; 'tis falsely said

That there was ever intercourse

Between the living and the dead;

For surely then I should have sight

Of him I wait for day and night

With love and longings infinite.

My apprehensions come in crowds;

I dread the rustling of the grass;

The very shadows of the clouds

Have power to shake me as they pass:

I question things, and do not find

One that will answer to my mind;

And all the world appears unkind.

Beyond participation lie

My troubles, and beyond relief:

If any chance to heave a sigh

They pity me, and not my grief.

Then come to me, my Son, or send

Some tidings that my woes may end!

I have no other earthly friend.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLXXXV

_HUNTING SONG_

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day;

All the jolly chase is here

With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;

Hounds are in their couples yelling,

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily merrily mingle they,

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray,

Springlets in the dawn are steaming,

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;

And foresters have busy been

To track the buck in thicket green;

Now we come to chant our lay

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

To the greenwood haste away;

We can show you where he lies,

Fleet of foot and tall of size;

We can show the marks he made

When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;

You shall see him brought to bay;

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Louder, louder chant the lay

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth and mirth and glee

Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,

Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;

Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay!

_Sir W. Scott_

CCLXXXVI

_TO THE SKYLARK_

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!

Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?

Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye

Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?

Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,

Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

To the last point of vision, and beyond

Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain

--'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing

All independent of the leafy Spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;

A privacy of glorious light is thine,

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood

Of harmony, with instinct more divine;

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam--

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLXXXVII

_TO A SKYLARK_

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven, or near it

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest,

Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,

As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody;--

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,

Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour

With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower'd

In its own green leaves,

By warm winds deflower'd,

Till the scent it gives

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,

Rain-awaken'd flowers,

All that ever was

Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine:

I have never heard

Praise of love or wine

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal

Or triumphal chaunt

Match'd with thine, would be all

But an empty vaunt--

A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain?

What fields, or waves, or mountains?

What shapes of sky or plain?

What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be:

Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee:

Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep

Thou of death must deem

Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,

Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not:

Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is fraught;

Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;

If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,

I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures

Of delightful sound,

Better than all treasures

That in books are found,

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,

Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow,

The world should listen then, as I am listening now!

_P. B. Shelley_

CCLXXXVIII

_THE GREEN LINNET_

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Their snow-white blossoms on my head,

With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of Spring's unclouded weather,

In this sequester'd nook how sweet

To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And flowers and birds once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

One have I mark'd, the happiest guest

In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array

Presiding Spirit here to-day

Dost lead the revels of the May;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,

Make all one band of paramours,

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,

Art sole in thy employment;

A Life, a Presence like the air,

Scattering thy gladness without care,

Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees

That twinkle to the gusty breeze,

Behold him perch'd in ecstasies

Yet seeming still to hover;

There! where the flutter of his wings

Upon his back and body flings

Shadows and sunny glimmerings,

That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives--

A brother of the dancing leaves;

Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves

Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mock'd and treated with disdain

The voiceless Form he chose to feign,

While fluttering in the bushes.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCLXXXIX

_TO THE CUCKOO_

O blithe new-comer! I have heard,

I hear thee and rejoice:

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,

Or but a wandering Voice?

While I am lying on the grass

Thy twofold shout I hear;

From hill to hill it seems to pass,

At once far off and near.

Though babbling only to the vale

Of sunshine and of flowers,

Thou bringest unto me a tale

Of visionary hours.

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!

Even yet thou art to me

No bird, but an invisible thing,

A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days

I listen'd to; that Cry

Which made me look a thousand ways

In bush, and tree, and sky.

To seek thee did I often rove

Through woods and on the green;

And thou wert still a hope, a love;

Still long'd for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet;

Can lie upon the plain

And listen, till I do beget

That golden time again.

O blesséd Bird! the earth we pace

Again appears to be

An unsubstantial, faery place,

That is fit home for Thee!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXC

_ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE_

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,

Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:

'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,

But being too happy in thine happiness,--

That thou, light-wingéd Dryad of the trees,

In some melodious plot

Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,

Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvéd earth,

Tasting of Flora and the country green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!

O for a beaker full of the warm South,

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,

And purple-stainéd mouth;

That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,

And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget

What thou among the leaves hast never known,

The weariness, the fever, and the fret

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;

Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow

And leaden-eyed despairs;

Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,

Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,

But on the viewless wings of Poesy,

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:

Already with thee! tender is the night,

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,

Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;

But here there is no light,

Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,

But, in embalméd darkness, guess each sweet

Wherewith the seasonable month endows

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;

White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;

And mid-May's eldest child,

The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time

I have been half in love with easeful Death,

Call'd him soft names in many a muséd rhyme,

To take into the air my quiet breath;

Now more than ever seems it rich to die,

To cease upon the midnight with no pain,

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad

In such an ecstasy!

Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain--

To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down;

The voice I hear this passing night was heard

In ancient days by emperor and clown:

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;

The same that oft-times hath

Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well

As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream,

Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?

_J. Keats_

CCXCI

_UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802_

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth like a garment wear

The beauty of the morning: silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky,--

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXCII

To one who has been long in city pent,

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair

And open face of heaven,--to breathe a prayer

Full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair

And gentle tale of love and languishment?

Returning home at evening, with an ear

Catching the notes of Philomel,--an eye

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,

He mourns that day so soon has glided by:

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear

That falls through the clear ether silently.

_J. Keats_

CCXCIII

_OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT_

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,

The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

_P. B. Shelley_

CCXCIV

_COMPOSED AT NEIDPATH CASTLE, THE PROPERTY OF LORD QUEENSBERRY, 1803_

Degenerate Douglas! oh, the unworthy lord!

Whom mere despite of heart could so far please

And love of havoc, (for with such disease

Fame taxes him,) that he could send forth word

To level with the dust a noble horde,

A brotherhood of venerable trees,

Leaving an ancient dome, and towers like these,

Beggar'd and outraged!--Many hearts deplored

The fate of those old trees; and oft with pain

The traveller at this day will stop and gaze

On wrongs, which Nature scarcely seems to heed:

For shelter'd places, bosoms, nooks, and bays,

And the pure mountains, and the gentle Tweed,

And the green silent pastures, yet remain.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXCV

_THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION_

O leave this barren spot to me!

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Though bush or floweret never grow

My dark unwarming shade below;

Nor summer bud perfume the dew

Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;

Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,

My green and glossy leaves adorn;

Nor murmuring tribes from me derive

Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;

Yet leave this barren spot to me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen

The sky grow bright, the forest green;

And many a wintry wind have stood

In bloomless, fruitless solitude,

Since childhood in my pleasant bower

First spent its sweet and sportive hour;

Since youthful lovers in my shade

Their vows of truth and rapture made,

And on my trunk's surviving frame

Carved many a long-forgotten name.

Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,

First breathed upon this sacred ground;

By all that Love has whisper'd here,

Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear;

As Love's own altar honour me:

Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

_T. Campbell_

CCXCVI

_ADMONITION TO A TRAVELLER_

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!

--The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook

Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook,

Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

But covet not the abode; forbear to sigh

As many do, repining while they look;

Intruders--who would tear from Nature's book

This precious leaf with harsh impiety.

--Think what the home must be if it were thine,

Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window,

door,

The very flowers are sacred to the Poor,

The roses to the porch which they entwine:

Yea, all that now enchants thee, from the day

On which it should be touch'd, would melt away!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXCVII

_TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE_

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower

Of beauty is thy earthly dower!

Twice seven consenting years have shed

Their utmost bounty on thy head:

And these gray rocks, that household lawn,

Those trees--a veil just half withdrawn,

This fall of water that doth make

A murmur near the silent lake,

This little bay, a quiet road

That holds in shelter thy abode;

In truth together ye do seem

Like something fashion'd in a dream;

Such forms as from their covert peep

When earthly cares are laid asleep!

But O fair Creature! in the light

Of common day, so heavenly bright,

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art,

I bless thee with a human heart:

God shield thee to thy latest years!

Thee neither know I nor thy peers:

And yet my eyes are fill'd with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray

For thee when I am far away;

For never saw I mien or face

In which more plainly I could trace

Benignity and home-bred sense

Ripening in perfect innocence.

Here scatter'd, like a random seed,

Remote from men, Thou dost not need

The embarrass'd look of shy distress,

And maidenly shamefacédness:

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear

The freedom of a Mountaineer:

A face with gladness overspread;

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred;

And seemliness complete, that sways

Thy courtesies, about thee plays;

With no restraint, but such as springs

From quick and eager visitings

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach

Of thy few words of English speech:

A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife

That gives thy gestures grace and life!

So have I, not unmoved in mind,

Seen birds of tempest-loving kind--

Thus beating up against the wind.

What hand but would a garland cull

For thee who art so beautiful?

O happy pleasure! here to dwell

Beside thee in some heathy dell;

Adopt your homely ways, and dress,

A shepherd, thou a shepherdess!

But I could frame a wish for thee

More like a grave reality:

Thou art to me but as a wave

Of the wild sea: and I would have

Some claim upon thee, if I could,

Though but of common neighbourhood.

What joy to hear thee, and to see!

Thy elder brother I would be,

Thy father--anything to thee.

Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace

Hath led me to this lonely place:

Joy have I had; and going hence

I bear away my recompence.

In spots like these it is we prize

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes:

Then why should I be loth to stir?

I feel this place was made for her;

To give new pleasure like the past,

Continued long as life shall last.

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart,

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part;

For I, methinks, till I grow old

As fair before me shall behold

As I do now, the cabin small,

The lake, the bay, the waterfall;

And Thee, the Spirit of them all!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXCVIII

_THE 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 listen'd, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore

Long after it was heard no more.

_W. Wordsworth_

CCXCIX

_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 pass'd 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 tripp'd 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 pass'd away from her eyes!

_W. Wordsworth_

CCC

_TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR_

Ariel to Miranda:--Take

This slave of music, for the sake

Of him, who is the slave of thee;

And teach it all the harmony

In which thou canst, and only thou,

Make the delighted spirit glow,

Till joy denies itself again

And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.

For by permission and command

Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,

Poor Ariel sends this silent token

Of more than ever can be spoken;

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who

From life to life must still pursue

Your happiness, for thus alone

Can Ariel ever find his own.

From Prospero's enchanted cell,

As the mighty verses tell,

To the throne of Naples he

Lit you o'er the trackless sea,

Flitting on, your prow before,

Like a living meteor.

When you die, the silent Moon

In her interlunar swoon

Is not sadder in her cell

Than deserted Ariel:--

When you live again on earth,

Like an unseen Star of birth

Ariel guides you o'er the sea

Of life from your nativity:--

Many changes have been run

Since Ferdinand and you begun

Your course of love, and Ariel still

Has track'd your steps and served your will.

Now in humbler, happier lot,

This is all remember'd not;

And now, alas! the poor Sprite is

Imprison'd for some fault of his

In a body like a grave--

From you he only dares to crave,

For his service and his sorrow

A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.