Chapter XI: Part THE FIFTH: CCLVIII (1)

_THE FORSAKEN MERMAN._

Come, dear children, let us away;
Down and away below.
Now my brothers call from the bay;
Now the great winds shorewards blow;
Now the salt tides seawards flow; 5
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away.
This way, this way.

Call her once before you go. 10
Call once yet,
In a voice that she will know:
‘Margaret! Margaret!’
Children’s voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother’s ear: 15
Children’s voices, wild with pain:
Surely she will come again.
Call her once, and come away.
This way, this way.
‘Mother dear, we cannot stay.’ 20
The wild white horses foam and fret.
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down.
Call no more.
One last look at the white-walled town, 25
And the little gray church on the windy shore,
Then come down.
She will not come, though you call all day.
Come away, come away.

Children dear, was it yesterday 30
We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 35
Where the winds are all asleep;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;
Where the salt weed sways in the stream;
Where the sea-beasts ranged all round
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; 40
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye? 45
When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away?
Once she sate with you and me, 50
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well,
When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. 54
She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea;
She said; ‘I must go, for my kinsfolk pray
In the little gray church on the shore to-day.
’Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me!
And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.’
I said; ‘Go up, dear heart, through the waves. 60
Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.’
She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?
‘The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. 65
Long prayers,’ I said, ‘in the world they say.
Come,’ I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town.
Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, 70
To the little gray church on the windy hill.
From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,
But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.
We climbed on the graves, on the stones worn with rains,
And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: 76
‘Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.
Dear heart,’ I said, ‘we are long alone.
The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.’
But, ah, she gave me never a look, 80
For her eyes were sealed to the holy book.
‘Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.’
Come away, children, call no more.
Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down. 85
Down to the depths of the sea.
She sits at her wheel in the humming town,
Singing most joyfully.
Hark, what she sings; ‘O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with its toy, 90
For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well,
For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessèd light of the sun.’
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully, 95
Till the shuttle falls from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the sand;
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare; 100
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-laden,
A long, long sigh, 105
For the cold strange eyes of a little mermaiden,
And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children,
Come, children, come down.
The hoarse wind blows colder, 110
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar. 115
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl,
Singing, ‘Here came a mortal, 120
But faithless was she,
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea.’

But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow; 125
When clear falls the moonlight;
When spring-tides are low:
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom;
And high rocks throw mildly 130
On the blanched sands a gloom:
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry. 135
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side--
And then come back down.
Singing, ‘There dwells a loved one, 140
But cruel is she;
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.’
_Matthew Arnold._

CCLIX

_THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN._

A CHILD’S STORY.

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,
By famous Hanover city;
The river Weser, deep and wide,
Washes its wall on the southern side;
A pleasanter spot you never spied; 5
But, when begins my ditty,
Almost five hundred years ago,
To see the townsfolk suffer so
From vermin was a pity.

Rats! 10
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 15
Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women’s chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats. 20
At last the people in a body
To the Town Hall came flocking:
‘’Tis clear,’ cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy;
And as for our Corporation--shocking
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 25
For dolts that can’t or won’t determine
What’s best to rid us of our vermin!
You hope, because you’re old and obese,
To find in the furry civic robe ease?
Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking 30
To find the remedy we’re lacking,
Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!’
At this the Mayor and Corporation
Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council, 35
At length the Mayor broke silence:
‘For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell;
I wish I were a mile hence!
It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain--
I’m sure my poor head aches again 40
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain,
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!’
Just as he said this, what should hap
At the chamber door but a gentle tap?
‘Bless us,’ cried the Mayor, ‘what’s that?’ 45
(With the Corporation as he sat,
Looking little though wondrous fat;
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister,
Than a too-long-opened oyster,
Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous 50
For a plate of turtle green and glutinous),
‘Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?
Anything like the sound of a rat
Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!’

‘Come in!’--the Mayor cried, looking bigger: 55
And in did come the strangest figure.
His queer long coat from heel to head
Was half of yellow and half of red;
And he himself was tall and thin,
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 60
And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,
No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin,
But lips where smiles went out and in--
There was no guessing his kith and kin!
And nobody could enough admire 65
The tall man and his quaint attire.
Quoth one: ‘It’s as my great grandsire,
Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone,
Had walked this way from his painted tombstone.’

He advanced to the council-table: 70
And, ‘Please your honours,’ said he, ‘I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,
After me so as you never saw! 75
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.’
(And here they noticed round his neck 80
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying,
As if impatient to be playing 85
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
‘Yet,’ said he, ‘poor Piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; 90
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats:
And, as for what your brain bewilders,
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?’ 95
‘One? fifty thousand!’--was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept 100
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; 105
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. 110
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 115
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives--
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing
And step for step they followed dancing, 120
Until they came to the river Weser,
Wherein all plunged and perished
--Save one, who, stout as Julius Cæsar,
Swam across and lived to carry
(As he the manuscript he cherished) 125
To Rat-land home his commentary,
Which was, ‘At the first shrill notes of the pipe,
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,
And putting apples, wondrous ripe,
Into a cider-press’s gripe; 130
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,
And a leaving ajar of conserve cupboards,
And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,
And a breaking the hoops of butter casks;
And it seemed as if a voice 135
(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery
Is breathed) called out, Oh! rats, rejoice!
The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,
Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 140
And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon,
All ready staved, like a great sun shone
Glorious scarce an inch before me,
Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!
--I found the Weser rolling o’er me.’ 145

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
‘Go,’ cried the Mayor, ‘and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders, 150
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!’--when suddenly up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, ‘First, if you please, my thousand guilders!’

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; 155
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havock
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. 160
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!
‘Beside,’ quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink,
‘Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, 165
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 170
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!’

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
‘No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! 175
I’ve promised to visit by dinner-time
Bagdad, and accept the prime
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor-- 180
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.’

‘How?’ cried the Mayor, ‘d’ye think I’ll brook 185
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!’ 190

Once more he stept into the street;
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning 195
Never gave the enraptured air),
There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, 200
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.
All the little boys and girls,
With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. 205
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after
The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry 210
To the children merrily skipping by--
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, 215
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters
Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, 220
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.
‘He never can cross that mighty top!
He’s forced to let the piping drop,
And we shall see our children stop!’ 225
When lo! as they reached the mountain’s side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,
As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;
And the Piper advanced and the children followed,
And when all were in to the very last, 230
The door in the mountain-side shut fast.
Did I say all? No! one was lame,
And could not dance the whole of the way;
And in after years, if you would blame
His sadness, he was used to say,-- 235
‘It’s dull in our town since my playmates left;
I can’t forget that I’m bereft
Of all the pleasant sights they see,
Which the Piper also promised me;
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 240
Joining the town and just at hand,
Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,
And flowers put forth a fairer hue,
And everything was strange and new;
The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, 245
And their dogs outran our fallow deer,
And honey-bees had lost their stings;
And horses were born with eagle’s wings;
And just as I became assured
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 250
The music stopped, and I stood still,
And found myself outside the Hill,
Left alone against my will,
To go now limping as before,
And never hear of that country more!’ 255

Alas, alas for Hamelin!
There came into many a burgher’s pate
A text which says, that Heaven’s Gate
Opes to the rich at as easy rate
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in! 260
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,
To offer the Piper by word of mouth,
Wherever it was men’s lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart’s content,
If he’d only return the way he went, 265
And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never
Should think their records dated duly, 270
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,
‘And so long after what happened here
On the twenty-second of July,
Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:’ 275
And the better in memory to fix
The place of the children’s last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street--
Where anyone playing on pipe or tabor,
Was sure for the future to lose his labour. 280
Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern
To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern
They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great church-window painted 285
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.
And I must not omit to say
That in Transylvania there’s a tribe 290
Of alien people that ascribe
The outlandish ways and dress,
On which their neighbours lay such stress,
To their fathers and mothers having risen
Out of some subterraneous prison, 295
Into which they were trepanned
Long time ago in a mighty band
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,
But how or why they don’t understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 300
Of scores out with all men--especially pipers:
And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice,
If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise.
_Robert Browning._

CCLX

_AUTUMN WOODS._

Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

The mountains, that infold 5
In their wide sweep the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple’ and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendours glow, 10
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet south-west at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 15
Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,--
The sweetest of the year. 20

Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet--
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees 25
Come the strange rays: the forest depths are bright;
Their sunny-coloured foliage in the breeze
Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, 30
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

But ’neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 35
Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad? 40

Ah! ’twere a lot too blest,
For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west
To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife 45
That makes men mad--the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.
_William Cullen Bryant._

CCLXI

_LAPSE._

A heavenly Night!--methinks to me
The soul of other times returns;
Sweet as the scents the orange-tree
Drops in the wind-flower’s scarlet urns,
When sunset, like a city, burns 5
Across the glassy midland sea.

This night gives back that double day,
Which clothed the earth when I was young!
A light most like some godlike lay
By parted hero-angels sung:-- 10
It stirred my heart; and through my tongue
It passed, methought,--but passed away.

The entrancement of that time is o’er,
A calmer, freer soul is here;
I dream not as I dreamed of yore, 15
Awake to sin, awake to fear;
I own the earth,--I see, I hear,
I feel;--oh, may I dream no more!

Farewell, wild world of bygone days,
Here let me now more safely tread! 20
I ask no glory’s vagrant blaze,
To dance around my shining head:
Be peace and hope my crown instead,
With love, God willing, for my praise!
_Thomas Burbidge._

CCLXII

_THE HUMBLE-BEE._

Burly, dozing humble-bee,
Where thou art is clime for me.
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek;
I will follow thee alone, 5
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert-cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines:
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines. 10

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere;
Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon; 15
Epicurean of June;
Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,--
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May-days, 20
With a net of shining haze
Silvers the horizon wall,
And, with softness touching all,
Tints the human countenance
With a colour of romance, 25
And, infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets,
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace 30
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer’s petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 35
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound,
In Indian wildernesses found;
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavoury or unclean 40
Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap, and daffodels,
Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky, 45
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder’s-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste, 50
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet, 55
Thou dost mock at fate and care,
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce north-western blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep; 60
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe, which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

CCLXIII

_TO A WATERFOWL._

Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler’s eye 5
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek’st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 10
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air-- 15
Lone-wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near. 20

And soon that toil shall end,
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o’er thy sheltered nest.

Thou’ art gone--the abyss of heaven 25
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 30
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
_William Cullen Bryant._

CCLXIV

_ASPIRATION._

Joy for the promise of our loftier homes!
Joy for the promise of another birth!
For oft oppressive unto pain becomes
The riddle of the earth.

A weary weight it lay upon my youth, 5
Ere I could tell of what I should complain;
My very childhood was not free, in truth,
From something of that pain.

Hours of a dim despondency were there,
Like clouds that take its colour from the rose, 10
Which, knowing not the darkness of the air,
But its own sadness knows.

Youth grew in strength--to bear a stronger chain;
In knowledge grew--to know itself a slave;
And broke its narrower shells again, again, 15
To feel a wider grave.

What woe into the startled spirit sank,
When first it knew the inaudible recall,--
When first in the illimitable blank
It touched the crystal wall! 20

Far spreads this mystery of death and sin,
Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls;
And day encircling day clasps closer in
Our solitary souls.

O for the time when in our seraph wings 25
We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne--
The day when drinking knowledge at its springs,
We know as we are known.
_Thomas Burbidge._

CCLXV

_THE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE._

Beneath an Indian palm a girl
Of other blood reposes;
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,
Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy 5
Is learning fancy-bound,
Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,
Relaxt the frosty twine; 10
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly-visioned boughs,
As these young lovers face to face 15
Renew their early vows.
_Lord Houghton._

CCLXVI

_A SUMMER REMINISCENCE._

I hear no more the locust beat
His shrill loud drum through all the day;
I miss the mingled odours sweet
Of clover and of scented hay.

No more I hear the smothered song 5
From hedges guarded thick with thorn:
The days grow brief, the nights are long,
The light comes like a ghost at morn.

I sit before my fire alone,
And idly dream of all the past: 10
I think of moments that are flown--
Alas! they were too sweet to last.

The warmth that filled the languid noons--
The purple waves of trembling haze--
The liquid light of silver moons-- 15
The summer sunset’s golden blaze.

I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,
I hear them murmur through the rye,
I see the milky clouds that seek
Some nameless harbour in the sky. 20

The stile beside the spreading pine,
The pleasant fields beyond the grove,
The lawn where, underneath the vine,
She sang the song I used to love.

The path along the windy beach, 25
That leaves the shadowy linden tree,
And goes by sandy capes that reach
Their shining arms to clasp the sea.

I view them all, I tread once more
In meadow-grasses cool and deep; 30
I walk beside the sounding shore,
I climb again the wooded steep.

Oh, happy hours of pure delight!
Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!
Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright-- 35
Each morn and evening seemed to kiss!

And that whereon I saw her first,
While angling in the noisy brook,
When through the tangled wood she burst;
In one small hand a glove and book, 40

As with the other, dimpled, white,
She held the slender boughs aside,
While through the leaves the yellow light
Like golden water seemed to glide,

And broke in ripples on her neck, 45
And played like fire around her hat,
And slid adown her form to fleck
The moss-grown rock on which I sat.

She standing rapt in sweet surprise,
And seeming doubtful if to turn; 50
Her novel, as I raised my eyes,
Dropped down amid the tall green fern.

This day and that--the one so bright,
The other like a thing forlorn;
To-morrow, and the early light 55
Will shine upon her marriage morn.

For when the mellow autumn flushed
The thickets where the chestnut fell,
And in the vales the maple blushed,
Another came who knew her well, 60

Who sat with her below the pine,
And with her through the meadow moved,
And underneath the purpling vine
She sang to him the song I loved.
_Nathaniel G. Shepherd._

CCLXVII

_SONG._

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more. 5

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more. 10

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more. 15
_Alfred Tennyson._

CCLXVIII

_THE VIOLET._

Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,
Thine odour, like a key,
Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let
A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow 5
Blows through that open door,
The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low
And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that belovèd place,
And that belovèd hour, 10
When life hung ripening in love’s golden grace,
Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
A lark sings o’er my head,
Drowned in the sky--O pass, ye visions, pass, 15
I would that I were dead!--

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door
From which I ever flee?
O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be! 20

O violet! thy odour through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief
This sunny day, as if a curse did stain
Thy velvet leaf.
_William W. Story._

CCLXIX

_JOY._

Sweet order hath its draught of bliss
Graced with the pearl of God’s consent,
Ten times ecstatic in that ’tis
Considerate and innocent.
In vain disorder grasps the cup; 5
The pleasure’s not enjoyed, but spilt;
And, if he stoops to lick it up,
It only tastes of earth and guilt;
His sorry raptures rest destroys;
To live, like comets they must roam; 10
On settled poles turn solid joys,
And sun-like pleasures shine at home.
_Coventry Patmore._

CCLXX

_THE HAPPY HUSBAND._

He safely walks in darkest ways,
Whose youth is lighted from above,
Where through the senses’ silvery haze
Dawns the veiled moon of nuptial love.

Who is the happy husband? He, 5
Who scanning his unwedded life,
Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,
’Twas faithful to his future wife.
_Coventry Patmore._

CCLXXI

_THEN._

I give thee treasures hour by hour,
That old-time princes asked in vain,
And pined for in their useless power,
Or died of passion’s eager pain.

I give thee love as God gives light, 5
Aside from merit, or from prayer,
Rejoicing in its own delight,
And freer than the lavish air.

I give thee prayers, like jewels strung
On golden threads of hope and fear; 10
And tenderer thoughts than ever hung
In a sad angel’s pitying tear.

As earth pours freely to the sea
Her thousand streams of wealth untold,
So flows my silent life to thee, 15
Glad that its very sands are gold.

What care I for thy carelessness?
I give from depths that overflow,
Regardless that their power to bless
Thy spirit cannot sound or know. 20

Far lingering on a distant dawn
My triumph shines, more sweet than late;
When from these mortal mists withdrawn,
Thy heart shall know me--I can wait.
_Rose Terry._

CCLXXII

_THE PRINCE OF ORANGE IN 1672._

If the base violence of wicked men
Prevail at last; if Charles, to please his lord,
And Louis, for his glory much concerned,
Must needs snatch from us our sea-rescued plains,
Which soon the tides will make their own again, 5
When once the strenuous freemen shall have fled,
At whose command they ebbed with angry bark;
If France must needs prevail and we must yield,
Then we will yield our lands, but not ourselves.
Ships we have left that will contain, I judge, 10
Two hundred thousand steadfast Hollanders;
And ’twixt the realms where our oppressors live
A heaving highway lies, to Dutchmen known,
And to be known hereafter in all lands--
The highway of the exodus of freedom! 15
Prepare then for departure, citizens;
And for the little space that yet remains,
Make much of home and of your fatherland;
Visit your fathers’ graves, take note of all
The furniture of your ancestral homes, 20
And let your hearts take the impression off
To furnish dreams beside the Southern sea;
Fetch home at once your children from the school,
And in the garden turn them loose to play,
Nor let them want for marbles, hoops, and balls, 25
That in their old age they may tell their boys
Their home in the cold North was not unsweet.
If any skilful painter be among you,
At some resplendent noontide let him sit,
And paint the busiest street in Amsterdam; 30
Nor let him slur one stain upon a brick,
Nor smoke-dulled slip of greenery in a window;
And every old cathedral let him paint,
The columns ranged as in some grove of pines,
And windows richer than the sunset clouds, 35
Wherein the Christ for centuries has smiled,
And rich-robed haloed saints regarded Him;
The Colleges of Leyden and Utrecht,
The solemn libraries, with portraits hung
Of Gerard and à Kempis, let him paint, 40
And let him paint the Liberator’s grave:
The artist that preserves our Holland for us
Shall be much honoured in our Southern home.
So, bearing with us all that can be moved,
We will weigh anchor to the sound of psalms, 45
And winds from heaven shall waft us to the west,
Between the shores of tyranny on the left,
And the pale cliffs of falsehood on the right;
While looking towards the north, our captains tell
To wondering maidens and exulting boys, 50
How through the helpless Medway’s mouth they sailed,
And saw the towering Keep of Rochester;
While looking towards the south, another group
Hangs on the lips of some book-learnèd man,
Who tells the tale of Egmont and St. Quentin: 55
Till the low-lying shores recede from sight,
And ancient Europe hide herself in foam,
Mother of heroes, nurse of beauteous arts,
Of serious letters and high Christian truth,
Rich bower of beauty, garden fenced with men, 60
And gorgeous with all blooms of womanhood,
Temple inviolate of faith and truth
And liberty--until the iron time.
She for a while shall seem to us far off,
A speck of dimness on the sunbright shield, 65
A roughness on the fine encircling thread,
Until the horizon show a perfect ring,
And the free nation ride on vaster waves,
Plunge onward into more transparent seas,
Under more deep ambrosial domes of night, 70
Into that second Holland like the first,
But glad with fuller harvests, richer fruits,
Where neither Frenchmen nor rude seas encroach.
_John Robertson._

CCLXXIII

_THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS._

_Last night_, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.
_To-day_, beneath the foeman’s frown, 5
He stands in Elgin’s place,
Ambassador from Britain’s crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone, 10
A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame:
He only knows, that not through _him_ 15
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,
One sheet of living snow; 20
The smoke, above his father’s door,
In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!--with strength like steel 25
He put the vision by;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent, 30
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed, 35
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring--
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,
Because his soul was great. 40
_Sir Francis Hastings Doyle._

CCLXXIV

_ON A PICTURE BY TURNER._

See how the small concentrate fiery force
Is grappling with the glory of the main,
That follows like some grave heroic corse,
Dragged by a sutler from the heap of slain.
Thy solemn presence brings us more than pain,-- 5
Something which Fancy moulds into remorse,
That we, who of thine honour held the gain,
Should from its dignity thy form divorce.
Yet will we read in thy high vaunting name,
How Britain _did_ what France could only _dare_, 10
And, while the sunset gilds the darkening air,
We will fill up thy shadowy lines with fame;
And, tomb or temple, hail thee still the same,
Home of great thoughts, memorial Téméraire.
_Lord Houghton._

CCLXXV

_THE RHODORA_:

ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook;
The purple petals, fallen in the pool, 5
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, 10
Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask, I never knew;
But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
_Ralph Waldo Emerson._

CCLXXVI

_THE GOOD PART THAT SHALL NOT BE TAKEN AWAY._

She dwells by Great Kenhawa’s side,
In valleys green and cool,
And all her hope and all her pride
Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air 5
That robes the hills above,
Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls
With praise and mild rebukes; 10
Subduing e’en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save;
To cast the captives’ chains aside, 15
And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessèd time foretells
When all men shall be free;
And musical as silver bells,
Their falling chains shall be. 20

And following her belovèd Lord
In decent poverty,
She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all 25
To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,
And laboured in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped, 30
While she in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace:
Their blessing is the light of peace, 35
That shines upon her face.
_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

CCLXXVII

_IN WAR TIME._

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow;
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps 5
Her ancient promise well,
Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle’s breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hours
Through harvest-happy farms, 10
And still she wears her fruits and flowers
Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,
This joy of eve and morn,
The mirth that shakes the beard of grain 15
And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot;
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not. 20

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field’s crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon’s pause we hear 25
Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;
Too near to God for doubt or fear,
She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe below
The fires that blast and burn; 30
For all the tears of blood we sow
She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than ours
The good of suffering born,--
The hearts that blossom like her flowers, 35
And ripen like her corn.

O, give to us, in times like these,
The vision of her eyes;
And make her fields and fruited trees
Our golden prophecies! 40

O, give to us her finer ear!
Above this stormy din,
We too would hear the bells of cheer
Ring peace and freedom in!
_John George Whittier._

CCLXXVIII

_COME UP FROM THE FIELDS, FATHER._

Come up from the fields, father; here’s a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door, mother; here’s a letter from thy dear son.
Lo, ’tis autumn;
Lo where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages, with leaves fluttering in the
moderate wind; 5
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)

Above all, lo! the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain and with
wondrous clouds;
Below too all calm, all vital and beautiful--and the farm prospers
well. 10

Down in the fields all prospers well;
But now from the fields come, father--come at the daughter’s call;
And come to the entry, mother--to the front door come, right away.

Fast as she can she hurries--something ominous--her steps trembling;
She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap. 15

Open the envelope quickly;
Oh this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is signed.
Oh a strange hand writes for our dear son--oh stricken mother’s soul!
All swims before her eyes--flashes with black--she catches the main
words only;
Sentences broken--_gunshot wound in the breast_--_cavalry skirmish,
taken to hospital, 20
At present low, but will soon be better_.

Ah! now the single figure to me
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,
Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,
By the jamb of a door leans. 25

_Grieve not so, dear mother_ (the just grown daughter speaks
through her sobs;
The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed).
_See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better._

Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor, may be, needs to
be better, that brave and simple soul).
While they stand at home at the door he is dead already, 30
The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better;
She, with thin form, presently drest in black;
By day her meals untouched--then at night fitfully sleeping,
often waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing, 35
Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape
and withdraw
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.
_Walt Whitman._

CCLXXIX

_SONNET._

Through the night, through the night,
In the saddest unrest,
Wrapt in white, all in white,
With her babe on her breast,
Walks the mother so pale, 5
Staring out on the gale
Through the night!

Through the night, through the night,
Where the sea lifts the wreck,
Land in sight, close in sight! 10
On the surf-flooded deck
Stands the father so brave,
Drawing on to his grave
Through the night!
_Richard Henry Stoddard._

CCLXXX

_A DEDICATION TO CHARLES DICKENS OF THE LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH._

Genius and its rewards are briefly told
A liberal nature and a niggard doom,
A difficult journey to a splendid tomb.
New writ, nor lightly weighed that story old
In gentle Goldsmith’s life I here unfold: 5
Through other than lone wild or desert gloom,
In its mere joy and pain, its blight and bloom,
Adventurous. Come with me and behold,
O friend with heart as gentle for distress,
As resolute with wise true thoughts to bind 10
The happiest to the unhappiest of our kind,
That there is fiercer crowded misery
In garret toil and London loneliness
Than in cruel islands mid the far-off sea.
_John Forster._

CCLXXXI

_SONNET._

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing
In current unperceived, because so fleet;
Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing-- 5
But tares, self-sown, have over-topped the wheat;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing--
And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet;
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; 10
And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us
A newer good to cure an older ill;
And sweet are all things when we learn to prize them
Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.
_Aubrey De Vere._

CCLXXXII

_THE UGLY PRINCESS._

My parents bow, and lead them forth,
For all the crowd to see--
Ah well! the people might not care
To cheer a dwarf like me.

They little know how I could love, 5
How I could plan and toil,
To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,
Their mites of rye and oil.

They little know what dreams have been
My playmates, night and day, 10
Of equal kindness, helpful care,
A mother’s perfect sway.

Now earth to earth in convent walls,
To earth in churchyard sod:
I was not good enough for man, 15
And so am given to God.
_Charles Kingsley._

CCLXXXIII

_WEARINESS._

O little feet! that such long years
Must wander on through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
I, nearer to the wayside inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask;
I, who so much with book and pen 10
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beat
With such impatient feverish heat,
Such limitless and strong desires; 15
Mine that so long has glowed and burned
With passions into ashes turned,
Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and white
And crystalline as rays of light 20
Direct from Heaven, their source divine;
Refracted through the mist of years,
How red my setting sun appears,
How lurid looks this soul of mine!
_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

CCLXXXIV

_SONG._

‘O lady, thy lover is dead,’ they cried;
‘He is dead, but hath slain the foe;
He hath left his name to be magnified
In a song of wonder and woe.’

‘Alas! I am well repaid,’ said she, 5
‘With a pain that stings like joy;
For I feared, from his tenderness to me,
That he was but a feeble boy.

‘Now I shall hold my head on high,
The queen among my kind. 10
If ye hear a sound, ’tis only a sigh
For a glory left behind.’
_George MacDonald._

CCLXXXV

_SONNET._

A hundred wings are dropt as soft as one;
Now ye are lighted--lovely to my sight
The fearful circle of your gentle flight,
Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon:
And then the sober chiding of your tone, 5
As ye sit there from your own roofs arraigning
My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done,
Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining!
O happy, happy race! for though there clings
A feeble fear about your timid clan, 10
Yet are ye blest! with not a thought that brings
Disquietude, while proud and sorrowing man,
An eagle weary of his mighty wings,
With anxious inquest fills his little span.
_Charles Tennyson._

CCLXXXVI

_SONNET._

The Ocean at the bidding of the Moon
For ever changes with his restless tide:
Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon
With kingly pauses of reluctant pride,
And semblance of return. Anon from home 5
He issues forth anew, high-ridged and free--
The gentlest murmur of his seething foam
Like armies whispering where great echoes be.
O leave me here upon this beach to rove,
Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone; 10
A glorious sound, deep drawn, and strongly thrown,
And reaching those on mountain heights above,
To British ears, (as who shall scorn to own?)
A tutelar fond voice, a saviour tone of love.
_Charles Tennyson._

CCLXXXVII

_ALMOND BLOSSOM._

Blossom of the almond trees,
April’s gift to April’s bees,
Birthday ornament of spring,
Flora’s fairest daughterling;
Coming when no flowerets dare 5
Trust the cruel outer air;
When the royal kingcup bold
Dares not don his coat of gold;
And the sturdy black-thorn spray
Keeps his silver for the May;-- 10
Coming when no flowerets would,
Save thy lowly sisterhood,
Early violets, blue and white,
Dying for their love of light.
Almond blossom, sent to teach us 15
That the spring-days soon will reach us,
Lest, with longing over-tried,
We die as the violets died--
Blossom, clouding all the tree
With thy crimson broidery, 20
Long before a leaf of green
O’er the bravest bough is seen;
Ah! when winter winds are swinging
All thy red bells into ringing,
With a bee in every bell, 25
Almond bloom, we greet thee well.
_Edwin Arnold._

CCLXXXVIII

_HOME THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD._

Oh to be in England
Now that April’s there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 5
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough,
In England, now!

And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows! 10
Hark where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field, and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray’s edge--
That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture 15
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups--the little children’s dower,--
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower. 20
_Robert Browning._

CCLXXXIX

_HOME THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA._

Nobly, nobly Cape St. Vincent to the North-west died away;
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay;
Bluish mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay;
In the dimmest North-east distance, dawned Gibraltar grand and gray;
‘Here and here did England help me; how can I help England?’ say,
Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray,
While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.
_Robert Browning._

CCXC

_JAMES AND JOHN._

Two brothers freely cast their lot
With David’s royal Son;
The cost of conquest counting not,
They deem the battle won.

Brothers in heart, they hope to gain 5
An undivided joy;
That man may one with man remain,
As boy was one with boy.

Christ heard; and willed that James should fall,
First prey of Satan’s rage; 10
John linger out his fellows all,
And die in bloodless age.

Now they join hands once more above,
Before the Conqueror’s throne;
Thus God grants prayer, but in his love 15
Makes times and ways his own.
_John Henry Newman._

CCXCI

_IN MEMORIAM._

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur’s loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er.

So draw him home to those that mourn 5
In vain; a favourable speed
Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead
Through prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 10
As our pure love, through early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, 15
My friend, the brother of my love.