Chapter VIII: Part THE FOURTH: CLXX (1)

_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, 5
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, 10
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, 15
A voice, a mystery;

The same whom in my school-boy days
I listened to; that Cry
Which made me look a thousand ways
In bush, and tree, and sky. 20

To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green;
And thou wert still a hope, a love;
Still longed for, never seen!

And I can listen to thee yet; 25
Can lie upon the plain
And listen, till I do beget
That golden time again.

O blessèd bird! the earth we pace
Again appears to be 30
An unsubstantial, fairy place
That is fit home for thee!
_William Wordsworth._

CLXXI

_THE RAINBOW._

Triumphal arch that fill’st the sky,
When storms prepare to part,
I ask not proud Philosophy
To teach me what thou art.

Still seem, as to my childhood’s sight, 5
A mid-way station given
For happy spirits to alight,
Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that optics teach, unfold
Thy form to please me so, 10
As when I dreamed of gems and gold
Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation’s face
Enchantment’s veil withdraws,
What lovely visions yield their place 15
To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky. 20

When o’er the green undeluged earth,
Heaven’s covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world’s gray fathers forth
To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow lustre smiled 25
O’er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first-made anthem rang 30
On earth, delivered from the deep,
And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse’s eye,
Unraptured, greet thy beam;
Theme of primeval prophecy, 35
Be still the poet’s theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When, glittering in the freshened fields,
The snowy mushroom springs. 40

How glorious is thy girdle cast
O’er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirrored in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark, 45
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 50
Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.
_Thomas Campbell._

CLXXII

_THE COMMON LOT._

Once, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:--and WHO was HE?--
Mortal! howe’er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth, 5
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth;
This truth survives alone:--

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumphed in his breast; 10
His bliss and woe,--a smile, a tear!--
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits’ rise and fall,
We know that these were felt by him, 15
For these are felt by all.

He suffered,--but his pangs are o’er;
Enjoyed,--but his delights are fled;
Had friends,--his friends are now no more;
And foes,--his foes are dead. 20

He loved,--but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
Oh she was fair!--but nought could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen; 25
Encountered all that troubles thee:
He was--whatever thou hast been;
He is--what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 30
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o’er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky 35
No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins since the world began,
Of HIM afford no other trace
Than this,--THERE LIVED A MAN! 40
_James Montgomery._

CLXXIII

_THE HOLLY TREE._

O Reader! hast thou ever stood to see
The Holly Tree?
The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise, 5
As might confound the atheist’s sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;
No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound; 10
But, as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;
And in this wisdom of the Holly Tree 15
Can emblems see,
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere; 20
To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;--
Gentle at home amid my friends I’d be,
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, 25
Some harshness show,
All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,
Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the Holly Tree. 30

And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,
The Holly leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they;
But when the bare and wintry woods we see, 35
What then so cheerful as the Holly Tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;
So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they; 40
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the Holly Tree.
_Robert Southey._

CLXXIV

_THE SQUIRE’S PEW._

A slanting ray of evening light
Shoots through the yellow pane:
It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again;
The window’s gothic framework falls 5
In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new,
How many a cloudless day,
To rob the velvet of its hue,
Has come and passed away! 10
How many a setting sun hath made
That curious lattice-work of shade!

Crumbled beneath the hillock green
The cunning hand must be,
That carved this fretted door, I ween, 15
Acorn and fleur-de-lis;
And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel’s art.

In days of yore (as now we call)
When the First James was king, 20
The courtly knight from yonder Hall
His train did hither bring,
All seated round in order due,
With broidered suit and buckled shoe.

On damask cushions decked with fringe, 25
All reverently they knelt;
Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,
Each holding in a lily hand,
Responsive to the priest’s command. 30

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam, long and lone,
Illumes the characters awhile
Of their inscription-stone:
And there, in marble hard and cold, 35
The knight with all his train behold.

Outstretched together are exprest
He and my lady fair,
With hands uplifted on the breast,
In attitude of prayer: 40
Long-visaged, clad in armour, he--
With ruffled arm and bodice she.

Set forth in order as they died,
Their numerous offspring bend,
Devoutly kneeling side by side, 45
As if they did intend
For past omissions to atone
By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim,
But generations new 50
In regular descent from him
Have filled the stately pew,
And in the same succession go
To occupy the vaults below.

And now the polished modern Squire 55
And his gay train appear,
Who duly to the Hall retire
A season every year,
And fill the seats with belle and beau,
As ’twas so many years ago; 60

Perchance, all thoughtless, as they tread
The hollow-sounding floor,
Of that dark house of kindred dead,
Which shall, as heretofore,
In turn receive to silent rest 65
Another and another guest:

The feathered hearse and sable train,
In all their wonted state,
Shall wind along the village lane,
And stand before the gate, 70
Brought many a distant county through,
To join the final rendezvous.

And when the race is swept away,
All to their dusty beds,
Still shall the mellow evening ray 75
Shine gaily o’er their heads;
While other faces, fresh and new,
Shall fill the Squire’s deserted pew.
_Jane Taylor._

CLXXV

_A DREAM._

Once a dream did weave a shade
O’er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, ’wildered, and forlorn, 5
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart-broke, I heard her say:

‘Oh, my children! do they cry,
Do they hear their father sigh? 10
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me.’

Pitying, I dropped a tear:
But I saw a glowworm near,
Who replied, ‘What wailing wight 15
Calls the watchman of the night?

‘I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round.
Follow now the beetle’s hum,
Little wanderer, hie thee home!’ 20
_William Blake._

CLXXVI

_DECEMBER MORNING._

I love to rise ere gleams the tardy light,
Winter’s pale dawn; and as warm fires illume,
And cheerful tapers shine around the room,
Through misty windows bend my musing sight,
Where, round the dusky lawn, the mansions white 5
With shutters closed peer faintly through the gloom,
That slow recedes; while yon grey spires assume,
Rising from their dark pile, an added height
By indistinctness given--Then to decree
The grateful thoughts to God, ere they unfold 10
To friendship or the Muse, or seek with glee
Wisdom’s rich page. O hours more worth than gold,
By whose blest use we lengthen life, and, free
From drear decays of age, outlive the old!
_Anna Seward._

CLXXVII

_THE THRUSH’S NEST._

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy--and oft, an unintruding guest, 5
I watched her secret toils from day to day;
How true she warped the moss to form her nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay.
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, 10
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:
And there I witnessed in the summer hours
A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
_John Clare._

CLXXVIII

_TIME._

O Time! who know’st a lenient hand to lay
Softest on sorrow’s wound, and slowly thence,
Lulling to sad repose the weary sense,
The faint pang stealest unperceived away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last, 5
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear
That flows in vain o’er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past
And meet life’s peaceful evening with a smile;
As some lone bird, at day’s departing hour, 10
Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while;
Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure.
_William Lisle Bowles._

CLXXIX

_FANCY IN NUBIBUS._

Oh, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily-persuaded eyes
Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 5
Of a friend’s fancy; or, with head bent low,
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold,
’Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go
From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gorgeous land!
Or, listening to the tide with closèd sight, 10
Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.
_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

CLXXX

_EVENING._

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea: 5
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder--everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear’st untouched by solemn thought, 10
Thy nature is not therefore less divine:
Thou liest in Abraham’s bosom all the year;
And worshipp’st at the temple’s inner shrine,
God being with thee when we know it not.
_William Wordsworth._

CLXXXI

_THE WALL-FLOWER._

I will not praise the often-flattered rose,
Or, virgin-like, with blushing charms half seen,
Or when, in dazzling splendour, like a queen,
All her magnificence of state she shows;
No, nor that nun-like lily which but blows 5
Beneath the valley’s cool and shady screen;
Nor yet the sun-flower, that with warrior mien
Still eyes the orb of glory where it glows;
But thou, neglected Wall-flower! to my breast
And Muse art dearest, wildest, sweetest flower! 10
To whom alone the privilege is given
Proudly to root thyself above the rest;
As Genius does, and from thy rocky tower
Lend fragrance to the purest breath of heaven.
_Thomas Doubleday._

CLXXXII

_THE SEA-CAVE._

Hardly we breathe, although the air be free:
How massively doth awful Nature pile
The living rock, like some cathedral aisle,
Sacred to Silence and the solemn Sea.
How that clear pool lies sleeping tranquilly, 5
And under its glassed waters seems to smile,
With many hues, a mimic grove the while
Of foliage submarine, shrub, flower, and tree.
Beautiful scene! and fitted to allure
The printless footsteps of some sea-born maid, 10
Who here, with her green tresses disarrayed,
’Mid the clear bath, unfearing and secure,
May sport at noontide in the caverned shade--
Cold as the shadow--as the waters pure.
_Thomas Doubleday._

CLXXXIII

_HOLY THURSDAY._

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green;
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul’s, they like Thames’ waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town, 5
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own:
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls, raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, 9
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the agèd men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
_William Blake._

CLXXXIV

_ON AN ANTIQUE GEM BEARING THE HEADS OF PERICLES AND ASPASIA._

This was the ruler of the land,
When Athens was the land of fame;
This was the light that led the band,
When each was like a living flame;
The centre of earth’s noblest ring-- 5
Of more than men the more than king!

Yet not by fetter, nor by spear,
His sovereignty was held or won:
Feared--but alone as freemen fear,
Loved--but as freemen love alone, 10
He waved the sceptre o’er his kind
By nature’s first great title--mind!

Resistless words were on his tongue--
Then eloquence first flashed below;
Full armed to life the portent sprung-- 15
Minerva from the Thunderer’s brow!
And his the sole, the sacred hand
That shook her ægis o’er the land.

And throned immortal by his side,
A woman sits with eye sublime,-- 20
Aspasia, all his spirit’s bride;
But, if their solemn love were crime,
Pity the Beauty and the Sage--
Their crime was in their darkened age.

He perished, but his wreath was won-- 25
He perished in his height of fame;
Then sunk the cloud on Athens’ sun,
Yet still she conquered in his name.
Filled with his soul, she could not die;
Her conquest was posterity 30
_George Croly._

CLXXXV

_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 5
Live o’er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine stealing o’er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve; 10
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armèd man,
The statue of the armèd knight;
She stood and listened to my lay, 15
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. 20

I played 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 listened with a flitting blush, 25
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; 30
And that for ten long years he wooed
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, 35
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face. 40

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den, 45
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,--

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright; 50
And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable Knight!

And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death 55
The Lady of the Land;--

And how she wept, and clasped his knees,
And how she tended him in vain;
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain;-- 60

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 reached 65
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; 70
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, 75
Subdued and cherished long!

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name. 80

Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stept--
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me and wept

She half enclosed me with her arms, 85
She pressed me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

’Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly ’twas a bashful art, 90
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride;
And so I won my Genevieve, 95
My bright and beauteous Bride.
_Samuel Taylor Coleridge._

CLXXXVI

_SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY._

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 mellowed to that tender light 5
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace,
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face; 10
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, 15
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
_Lord Byron._

CLXXXVII

_SONG._

Oh welcome, bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome, moth and drowsy fly,
That to mine ear come humming by!
And welcome, shadows dim and deep, 5
And stars that through the pale sky peep!
O welcome all! to me ye say,
My woodland Love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair;
Her breath is in the dewy air; 10
Her steps are in the whispered sound,
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour?
O noon of day, in sunshine bright, 15
What art thou to the fall of night?
_Joanna Baillie._

CLXXXVIII

_THE LONELY._

She was a queen of noble Nature’s crowning,
A smile of her’s was like an act of grace;
She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,
Like daily beauties of the vulgar race;
But if she smiled, a light was on her face, 5
A clear, cool kindliness, a lunar beam
Of peaceful radiance, silvering o’er the stream
Of human thought with unabiding glory;
Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,
A visitation, bright and transitory. 10

But she is changed,--hath felt the touch of sorrow;
No love hath she, no understanding friend;
Oh grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrow
What the poor niggard earth has not to lend;
But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend. 15
The tallest flower that skyward rears its head,
Grows from the common ground, and there must shed
Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,
That they should find so base a bridal bed,
Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and purely! 20

She had a brother, and a tender father;
And she was loved, but not as others are,
From whom we ask return of love,--but rather
As one might love a dream; a phantom-fair
Of something exquisitely strange and rare, 25
Which all were glad to look on, men and maids,
Yet no one claimed--as oft, in dewy glades
The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,
Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades;--
The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness. 30

’Tis vain to say--her worst of grief is only
The common lot, which all the world have known;
To her ’tis more, because her heart is lonely,
And yet she hath no strength to stand alone;--
Once she had playmates, fancies of her own, 35
And she did love them. They are past away,
As fairies vanish at the break of day;
And like a spectre of an age departed,
Or unsphered angel wofully astray,
She glides along--the solitary-hearted.
_Hartley Coleridge._

CLXXXIX

_PROUD MAISIE._

Proud Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.

‘Tell me, thou bonny bird, 5
When shall I marry me?’
--‘When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.’

‘Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?’ 10
--‘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, 15
Welcome, proud lady.’
_Sir Walter Scott._

CXC

_AN HOUR WITH THEE._

An hour with thee!--When earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern gray,
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear
The toil and turmoil, cark and care,
New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 5
And sad remembrance of the old?--
One hour with thee.

One hour with thee!--When burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;
What shall repay the faithful swain 10
His labour on the sultry plain;
And more than cave or sheltering bough,
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow?--
One hour with thee.

One hour with thee!--When sun is set, 15
Oh, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labours of the day,
The hopes, the wishes, flung away,
The increasing wants, and lessening gains,
The master’s pride, who scorns my pains?-- 20
One hour with thee.
_Sir Walter Scott._

CXCI

_THE FUGITIVES._

The waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing--
Away! 5
The whirlwind is rolling,
The thunder is tolling,
The forest is swinging,
The minster bells ringing--
Come away! 10
The earth is like ocean,
Wreck-strewn and in motion:
Bird, beast, man, and worm,
Have crept out of the storm--
Come away! 15

‘Our boat has one sail,
And the helmsman is pale;--A bold pilot I trow,
Who should follow us now,’
Shouted He-- 20
And She cried: ‘Ply the oar,
Put off gaily from shore!’
As she spoke bolts of death,
Mixed with hail, specked their path
O’er the sea. 25
And from isle, tower, and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
Though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast
From the lee. 30

‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou?
And see’st thou, and hear’st thou?
And drive we not free
O’er the terrible sea,
I and thou?’ 35
One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover--
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure
Soft and low;-- 40
While around the lashed ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk,
shattered, and shifted,
To and fro. 45

In the court of the fortress,
Beside the pale portress,
Like a bloodhound well beaten
The bridegroom stands, eaten
By shame: 50
On the topmost watch turret,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the gray tyrant father,
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame; 55
And with curses as wild
As e’er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last,
Of his name! 60
_Percy Bysshe Shelley._

CXCII

_LUCY._

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;
A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone 5
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; 10
But she is in her grave, and oh!
The difference to me!
_William Wordsworth._

CXCIII

_ODE TO PSYCHE._

O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung,
Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 5
The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 10
Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied:
’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 15
Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too;
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 20
The wingèd Boy I knew;
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!

O latest-born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus’ faded hierarchy! 25
Fairer than Phœbe’s sapphire-regioned star!
Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor Virgin-choir to make delicious moan 30
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 35
O brightest! though too late for antique vows,
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired 40
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours; 45
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censer teeming:
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 50
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new-grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-clustered trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep; 55
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreathed trellis of a working brain, 60
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e’er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same:
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win, 65
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
_John Keats._

CXCIV

_THE SUNFLOWER._

Ah Sunflower! weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller’s journey is done;
Where the Youth pined away with desire, 5
And the pale Virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go.
_William Blake._

CXCV

_REGRETS._

Too true it is, my time of power was spent
In idly watering weeds of casual growth,
That wasted energy to desperate sloth
Declined, and fond self-seeking discontent;
That the huge debt for all that Nature lent 5
I sought to cancel, and was nothing loth
To deem myself an outlaw, severed both
From duty and from hope,--yea, blindly sent
Without an errand, where I would to stray:--
Too true it is, that, knowing now my state, 10
I weakly mourn the sin I ought to hate,
Nor love the law I yet would fain obey:
But true it is, above all law and fate
Is Faith, abiding the appointed day.
_Hartley Coleridge._

CXCVI

_TO A LOFTY BEAUTY, FROM HER POOR KINSMAN._

Fair maid, had I not heard thy baby cries,
Nor seen thy girlish, sweet vicissitude,
Thy mazy motions, striving to elude,
Yet wooing still a parents watchful eyes,
Thy humours, many as the opal’s dyes, 5
And lovely all;--methinks thy scornful mood,
And bearing high of stately womanhood,--
Thy brow, where Beauty sits to tyrannize
O’er humble love, had made me sadly fear thee;
For never sure was seen a royal bride, 10
Whose gentleness gave grace to so much pride--
My very thoughts would tremble to be near thee:
But when I see thee at thy father’s side,
Old times unqueen thee, and old loves endear thee.
_Hartley Coleridge._

CXCVII

_THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET._

Green little vaulter on the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy noon,
When ev’n the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class 5
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass;
O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,
One to the fields, the other to the hearth, 10
Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong
At your clear hearts, and both seem given to earth
To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,
In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.
_Leigh Hunt._

CXCVIII

_TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAKEN IN THE WINTER._

O melancholy bird!--a winter’s day
Thou standest by the margin of the pool,
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school
To patience, which all evil can allay;
God has appointed thee the fish thy prey; 5
And given thyself a lesson to the fool
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,
And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.
There need not schools, nor the professor’s chair,
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart; 10
He, who has not enough for these to spare
Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart,
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair;
Nature is always wise in every part.
_Lord Thurlow._

CXCIX

_THE SYLVAN LIFE._

When in the woods I wander all alone,
The woods that are my solace and delight,
Which I more covet than a prince’s throne,
My toil by day and canopy by night;
(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, 5
These lights shall light me to old age’s gate,
While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright,
Heavy with fear, death’s fearful summons wait;)
Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,
Weighing in thought the world’s no-happiness, 10
I cannot choose but wonder at its moan,
Since so plain joys the woody life can bless:
Then live who may where honied words prevail,
I with the deer, and with the nightingale!
_Lord Thurlow._

CC

_SPRING._

Again the violet of our early days
Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,
And kindles into fragrance at his blaze;
The streams, rejoiced that winter’s work is done,
Talk of to-morrow’s cowslips, as they run. 5
Wild apple! thou art bursting into bloom;
Thy leaves are coming, snowy-blossomed thorn!
Wake, buried lily! spirit, quit thy tomb;
And thou, shade-loving hyacinth, be born. 9
Then haste, sweet rose! sweet woodbine, hymn the morn,
Whose dew-drops shall illume with pearly light
Each grassy blade that thick embattled stands
From sea to sea, while daisies infinite
Uplift in praise their little glowing hands
O’er every hill that under heaven expands. 15
_Ebenezer Elliot._

CCI

_THE POETRY OF EARTH_

The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the grasshopper’s--he takes the lead 5
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost 10
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.
_John Keats._

CCII

_SONNET._

Lady, I bid thee to a sunny dome,
Ringing with echoes of Italian song:
Henceforth to thee these magic halls belong,
And all the pleasant place is like a home.
Hark, on the right with full piano tone 5
Old Dante’s voice encircles all the air:
Hark yet again, like flute-tones mingling rare,
Comes the keen sweetness of Petrarca’s moan.
Pass thou the lintel freely; without fear
Feast on the music. I do better know thee, 10
Than to suspect this pleasure thou dost owe me
Will wrong thy gentle spirit, or make less dear
That element whence thou must draw thy life--
An English maiden, and an English wife.
_Arthur Henry Hallam._

CCIII

_THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB._

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 5
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown:

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 10
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 15
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf,

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown: 20

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
_Lord Byron._

CCIV

_THRASYMENE._

Is this the spot where Rome’s eternal foe
Into his snares the mighty legions drew,
Whence from the carnage, spiritless and few,
A remnant scarcely reached her gates of woe?
Is this the stream, thus gliding soft and slow, 5
That, from the gushing wounds of thousands, grew
So fierce a flood, that waves of crimson hue
Rushed on the bosom of the lake below?
The mountains that gave back the battle-cry
Are silent now;--perchance yon hillocks green 10
Mark where the bones of those old warriors lie!
Heaven never gladdened a more peaceful scene;
Never left softer breeze a fairer sky
To sport upon thy waters, Thrasymene.
_Charles Strong._

CCV

_THE BATTLE OF NASEBY._

BY OBADIAH BIND-THEIR-KINGS-IN-CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON, SERJEANT IN IRETON’S REGIMENT.

Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?

Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 5
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God.

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 9
That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The General rode along us to form us to the fight,
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout, 15
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant’s right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line!
For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws!
For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! 20

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close your ranks;
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone! 25
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast,
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
Stand back to back, in God’s name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground:
Hark! hark!--What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear? 30
Whose banner do I see, boys? ’Tis he, thank God, ’tis he, boys.
Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here.

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 35
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:
And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war. 40

Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search secure,
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were
gay and bold, 45
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;
And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, 50
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down with the Mitre and the Crown,
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope;
There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham’s Stalls: 55
The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children’s ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England’s sword;
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word. 60
_Lord Macaulay._

CCVI

_CAVALIER SONG._

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
My true love has mounted his steed and away,
Over hill, over valley, o’er dale, and o’er down;
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, 5
He has placed the steel-cap o’er his long-flowing hair,
From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,--
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; 10
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,--
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell these bold traitors of London’s proud town, 15
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.

There’s Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
There’s Erin’s high Ormond and Scotland’s Montrose!
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown? 20

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown
In a pledge to Fair England, her Church, and her Crown.
_Sir Walter Scott._

CCVII

_THE 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; 5
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat 10
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, 15
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene; 20
And her van the fleeter rushed
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, 25
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane 30
To our cheering sent us back;--
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--
Then ceased--and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or, in conflagration pale, 35
Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o’er the wave:
‘Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save: 40
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.’ 45

Then Denmark blessed 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; 50
While the sun looked smiling bright
O’er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, Old England, raise 55
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 60
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride
Once so faithful and so true, 65
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, 70
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
_Thomas Campbell._

CCVIII

_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, 5
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 10
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 15
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 20

’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, 25
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; 30
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre.
_Thomas Campbell._

CCIX

_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; 5
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,-- 10
Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid
When her long life hath reached its final day:
Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade
Of that which once was great has passed away.
_William Wordsworth._

CCX

_COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, AUGUST, 1802._

Fair Star of Evening, Splendour of the West,
Star of my country!--on the horizon’s brink
Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink
On England’s bosom; yet well pleased to rest,
Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest, 5
Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think,
Should’st be my Country’s emblem; and should’st wink,
Bright Star! with laughter on her banners, drest
In thy fresh beauty. There! that dusky spot
Beneath thee, that is England; there it lies. 10
Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot,
One life, one glory! I with many a fear
For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs,
Among men who do not love her, linger here.
_William Wordsworth._

CCXI

_NOVEMBER, 1806._

Another year!--another deadly blow!
Another mighty empire overthrown!
And we are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle with the foe.
’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know 5
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land 10
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.
_William Wordsworth._

CCXII

_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE._

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, 5
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 nor in shroud we wound him; 10
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 stedfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 15
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed 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! 20

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, 25
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; 30
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--
But we left him alone with his glory.
_Charles Wolfe._

CCXIII

_ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE._

’Tis done--but yesterday a King!
And armed with Kings to strive--
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject--yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 5
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fall’n so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind 10
Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught’st the rest to see.
With might unquestioned,--power to save,--
Thine only gift hath been the grave, 15
To those that worshipped thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition’s less than littleness!

Thanks for that lesson--it will teach
To after-warriors more 20
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preached before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks, never to unite again,
That led them to adore 25
Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

The triumph, and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife--
The earthquake voice of Victory, 30
To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seemed made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife--
All quelled!--Dark Spirit! what must be 35
The madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate!
The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others’ fate
A suppliant for his own! 40
Is it some yet imperial hope,
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince--or live a slave--
Thy choice is most ignobly brave! 45

He who of old would rend the oak,
Dreamed not of the rebound:
Chained by the trunk he vainly broke--
Alone--how looked he round?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 50
An equal deed hast done at length,
And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heart 55
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger--dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home--
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 60
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandoned power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell, 65
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well: 70
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne.

But thou--from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung--
Too late thou leav’st the high command 75
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart,
To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God’s fair world hath been 80
The footstool of a thing so mean!