Chapter XVII: Part VII: The Hermit of the Wood (2)

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

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

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry.

Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding-sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

MEN OF ENGLAND

MEN of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood Men whose undegenerate spirit Has been proved on land and flood:

Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory, Sidney's matchless shade is yours,-- Martyrs in heroic story, Worth a thousand Agincourts!

We're the sons of sires that baffled Crown'd and mitred tyranny: They defied the field and scaffold, For their birthright--so will we.

_JAMES HOGG_

WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME

COME all ye jolly shepherds That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken; What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, When the kye comes hame.

'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbour of the great-- 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame.

See yonder pawky shepherd That lingers on the hill-- His yowes are in the fauld, And his lambs are lying still; Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, And the little wee bit stars Rise bright in the east, O there's a joy sae dear, That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame.

Then since all nature joins In this love without alloy, O' wha wad prove a traitor To nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown, Wi' its pearls and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame? When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk, When the kye comes hame.

THE SKYLARK

BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place-- O to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth, Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place-- O to abide in the desert with thee!

_ALLAN CUNNINGHAM_

THE YOUNG MAXWELL

'WHERE gang ye, thou silly auld carle? And what do you carry there?' I'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman, To shift my sheep their lair.'

Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle, An' a gude lang stride took he: 'I trow thou to be a feck auld carle, Will ye shaw the way to me?'

And he has gane wi' the silly auld carle, Adown by the greenwood side; 'Light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman, For here ye canny ride.'

He drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed, An' lightly down he sprang: Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat, Whare the gowden tassels hang.

He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle, An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree; An' wha was it but the young Maxwell! An' his gude brown sword drew he!

'Thou killed my father, thou vile South'ron! An' ye killed my brethren three! Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister, I loved as the light o' my e'e!

'Draw out thy sword, thou vile South'ron Red wat wi' blude o' my kin! That sword it crapped the bonniest flower E'er lifted its head to the sun!

'There's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father! There's twa for my brethren three! An' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister, Wham I loved as the light o' my e'e.'

HAME, HAME, HAME

HAME, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa', The bonny white rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!

O there's naught frae ruin my country can save, But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie, May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save, The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e, 'I'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.' Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA

A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a landsman cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

MY NANIE O

RED rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae, Mirk is the night and rainie O, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, I'll gang and see my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; My kind and winsome Nanie O, She holds my heart in love's dear bands, And nane can do't but Nanie O.

In preaching-time sae meek she stands, Sae saintly and sae bonny O, I cannot get ae glimpse of grace, For thieving looks at Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; The world's in love with Nanie O; That heart is hardly worth the wear That wadna love my Nanie O.

My breast can scarce contain my heart, When dancing she moves finely O; I guess what heaven is by her eyes, They sparkle sae divinely O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O, The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, And says, I dwell with Nanie O.

Tell not, thou star at grey daylight, O'er Tinwald-tap sae bonny O, My footsteps 'mang the morning dew When coming frae my Nanie O; My Nanie O, my Nanie O; Nane ken o' me and Nanie O; The stars and moon may tell't aboon, They winna wrang my Nanie O!

_THOMAS MOORE_

CANADIAN BOAT-SONG

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There's not a breath the blue wave to curl! But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!

Ottawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs. Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me. When the praise thou meetest To thine ear is sweetest, Oh, then remember me. Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be; But when friends are nearest, And when joys are dearest, Oh, then remember me.

When at eve thou rovest By the star thou lovest, Oh, then remember me. Think, when home returning, Bright we've seen it burning. Oh, thus remember me. Oft as summer closes, When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses, Once so loved by thee, Think of her who wove them, Her who made thee love them, Oh, then remember me.

When, around thee dying, Autumn leaves are lying, Oh, then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing, Oh, still remember me. Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling, To thy heart appealing, Draw one tear from thee; Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, Oh, then remember me.

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS

THE harp that once through Tara's halls, The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE

RICH and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore; But, oh! her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand.

'Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, As not to be tempted by woman or gold?'

Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm, No son of Erin will offer me harm: For, though they love women and golden store Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.

On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle; And blest for ever is she who relied Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS

THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet, As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green; 'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh! No--it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve, When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking;-- Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow.

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS

BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

OH, the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life from morn till night Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come Of milder, calmer beam, But there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream; No, there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.

Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth's past; Though he wins the wise, who frown'd before, To smile at last; He'll never meet A joy so sweet, In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name.

No--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'Twas odour fled As soon as shed; 'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light there ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream: Oh!'twas light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream.

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

THE MINSTREL-BOY

THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.-- 'Land of song!' said the warrior-bard, 'Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The Minstrel fell--but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its cords asunder; And said, 'No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the brave and free, They shall never sound in slavery!'

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING

THE time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing.

Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, My only books Were women's looks, And folly's all they'ye taught me.

Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the Sprite Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

Like him, too, Beauty won me; But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turned away, Oh, winds could not outrun me.

And are those follies going? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing?

No--vain, alas! th'endeavour From bonds so sweet to sever;-- Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

OFT in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone, Now dimm'd and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken!

Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends so link'd together, I've seen around me fall Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet-hall deserted, Whose lights are fled Whose garlands dead And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

_LORD BYRON_

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, 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; 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 nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 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.

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!

WHEN WE TWO PARTED

WHEN we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning Sank chill on my brow-- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.

They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met-- In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?-- With silence and tears.

SONG

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING

So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

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 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; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent. A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

_B. W. PROCTER_

KING DEATH

KING DEATH was a rare old fellow, He sat where no sun could shine, And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine! Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

There came to him many a maiden Whose eyes had forgot to shine, And widows with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his coal-black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

The scholar left all his learning, The poet his fancied woes, And the beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

All came to the rare old fellow, Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, And he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine!

SONG FOR TWILIGHT

HIDE me, O twilight air, Hide me from thought, from care, From all things foul or fair, Until to-morrow! To-night I strive no more; No more my soul shall soar: Come, sleep, and shut the door 'Gainst pain and sorrow!

If I must see through dreams, Be mine Elysian gleams, Be mine by morning streams To watch and wander; So may my spirit cast (Serpent-like) off the past, And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder.

And shouldst thou 'scape control, Ponder on love, sweet soul; On joy, the end and goal Of all endeavour: But if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, night, seal thou mine eyes, In sleep for ever.

_CHARLES WOLFE_

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

_PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY_

I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE

I ARISE from dreams of thee, In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright; I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me--who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet.

The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream,-- The champetre odours fail, Like sweet thoughts in a dream, The nightingale's complaint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail. Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast. Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last.

LAMENT

O WORLD! O life! O time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more--oh, never more!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more--oh, never more!

LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY

THE fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another's being mingle-- Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother: And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea;-- What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me?

HYMN OF PAN

FROM the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings. The wind in the reeds and the rushes, The bees on the bells of thyme, The birds on the myrtle bushes, The cicale above in the lime, And the lizards below in the grass, Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni and Sylvans and Fauns, And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal earth, And of heaven, and the giant wars, And love, and death, and birth. And then I changed my pipings Singing how down the vale of Maenalus I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus; It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. All wept--as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood-- At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

_JOHN KEATS_

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

'O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.

'O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done.

'I see a lily on thy brow With anguish moist and fever-dew. And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too.'

'I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful--a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.

'I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

'I set her on my pacing steed And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song.

'She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true."

'She took me to her elfin grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four.

'And there she lulled me asleep, And there I dream'd--Ah! woe betide The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill's side.

'I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: They cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!"

'I saw their starved lips in the gloam With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here On the cold hill's side.

'And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing.'

_THOMAS HOLCROFT_

GAFFER GRAY

HO, why dost thou shiver and shake, Gaffer Gray? And why does thy nose look so blue? ''Tis the weather that's cold, 'Tis I'm grown very old, And my doublet is not very new, Well-a-day!'

Then line thy worn doublet with ale, Gaffer Gray; And warm thy old heart with a glass. Nay, but credit I've none, And my money's all gone; Then say how may that come to pass? Well-a-day!'

Hie away to the house on the brow, Gaffer Gray; And knock at the jolly priest's door. 'The priest often preaches Against worldly riches, But ne'er gives a mite to the poor, Well-a-day!'

The lawyer lives under the hill, Gaffer Gray; Warmly fenced both in back and in front. 'He will fasten his locks, And will threaten the stocks Should he ever more find me in want, Well-a-day!'

The squire has fat beeves and brown ale, Gaffer Gray; And the season will welcome you there. 'His fat beeves and his beer, And his merry new year, Are all for the flush and the fair, Well-a-day!'

My keg is but low, I confess, Gaffer Gray; What then? While it lasts, man, we'll live.' The poor man alone, When he hears the poor moan, Of his morsel a morsel will give, Well-a-day!'

_FELICIA HEMANS_

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

THE breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame;--

Not as the flying come, In silence, and in fear;-- They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang: Till the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang, To the anthem of the free.

The ocean-eagle soar'd From his nest, by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd: Such was their welcome home.

There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas? the spoils of war?-- No--'twas a faith's pure shrine.

Yes, call it holy ground, Which first their brave feet trod! They have left unstain'd what there they found-- Freedom to worship God!

THE VOICE OF SPRING

I COME, I come! ye have called me long, I come o'er the mountains with light and song; Ye may trace my step o'er the wakening earth, By the winds which tell of the violet's birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass.

I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut-flowers By thousands have burst from the forest-bowers; And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes, Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains. --But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb!

I have passed o'er the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth, The fisher is out on the sunny sea, And the rein-deer bounds through the pasture free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright where my step has been.

I have sent through the wood-paths a gentle sigh, And called out each voice of the deep-blue sky, From the night-bird's lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan's wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-bough into verdure breaks.

From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain: They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain-brows, They are flinging spray on the forest-boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves.

Come forth, O ye children of gladness, come! Where the violets lie may now be your home. Ye of the rose-cheek and dew-bright eye, And the bounding footstep, to meet me fly, With the lyre, and the wreath, and the joyous lay, Come forth to the sunshine,--I may not stay.

Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in wood and glen; Away from the chamber and dusky hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth, Their light stems thrill to the wild-wood strains, And Youth is abroad in my green domains.

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

THE stately homes of England, How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England-- Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told; Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England, How softly on their bowers, Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime Floats through their woods at morn, All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair homes of England, Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall. And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God.

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF

'OH, call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone?

'The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight Oh, call my brother back!

'The flowers run wild-- the flowers we sow'd Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load Oh, call him back to me!'

'He could not hear thy voice, fair child, He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou'lt see.

'A rose's brief bright life of joy, Such unto him was given; Go--thou must play alone, my boy! Thy brother is in heaven!'

'And has he left his birds and flowers, And must I call in vain? And, through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again?

'And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh, while my brother with me play'd, Would I had loved him more!'

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

THEY grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee, Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow, She had each folded flower in sight, Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream, is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar's shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep, He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain; He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one, o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus, they rest--who played Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth, Alas for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh earth!

CASABIANCA

THE boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on--he would not go, Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud--'Say, father, say If yet my task is done?' He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried, If I may yet be gone!' --And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And look'd from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair:

And shouted but once more aloud, 'My father! must I stay?' While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And stream'd above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-- The boy--oh, where was he? --Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew'd the sea!

_THOMAS HOOD_

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

'TWAS in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouch'd by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in; Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran-- Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can: But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man.

His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf he turn'd it o'er, Nor ever glanced aside; For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden eventide: Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome; With a fast and fervent grasp He strain'd the dusky covers close, And fix'd the brazen hasp: 'O Heav'n, could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!'

Then leaping on his feet upright, Some moody turns he took; Now up the mead, then down the mead, And past a shady nook: And lo, he saw a little boy That pored upon a book.

'My gentle lad, what is't you read-- Romance or fairy fable? Or is it some historic page Of kings and crowns unstable?' The young boy gave an upward glance-- 'It is the death of Abel.'

The usher took six hasty strides, As smit with sudden pain; Six hasty strides beyond the place, Then slowly back again: And down he sat beside the lad, And talked with him of Cain;

And long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod-- Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod; And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God.

He told how murderers walk'd the earth Beneath the curse of Cain With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain: For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain.

'And well,' quoth he, 'I know, for truth, Their pangs must be extreme-- Wo, wo, unutterable wo-- Who spill life's sacred stream! For why? Methought last night I wrought A murder in a dream!

'One that had never done me wrong-- A feeble man, and old; I led him to a lonely field, The moon shone clear and cold: Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold!

'Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone, One hurried gash with a hasty knife, And then the deed was done: There was nothing lying at my feet, But lifeless flesh and bone!

'Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill; And yet I fear'd him all the more, For lying there so still: There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill.

'And lo, the universal air Seem'd lit with ghastly flame-- Ten thousand, thousand dreadful eyes Were looking down in blame: I took the dead man by the hand, And call'd upon his name!

'Oh me, it made me quake to see Such sense within the slain! But when I touch'd the lifeless clay, The blood gush'd out amain! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain!

'My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, Was at the devil's price: A dozen times I groan'd; the dead Had never groan'd but twice.

'And now from forth the frowning sky, From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice--the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite: "Thou guilty man, take up thy dead, And hide it from my sight!"

'I took the dreary body up And cast it in a stream A sluggish water, black as ink, The depth was so extreme. My gentle boy, remember, this Is nothing but a dream!

'Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanish'd in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young That evening in the school.

'O heaven, to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in evening hymn: Like a devil of the pit I seem'd, 'Mid holy cherubim!

'And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread; But Guilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed, And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red!

'All night I lay in agony, In anguish dark and deep; My fever'd eyes I dared not close, But star'd aghast at Sleep; For sin had render'd unto her The keys of hell to keep!

'All night I lay in agony, From weary chime to chime, With one besetting horrid hint, That rack'd me all the time-- A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime.

'One stern tyrannic thought that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse Did that temptation crave-- Still urging me to go and see The dead man in his grave.

'Heavily I rose up--as soon As light was in the sky-- And sought the black accursed pool With a wild misgiving eye; And I saw the dead, in the river bed, For the faithless stream was dry!

'Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dew-drop from its wing; But I never mark'd its morning flight, I never heard it sing: For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.

'With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran-- There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began: In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves, I hid the murder'd man.

'And all that day I read in school, But my thought was otherwhere; As soon as the mid-day task was done, In secret I was there: And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!

'Then down I cast me on my face, And first began to weep; For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep; Or land, or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.

So wills the fierce avenging sprite, Till blood for blood atones; Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones, And years have rotted off his flesh The world shall see his bones.

Oh me--that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake! Again, again, with a dizzy brain, The human life I take; And my red right hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

'And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow; The horrid thing pursues my soul-- It stands before me now The fearful boy looked up and saw Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin's eyelids kiss'd, Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn. Through the cold and heavy mist; And Eugene Aram walk'd between, With gyves upon his wrist.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread--

Stitch--stitch--stitch In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the Song of the Shirt.

'Work--work--work While the cock is crowing aloof; And work--work--work Till the stars shine through the roof It 's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save If this is Christian work!

'Work--work--work Till the brain begins to swim; Work--work--work Till the eyes are heavy and dim I Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

'O men with Sisters dear! O men with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch--stitch--stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

But why do I talk of Death? That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own-- It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh God, that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

'Work--work--work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread--and rags. That shattered roof--and this naked floor,-- A table,--a broken chair,-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there.

'Work--work--work From weary chime to chime, Work--work--work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

'Work--work--work, In the dull December light, And work--work--work, When the weather is warm and bright While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.

'Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

'Oh, but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!'

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch--stitch--stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- Would that its tone could reach the Rich! She sang this 'Song of the Shirt!'

THE STARS ARE WITH THE VOYAGER

THE stars are with the voyager, Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time, The sun will never fail, But follow, follow, round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light, The moon will veil her in the shade, The sun will set at night; The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away, So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day.

RUTH

SHE stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened--such a blush In the midst of brown was born-- Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim:-- hus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:--

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come Share my harvest and my home.

_LORD MACAULAY_

IVRY

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.