c. 1750
_64. Written in her brother’s Coke upon Littleton_
O thou, who labour’st in this rugged mine, Mayst thou to gold th’ unpolished ore refine! May each dark page unfold its haggard brow! Doubt not to reap, if thou can’st bear to plough. To tempt thy care, may, each revolving night, Purses and maces swim before thy sight! From hence in times to come, advent’rous deed! May’st thou essay to look and speak like Mead! When the black bag and rose no more shall shade With martial air the honours of thy head; When the full wig thy visage shall enclose, And only leave to view thy learned nose. Safely may’st thou defy beaux, wits, and scoffers, While tenants, in fee-simple, stuff thy coffers.
ELIZABETH CARTER
1717-1806
_65. Epitaph on an Infant_
Though infant years no pompous honours claim, The vain parade of monumental fame, To better praise the last great day shall rear The spotless innocence that slumbers here.
MARY LEAPOR
1722-1746
_66. Upon her Play being returned to Her Stained with Claret_
Welcome, dear wanderer, once more! Thrice welcome to thy native cell! Within this peaceful humble door Let thou and I contented dwell!
But say, O whither hast thou rang’d? Why dost thou blush a crimson hue? Thy fair complexion’s greatly chang’d: Why, I can scarce believe ’tis you.
Then tell, my son, O tell me, where Didst thou contract this sottish dye? You kept ill company, I fear, When distant from your parent’s eye.
Was it for this, O graceless child, Was it for this you learn’d to spell? Thy face and credit both are spoil’d; Go drown thyself in yonder well.
I wonder how thy time was spent: No news (alas!) hast thou to bring? Hast thou not climb’d the Monument? Nor seen the lions, nor the King?
But now I’ll keep you here secure: No more you view the smoaky sky: The court was never made (I’m sure) For idiots, like thee and I.
_67. Hope (Where it may reasonably be cherished)_
If trifling Hope has any room to plead, ’Tis that where Nature’s simple dictates lead: So the wet hind, who travels o’er the plain Through the cold mire and the afflicting rain; Tho’ his low roofs with trickling showers run, May hope next morn to see the chearful sun: Or when keen hunger at the evening tide Drives home the shepherd to his rustick bride, His honest reason haply might not stray, Tho’ he should dream of dumpling all the way.
_68. Of Friendship_
Of all companions I would choose to shun Such, whose blunt truths are like a bursting gun.
MARY JONES
?-1778
_69. An Epistle to Lady Bowyer_
How much of paper’s spoil’d! what floods of ink! And yet how few, how very few can think! The knack of writing is an easy trade; But to think well requires—at least a head. Once in an age, one genius may arise, With wit well cultur’d, and with learning wise: Like some tall oak, behold his branches shoot! No tender scions springing at the root. Whilst lofty Pope erects his laurell’d head, No lays, like mine, can live beneath his shade: Nothing but weeds and moss, and shrubs are found: Cut, cut them down, why cumber they the ground? And yet you’d have me write? For what? for whom? To curl a favourite in a dressing room? To mend a candle when the snuff’s too short? Or save rappee for chamber-maids at court? Glorious ambition! noble thirst of fame! No, but you’d have me write—to get a name. Alas! I’d live unknown, unenvy’d too; ’Tis more than Pope with all his wit can do; ’Tis more than you, with wit and beauty join’d, A pleasing form and a discerning mind. The world and I are no such cordial friends; I have my purpose, they their various ends. I say my prayers, and lead a sober life, Nor laugh at Cornus, or at Cornus’ wife. What’s fame to me, who pray, and pay my rent? If my friends know me honest, I’m content. Well, but the joy to see my works in print! Myself too pictur’d in a mezzo-tint! The preface done, the dedication fram’d, With lies enough to make a lord asham’d! Thus I step forth; an authoress in some sort: My patron’s name? ‘O choose some lord at court. One that has money which he does not use, One you may flatter much, that is, abuse. For if you’re nice, and cannot change your note, Regardless of the trimm’d or untrimm’d coat, Believe me, friend, you’ll ne’er be worth a groat.’ Well then, to cut this mighty matter short, I’ve neither friend, nor interest, at court. Quite from St. James’s to thy stairs, Whitehall, I hardly know a creature, great or small, Except one maid of honour, worth them all. I have no business there—Let those attend The courtly levee, or the courtly friend, Who more than fate allows them dare to spend. Or those whose avarice, with much, craves more, The pension’d beggar, or the titled poor. These are the thriving breed, the tiny great! Slaves! wretched slaves! the journeymen of state! Philosophers! who calmly bear disgrace, Patriots who sell their country for a place! Shall I for these disturb my brains with rhyme? For these, like Bavius, creep, or Glencus, climb? Shall I go late to rest, and early rise, To be the very creature I despise? With face unmov’d, my poem in my hand, Cringe to the porter, with the footman stand? Perhaps my lady’s maid, if not too proud, Will stoop, you’ll say, to wink me from the crowd; Will entertain me till his lordship’s drest, With what my lady eats, and how she rests: How much she gave for such a birth-day gown, And how she trampt to every shop in town. Sick at the news, impatient for my lord, I’m forced to hear, nay smile, at every word. Tom raps at last,—‘his lordship begs to know Your name? your business?’—Sir, I’m not a foe; I come to charm his lordship’s listening ears With verses, soft as music of the spheres. ‘Verses!—alas! his lordship seldom reads: Pedants indeed with learning stuff their heads; But my good lord, as all the world can tell, Reads not even tradesmen’s bills, and scorns to spell. But trust your lays with me—some things I’ve read, Was born a poet, tho’ no poet bred: And if I find they’ll bear my nicer view, I’ll recommend your poetry—and you.’ Shock’d at his civil impudence, I start, Pocket my poem, and in haste depart; Resolv’d no more to offer up my wit, Where footmen in the seat of critics sit. Is there a Lord whose great unspotted soul, Not places, pensions, ribbons can controul; Unlac’d, unpowder’d, almost unobserv’d, Eats not on silver while his train are starv’d; Who, tho’ to nobles or to kings ally’d, Dares walk on foot, while slaves in coaches ride; With merit humble, and with greatness free, Has bow’d to Freeman, and has din’d with me; Who, bred in foreign courts, and early known, Has yet to learn the cunning of his own; To titles born, yet heir to no estate, And harder still, too honest to be great? If such an one there be, well-bred, polite, To him I’ll dedicate, for him I’ll write. Peace to the rest—I can be no man’s slave; I ask for nothing, tho’ I nothing have. By fortune humbled, yet not sunk so low To shame a friend, or fear to meet a foe. Meanness, in ribbons or in rags, I hate; And have not learnt to flatter, even the great. Few friends I ask, and those who love me well; What more remains, these artless lines shall tell. Of honest parents, not of great, I came; Not known to fortune, quite unknown to fame, Frugal and plain, at no man’s cost they eat, Nor knew a baker’s or a butcher’s debt. O be their precepts ever in my eye! For one has learnt to live, and one to die. Long may her widow’d age by Heaven be lent Among my blessings! and I’m well content. I ask no more, but in some calm retreat, To sleep in quiet, and in quiet eat. No noisy slaves attending round my room; My viands wholesome, and my waiters dumb. No orphans cheated, and no widow’s curse, No household lord, for better or for worse. No monstrous sums to tempt my soul to sin, But just enough to keep me plain and clean. And if sometimes, to smooth the rugged way, Charlotte should smile, or you approve my lay, Enough for me—I cannot put my trust In lords; smile lies, eat toads, or lick the dust. Fortune her favours much too dear may hold: An honest heart is worth its weight in gold.
JANE ELLIOT
1727-1805
_70. A Lament for Flodden_
I’ve heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.
In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, The bandsters are lyart, and runkled and grey; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
At e’en in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits eerie, lamenting her dearie, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile won the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.
We’ll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
JENNY GRAHAME
18th century
_71. Wedlock_
Alas! my son, you little know, The sorrows which from wedlock flow: Farewell, sweet hours of mirth and ease, When you have gotten a wife to please. Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet, Ye little ken what’s to betide ye yet, The half o’ that will gane you yet If a wayward wife obtain you yet.
Your hopes are high, your wisdom small, Woe has not had you in its thrall; The black cow on your foot ne’er trod, Which makes you sing along the road.
When I, like you, was young and free, I valued not the proudest she; Like you my boast was bold and vain, That men alone were born to reign.
Great Hercules and Sampson too Were stronger far than I or you, Yet they were baffled by their dears, And felt the distaff and the shears.
Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls, Are proof ’gainst swords and cannon-balls; But nought is found, by sea or land, That can a wayward wife withstand.
ISOBEL PAGAN
1741-1821
_72. Ca’ the Yowes_
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, Ca’ them whare the heather grows, Ca’ them whare the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie.
As I gaed doun the water side, There I met my shepherd lad, He rowed me sweetly in his plaid, And he ca’d me his dearie.
‘Will ye gang doun the water side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide, The moon it shines fu’ clearly.’
I was bred up at nae sic school, My shepherd lad, to play the fool; And a’ the day to sit in dool, And naebody to see me.
‘Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet, And in my arms ye’se lie and sleep, And ye sall be my dearie.’
‘If ye’ll but stand to what ye’ve said, I’se gang wi’ you, my shepherd lad; And ye may row me in your plaid, And I sall be your dearie.’
‘While waters wimple to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie; Till clay-cauld death sall blin’ my e’e Ye aye shall be my dearie.’
ANNE HUNTER
1742-1821
_73. My Mother Bids me Bind my Hair_
My mother bids me bind my hair, With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my bodice blue.
‘For why’, she cries, ‘sit still and weep, While others dance and play?’ Alas! I scarce can go or creep While Lubin is away.
’Tis sad to think the days are gone When those we love were near; I sit upon this mossy stone And sigh when none can hear.
And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Now Lubin is away.
ANNA LAETITIA BARBAULD
1743-1825
_74. To a Lady with Some Flowers_
Flowers to the Fair! to you these flowers I bring, And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. Flowers sweet and gay, and delicate like you, Emblems of innocence and beauty, too. With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew, In Eden’s pure and guiltless garden grew. To loftier forms are rougher tasks assign’d, The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind— The tougher yew repels invading foes, And the tall pine for future navies grows; But this soft family, to cares unknown, Were born for pleasure and delight alone. Gay without toil, and lovely without art, They spring to cheer the sense and glad the heart. Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these; Your best, your sweetest empire is—to please.
_75. Life_
Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met I own to me’s a secret yet. But this I know, when thou art fled, Where’er they lay these limbs, this head, No clod so valueless shall be As all that then remains to me. O whither, whither dost thou fly? Where bend unseen thy trackless course? And in this strange divorce, Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? To the vast ocean of empyreal flame From whence thy essence came Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed From matter’s base encumbering weed? Or dost thou, hid from sight, Wait, like some spell-bound knight, Through blank oblivious years th’ appointed hour To break thy trance and reassume thy power? Yet canst thou without thought or feeling be? O say, what art thou, when no more thou’rt thee? Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; ’Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear:— Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning!
FRANCES BROOKE
1724-1789
_76. Song_
Her mouth, which a smile, Devoid of all guile, Half opens to view, Is the bud of the rose In the morning that blows, Impearl’d with the dew.
More fragrant her breath Than the flow’r-scented heath At the dawning of day; The hawthorn in bloom, The lily’s perfume, Or the blossoms of may.
SUSANNA BLAMIRE
1747-1794
_77. Song_
And ye shall walk in silk attire, And siller ha’e to spare, Gin ye’ll consent to be his bride, Nor think o’ Donald mair. Oh, wha wad buy a silken goun Wi’ a puir broken heart? Or what’s to me a siller crown, Gin frae my love I part?
The mind wha’s every wish is pure Far dearer is to me; And ere I’m forced to break my faith, I’ll lay me down and dee: For I ha’e pledged my virgin troth Brave Donald’s fate to share. And he has gi’en to me his heart, Wi a’ its virtues rare.
His gentle manners wan my heart, He gratefu’ took the gift; Could I but think to tak’ it back, It wad be waur than theft. For langest life can ne’er repay The love he bears to me; And ere I’m forced to break my troth I’ll lay me down and dee.
CHARLOTTE SMITH
1749-1806
_78. Sonnet Written at the Close of Spring_
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, Each simple flower which she has nurs’d in dew, Anemones, that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell, Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till Spring again shall call forth every bell And dress with hurried hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity! so frail, so fair, And the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colours flee away! Another May new birds and flowers shall bring; Ah! why has happiness no second spring?
LADY ANNE (LINDSAY) BARNARD
1750-1825
_79. Auld Robin Gray_
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a’ the warld to rest are gane, The waes o’ my heart fa’ in showers frae my e’e, While my gudeman lies sound by me.
Young Jamie lo’ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; But saving a crown he had naething else beside: To make the crown a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the crown and the pund were baith for me.
He hadna been awa’ a week but only twa, When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa’; My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea— And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin’ me.
My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin, I toil’d day and night, but their bread I couldna win; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and wi’ tears in his e’e Said ‘Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!’
My heart it said nay; I look’d for Jamie back; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack; His ship it was a wrack—why didna Jamie dee? Or why do I live to cry, Wae’s me!
My father urged me sair: my mother didna speak; But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break They gied him my hand, but my heart was at the sea; Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me.
I hadna been a wife a week but only four, When mournfu’ as I sat on the stane at the door, I saw my Jamie’s wraith, for I couldna think it he, Till he said ‘I’m come hame to marry thee’.
O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say; We took but ae kiss, and I bade him gang away: I wish that I were dead, but I’m no like to dee; And why was I born to say, Wae’s me!
I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin; But I’ll do my best a gude wife to be, For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me.
HENRIETTA, LADY O’NEILL
1758-1793
_80. On Seeing Her Two Sons at Play_
Sweet age of blest delusion! blooming boys, Ah! revel long in childhood’s thoughtless joys, With light and pliant spirits, that can stoop To follow sportively the rolling hoop; To watch the sleeping top with gay delight, Or mark with raptur’d gaze the sailing kite; Or eagerly pursuing Pleasure’s call, Can find it centr’d in the bounding ball! Alas! the day _will_ come, when sports like these Must lose their magic, and their power to please; Too swiftly fled, the rosy hours of youth Shall yield their fairy-charms to mournful Truth; Even now, a mother’s fond prophetic fear Sees the dark train of human ills appear; Views various fortune for each lovely child, Storms for the bold, and anguish for the mild; Beholds already those expressive eyes Beam a sad certainty of future sighs; And dreads each suffering those dear breasts may know In their long passage through a world of woe; Perchance predestin’d every pang to prove, That treacherous friends inflict, or faithless love; For ah! how few have found existence sweet, Where grief is sure, but happiness deceit!
JOANNA BAILLIE
1762-1851
_81. A Mother to Her Waking Infant_
Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye, Thy curled nose and lip awry, Uphoisted arms and noddling head, And little chin with crystal spread, Poor helpless thing! what do I see That I should sing of thee?
From thy poor tongue no accents come, Which can but rub thy toothless gum: Small understanding boasts thy face; Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace: A few short words thy feats may tell; And yet I love thee well.
When wakes the sudden bitter shriek, And redder swells thy little cheek; When rattled keys thy woes beguile, And through thine eyelids gleams the smile; Still for thy weakly self is spent Thy little silly plaint.
But when thy friends are in distress, Thou’lt laugh and chuckle ne’ertheless; Nor with kind sympathy be smitten Though all are sad but thee and kitten; Yet, puny varlet that thou art, Thou twitchest at the heart.
Thy smooth round cheek so soft and warm; Thy pinky hand and dimpled arm; Thy silken locks that scantly peep, With gold-tipp’d ends, where circles deep, Around thy neck in harmless grace So soft and sleekly hold their place, Might harder hearts with kindness fill, And gain our right good will.
Each passing clown bestows his blessing, Thy mouth is worn with old wives’ kissing: E’en lighter looks the gloomy eye Of surly sense when thou art by; And yet, I think, whoe’er they be, They love thee not like me.
Perhaps when time shall add a few Short months to thee, thou’lt love me too; And after that, through life’s long way. Become my sure and cheering stay: Wilt care for me and be my hold, When I am weak and old.
Thou’lt listen to my lengthen’d tale, And pity me when I am frail— —But see! the sweepy swimming fly, Upon the window takes thine eye. Go to thy little senseless play; Thou dost not heed my lay.
_82. The Kitten_
Wanton drole, whose harmless play Beguiles the rustic’s closing day, When drawn the evening fire about, Sit aged crone and thoughtless lout, And child upon his three-foot stool, Waiting till his supper cool; And maid, whose cheek outblooms the rose, As bright the blazing faggot glows, Who, bending to the friendly light, Plies her task with busy sleight; Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces, Thus circled round with merry faces.
Backward coil’d, and crouching low, With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife’s spindle whirling round, Or thread, or straw, that on the ground Its shadows throws, by urchin sly Held out to lure thy roving eye; Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring Upon the futile, faithless thing. Now, wheeling round, with bootless skill, Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still, As oft beyond thy curving side Its jetty tip is seen to glide; Till, from thy centre starting far, Thou sidelong rear’st, with rump in air, Erected stiff, and gait awry, Like madam in her tantrums high: Tho’ ne’er a madam of them all Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall, More varied trick and whim displays, To catch the admiring stranger’s gaze.
Doth power in varied measures dwell, All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound, The giddy scamper round and round, With leap, and jerk, and high curvet, And many a whirling somerset, (Permitted be the modern muse Expression technical to use,) These mock the deftest rhymer’s skill, But poor in art, tho’ rich in will.
The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limb and sinew strains, To do what costs thee little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud. But, stopp’d the while thy wanton play, Applauses too _thy_ feats repay: For then, beneath some urchin’s hand, With modest pride thou tak’st thy stand, While many a stroke of fondness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy purr; As, timing well the equal sound, Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose; While softly from thy whisker’d cheek, Thy half-clos’d eyes peer mild and meek.
But not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfetter’d fancy, fly Thro’ airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles with alter’d air, To see thee climb his elbow-chair, Or, struggling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper’d toe. The widow’d dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still but cheerless shade Of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a letter’d page, Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch The ends of ravell’d skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the coil of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways; What time the lamp’s unsteady gleam Doth rouse him from his moody dream, Feels, as thou gambol’st round his seat, His heart with pride less fiercely beat, And smiles, a link in thee to find That joins him still to living kind.
Whence hast thou, then, thou witless puss, The magic power to charm us thus? Is it, that in thy glaring eye, And rapid movements, we descry, While we at ease, secure from ill, The chimney-corner snugly fill, A lion darting on the prey, A tiger at his ruthless play? Or is it, that in thee we trace, With all thy varied wanton grace, An emblem view’d with kindred eye, Of tricksy, restless infancy? Ah! many a lightly-sportive child, Who hath, like thee, our wits beguil’d, To dull and sober manhood grown, With strange recoil our hearts disown. Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure, When thou becom’st a cat demure, Full many a cuff and angry word, Chid roughly from the tempting board. And yet, for that thou hast, I ween, So oft our favour’d playmate been, Soft be the change which thou shalt prove When time hath spoil’d thee of our love; Still be thou deem’d, by housewife fat, A comely, careful, mousing cat, Whose dish is, for the public good, Replenish’d oft with savoury food.
Nor when thy span of life is past, Be thou to pond or dunghill cast; But gently borne on goodman’s spade, Beneath the decent sod be laid, And children show, with glistening eyes, The place where poor old Pussy lies.
_83. Song_
The gowan glitters on the sward, The lavrock’s in the sky, And colley on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. Oh no! sad and slow! I hear nae welcome sound; The shadow of our trysting-bush, It wears so slowly round!
My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west, My lambs are bleating near; But still the sound that I lo’e best, Alack! I canna hear! Oh no! sad and slow! The shadow lingers still; And like a lanely ghaist I stand, And croon upon the hill.
I hear below the water roar, The mill wi’ clacking din; And Luckey scolding frae the door, To bring the bairnies in. Oh no! sad and slow! These are nae the sounds for me; The shadow of our trysting-bush, It creeps sae drearily!
I coft yestreen from chapman Tam A snood o’ bonnie blue, And promis’d when our trysting cam, To tie it round her brow. Oh no! sad and slow! The time it winna pass! The shadow of that weary thorn Is tether’d on the grass.
O now I see her on the way, She’s past the Witch’s knowe; She’s climbing up the Brownie’s brae; My heart is in a lowe. Oh no! sad and slow! ’Tis glamrie I hae seen; The shadow of that hawthorn bush Will move nae mair till e’en.
My book o’ grace I’ll try to read, Tho’ con’d wi’ little skill; When colley barks, I’ll raise my head, And find her on the hill. Oh no! ’tis nae so! The time will ne’er be gane! The shadow of the trysting-bush Is fix’d like ony stane.
_84. The Outlaw_
The chough and crow to roost are gone, The owl sits on the tree, The hush’d wind wails with feeble moan, Like infant charity. The wild-fire dances on the fen, The red star sheds its ray, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men! It is our opening day.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And clos’d is every flower, And winking tapers faintly peep High from my Lady’s bower; Bewilder’d hinds with shorten’d ken Shrink on their murky way, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men! It is our opening day.
Nor board nor garner own we now, Nor roof nor latchèd door, Nor kind mate bound by holy vow To bless a good man’s store; Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, And night is grown our day, Up-rouse ye, then, my merry men! And use it as ye may.
CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE
1765-1834
_85. A Riddle on the Letter H_
’Twas in heaven pronounced—it was mutter’d in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth ’twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confess’d. ’Twill be found in the sphere when ’tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth and awaits him in death: Presides o’er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown’d. Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e’en in the whirlwind of passion is drown’d. ’Twill not soften the heart; and tho’ deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, Ah, breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.
MARY LAMB
1764-1847
_86. A Child_
A child’s a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space— Then tire, and lay it by.
But I knew one that to itself All seasons could control; That would have mock’d the sense of pain Out of a grievèd soul.
Thou straggler into loving arms, Young climber-up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways Then life and all shall cease.
CAROLINE, LADY NAIRNE
1766-1845
_87. The Land o’ the Leal_
I’m wearin’ awa’, John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I’m wearin’ awa’ To the land o’ the leal. There’s nae sorrow there, John: There’s neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o’ the leal.
Our bonnie bairn’s there, John; She was baith guid and fair, John; And, oh! we grudged her sair To the land o’ the leal. But sorrow’s sel’ wears past, John, And joy’s a-comin’ fast, John, The joy that’s aye to last In the land o’ the leal.
Sae dear that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu’ man e’er brought To the land o’ the leal. O dry your glistening e’e, John! My saul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o’ the leal.
O haud ye leal and true, John; Your day it’s wearin’ through, John, And I’ll welcome you To the land o’ the leal. Now fareyeweel, my ain John: This warld’s cares are vain, John; We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain, In the land o’ the leal.
_88. The Auld House_
Oh, the auld house, the auld house What though the rooms were wee? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu’ o’ glee! The wild rose and the jessamine Still hang upon the wa’— How mony cherished memories Do they, sweet flowers, reca’!
Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird, Sae canty, kind, and crouse! How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house! And the leddy, too, sae genty, There sheltered Scotland’s heir, And clipt a lock wi’ her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair.
The mavis still doth sweetly sing, The blue-bells sweetly blaw; The bonnie Earn’s clear winding still, But the auld house is awa’. The auld house, the auld house! Deserted though ye be, There ne’er can be a new house Will seem sae fair to me.
Still flourishing the auld pear tree, The bairnies liked to see; And oh, how aften did they speir When ripe they a’ wad be! The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinnin’ here and there; The merry shout—oh! whiles we greet To think we’ll hear nae mair.
For they are a’ wide scattered now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane, alas! to her lang hame; Not here we’ll meet again. The Kirkyaird! the Kirkyaird! Wi’ flowers o’ every hue, Sheltered by the holly’s shade, An’ the dark sombre yew.
The setting sun, the setting sun, How glorious it gaed doun! The cloudy splendour raised our hearts To cloudless skies abune! The auld dial, the auld dial! It tauld how time did pass: The wintry winds ha’e dung it doun, Now hid ’mang weeds and grass.
_89. Caller Herrin’_
_Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?_ _They’re bonnie fish and halesome farin’:_ _Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’,_ _New drawn frae the Forth?_
When ye were sleepin’ on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o’ our puir fellows Darkling as they faced the billows, A’ to fill the woven willows?
Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’? They’re no brought here without brave darin’, Buy my caller herrin’, Hauled through wind and rain.
Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’? Oh, ye may ca’ them vulgar farin’; Wives and mithers, ’maist despairin’, Ca’ them lives o’ men.
When the creel o’ herrin’ passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces.
Caller herrin’s no got lightly; Ye can trip the spring fu’ tightly; Spite o’ tauntin’, flauntin’, flingin’, Gow[3] has set you a’ a-singin’.
Neebour wives, now tent my tellin’ When the bonnie fish ye’re sellin’, At ae word be in your dealin’, Truth will stand when a’ thing’s failin’.
FOOTNOTES
[3] A famous fiddler.
_90. Heavenward_
Would you be young again? So would not I— One tear to memory giv’n, Onward I’d hie. Life’s dark flood forded o’er, All but at rest on shore, Say, would you plunge once more, With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now Retrace your way? Wander through thorny wilds, Faint and astray? Night’s gloomy watches fled, Morning all beaming red, Hope’s smiles around us shed, Heavenward—away.
Where are they gone, of yore My best delight? Dear and more dear, tho’ now Hidden from sight. Where they rejoice to be, There is the land for me; Fly time—fly speedily! Come, life and light.
HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS
1762-1827
_91. Sonnet to Twilight_
Meek Twilight! soften the declining day, And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves; When o’er the mountain slow descends the ray That gives to silence the deserted groves. Ah, let the happy court the morning still, When, in her blooming loveliness array’d, She bids fresh beauty light the vale, or hill, And rapture warble in the vocal shade. Sweet is the odour of the morning’s flower, And rich in melody her accents rise; Yet dearer to my soul the shadowy hour, At which her blossoms close, her music dies— For then, while languid nature droops her head, She wakes the tear ’tis luxury to shed.
_92. Sonnet to Hope_
O ever skill’d to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart; Come, gentle Hope! with one gay smile remove The lasting sadness of an aching heart. Thy voice, benign Enchantress! let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom, That Fancy’s radiance, Friendship’s precious tear, Shall soften, or shall chase, misfortune’s gloom. But come not glowing in the dazzling ray, Which once with dear illusions charm’d my eye, O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die; Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not happiness, but longs for rest!
ANNE M’VICAR GRANT OF LAGGAN
1755-1838
_93. Postscript_
Jean, fetch that heap of tangled yarn, And bring those stockings here to darn, And get from Anne the dairy keys, That I may go and count my cheese; To every useful occupation, Befitting of my place or station, I’ll henceforth dedicate my time, And if again I write in rhyme, ’Twill be a shrewd severe lampoon On country wives who fly to town, And leave their dairy and relations, To curl their hair and follow fashions: Or else an acrimonious satire On matrons who, in spite of Nature, With common useful duties quarrel, To plant in vain the barren laurel.
AMELIA OPIE
1769-1853
_94. A Lament_
There was an eye whose partial glance Could ne’er my numerous failings see; There was an ear that heard untired When others spoke in praise of me.
There was a heart time only taught With warmer love for me to burn; A heart whene’er from home I roved Which fondly pined for my return.
There was a lip which always breathed E’en short farewells in tones of sadness; There was a voice whose eager sound My welcome spoke with heartfelt gladness.
There was a mind whose vigorous power On mine its own effulgence threw, And called my humble talents forth, While thence its dearest joys it drew.
There was a love which for my weal With anxious fears would overflow; Which wept, which pray’d for me, and sought From future ills to guard—But now!—
That eye is closed, and deaf that ear, That lip and voice are mute for ever; And cold that heart of anxious love, Which Death alone from mine could sever:
And lost to me that ardent mind, Which loved my various tasks to see; And oh! of all the praise I gain’d His was the dearest far to me!
Now I unloved, uncheered, _alone_, Life’s weary wilderness must tread, Till He who heals the broken heart In mercy bids me join the dead.
CAROLINE SOUTHEY
1786-1854
_95. To Death_
Come not in terrors clad, to claim An unresisting prey: Come like an evening shadow, Death! So stealthily, so silently! And shut mine eyes, and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, With thee I’ll go away.
What need to clutch with iron grasp What gentlest touch may take? What need with aspect dark to scare, So awfully, so terribly, The weary soul would hardly care, Call’d quietly, call’d tenderly, From thy dread power to break?
’Tis not as when thou markest out The young, the blest, the gay, The loved, the loving—they who dream So happily, so hopefully; Then harsh thy kindest call may seem, And shrinkingly, reluctantly, The summon’d may obey.
But I have drunk enough of life— The cup assign’d to me Dash’d with a little sweet at best, So scantily, so scantily— To know full well that all the rest More bitterly, more bitterly, Drugg’d to the last will be.
And I may live to pain some heart That kindly cares for me: To pain, but not to bless, O Death! Come quietly—come lovingly— And shut mine eyes and steal my breath; Then willingly, O willingly, I’ll go away with thee.
EMMA (HART) WILLARD
1787-1870
_96. Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep_
Rocked in the cradle of the deep I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save. I know Thou wilt not slight my call, For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall; And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
When in the dead of night I lie And gaze upon the trackless sky, The star-bespangled heavenly scroll, The boundless waters as they roll,— I feel Thy wondrous power to save From perils of the stormy wave: Rocked in the cradle of the deep, I calmly rest and soundly sleep.
And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o’er the brine, Or though the tempest’s fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death. In ocean cave, still safe with Thee The germ of immortality! And calm and peaceful shall I sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.
FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS
1793-1835
_97. Night-Blowing Flowers_
Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, To the sweet breathings of the shadowy hours, When dark-blue heavens look softest and most holy, And glow-worm light is in the forest bowers; To solemn things and deep, To spirit-haunted sleep, To thoughts, all purified From earth, ye seem allied, O dedicated flowers!
Ye, from the gaze of crowds your beauty veiling, Keep in dim vestal urns the sweetness shrined; Till the mild moon, on high serenely sailing, Looks on you tenderly and sadly kind. So doth love’s dreaming heart Dwell from the throng apart, And but to shades disclose The inmost thought, which glows With its pure life entwined.
Shut from the sounds wherein the day rejoices, To no triumphant song your petals thrill, But send forth odours with the faint, soft voices Rising from hidden streams, when all is still. So doth lone prayer arise Mingling with secret sighs, When grief unfolds, like you, Her breast, for heavenly dew In silent hours to fill.
_98. Casabianca_
The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he 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 childlike, form.
The flames rolled on—he would not go Without his father’s word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called 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 rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair;
And shouted yet 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 streamed above that 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 strewed the sea!— With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part; But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart.
_99. A Dirge_
Calm on the bosom of thy God, Fair spirit, rest thee now! Ee’n while with us thy footstep trod, His seal was on thy brow.
Dust, to its narrow house beneath! Soul, to its place on high!— They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die.
SARA COLERIDGE
1802-1852
_100. O Sleep, my Babe_
O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, Nor feel the breeze that round thee ling’ring strays To drink thy balmy breath, And sigh one long farewell.
Soon shall it mourn above thy wat’ry bed, And whisper to me, on the wave-beat shore, Deep murm’ring in reproach, Thy sad untimely fate.
Ere those dear eyes had open’d to the light, In vain to plead, thy coming life was sold, O waken’d but to sleep, Whence it can wake no more!
A thousand and a thousand silken leaves The tufted beech unfolds in early spring, All clad in tenderest green, All of the self-same shape;
A thousand infant faces, soft and sweet, Each year sends forth, yet every mother views Her last not least beloved Like its dear self alone.
Its musing mind hath ever yet foreshaped The face to-morrow’s sun shall first reveal, No heart hath e’er conceived What love that face will bring.
O sleep, my babe, nor heed how mourns the gale To part with thy soft locks and fragrant breath, As when it deeply sighs O’er autumn’s latest bloom.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
1806-1861
_101. To George Sand. I. A Desire_
Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man, Self-called George Sand! whose soul, amid the lions Of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance, And answers roar for roar, as spirits can! I would some mild miraculous thunder ran Above the applauded circus, in appliance Of thine own nobler nature’s strength and science, Drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan, From thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place With holier light! that thou to woman’s claim, And man’s, mightst join beside the angel’s grace Of a pure genius sanctified from blame,— Till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace, To kiss upon thy lips a stainless fame.
_102. II. A Recognition_
True genius, but true woman! dost deny Thy woman’s nature with a manly scorn, And break away the gauds and armlets worn By weaker women in captivity? Ah, vain denial! that revolted cry Is sobbed in by a woman’s voice forlorn!— Thy woman’s hair, my sister, all unshorn, Floats back dishevelled strength in agony, Disproving thy man’s name! and while before The world thou burnest in a poet-fire, We see thy woman-heart beat evermore Through the large flame. Beat purer, heart, and higher, Till God unsex thee on the heavenly shore, Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.
_Sonnets from the Portuguese_
_103. i_
I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue, I saw, in gradual vision through my tears, The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years, Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware, So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair, And a voice said in mastery while I strove, ... ‘Guess now who holds thee.’—‘Death,’ I said. But, there, The silver answer rang, ... ‘Not Death, but Love.’
_104. iii_
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another, as they strike athwart Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art A guest for queens to social pageantries, With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine, to ply thy part Of chief musician. What hast _thou_ to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me, A poor, tired, wandering singer, ... singing through The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,— And Death must dig the level where these agree.
_105. vi_
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life, I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forebore, ... Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine, And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
_106. xxii_
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curvèd point,—what bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented? Think. In mounting higher, The angels would press on us, and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay Rather on earth, Belovèd,—where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits, and permit A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.
_107. xxviii_
My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white!— And yet they seem alive and quivering Against my tremulous hands which loose the string And let them drop down on my knee to-night. This said, ... he wished to have me in his sight Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring To come and touch my hand ... a simple thing, Yet I wept for it!—this, ... the paper’s light ... Said, _Dear, I love thee_; and I sank and quailed As if God’s future thundered on my past. This said, _I am thine_—and so its ink has paled With lying at my heart that beat too fast. And this ... O Love, thy words have ill availed, If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!
_108. xliii_
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of every day’s Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
_109. A Musical Instrument_
I
What was he doing, the great god Pan, Down in the reeds by the river? Spreading ruin and scattering ban, Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, And breaking the golden lilies afloat With the dragon-fly on the river.
II
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, From the deep cool bed of the river: The limpid water turbidly ran, And the broken lilies a-dying lay, And the dragon-fly had fled away, Ere he brought it out of the river.
III
High on the shore sate the great god Pan, While turbidly flowed the river; And hacked and hewed as a great god can, With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed To prove it fresh from the river.
IV
He cut it short, did the great god Pan (How tall it stood in the river!), Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, Steadily from the outside ring, And notched the poor dry empty thing In holes, as he sate by the river.
V
‘This is the way,’ laughed the great god Pan (Laughed while he sate by the river), ‘The only way, since gods began To make sweet music, they could succeed.’ Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, He blew in power by the river.
VI
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! Piercing sweet by the river! Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! The sun on the hill forgot to die, And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly Came back to dream on the river.
VII
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, To laugh as he sits by the river, Making a poet out of a man: The true gods sigh for the cost and pain, For the reed which grows nevermore again As a reed with the reeds in the river.
_110. The Cry of the Children_
I
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And _that_ cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.
II
Do you question the young children in the sorrow, Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost. But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosom of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland?
III
They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy. ‘Your old earth’, they say, ‘is very dreary; Our young feet’, they say, ‘are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— Our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children; For the outside earth is cold; And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old.’
IV
‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happen That we die before our time; Little Alice died last year—her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying, “Get up, little Alice! it is day.” If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes: And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime! It is good when it happens’, say the children, ‘That we die before our time.’
V
Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have; They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck you handfuls of the meadow cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, ‘Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine!
VI
‘For oh,’ say the children, ‘we are weary, And we cannot run or leap; If we cared for any meadows, it were merely To drop down in them and sleep. Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, We fall upon our faces, trying to go; And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, The reddest flower would look as pale as snow; For, all day, we drag our burden tiring Through the coal-dark, underground— Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron In the factories, round and round.
VII
‘For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,— Their wind comes in our faces,— Till our hearts turn,—our head, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places; Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling, Turns the long light that drops adown the wall, Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling, All are turning, all the day, and we with all. And all day, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray, “O ye wheels” (breaking out in a mad moaning), “Stop! be silent for to-day!”’
VIII
Aye! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth! Let them touch each other’s hands, in a fresh wreathing Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals: Let them prove their living souls against the notion That they live in you, or under you, O wheels!— Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children’s souls, which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark.
IX
Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers, To look up to Him and pray; So the blessèd One who blesseth all the others, Will bless them another day. They answer, ‘Who is God that He should hear us, While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred? When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. And _we_ hear not (for the wheels in their resounding) Strangers speaking at the door: Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him, Hears our weeping any more?
X
‘Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, And at midnight’s hour of harm, “Our Father,” looking upward in the chamber, We say softly for a charm. We know no other words, except “Our Father”, And we think that, in some pause of angels’ song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold both within His right hand which is strong. “Our Father!” If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild) Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, “Come and rest with Me, My child.”
XI
‘But, no!’ say the children, weeping faster, ‘He is speechless as a stone; And they tell us, of His image is the master Who commands us to work on. Go to!’ say the children,—‘up in Heaven, Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we find. Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving— We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.’ Do you hear the children weeping and disproving, O my brothers, what ye preach? For God’s possible is taught by His world’s loving, And the children doubt of each.
XII
And well may the children weep before you! They are weary ere they run; They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun. They know the grief of man, without its wisdom; They sink in man’s despair, without its calm; Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,— Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly The harvest of its memories cannot reap,— Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. Let them weep! let them weep!
XIII
They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their look is dread to see, For they mind you of their angels in high places, With eyes turned on Deity!— ‘How long,’ they say, ‘how long, O cruel nation, Will you stand, to move the world, on a child’s heart,— Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, And tread onward to your throne amid the mart? Our blood splashes upward, O goldheaper, And your purple shows your path! But the child’s sob in the silence curses deeper Than the strong man in his wrath.’
_111. To Flush, My Dog_
I
Loving friend, the gift of one Who her own true faith has run Through thy lower nature, Be my benediction said With my hand upon thy head, Gentle fellow creature!
II
Like a lady’s ringlets brown, Flow thy silken ears adown Either side demurely Of thy silver-suited breast, Shining out from all the rest Of thy body purely.
III
Darkly brown thy body is, Till the sunshine striking this Alchemize its dullness, When the sleek curls manifold Flash all over into gold, With a burnished fullness.
IV
Underneath my stroking hand, Startled eyes of hazel bland Kindling, growing larger, Up thou leapest with a spring, Full of prank and curveting, Leaping like a charger.
V
Leap! thy broad tail waves a light, Leap! thy slender feet are bright, Canopied in fringes; Leap—those tasselled ears of thine Flicker strangely, fair and fine, Down their golden inches.
VI
Yet, my pretty, sportive friend, Little is’t to such an end That I praise thy rareness! Other dogs may be thy peers Haply in these drooping ears, And this glossy fairness,
VII
But of _thee_ it shall be said, This dog watched beside a bed Day and night unweary,— Watched within a curtained room, Where no sunbeam brake the gloom Round the sick and dreary.
VIII
Roses, gathered for a vase, In that chamber died apace, Beam and breeze resigning; This dog only, waited on Knowing that when light is gone Love remains for shining.
IX
Other dogs in thymy dew Tracked the hares and followed through Sunny moor or meadow; This dog only, crept and crept Next a languid cheek that slept, Sharing in the shadow.
X
Other dogs of loyal cheer Bounded at the whistle clear, Up the woodside hieing; This dog only, watched in reach Of a faintly uttered speech, Or a louder sighing.
XI
And if one or two quick tears Dropped upon his glossy ears, Or a sigh came double,— Up he sprang in eager haste, Fawning, fondling, breathing fast In a tender trouble.
XII
And this dog was satisfied If a pale thin hand would glide Down his dewlaps sloping,— Which he pushed his nose within, After,—platforming his chin On the palm left open.
XIII
This dog, if a friendly voice Call him now to blyther choice Than such chamber-keeping, ‘Come out!’ praying from the door,— Presseth backward as before, Up against me leaping.
XIV
Therefore to this dog will I, Tenderly not scornfully, Render praise and favour: With my hand upon his head, Is my benediction said Therefore, and for ever.
XV
And because he loves me so, Better than his kind will do Often, man or woman, Give I back more love again Than dogs often take of men, Leaning from my Human.
XVI
Blessings on thee, dog of mine, Pretty collars make thee fine, Sugared milk make fat thee! Pleasures wag on in thy tail, Hands of gentle motion fail Nevermore, to pat thee!
XVII
Downy pillow take thy head, Silken coverlid bestead, Sunshine help thy sleeping! No fly’s buzzing wake thee up, No man break thy purple cup, Set for drinking deep in.
XVIII
Whiskered cats arointed flee, Sturdy stoppers keep from thee Cologne distillations; Nuts lie in thy path for stones, And thy feast-day macaroons Turn to daily rations!
XIX
Mock I thee, in wishing weal?— Tears are in my eyes to feel Thou art made so straitly, Blessing needs must straiten too,— Little canst thou joy or do, Thou who lovest _greatly_.
XX
Yet be blessèd to the height Of all good and all delight Pervious to thy nature; Only _loved_ beyond that line, With a love that answers thine, Loving fellow creature.
_112. The Deserted Garden_
I mind me, in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.
The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe’er had struck the spade, The greenest grasses Nature laid, To sanctify her right.
I called the place my wilderness, For no one entered there but I; The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, And passed it ne’ertheless.
The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.
Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar tree.
Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white Well satisfied with dew and light And careless to be seen.
Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all.
Some lady, stately overmuch, Here moving with a silken noise, Has blushed beside them at the voice That likened her to such.
And these, to make a diadem, She often may have plucked and twined, Half-smiling as it came to mind That few would look at _them_.
Oh, little thought that lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose, When buried lay her whiter brows, And silk was changed for shroud!—
Nor thought that gardener (full of scorns For men unlearned and simple phrase), A child would bring it all its praise By creeping through the thorns!
To me upon my low moss seat, Though never a dream the roses sent Of science or love’s compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet,
It did not move my grief to see The trace of human step departed: Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me!
Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken Has childhood ’twixt the sun and sward: We draw the moral afterward— We feel the gladness then,
And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall; A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side.
Nor he nor I did e’er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white; How should I know but roses might Lead lives as glad as mine?
To make my hermit-home complete, I brought clear water from the spring Praised in its own low murmuring, And cresses glossy wet.
And so, I thought, my likeness grew (Without the melancholy tale) To ‘gentle hermit of the dale’, And Angelina too.
For oft I read within my nook Such minstrel stories till the breeze Made sounds poetic in the trees,— And then I shut the book.
If I shut this wherein I write I hear no more the wind athwart Those trees,—nor feel that childish heart, Delighting in delight.
My childhood from my life is parted, My footsteps from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round: anew The garden is deserted.
Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are; No more for me!—myself afar Do sing a sadder verse.
Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay In that child’s-nest so greenly wrought, I laughed unto myself and thought ‘The time will pass away’.
And still I laughed, and did not fear But that, whene’er was past away The childish time, some happier play My womanhood would cheer.
I knew the time would pass away, And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, Dear God, how seldom, if at all, Did I look up to pray!
The time is past;—and now that grows The cypress high among the trees, And I behold white sepulchres As well as the white rose,—
When graver, meeker thoughts are given, And I have learnt to lift my face, Reminded how earth’s greenest place The colour draws from heaven,—
It something saith for earthly pain, But more for Heavenly promise free, That I who was, would shrink to be That happy child again.
_113. Grief_
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless; That only men incredulous of despair, Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death:— Most like a monumental statue set In everlasting watch and moveless woe, Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet; If it could weep, it could arise and go.
HELEN SELINA, LADY DUFFERIN
1807-1867
_114. Lament of the Irish Emigrant_
I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin’ long ago, When first you were my bride; The corn was springin’ fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high— And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark’s loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep listnin’ for the words You never more will speak.
’Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest— For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.
I’m very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends, But, O, they love the better still The few our Father sends! And you were all _I_ had, Mary, My blessin’ and my pride; There’s nothin’ left to care for now Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still went hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arms’ young strength was gone: There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow— I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break, When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there, And you hid it for my sake! I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore— O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can’t reach you more.
I’m biddin’ you a long farewell, My Mary, kind and true! But I’ll not forget you, darling! In the land I’m goin’ to; They say there’s bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there— But I’ll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair.
And often in those grand old woods I’ll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I’ll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side: And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.
THE HON. CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON
1808-1877
_115. I Do Not Love Thee_
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee! And yet when thou art absent I am sad; And envy even the bright blue sky above thee, Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.
I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why, Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me: And often in my solitude I sigh That those I do love are not more like thee!
I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone, I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear) Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear.
I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes, With their deep, bright and most expressive blue, Between me and the midnight heaven arise, Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.
I know I do not love thee! yet, alas! Others will scarcely trust my candid heart; And oft I catch them smiling as they pass, Because they see me gazing where thou art.
CHARLOTTE BRONTË
1816-1855
_116. He Saw My Heart’s Woe_
He saw my heart’s woe, discovered my soul’s anguish, How in fever, in thirst, in atrophy it pined; Knew he could heal, yet looked and let it languish, To its moans spirit-deaf, to its pangs spirit-blind.
But once a year he heard a whisper low and dreary, Appealing for aid, entreating some reply; Only when sick, soul-worn and torture-weary, Breathed I that prayer—heard I that sigh.
He was mute as is the grave, he stood stirless as a tower; At last I looked up, and saw I prayed to stone: I asked help of that which to help had no power, I sought love where love was utterly unknown.
Idolater, I kneeled to an idol cut in rock, I might have slashed my flesh and drawn my heart’s best blood, The Granite God had felt no tenderness, no shock; My Baal had not seen nor heard nor understood.
In dark remorse I rose. I rose in darker shame, Self-condemned I withdrew to an exile from my kind; A solitude I sought where mortal never came, Hoping in its wilds forgetfulness to find.
Now, Heaven, heal the wound which I still deeply feel; Thy glorious hosts look not in scorn on our poor race; Thy King eternal doth no iron judgement deal On suffering worms who seek forgiveness, comfort, grace
He gave our hearts to love, he will not love despise, E’en if the gift be lost, as mine was long ago. He will forgive the fault, will bid the offender rise, Wash out with dews of bliss the fiery brand of woe;
And give a sheltered place beneath the unsullied throne, Whence the soul redeemed may mark Time’s fleeting course around earth; And know its trial overpast, its sufferings gone, And feel the peril past of Death’s immortal birth.
_117. Evening Solace_
The human heart has hidden treasures, In secret kept, in silence sealed; The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, Whose charms were broken if revealed. And days may pass in gay confusion, And nights in rosy riot fly, While, lost in Fame’s or Wealth’s illusion, The memory of the Past may die.
But there are hours of lonely musing, Such as in evening silence come, When, soft as birds their pinions closing, The heart’s best feelings gather home. Then in our souls there seems to languish A tender grief that is not woe, And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish, Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
And feelings, once as strong as passions, Float softly back—a faded dream; Our own sharp griefs and wild sensations, The tale of others’ sufferings seem, Oh! when the heart is freshly bleeding, How longs it for that time to be, When, through the mist of years receding, Its woes but live in reverie!
And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, On evening shade and loneliness; And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, Feel no untold and strange distress— Only a deeper impulse given, By lonely hour and darkened room, To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven Seeking a life and world to come.
_118. Speak of the North!_
Speak of the North! A lonely moor Silent and dark and trackless swells, The waves of some wild streamlet pour Hurriedly through its ferny dells.
Profoundly still the twilight air, Lifeless the landscape; so we deem, Till like a phantom gliding near A stag bends down to drink the stream.
And far away a mountain zone, A cold, white waste of snow-drifts lies, And one star, large and soft and lone, Silently lights the unclouded skies.
EMILY BRONTË
1818-1848
_119. Remembrance_
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last by Time’s all-severing wave?
Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?
Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!
Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world’s tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!
No later light has lightened up my heaven, No second moon has ever shone for me; All my life’s bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life’s bliss is in the grave with thee.
But, when the days of golden dreams had perished, And ev’n Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherished, Strengthened, and fed without the aid of joy.
Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Weaned my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.
And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory’s rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?
_120. The Visionary_
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep: One alone looks out o’er the snow-wreaths deep, Watching every cloud, dreading every breeze That whirls the wildering drift, and bends the groaning trees.
Cheerful is the hearth, soft the matted floor; Not one shivering gust creeps through pane or door; The little lamp burns straight, its rays shoot strong and far: I trim it well, to be the wanderer’s guiding star.
Frown, my haughty sire! chide, my angry dame; Set your slaves to spy; threaten me with shame! But neither sire nor dame, nor prying serfs shall know What angel nightly tracks that waste of frozen snow.
What I love shall come like visitant of air, Safe in secret power from lurking human snare, What loves me, no word of mine shall e’er betray, Though for faith unstained my life must forfeit pay.
Burn, then, little lamp; glimmer straight and clear— Hush! a rustling wing stirs, methinks, the air: He for whom I wait, thus ever comes to me; Strange Power! I trust thy might; trust thou my constancy!
_121. Fall, Leaves, Fall_
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn tree. I shall smile when wreaths of snow Blossom where the rose should grow; I shall sing when night’s decay Ushers in a drearier day.
_122. The Prisoner_
Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wear Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers for short life, eternal liberty.
He comes with Western winds, with evening’s wandering airs, With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars: Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.
Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears: When, if my spirit’s sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.
But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends; The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends. Mute music soothes my breast—unutter’d harmony That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.
Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels; Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found, Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.
O dreadful is the check—intense the agony— When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb—the brain to think again— The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.
Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.
_123. Stanzas to [Branwell Brontë?]_
Well, some may hate, and some may scorn, And some may quite forget thy name; But my sad heart must ever mourn Thy ruined hopes, thy blighted fame! ’Twas thus I thought, an hour ago, Even weeping o’er that wretch’s woe; One word turned back my gushing tears, And lit my altered eye with sneers. Then, ‘Bless the friendly dust’, I said, ‘That hides thy unlamented head! Vain as thou wert, and weak as vain, The slave of Falsehood, Pride, and Pain— My heart has nought akin to thine; Thy soul is powerless over mine.’ But these were thoughts that vanished too; Unwise, unholy, and untrue: Do I despise the timid deer, Because his limbs are fleet with fear? Or, would I mock the wolf’s death-howl, Because his form is gaunt and foul? Or, hear with joy the leveret’s cry, Because it cannot bravely die? No! Then above his memory Let Pity’s heart as tender be; Say, ‘Earth lie lightly on that breast, And, kind Heaven, grant that spirit rest!’
_124. Often Rebuked_
Often rebuked, yet always back returning To those first feelings that were born with me, And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning For idle dreams of things which cannot be:
To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region; Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; And visions rising, legion after legion, Bring the unreal world too strangely near.
I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces, And not in paths of high morality, And not among the half-distinguished faces, The clouded forms of long-past history.
I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading: It vexes me to choose another guide: Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding; Where the wild wind blows on the mountain-side.
What have those lonely mountains worth revealing? More glory and more grief than I can tell: The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.
_125. Last Lines_
No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world’s storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven’s glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life—that in me has rest, As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!
Vain are the thousand creeds That move men’s hearts, unutterably vain, Worthless as withered weeds, Or idle froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.
Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is no room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou—Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.
JULIA WARD HOWE
1819-1911
_126. Battle-Hymn of the Republic_
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: ‘As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on.’
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgement-seat: O, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant my feet! Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
_127. Our Orders_
Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, To deck our girls for gay delight! The crimson flower of battle blooms, And solemn marches fill the night.
Weave but the flag whose bars to-day Drooped heavy o’er our early dead, And homely garments, coarse and grey, For orphans that must earn their bread!
Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet, That poured delight from other lands! Rouse there the dancer’s restless feet: The trumpet leads our warrior bands.
And ye that wage the war of words With mystic fame and subtle power, Go, chatter to the idle birds Or teach the lesson of the hour.
Ye Sibyl Arts, in one stern knot Be all your offices combined! Stand close, while Courage draws the lot, The destiny of human kind.
And if that destiny could fail, The sun should darken in the sky, The eternal bloom of Nature pale, And God, and Truth, and Freedom die!
ANNE BRONTË
1820-1849
_128. If This Be All_
O God! if this indeed be all That Life can show to me; If on my aching brow may fall No freshening dew from Thee;
If with no brighter light than this The lamp of hope may glow, And I may only dream of bliss, And wake to weary woe;
If friendship’s solace must decay, When other joys are gone, And love must keep so far away, While I go wandering on,—
Wandering and toiling without gain, The slave of others’ will, With constant care and frequent pain, Despised, forgotten still;
Grieving to look on vice and sin, Yet powerless to quell The silent current from within, The outward torrent’s swell;
While all the good I would impart, The feelings I would share, Are driven backward to my heart, And turned to wormwood there;
If clouds must ever keep from sight The glories of the Sun, And I must suffer Winter’s blight, Ere Summer is begun:
If Life must be so full of care— Then call me soon to Thee; Or give me strength enough to bear My load of misery!
_129. In Memory of a Happy Day in February_
I was alone, for those I loved Were far away from me; The sun shone on the withered grass, The wind blew fresh and free.
Was it the smile of early spring That made my bosom glow? ’Twas sweet; but neither sun nor wind Could cheer my spirit so.
Was it some feeling of delight, All vague and undefined? No; ’twas a rapture sweet and strong, Expanding in the mind.
Was it a sanguine view of life, And all its transient bliss, A hope of bright prosperity? Oh, no! it was not this.
It was a glimpse of truth divine Unto my spirit given, Illumined by a ray of light That shone direct from heaven.
PHOEBE CARY
1824-1871
_130. One Sweetly Solemn Thought_
One sweetly solemn thought Comes to me o’er and o’er; I am nearer home to-day Than I ever have been before;
Nearer my Father’s house, Where the many mansions be; Nearer the great white throne, Nearer the crystal sea;
Nearer the bound of life, Where we lay our burdens down; Nearer leaving the cross, Nearer gaining the crown!
But lying darkly between, Winding down through the night, Is the silent, unknown stream, That leads at last to the light.
Closer and closer my steps Come to the dread abysm: Closer Death to my lips Presses the awful chrism.
Oh, if my mortal feet Have almost gained the brink; If it be I am nearer home Even to-day than I think;
Father, perfect my trust; Let my spirit feel in death, That her feet are firmly set On the rock of a living faith.
CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
1830-1894
_131. Song_
When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree: Be the green grass above me With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.
_132. Sonnet_
The irresponsive silence of the land, The irresponsive sounding of the sea, Speak both one message of one sense to me:— ‘Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof; so stand Thou too aloof bound with the flawless band Of inner solitude; we bind not thee; But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free? What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?’ And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek, And sometimes I remember days of old When fellowship seemed not so far to seek And all the world and I seemed much less cold, And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold, And hope felt strong and life itself not weak.
_133. Echo_
Come to me in the silence of the night; Come in the speaking silence of a dream; Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright As sunlight on a stream; Come back in tears, O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago!
_134. A Soul_
She stands as pale as Parian statues stand; Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay, And felt her strength above the Roman sway, And felt the aspic writhing in her hand. Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land, For dim beyond it looms the land of day: Her feet are steadfast, all the arduous way That foot-track doth not waver on the sand. She stands there like a beacon through the night, A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is— She stands alone, a wonder deathly-white. She stands there patient nerved with inner might, Indomitable in her feebleness, Her face and will athirst against the light.
_135. Good Friday_
Am I a stone and not a sheep That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy Cross, To number drop by drop Thy Blood’s slow loss, And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly; Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon Which hid their faces in a starless sky, A horror of great darkness at broad noon— I, only I.
Yet give not o’er, But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; Greater than Moses, turn and look once more And smite a rock.
_136. Twice_
I took my heart in my hand (O my love, O my love), I said: Let me fall or stand, Let me live or die, But this once hear me speak— (O my love, O my love)— Yet a woman’s words are weak; You should speak, not I.
You took my heart in your hand With a friendly smile, With a critical eye you scanned, Then set it down, And said: It is still unripe, Better wait awhile; Wait while the skylarks pipe, Till the corn grows brown.
As you set it down it broke— Broke, but I did not wince; I smiled at the speech you spoke, At your judgement that I heard: But I have not often smiled Since then, nor questioned since, Nor cared for corn-flowers wild, Nor sung with the singing bird.
I take my heart in my hand, O my God, O my God, My broken heart in my hand: Thou hast seen, judge Thou. My hope was written on sand, O my God, O my God; Now let Thy judgement stand— Yea, judge me now.
This contemned of a man, This marred one heedless day, This heart take Thou to scan Both within and without: Refine with fire its gold, Purge Thou its dross away— Yea, hold it in Thy hold, Whence none can pluck it out.
I take my heart in my hand— I shall not die, but live— Before Thy face I stand; I, for Thou callest such: All that I have I bring, All that I am I give, Smile Thou and I shall sing, But shall not question much.
_137. Rest_
O earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies, Hushed in and curtained with a blessèd dearth Of all that irked her from the hour of birth; With stillness that is almost Paradise. Darkness more clear than noon-day holdeth her, Silence more musical than any song; Even her very heart has ceased to stir: Until the morning of Eternity Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be; And when she wakes she will not think it long.
_138. Up-hill_
Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.
_139. Remember_
Remember me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more day by day You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Yet if you should forget me for a while And afterwards remember, do not grieve: For if the darkness and corruption leave A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, Better by far you should forget and smile Than that you should remember and be sad.
_140. Bride-Song (From ‘The Prince’s Progress’)_
Too late for love, too late for joy, Too late, too late! You loitered on the road too long, You trifled at the gate: The enchanted dove upon her branch Died without a mate; The enchanted princess in her tower Slept, died, behind the grate; Her heart was starving all this while You made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago, One year ago, Even then you had arrived in time, Though somewhat slow; Then you had known her living face Which now you cannot know: The frozen fountain would have leaped, The buds gone on to blow, The warm south wind would have awaked To melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies? Once she was fair; Meet queen for any kingly king, With gold-dust on her hair. Now these are poppies in her locks, White poppies she must wear; Must wear a veil to shroud her face And the want graven there: Or is the hunger fed at length, Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smile Or with a frown; Her bed seemed never soft to her, Though tossed of down; She little heeded what she wore, Kirtle, or wreath, or gown; We think her white brows often ached Beneath her crown, Till silvery hairs showed in her locks That used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste: Her tones were sweet, And modulated just so much As it was meet: Her heart sat silent through the noise And concourse of the street. There was no hurry in her hands, No hurry in her feet; There was no bliss drew nigh to her, That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday, Wasting upon her bed: But wherefore should you weep to-day That she is dead? Lo, we who love weep not to-day, But crown her royal head. Let be these poppies that we strew, Your roses are too red: Let be these poppies, not for you Cut down and spread.
_141. A Birthday_
My heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart is like an appletree Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit; My heart is like a rainbow shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart is gladder than all these Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves, and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.
_142. Amor Mundi_
‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing, On the west wind blowing along this valley track?’ ‘The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.’
So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.
‘Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?’ ‘Oh, that’s a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt.’
‘Oh, what is that glides quickly where the velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly?’ ‘A scaled and hooded worm.’ ‘Oh, what’s that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?’ ‘Oh, that’s a thin dead body which waits the eternal term.’
‘Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest: This way whereof thou weetest, I fear is hell’s own track.’ ‘Nay, too steep for hill-mounting; nay, too late for cost-counting: This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.’
_143. In Progress_
Ten years ago it seemed impossible That she should ever grow so calm as this, With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well. Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell, Silent with long-unbroken silences, Centred in self yet not unpleased to please, Gravely monotonous like a passing bell. Mindful of drudging daily common things, Patient at pastime, patient at her work, Wearing perhaps but strenuous certainly. Sometimes I fancy we may one day see Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk, And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.
_144. What would I give!_
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through, Instead of this heart of stone ice-cold whatever I do; Hard and cold and small, of all hearts the worst of all.
What would I give for words, if only words would come; But now in its misery my spirit has fallen dumb: Oh, merry friends, go your way, I have never a word to say.
What would I give for tears, not smiles but scalding tears, To wash the black mark clean, and to thaw the frost of years, To wash the stain ingrain, and to make me clean again.
JEAN INGELOW
1820-1897
_145. The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire (1571)_
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, The ringers ran by two, by three; ‘Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best,’ quoth he. ‘Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! Play all your changes, all your swells, Play uppe _The Brides of Enderby_!
Men say it was a stolen tyde— The Lord that sent it, He knows all; But in myne ears doth still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was nought of strange, beside The flights of mews and pewits pied By millions crouch’d on the old sea wall.
I sat and spun within the doore, My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes, The level sun, like ruddy ore, Lay sinking in the barren skies; And dark against day’s golden death She moved where Lindis wandereth, My sonne’s faire wife, Elizabeth.
‘Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!’ calling, Ere the early dews were falling, Farre away I heard her song. ‘Cusha! Cusha!’ all along; Where the reedy Lindis floweth, Floweth, floweth, From the meads where melick groweth Faintly came her milking song,—
‘Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!’ calling, ‘For the dews will soone be falling; Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, From the clovers lift your head; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow. Jetty, to the milking shed.’
If it be long, aye, long ago, When I beginne to think howe long, Againe I hear the Lindis flow, Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; And all the aire, it seemeth mee, Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), That ring the tune of Enderby.
Alle fresh the level pasture lay, And not a shadowe mote be seene, Save where full fyve good miles away The steeple towered from out the greene; And lo! the great bell far and wide Was heard in all the countryside That Saturday at eventide.
The swannerds where their sedges are Moved on in sunset’s golden breath, The shepherde lads I heard afarre, And my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth; Till floating o’er the grassy sea Came down that kyndly message free, _The Brides of Mavis Enderby_.
Then some looked uppe into the sky, And all along where Lindis flows To where the goodly vessels lie, And where the lordly steeple shows. They sayde, ‘And why should this thing be? What danger lowers by land or sea? They ring the tune of Enderby!
‘For evil news from Mablethorpe Of pyrate galleys warping down; For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, They have not spared to wake the towne: But while the west bin red to see, And storms be none, and pyrates flee, Why ring _The Brides of Enderby_?’
I looked without, and lo! my sonne Came riding downe with might and main: He raised a shout as he drew on, Till all the welkin rang again, ‘Elizabeth! Elizabeth!’ (A sweeter woman ne’er drew breath Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.)
‘The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, The rising tide comes on apace, And boats adrift in yonder towne Go sailing uppe the market place! He shook as one that looks on death: ‘God save you, mother!’ straight he saith; ‘Where is my wife, Elizabeth?’
‘Good sonne, where Lindis winds away With her two bairns I marked her long; Arid ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song.’ He looked across the grassy lea, To right, to left, ‘Ho Enderby!’ They rang _The Brides of Enderby_!
With that he cried and beat his breast; For, lo! along the river’s bed A mighty eygre reared his crest, And uppe the Lindis raging sped. It swept with thunderous noises loud; Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, Or like a demon in a shroud.
And rearing Lindis backward pressed Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; Then madly ay the eygre’s breast Flung uppe her weltering walls again. Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout— Then beaten foam flew round about— Then all the mighty floods were out.
So farre, so fast the eygre drave, The heart had hardly time to beat, Before a shallow seething wave Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee, And all the world was in the sea.
Upon the roofe we sat that night, The noise of bells went sweeping by: I marked the lofty beacon light Stream from the church tower, red and high— A lurid mark and dread to see; And awsome bells they were to mee, That in the dark rang _Enderby_.
They rang the sailor lads to guide From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; And I—my sonne was at my side, And yet the ruddy beacon glowed: And yet he moaned beneath his breath, ‘O come in life, or come in death! O lost! my love, Elizabeth.’
And didst thou visit him no more? Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare; The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear. Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! To manye more than myne and me: But each will mourn his own (she saith); And sweeter woman ne’er drew breath Than my sonne’s wife, Elizabeth.
I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore, ‘Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!’ calling, Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song, ‘Cusha! Cusha!’ all along, Where the sunny Lindis floweth, Goeth, floweth; From the meads where melick groweth, When the water winding down Onward floweth to the town.
I shall never see her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver, Shiver, quiver; Stand beside the sobbing river, Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, To the sandy lonesome shore; I shall never hear her calling, ‘Leave your meadow grasses mellow, Mellow, mellow; Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, Hollow, hollow; Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; Lightfoot, Whitefoot, From your clovers lift the head; Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, Jetty, to the milking shed.’
LADY CURRIE (VIOLET FANE)
1843-1905
_146. Forbidden Love_
Oh, love! thou that shelterest some ’Neath thy wings, so white and warm, Wherefore on a bat-like wing All disguisèd didst thou come In so terrible a form? As a dark forbidden thing, As a demon of the air— As a sorrow and a sin, Wherefore cam’st thou thus to me, As a tempter and a snare? When the heart that beats within This, my bosom, warm’d to thee, Was it from a love of sinning, From a fatal love of wrong, From a wish to shun the light? Nay! I swear at the beginning Hadst thou sung an angel’s song,— Had this wrong thing been the right, Thou hadst seem’d as worth the winning, And with will as firm and strong I had lov’d with all my might.
THE HON. EMILY LAWLESS
1845-1913
_147. Fontenoy (1745)_
After the Battle: early dawn, Clare coast
‘_Mary mother, shield us! Say, what men are ye,_ _Sweeping past so swiftly in this morning sea?_’ ‘Without sails or rowlocks merrily we glide Home to Corca Bascuin on the brimming tide.’
‘_Jesus save you, gentry! why are ye so white,_ _Sitting all so straight and still in this misty light?_’ ‘Nothing ails us, brother; joyous souls are we, Sailing home together, on the morning sea.
‘Cousins, friends, and kinsfolk, children of the land, Here we come together, a merry, rousing band; Sailing home together from the last great fight, Home to Clare from Fontenoy, in the morning light.
‘Men of Corca Bascuin, men of Clare’s Brigade, Harken, stony hills of Clare, hear the charge we made; See us come together, singing from the fight, Home to Corca Bascuin, in the morning light.’
FANNY PARNELL
1854-1882
_148. After Death_
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? Or shall the darkness close around them ere the sunblaze break at last upon thy story?
When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a new sweet sister hail thee, Shall these lips be seal’d in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee?
Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises when all men their tribute bring thee? Shall the mouth be clay that sang thee in thy squalor when all poets’ mouths shall sing thee?
Ah! the harpings and the salvoes and the shouting of thy exiled sons returning! I should hear though dead and mouldered, and the grave-damps should not chill my bosom’s burning.
Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them ’mid the shamrocks and the mosses, And my heart would toss within the shroud and quiver as a captive dreamer tosses.
I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, giant sinews I should borrow— Crying, ‘O my brothers, I have also loved her in her loneliness and sorrow!
‘Let me join with you the jubilant procession; let me chant with you her story; Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, now mine eyes have seen her glory!’
MARY ELIZABETH COLERIDGE
1861-1907
_149. A Moment_
The clouds had made a crimson crown About the mountains high. The stormy sun was going down In a stormy sky.
Why did you let your eyes so rest on me, And hold your breath between? In all the ages this can never be As if it had not been.
_150. Gone_
About the little chambers of my heart Friends have been coming—going—many a year. The doors stand open there. Some, lightly stepping, enter; some depart.
Freely they come and freely go, at will. The walls give back their laughter; all day long They fill the house with song. One door alone is shut, one chamber still.
_151. Unwelcome_
We were young, we were merry, we were very very wise, And the door stood open at our feast, When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East.
O still grew the hearts that were beating so fast, The loudest voice was still. The jest died away on our lips as they passed, And the rays of July struck chill.
The cups of red wine turned pale on the board, The white bread black as soot, The hound forgot the hand of her lord, She fell down at his foot.
Now let me lie where the dead dog lies, Ere I sit me down again at a feast, When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East.
AMY LEVY
1861-1889
_152. A London Plane-Tree_
Green is the plane-tree in the square, The other trees are brown; They droop and pine for country air, The plane-tree loves the town.
Here from my garret-pane I mark The plane-tree bud and blow, Shed her recuperative bark, And spread her shade below.
Among her branches, in and out, The city breezes play; The dull fog wraps her round about; Above, the smoke curls grey.
Others the country take for choice, And hold the town in scorn; But she has listen’d to the voice On city breezes borne.
_153. In September_
The sky is silver-grey; the long Slow waves caress the shore. On such a day as this I have been glad, Who shall be glad no more.
_154. In the Nower_
Deep in the grass outstretched I lie, Motionless on the hill; Above me is a cloudless sky, Around me all is still:
There is no breath, no sound, no stir, The drowsy peace to break; I close my tired eyes—it were So simple not to wake.
_155. Cambridge in the Long_
Where drowsy sound of college-chimes Across the air is blown, And drowsy fragrance of the limes, I lie and dream alone.
A dazzling radiance reigns o’er all— O’er gardens densely green, O’er old grey bridges and the small, Slow flood which slides between.
This is the place; it is not strange, But known of old and dear. What went I forth to seek? The change Is mine; why am I here?
Alas, in vain I turned away, I fled the town in vain; The strenuous life of yesterday Calleth me back again.
And was it peace I came to seek? Yet here, where memories throng, Ev’n here, I know the past is weak, I know the present strong.
This drowsy fragrance, silent heat, Suit not my present mind, Whose eager thought goes out to meet The life it left behind.
Spirit with sky to change; such hope, An idle one we know; Unship the oars, make loose the rope, Push off the boat and go....
Ah, would what binds me could have been Thus loosened at a touch! This pain of living is too keen, Of loving, is too much.
_156. New Love, New Life_
I
She, who so long has lain Stone-stiff with folded wings, Within my heart again The brown bird wakes and sings.
Brown nightingale, whose strain Is heard by day, by night, She sings of joy and pain, Of sorrow and delight.
II
’Tis true,—in other days Have I unbarred the door; He knows the walks and ways Love has been here before.
Love blest and love accurst Was here in days long past; This time is not the first, But this time is the last.
_157. London Poets_
They trod the streets and squares where now I tread, With weary hearts, a little while ago; When, thin and grey, the melancholy snow Clung to the leafless branches overhead; Or when the smoke-veil’d sky grew stormy-red In Autumn; with a re-arisen woe Wrestled, what time the passionate spring-winds blow; And paced scorch’d stones in summer. They are dead.
The sorrow of their souls to them did seem As real as mine to me, as permanent. To-day—it is the shadow of a dream, The half-forgotten breath of breezes spent. So shall another soothe his woe supreme— _No more he comes, who this way came and went._
DORA SIGERSON SHORTER
1866-1918
_158. Sixteen Dead Men_
Hark! in the still night. Who goes there? ‘_Fifteen dead men._’ Why do they wait? ‘_Hasten, comrade, death is so fair._’ Now comes their Captain through the dim gate.
Sixteen dead men! What on their sword? ‘_A nation’s honour proud do they bear._’ What on their bent heads? ‘_God’s holy word;_ _All of their nation’s heart blended in prayer._’
Sixteen dead men! What makes their shroud? ‘_All of their nation’s love wraps them around._’ Where do their bodies lie, brave and so proud? ‘_Under the gallows-tree in prison-ground._’
Sixteen dead men! Where do they go? ‘_To join their regiment where Sarsfield leads;_ _Wolfe Tone and Emmet, too, well do they know._ _There shall they bivouac, telling great deeds._’
Sixteen dead men! Shall they return? ‘_Yea, they shall come again, breath of our breath._ _They on our nation’s hearth made old fires burn._ _Guard her unconquered soul, strong in their death._’
_159. Ireland_
’Twas the dream of a God, And the mould of His hand, That you shook ’neath this stroke, That you trembled and broke To this beautiful land.
Here He loosed from His hold A brown tumult of wings, Till the wind on the sea Bore the strange melody Of an island that sings.
He made you all fair, You in purple and gold, You in silver and green, Till no eye that has seen Without love can behold.
I have left you behind In the path of the past, With the white breath of flowers, With the best of God’s hours, I have left you at last.
ALICE MEYNELL
_160. In Manchester Square (In memoriam T. H.)_
The paralytic man has dropped in death The crossing-sweeper’s brush to which he clung, One-handed, twisted, dwarfed, scanted of breath, Although his hair was young.
I saw this year the winter vines of France, Dwarfed, twisted, goblins in the frosty drouth, Gnarled, crippled, blackened little stems askance, On long hills to the South.
Great green and golden hands of leaves ere long Shall proffer clusters in that vineyard wide. And oh! his might, his sweet, his wine, his song, His stature, since he died!
_161. Christ in the Universe_
With this ambiguous earth His dealings have been told us. These abide: The signal to a maid, the human birth, The lesson, and the young Man crucified.
But not a star of all The innumerable host of stars has heard How He administered this terrestrial ball. Our race have kept their Lord’s entrusted Word.
Of His earth-visiting feet None knows the secret, cherished, perilous, The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet, Heart-shattering secret of His way with us.
No planet knows that this Our wayside planet, carrying land and wave, Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss, Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave.
Nor, in our little day, May His devices with the heavens be guessed, His pilgrimage to thread the Milky Way Or His bestowals there be manifest.
But in the eternities, Doubtless we shall compare together, hear A million alien Gospels, in what guise He trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear.
O, be prepared, my soul! To read the inconceivable, to scan The countless forms of God those stars unroll When, in our turn, we show to them a Man.
_162. Renouncement_
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, I shun the thought that lurks in all delight— The thought of thee—and in the blue Heaven’s height, And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throng This breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden tho’ bright; Yet it must never, never come in sight; I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day, When night gives pause to the long watch I keep, And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away,— With the first dream that comes with the first sleep I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.
_163. A Letter from a Girl to Her own Old Age_
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, O time-worn woman, think of her who blesses What thy thin fingers touch, with her caresses.
O mother, for the weight of years that break thee! O daughter, for slow time must yet awake thee, And from the changes of my heart must make thee.
O fainting traveller, morn is grey in heaven. Dost thou remember how the clouds were driven? And are they calm about the fall of even?
Pause near the ending of thy long migration, For this one sudden hour of desolation Appeals to one hour of thy meditation.
Suffer, O silent one, that I remind thee Of the great hills that stormed the sky behind thee, Of the wild winds of power that have resigned thee.
Know that the mournful plain where thou must wander Is but a grey and silent world, but ponder The misty mountains of the morning yonder.
Listen:—the mountain winds with rain were fretting, And sudden gleams the mountain-tops besetting. I cannot let thee fade to death, forgetting.
What part of this wild heart of mine I know not Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not.
Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it.
Oh, in some hour of thine my thoughts shall guide thee. Suddenly, though time, darkness, silence, hide thee, This wind from thy lost country flits beside thee,—
Telling thee: all thy memories moved the maiden, With thy regrets was morning over-shaden, With sorrow, thou hast left, her life was laden.
But whither shall my thoughts turn to pursue thee? Life changes, and the years and days renew thee. Oh, Nature brings my straying heart unto thee;
Her winds will join us, with their constant kisses Upon the evening as the morning tresses, Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses.
And we, so altered in our shifting phases, Track one another ’mid the many mazes By the eternal child-breath of the daisies.
I have not writ this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, A triumph of thy mute and strange declining.
Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded. Only one morning, and the day was clouded. And one old age with all regrets is crowded.
Oh hush, oh hush! Thy tears my words are steeping. Oh hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping? Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping?
Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her. Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter That breaks thy heart; the one who wrote, forget her:
The one who now thy faded features guesses, With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses.
_164. Chimes_
Brief, on a flying night, From the shaken tower, A flock of bells take flight, And go with the hour.
Like birds from the cote to the gales, Abrupt—O hark! A fleet of bells set sails, And go to the dark.
Sudden the cold airs swing. Alone, aloud, A verse of bells takes wing And flies with the cloud.
MARGARET L. WOODS
_165. To the Forgotten Dead_
To the forgotten dead, Come, let us drink in silence ere we part. To every fervent yet resolvèd heart That brought its tameless passion and its tears, Renunciation and laborious years, To lay the deep foundations of our race, To rear its mighty ramparts overhead And light its pinnacles with golden grace. To the unhonoured dead.
To the forgotten dead, What dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein Of Fate and hurl into the void again Her thunder-hoofèd horses, rushing blind Earthward along the courses of the wind. Among the stars along the wind in vain Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed, And nothing, nothing of them doth remain. To the thrice-perished dead.
_166. Genius Loci_
Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on? Since long ago grace-giving Phoebus died, And all the train that loved the stream-bright side Of the poetic mount with him are gone Beyond the shores of Styx and Acheron, In unexplorèd realms of night to hide. The clouds that show their shadows far and wide Are all of Heaven that visits Helicon.
Yet here, where never muse or god did haunt, Still may some nameless power of Nature stray, Pleased with the reedy stream’s continual chant And purple pomp of these broad fields in May. The shepherds meet him where he herds the kine, And careless pass him by whose is the gift divine.
_167. A Ballade of the Night_
Far from the earth the deep-descended day Lies dim in hidden sanctuaries of sleep. The wingèd winds couched on the threshold keep Uneasy watch, and still expectant stay The voice that bids their rushing host delay No more to rise, and with tempestuous power Rend the wide veil of heaven. Long watching they Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour.
Hark! where the forests slow in slumber sway Below the blue wild ridges, steep on steep, Thronging the sky—how shuddering as they leap The impetuous waters go their fated way, And mourn in mountain chasms, and as they stray By many a magic town and marble tower, As those that still unreconciled obey, Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour.
Listen—the quiet darkness doth array The toiling earth, and there is time to weep— A deeper sound is mingled with the sweep Of streams and winds that whisper far away. Oh listen! where the populous cities lay Low in the lap of sleep their ancient dower, The changeless spirit of our changeful clay Sighs in the silence of the midnight hour.
Sigh, watcher for a dawn remote and grey, Mourn, journeyer to an undesirèd deep, Eternal sower, thou that shalt not reap, Immortal, whom the plagues of God devour. Mourn—’tis the hour when thou wert wont to pray. Sigh in the silence of the midnight hour.
ROSE TERRY COOKE
_168. Arachne_
I watch her in the corner there, As, restless, bold, and unafraid, She slips and floats along the air Till all her subtile house is made.
Her home, her bed, her daily food, All from that hidden store she draws; She fashions it and knows it good, By instinct’s strong and sacred laws.
No tenuous threads to weave her nest, She seeks and gathers there or here, But spins it from her faithful breast, Renewing still, till leaves are sere.
Then, worn with toil and tired of life, In vain her shining traps are set. The frost hath hushed the insect strife And gilded flies her charm forget.
But swinging in the snares she spins, She sways to every wintry wind: Her joy, her toil, her errand done, Her corse the sport of storms unkind.
Poor sister of the spinster clan, I too from out my store within My daily life and living plan, My home, my rest, my pleasure spin.
I know thy heart when heartless hands Sweep all that hard-earned web away, Destroy its pearled and glittering bands, And leave thee homeless by the way.
I know thy peace when all is done, Each anchored thread, each tiny knot, Soft shining in the autumn sun; A sheltered, silent, tranquil lot.
I know what thou hast never known,— Sad presage to a soul allowed— That not for life I spin, alone, But day by day I spin my shroud.
VIOLET JACOB
_169. Tam i’ the Kirk_
O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca’s the congregation Owre valley an’ hill wi’ the ding frae its iron mou’, When a’ body’s thochts is set on his ain salvation, Mine’s set on you.
There’s a reid rose lies on the Buik o’ the Word afore ye That was growin’ braw on its bush at the keek o’ day, But the lad that pu’d yon flower i’ the mornin’s glory, He canna pray.
He canna pray; but there’s nane i’ the kirk will heed him Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o’ the wa’, For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie’d him— It an’ us twa!
He canna sing for the sang that his ain he’rt raises, He canna see for the mist that’s afore his een, An’ a voice drouns the hale o’ the psalms an’ the paraphrases, Cryin’ ‘Jean, Jean, Jean!’
ANNA BUNSTON DE BARY
_170. The Snowdrop_
Close to the sod There can be seen A thought of God In white and green.
Unmarred, unsoiled It cleft the clay, Serene, unspoiled It views the day.
It is so holy And yet so lowly. Would you enjoy Its grace and dower And not destroy The living flower? Then you must, please, Fall on your knees.
MOIRA O’NEILL
_171. The Rachray Man_
Och, what was it got me at all that time To promise I’d marry a Rachray man? An’ now he’ll not listen to rason or rhyme, He’s striving to hurry me all that he can. ‘Come on, an’ ye _be_ to come on!’ say he, ‘Ye’re bound for the Island to live wi’ me.’
See Rachray Island beyont in the bay, And the dear knows what they be doin’ out there But fishin’ and fightin’ and tearin’ away, An’ who’s to hinder, an’ what do they care? The goodness can tell what ’ud happen to me When Rachray ’ud have me, _anee, anee_!
I might have took Pether from over the hill, A dacent poacher, the kind, poor boy: Could I keep the ould places about me still I’d never set foot out of sweet Ballyvoy. My sorra on Rachray, the could sea-caves, An’ blackneck divers, an’ weary ould waves!
I’ll never win back now, whatever may fall, So give me good luck, for ye’ll see me no more; Sure an Island man is the mischief an’ all— An’ me that was never married before! Oh think o’ my fate when ye dance at a fair, In Rachray, there’s no Christianity there.
_172. The Grand Match_
Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young, High was his step in the jig that he sprung, _He_ had the looks an’ the sootherin’ tongue— An’ he wanted a girl wid a fortune.
Nannie was grey-eyed an’ Nannie was tall, Fair was the face hid inunder her shawl, Troth! an’ he liked her the best o’ them all— But she’d not a _traneen_ to her fortune.
He be to look out for a likelier match, So he married a girl that was counted a catch, An’ as ugly as need be, the dark little patch— But that was a trifle, he told her.
She brought him her good-lookin’ gold to admire, She brought him her good-lookin’ cows to his byre, But far from good-lookin’ she sat by his fire— An’ paid him that ‘thrifle’ he tould her.
He met pretty Nan when a month had gone by, An’ he thought, like a fool, to get round her he’d try; Wid a smile on her lip an’ a spark in her eye, She said, ‘How is the woman that owns ye?’
Och, never be tellin’ the life that he’s led! Sure, many’s the night that he’ll wish himself dead, For the sake of two eyes in a pretty girl’s head,— An’ the tongue of the woman that owns him.
FRANCES CORNFORD
_173. Autumn Evening_
The shadows flickering, the daylight dying, And I upon the old red sofa lying, The great brown shadows leaping up the wall, The sparrows twittering; and that is all.
I thought to send my soul to far-off lands, Where fairies scamper on the windy sands, Or where the autumn rain comes drumming down On huddled roofs in an enchanted town.
But O, my sleepy soul, it will not roam, It is too happy and too warm at home: With just the shadows leaping up the wall, The sparrows twittering; and that is all.
_174. Autumn Morning at Cambridge_
I ran out in the morning, when the air was clean and new, And all the grass was glittering and grey with autumn dew, I ran out to the apple tree and pulled an apple down, And all the bells were ringing in the old grey town. Down in the town, off the bridges and the grass They are sweeping up the leaves to let the people pass, Sweeping up the old leaves, golden-reds and browns, While the men go to lecture with the wind in their gowns
_175. The Watch_
I wakened on my hot, hard bed; Upon the pillow lay my head; Beneath the pillow I could hear My little watch was ticking clear. I thought the throbbing of it went Like my continual discontent, I thought it said in every tick: I am so sick, so sick, so sick; O death, come quick, come quick, come quick, Come quick, come quick, come quick, come quick.
EVA GORE-BOOTH
_176. The Little Waves of Breffny_
The grand road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, And there is traffic in it, and many a horse and cart; But the little roads of Cloonagh are dearer far to me, And the little roads of Cloonagh go rambling through my heart.
A great storm from the ocean goes shouting o’er the hill, And there is glory in it and terror on the wind; But the haunted air of twilight is very strange and still, And the little winds of twilight are dearer to my mind.
The great waves of the Atlantic sweep storming on their way, Shining green and silver with the hidden herring shoal; But the little waves of Breffny have drenched my heart in spray, And the little waves of Breffny go stumbling through my soul.
KATHARINE TYNAN HINKSON
_177. Sheep and Lambs_
All in the April morning, April airs were abroad, The sheep with their little lambs Pass’d me by on the road.
The sheep with their little lambs Pass’d me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of God.
The lambs were weary and crying With a weak human cry, I thought on the Lamb of God Going meekly to die.
Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.
Rest for the Lamb of God Up on the hill-top green, Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.
All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of God.
ROSE MACAULAY
_178. The Devourers_
Cambridge town is a beleaguered city; For south and north, like a sea, There beats on its gates, without haste or pity, The downs and the fen country.
Cambridge towers, so old, so wise, They were builded but yesterday, Watched by sleepy gray secret eyes That smiled as at children’s play.
Roads south of Cambridge run into the waste, Where learning and lamps are not, And the pale downs tumble, blind, chalk-faced, And the brooding churches squat.
Roads north of Cambridge march through a plain Level like the traitor sea. It will swallow its ships, and turn and smile again, The insatiable fen country.
Lest the downs and the fens should eat Cambridge up, And its towers be tossed and thrown, And its rich wine drunk from its broken cup, And its beauty no more known—
Let us come, you and I, where the roads run blind, But beyond the transient city, That our love, mingling with earth, may find Her imperishable heart of pity.
SYLVIA LYND
_179. Hunting Song_
The hunt is up! the hunt is up! It sounds from hill to hill, It pierces to the hidden place Where we are lying still; And one of us the quarry is, And one of us must go, When through the arches of the wood We hear the dread horn blow.
A huntsman bold is Master Death, And reckless doth he ride, And terror’s hounds with bleeding fangs Go baying at his side; And will it be a milk-white doe, A little dappled fawn, Or will it be an antlered stag Must face the icy dawn?
Or will it be a golden fox Must leap from out his lair, Or where the trailing shadows pass A merry romping hare? The hunt is up, the horn is loud By plain and covert side, And we must run alone, alone, When Death abroad doth ride.
But idle ’tis to crouch in fear, Since death will find you out; Then up and hold your head erect, And pace the wood about, And swim the stream, and leap the wall, And race the starry mead, Nor feel the bright teeth in your flank Till they be there indeed.
For in the secret hearts of men Are peace and joy at one. There is a pleasant land where stalks No darkness in the sun, And through the arches of the wood Do break, like silver foam, Young laughter, and the noise of flutes, And voices singing home.
INDEX OF AUTHORS
The figures refer to the numbers of the poems
Anonymous, 10.
Askewe, Anne, 1.
Baillie, Lady Grisel, 48, 49.
Baillie, Joanna, 81-84.
Barbauld, Anna Laetitia, 74, 75.
Barnard, Lady Anne (Lindsay), 79.
Behn, Aphra, 20-24.
Blamire, Susanna, 77.
Bradstreet, Anne, 7, 8.
Brontë, Anne, 128, 129.
Brontë, Charlotte, 116-118.
Brontë, Emily, 119-125.
Brooke, Frances, 76.
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 101-113.
Carew, Lady Elizabeth, 4.
Carter, Elizabeth, 65.
Cary, Phoebe, 130.
Chudleigh, Mary, Lady, 38, 39.
Cockburn, Alison, 61.
Cockburn, Catharine, 55.
Coleridge, Mary Elizabeth, 149-151.
Coleridge, Sara, 100.
Collins, Ann, 11, 12.
Cooke, Rose Terry, 168.
Cornford, Frances, 173-175.
Currie, Lady (_Violet Fane_), 146.
De Bary, Anna Bunston, 170.
Dufferin, Helen Selina, Marchioness of, 114.
Elizabeth, Queen, 2, 3.
Elliot, Jane, 70.
_Ephelia_, 25-31.
Fanshawe, Catherine M., 85.
Gore-Booth, Eva, 176.
Grahame, Jenny, 71.
Grant, Anne, of Laggan, 93.
Greville, Fanny, 59.
Hemans, Felicia Dorothea, 97-99.
Hinkson, Katharine Tynan, 177.
Howe, Julia Ward, 126, 127.
Hunter, Annie, 73.
Ingelow, Jean, 145.
Jacob, Violet, 169.
Jones, Mary, 69.
Killigrew, Anne, 34-36.
Lamb, Mary, 86.
Lawless, Hon. Emily, 147.
Leapor, Mary, 66-68.
Levy, Amy, 152-157.
Lynd, Sylvia, 179.
Macaulay, Rose, 178.
Madan, Judith, 64.
Masters, Mary, 62, 63.
Meynell, Alice, 160-164.
Mollineux, Mary, 32, 33.
Monk, Hon. Mary, 50-52.
Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley, 56-58.
Nairne, Caroline, Lady, 87-90.
Newcastle, Margaret, Duchess of, 9.
Norton, Hon. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah, 115.
O’Neill, Henrietta, Lady, 80.
O’Neill, Moira, 171, 172.
Opie, Amelia, 94.
Oxlie, Mary, of Morpet, 5.
Pagan, Isobel, 72.
Parnell, Fanny, 148.
Philips, Katherine (_Orinda_), 13-17.
Pilkington, Laetitia, 60.
Rossetti, Christina, 131-144.
Rowe, Elizabeth (Singer), 53, 54.
Shorter, Dora (Sigerson), 158, 159.
Smith, Charlotte, 78.
Southey, Caroline, 95.
Taylor, Mrs., 37.
Wharton, Anne, Marchioness of, 18, 19.
Willard, Emma (Hart), 96.
Williams, Helen Maria, 91, 92.
Winchilsea, Anne, Countess of, 40-47.
Woods, Margaret L., 165-167.
Wroth, Lady Mary, 6.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A child’s a plaything for an hour, 86
A constancy in love I’ll prise, 21
A thousand martyrs I have made, 24
About the little chambers of my heart, 150
Ah, gaze not on those eyes! forbear, 55
Alas, how hard a thing, 33
Alas! my son, you little know, 71
All in the April morning, 177
Am I a stone, and not a sheep, 135
And ye shall walk in silk attire, 77
Behold, ambitious lump of clay refined, 32
Best of thy sex! if sacred friendship can, 30
Brief, on a flying night, 164
Ca’ the yowes to the knowes, 72
Calm on the bosom of thy God, 99
Cambridge town is a beleaguered city, 178
Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain, 22
Children of night! unfolding meekly, slowly, 97
Christ was the Word that spake it, 3
Close to the sod, 170
Cold in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, 119
Come not in terrors clad, to claim, 95
Come to me in the silence of the night, 133
Cou’d our first father, at his toilsome plough, 44
Death is a leveller; beauty and kings, 14
Deep in the grass outstretched I lie, 154
Dennis was hearty when Dennis was young, 172
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, 110
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?, 138
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away, 121
Far from the earth the deep-descended day, 167
Farewell, ungrateful man, sail to some land, 28
Flowers to the Fair! to you these flowers I bring, 74
Forbear, bold youth, all’s Heaven here, 16
Forgo the charming Muses! No, in spite, 54
Give me there (since Heaven has shown, 43
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand, 105
Green is the plane-tree in the square, 152
Hark! in the still night. Who goes there?, 158
He saw my heart’s woe, discovered my soul’s anguish, 116
Her mouth, which a smile, 76
Here sleeps the Queen; this is the royal bed, 8
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways, 108
How hardly I conceal’d my tears!, 19
How much of paper’s spoil’d! what floods of ink!, 69
How strongly does my passion flow, 23
I ask no kind return in Love, 59
I did not live until this time, 13
I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!, 115
I mind me, in the days departed, 112
I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong, 162
I never rested on the Muses’ bed, 5
I ran out in the morning, when the air was clean and new, 174
I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless, 113
I thought once how Theocritus had sung, 103
I took my heart in my hand, 136
I wakened on my hot, hard bed, 175
I was alone, for those I loved, 129
I watch her in the corner there, 168
If trifling Hope has any room to plead, 67
I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, 114
I’m wearin’ awa’, John, 87
In such a night, when every louder wind, 42
In two large columns on thy motley page, 56
Is it to me, this sad lamenting strain?, 57
I’ve heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking, 70
I’ve seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling, 61
Jean, fetch that heap of tangled yarn, 93
Life! I know not what thou art, 75
Listen, and when thy hand this paper presses, 163
Lost in despair, distracted and forlorn, 53
Love, a child, is ever crying, 6
Love in fantastic triumph sat, 20
Loving friend, the gift of one, 111
Lyke as the armed knyght, 1
‘Mary mother, shield us! Say, what men are ye, 147
Meek Twilight! soften the declining day, 91
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, 126
My heart is like a singing bird, 141
My letters! all dead paper, ... mute and white!, 107
My Lord, my Saviour, and my God, 60
My mother bids me bind my hair, 73
My songs th’ attentive nymphs with pleasure hear, 63
Next heaven, my vows to thee, O sacred Muse!, 35
No coward soul is mine, 125
Now in thy dazzled, half-oped eye, 81
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes, 137
O ever skill’d to wear the form we love, 92
O God! if this indeed be all, 128
O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca’s the congregation, 169
O King of Terrors, whose unbounded sway, 47
O Love, how thou art tired out with rhyme!, 9
O sleep, my babe, hear not the rippling wave, 100
O thou, who labour’st in this rugged mine, 64
Observe the weary birds ere night be done, 15
Och, what was it got me at all that time, 171
O’er this marble drop a tear, 51
Of all companions I would choose to shun, 68
Often rebuked, yet always back returning, 124
Oh cruel Fate, when wilt thou weary be?, 31
Oh, love! thou that shelterest some, 146
Oh, the auld house, the auld house!, 88
‘Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing, 142
One sweetly solemn thought, 130
Peace, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on?, 166
Press gently on him, earth, and all around, 50
Remember me when I am gone away, 139
Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 96
Search but those strains, you think so much excel, 62
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country?, 148
She stands as pale as Parian statues stand, 134
She, who so long has lain, 156
Silent is the house: all are laid asleep, 120
Speak of the North! A lonely moor, 118
Still let my tyrants know, I am not doom’d to wear, 122
Strephon hath fashion, wit, and youth, 37
Strephon I saw, and started at the sight, 25
Strephon, whose person ev’ry grace, 45
Such is the force of each created thing, 12
Sweet age of blest delusion! blooming boys, 80
Ten years ago it seemed impossible, 143
The boy stood on the burning deck, 98
The chough and crow to roost are gone, 84
The clouds had made a crimson crown, 149
The doubt of future foes, exiles my present joy, 2
The ewe-buchtin’s bonnie, baith e’enin’ and morn, 49
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove, 78
The gowan glitters on the sward, 83
The grand old road from the mountain goes shining to the sea, 176
The human heart has hidden treasures, 117
The hunt is up! the hunt is up!, 179
The irresponsive silence of the land, 132
The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, 145
The paralytic man has dropped in death, 160
The shadows flickering, the daylight dying, 173
The sky is silver-grey; the long, 153
The Winter being over, 11
There ance was a may, and she lo’ed na men, 48
There was an eye, whose partial glance, 94
They trod the streets and squares where now I tread, 157
This book by any yet unread, 7
Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man, 101
Thou who dost all my worldly thoughts employ, 52
Though Fortune have so far from me removed, 29
Though infant years no pompous honours claim, 65
’Tis not enough for one that is a wife, 4
To the forgotten dead, 165
Too late for love, too late for joy, 140
Trail all your pikes, dispirit every drum, 40
True genius, but true woman! dost deny, 102
Twice forty months of wedlock I did stay, 17
’Twas in heaven pronounced—it was mutter’d in hell, 85
’Twas the dream of a God, 159
Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!, 104
Wanton drole, whose harmless play, 82
We are Diana’s virgin train, 34
We were young, we were merry, we were very very wise, 151
Weary, at last, of the Pindarick way, 46
Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, 127
Welcome, dear wanderer, once more!, 66
Well, some may hate, and some may scorn, 123
Wha’ll buy my caller herrin’?, 89
What was he doing, the great god Pan, 109
What would I give for a heart of flesh to warm me through, 144
When all alone in some belov’d retreat, 38
When from the world I shall be ta’en, 10
When I am dead, few friends attend my hearse, 36
When I am dead, my dearest, 131
When our two souls stand up erect and strong, 106
When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, 79
When the tempestuous sea did foam and roar, 18
When to the Under-world despis’d he goes, 41
Where drowsy sound of college-chimes, 155
Why, Damon, why, why, why so pressing?, 39
Why do I love? go ask the glorious sun, 27
With this ambiguous earth, 161
Would you be young again?, 90
You little know the heart that you advise, 58
You wrong me, Strephon, when you say, 26
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