Chapter 5

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding; Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, God knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; But all that do with gode men wed full quickylye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

NORSE LULLABY

The sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night, And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;" He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: "Sleep, little one, sleep."

On yonder mountain-side a vine Clings at the foot of a mother pine; The tree bends over the trembling thing, And only the vine can hear her sing: "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; What shall you fear when I am here? Sleep, little one, sleep."

The king may sing in his bitter flight, The tree may croon to the vine to-night, But the little snowflake at my breast Liketh the song _I_ sing the best,-- Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; Weary thou art, anext my heart Sleep, little one, sleep.

BERANGER'S "MY LAST SONG PERHAPS" [JANUARY, 1814]

When, to despoil my native France, With flaming torch and cruel sword And boisterous drums her foeman comes, I curse him and his vandal horde! Yet, what avail accrues to her, If we assume the garb of woe? Let's merry be,--in laughter we May rescue somewhat from the foe!

Ah, many a brave man trembles now. I (coward!) show no sign of fear; When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends, I drown my panic in his cheer. Come, gather round my humble board, And let the sparkling wassail flow,-- Chuckling to think, the while you drink, "This much we rescue from the foe!"

My creditors beset me so And so environed my abode, That I agreed, despite my need, To settle up the debts I owed; When suddenly there came the news Of this invasion, as you know; I'll pay no score; pray, lend me more,-- I--_I_ will keep it from the foe!

Now here's my mistress,--pretty dear!-- Feigns terror at this martial noise, And yet, methinks, the artful minx Would like to meet those soldier boys! I tell her that they're coarse and rude, Yet feel she don't believe 'em so,-- Well, never mind; so she be kind, That much I rescue from the foe!

If, brothers, hope shall have in store For us and ours no friendly glance, Let's rather die than raise a cry Of welcome to the foes of France! But, like the swan that dying sings, Let us, O Frenchmen, singing go,-- Then shall our cheer, when death is near, Be so much rescued from the foe!

MR. DANA, OF THE NEW YORK SUN

Thar showed up out'n Denver in the spring uv '81 A man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun. His name wuz Cantell Whoppers, 'nd he wuz a sight ter view Ez he walked inter the orfice 'nd inquired fer work ter do. Thar warn't no places vacant then,--fer be it understood, That wuz the time when talent flourished at that altitood; But thar the stranger lingered, tellin' Raymond 'nd the rest Uv what perdigious wonders he could do when at his best, Till finally he stated (quite by chance) that he hed done A heap uv work with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

Wall, that wuz quite another thing; we owned that ary cuss Who'd worked f'r Mr. Dana _must_ be good enough fer _us_! And so we tuk the stranger's word 'nd nipped him while we could, For if _we didn't_ take him we knew John Arkins _would_; And Cooper, too, wuz mouzin' round fer enterprise 'nd brains, Whenever them commodities blew in across the plains. At any rate we nailed him, which made ol' Cooper swear And Arkins tear out handfuls uv his copious curly hair; But _we_ set back and cackled, 'nd bed a power uv fun With our man who'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

It made our eyes hang on our cheeks 'nd lower jaws ter drop, Ter hear that feller tellin' how ol' Dana run his shop: It seems that Dana wuz the biggest man you ever saw,-- He lived on human bein's, 'nd preferred to eat 'em raw! If he hed Democratic drugs ter take, before he took 'em, As good old allopathic laws prescribe, he allus shook 'em. The man that could set down 'nd write like Dany never grew, And the sum of human knowledge wuzn't half what Dana knew; The consequence appeared to be that nearly every one Concurred with Mr. Dana of the Noo York Sun.

This feller, Cantell Whoppers, never brought an item in,-- He spent his time at Perrin's shakin' poker dice f'r gin. Whatever the assignment, he wuz allus sure to shirk, He wuz very long on likker and all-fired short on work! If any other cuss had played the tricks he dared ter play, The daisies would be bloomin' over his remains to-day; But somehow folks respected him and stood him to the last, Considerin' his superior connections in the past. So, when he bilked at poker, not a sucker drew a gun On the man who 'd worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun.

Wall, Dana came ter Denver in the fall uv '83. A very different party from the man we thought ter see,-- A nice 'nd clean old gentleman, so dignerfied 'nd calm, You bet yer life he never did no human bein' harm! A certain hearty manner 'nd a fulness uv the vest Betokened that his sperrits 'nd his victuals wuz the best; His face wuz so benevolent, his smile so sweet 'nd kind, That they seemed to be the reflex uv an honest, healthy mind; And God had set upon his head a crown uv silver hair In promise uv the golden crown He meaneth him to wear. So, uv us boys that met him out'n Denver, there wuz none But fell in love with Dana uv the Noo York Sun.

But when he came to Denver in that fall uv '83, His old friend Cantell Whoppers disappeared upon a spree; The very thought uv seein' Dana worked upon him so (They hadn't been together fer a year or two, you know), That he borrered all the stuff he could and started on a bat, And, strange as it may seem, we didn't see him after that. So, when ol' Dana hove in sight, we couldn't understand Why he didn't seem to notice that his crony wa'n't on hand; No casual allusion, not a question, no, not one, For the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun!"

We broke it gently to him, but he didn't seem surprised, Thar wuz no big burst uv passion as we fellers had surmised. He said that Whoppers wuz a man he 'd never heerd about, But he mought have carried papers on a Jarsey City route; And then he recollected hearin' Mr. Laffan say That he'd fired a man named Whoppers fur bein' drunk one day, Which, with more likker _underneath_ than money _in_ his vest, Had started on a freight-train fur the great 'nd boundin' West, But further information or statistics he had none Uv the man who'd "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."

We dropped the matter quietly 'nd never made no fuss,-- When we get played for suckers, why, that's a horse on us!-- But every now 'nd then we Denver fellers have to laff To hear some other paper boast uv havin' on its staff A man who's "worked with Dana," 'nd then we fellers wink And pull our hats down on our eyes 'nd set around 'nd think. It seems like Dana couldn't be as smart as people say, If he educates so many folks 'nd lets 'em get away; And, as for us, in future we'll be very apt to shun The man who "worked with Dana on the Noo York Sun."

But bless ye, Mr. Dana! may you live a thousan' years, To sort o' keep things lively in this vale of human tears; An' may _I_ live a thousan', too,--a thousan' less a day, For I shouldn't like to be on earth to hear you'd passed away. And when it comes your time to go you'll need no Latin chaff Nor biographic data put in your epitaph; But one straight line of English and of truth will let folks know The homage 'nd the gratitude 'nd reverence they owe; You'll need no epitaph but this: "Here sleeps the man who run That best 'nd brightest paper, the Noo York Sun."

SICILIAN LULLABY

Hush, little one, and fold your hands; The sun hath set, the moon is high; The sea is singing to the sands, And wakeful posies are beguiled By many a fairy lullaby: Hush, little child, my little child!

Dream, little one, and in your dreams Float upward from this lowly place,-- Float out on mellow, misty streams To lands where bideth Mary mild, And let her kiss thy little face, You little child, my little child!

Sleep, little one, and take thy rest, With angels bending over thee,-- Sleep sweetly on that Father's breast Whom our dear Christ hath reconciled; But stay not there,--come back to me, O little child, my little child!

HORACE TO PYRRHA

What perfumed, posie-dizened sirrah, With smiles for diet, Clasps you, O fair but faithless Pyrrha, On the quiet? For whom do you bind up your tresses, As spun-gold yellow,-- Meshes that go, with your caresses, To snare a fellow?

How will he rail at fate capricious, And curse you duly! Yet now he deems your wiles delicious, _You_ perfect, truly! Pyrrha, your love's a treacherous ocean; He'll soon fall in there! Then shall I gloat on his commotion, For _I_ have been there!

THE TWENTY-THIRD PSALM

My Shepherd is the Lord my God,-- There is no want I know; His flock He leads in verdant meads, Where tranquil waters flow.

He doth restore my fainting soul With His divine caress, And, when I stray, He points the way To paths of righteousness.

Yea, though I walk the vale of death, What evil shall I fear? Thy staff and rod are mine, O God, And Thou, my Shepherd, near!

Mine enemies behold the feast Which my dear Lord hath spread; And, lo! my cup He filleth up, With oil anoints my head!

Goodness and mercy shall be mine Unto my dying day; Then will I bide at His dear side Forever and for aye!

THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE

The women-folk are like to books,-- Most pleasing to the eye, Whereon if anybody looks He feels disposed to buy.

I hear that many are for sale,-- Those that record no dates, And such editions as regale The view with colored plates.

Of every quality and grade And size they may be found,-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound.

Now, as for me, had I my choice, I'd choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal,--

As plump and pudgy as a snipe; Well worth her weight in gold; Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And _just_ the size to hold!

With such a volume for my wife How should I keep and con! How like a dream should run my life Unto its colophon!

Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health, she would not care To extra-illustrate.

And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a _jeu d'esprit_,-- But nothing ever worse!

Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse when to verse inclined,-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind.

Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine!

With such a fair unique as this What happiness abounds! Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes!

CHRISTMAS HYMN

Sing, Christmas bells! Say to the earth this is the morn Whereon our Saviour-King is born; Sing to all men,--the bond, the free, The rich, the poor, the high, the low, The little child that sports in glee, The aged folk that tottering go,-- Proclaim the morn That Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!

Sing, angel host! Sing of the star that God has placed Above the manger in the east; Sing of the glories of the night, The virgin's sweet humility, The Babe with kingly robes bedight, Sing to all men where'er they be This Christmas morn; For Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!

Sing, sons of earth! O ransomed seed of Adam, sing! God liveth, and we have a king! The curse is gone, the bond are free,-- By Bethlehem's star that brightly beamed, By all the heavenly signs that be, We know that Israel is redeemed; That on this morn The Christ is born That saveth you and saveth me!

Sing, O my heart! Sing thou in rapture this dear morn Whereon the blessed Prince is born! And as thy songs shall be of love, So let my deeds be charity,-- By the dear Lord that reigns above, By Him that died upon the tree, By this fair morn Whereon is born The Christ that saveth all and me!

JAPANESE LULLABY

Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,-- Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes; Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging-- Swinging the nest where her little one lies.

Away out yonder I see a star,-- Silvery star with a tinkling song; To the soft dew falling I hear it calling-- Calling and tinkling the night along.

In through the window a moonbeam comes,-- Little gold moonbeam with misty wings; All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping-- Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"

Up from the sea there floats the sob Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore, As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning-- Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.

But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,-- Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes; Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging-- Swinging the nest where my darling lies.

"GOOD-BY--GOD BLESS YOU!"

I like the Anglo-Saxon speech With its direct revealings; It takes a hold, and seems to reach 'Way down into your feelings; That some folk deem it rude, I know, And therefore they abuse it; But I have never found it so,-- Before all else I choose it. I don't object that men should air The Gallic they have paid for, With "Au revoir," "Adieu, ma chere," For that's what French was made for. But when a crony takes your hand At parting, to address you, He drops all foreign lingo and He says, "Good-by--God bless you!"

This seems to me a sacred phrase, With reverence impassioned,-- A thing come down from righteous days, Quaintly but nobly fashioned; It well becomes an honest face, A voice that's round and cheerful; It stays the sturdy in his place, And soothes the weak and fearful. Into the porches of the ears It steals with subtle unction, And in your heart of hearts appears To work its gracious function; And all day long with pleasing song It lingers to caress you,-- I'm sure no human heart goes wrong That's told "Good-by--God bless you!"

I love the words,--perhaps because, When I was leaving Mother, Standing at last in solemn pause We looked at one another, And I--I saw in Mother's eyes The love she could not tell me,-- A love eternal as the skies, Whatever fate befell me; She put her arms about my neck And soothed the pain of leaving, And though her heart was like to break, She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye, For fear _that_ might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by, And asked our God to bless me.

HORACE TO PHYLLIS

Come, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine That fairly reeks with precious juices, And in your tresses you shall twine The loveliest flowers this vale produces.

My cottage wears a gracious smile,-- The altar, decked in floral glory, Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while As though it pined for honors gory.

Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,-- The boys agog, the maidens snickering; And savory smells possess the air As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.

You ask what means this grand display, This festive throng, and goodly diet? Well, since you're bound to have your way, I don't mind telling, on the quiet.

'Tis April 13, as you know,-- A day and month devote to Venus, Whereon was born, some years ago, My very worthy friend Maecenas.

Nay, pay no heed to Telephus,-- Your friends agree he doesn't love you; The way he flirts convinces us He really is not worthy of you!

Aurora's son, unhappy lad! You know the fate that overtook him? And Pegasus a rider had-- I say he _had_ before he shook him!

Haec docet (as you must agree): 'T is meet that Phyllis should discover A wisdom in preferring me And mittening every other lover.

So come, O Phyllis, last and best Of loves with which this heart's been smitten,-- Come, sing my jealous fears to rest, And let your songs be those _I've_ written.

CHRYSTMASSE OF OLDE

God rest you, Chrysten gentil men, Wherever you may be,-- God rest you all in fielde or hall, Or on ye stormy sea; For on this morn oure Chryst is born That saveth you and me.

Last night ye shepherds in ye east Saw many a wondrous thing; Ye sky last night flamed passing bright Whiles that ye stars did sing, And angels came to bless ye name Of Jesus Chryst, oure Kyng.

God rest you, Chrysten gentil men, Faring where'er you may; In noblesse court do thou no sport, In tournament no playe, In paynim lands hold thou thy hands From bloudy works this daye.

But thinking on ye gentil Lord That died upon ye tree, Let troublings cease and deeds of peace Abound in Chrystantie; For on this morn ye Chryst is born That saveth you and me.

AT THE DOOR

I thought myself indeed secure, So fast the door, so firm the lock; But, lo! he toddling comes to lure My parent ear with timorous knock.

My heart were stone could it withstand The sweetness of my baby's plea,-- That timorous, baby knocking and "Please let me in,--it's only me."

I threw aside the unfinished book, Regardless of its tempting charms, And opening wide the door, I took My laughing darling in my arms.

Who knows but in Eternity, I, like a truant child, shall wait The glories of a life to be, Beyond the Heavenly Father's gate?

And will that Heavenly Father heed The truant's supplicating cry, As at the outer door I plead, "'T is I, O Father! only I"?

1886.

HI-SPY

Strange that the city thoroughfare, Noisy and bustling all the day, Should with the night renounce its care, And lend itself to children's play!

Oh, girls are girls, and boys are boys, And have been so since Abel's birth, And shall be so till dolls and toys Are with the children swept from earth.

The self-same sport that crowns the day Of many a Syrian shepherd's son, Beguiles the little lads at play By night in stately Babylon.

I hear their voices in the street, Yet 't is so different now from then! Come, brother! from your winding-sheet, And let us two be boys again!

1886.

LITTLE CROODLIN DOO

Ho, pretty bee, did you see my croodlin doo? Ho, little lamb, is she jinkin' on the lea? Ho, bonnie fairy, bring my dearie back to me-- Got a lump o' sugar an' a posie for you, Only bring back my wee, wee croodlin doo!

Why, here you are, my little croodlin doo! Looked in er cradle, but didn't find you there, Looked f'r my wee, wee croodlin doo ever'where; Ben kind lonesome all er day withouten you; Where you ben, my little wee, wee croodlin doo?

Now you go balow, my little croodlin doo; Now you go rockaby ever so far,-- Rockaby, rockaby, up to the star That's winkin' an' blinkin' an' singin' to you As you go balow, my wee, wee croodlin doo!

THE "HAPPY ISLES" OF HORACE

Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles In the golden haze off yonder, Where the song of the sun-kissed breeze beguiles, And the ocean loves to wander.

Fragrant the vines that mantle those hills, Proudly the fig rejoices; Merrily dance the virgin rills, Blending their myriad voices.

Our herds shall fear no evil there, But peacefully feed and rest them; Neither shall serpent nor prowling bear Ever come there to molest them.

Neither shall Eurus, wanton bold, Nor feverish drouth distress us, But he that compasseth heat and cold Shall temper them both to bless us.

There no vandal foot has trod, And the pirate hosts that wander Shall never profane the sacred sod Of those beautiful Isles out yonder.

Never a spell shall blight our vines, Nor Sirius blaze above us, But you and I shall drink our wines And sing to the loved that love us.

So come with me where Fortune smiles And the gods invite devotion,-- Oh, come with me to the Happy Isles In the haze of that far-off ocean!

DUTCH LULLABY

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-- Sailed on a river of misty light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the twinkling foam, Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'T was all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 't was a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,-- Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

HUGO'S "FLOWER TO BUTTERFLY"

Sweet, bide with me and let my love Be an enduring tether; Oh, wanton not from spot to spot, But let us dwell together.

You've come each morn to sip the sweets With which you found me dripping, Yet never knew it was not dew But tears that you were sipping.

You gambol over honey meads Where siren bees are humming; But mine the fate to watch and wait For my beloved's coming.

The sunshine that delights you now Shall fade to darkness gloomy; You should not fear if, biding here, You nestled closer to me.

So rest you, love, and be my love, That my enraptured blooming May fill your sight with tender light, Your wings with sweet perfuming.

Or, if you will not bide with me Upon this quiet heather, Oh, give me wing, thou beauteous thing, That we may soar together.

A PROPER TREWE IDYLL OF CAMELOT

Whenas ye plaisaunt Aperille shoures have washed and purged awaye Ye poysons and ye rheums of earth to make a merrie May, Ye shraddy boscage of ye woods ben full of birds that syng Right merrilie a madrigal unto ye waking spring, Ye whiles that when ye face of earth ben washed and wiped ycleane Her peeping posies blink and stare like they had ben her een;

Then, wit ye well, ye harte of man ben turned to thoughts of love, And, tho' it ben a lyon erst, it now ben like a dove! And many a goodly damosel in innocence beguiles Her owne trewe love with sweet discourse and divers plaisaunt wiles. In soche a time ye noblesse liege that ben Kyng Arthure hight Let cry a joust and tournament for evereche errant knyght, And, lo! from distant Joyous-garde and eche adjacent spot A company of noblesse lords fared unto Camelot, Wherein were mighty feastings and passing merrie cheere, And eke a deale of dismal dole, as you shall quickly heare.