Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over towered Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote, _The Lady of Shalott._

And down the river's dim expanse-- Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darkened wholly, Turned to towered Camelot; For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, _The Lady of Shalott._

Who is this? and what is here, And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they crossed themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott."

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

_The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire_

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 peewits pied By millions crouched 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 farre and wide Was heard in all the country side 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 downe 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; And ere yon bells beganne to play Afar I heard her milking song." He looked across the grassy sea, 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 at 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 sate 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."

JEAN INGELOW.

_The Forsaken Merman_

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

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

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

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

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sat with you and me, On a red-gold throne in the heart of the sea. And the youngest sat on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell, She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea, She said, "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little gray church on the shore to-day.

'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." I said, "Go up, dear heart, through the waves: Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves." She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?

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

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

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

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low; When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom; And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch'd sands a gloom: Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze from the sand-hills At the white sleeping town; At the church on the hillside-- And then come back, down. Singing, "There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she: She left lonely forever The kings of the sea."

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

_The Sands of Dee_

I

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee;" The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, And all alone went she.

II

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land-- And never home came she.

III

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress o' golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee."

IV

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

_The "Gray Swan"_

"Oh, tell me, sailor, tell me true, Is my little lad, my Elihu, A-sailing with your ship?" The sailor's eyes were dim with dew. "Your little lad, your Elihu?" He said with trembling lip,-- "What little lad? what ship?"

"What little lad? as if there could be Another such a one as he! What little lad, do you say? Why Elihu, that took to the sea The moment I put him off my knee! It was just the other day The 'Gray Swan' sailed away."

"The other day?" The sailor's eyes Stood open with a great surprise: "The other day? the 'Swan'?" His heart began in his throat to rise. "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies The jacket he had on." "And so your lad is gone?"

"Gone with the 'Swan'?"--"And did she stand With her anchor clutching hold of the sand For a month, and never stir?" "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, The wild sea kissing her,-- A sight to remember, sir!"

"But, my good mother, do you know All this was twenty years ago? I stood on the 'Gray Swan's' deck, And to that lad I saw you throw, Taking it off as it might be,--so!-- The kerchief from your neck." "Ay, and he'll bring it back!"

"And did the little lawless lad, That has made you sick and made you sad, Sail with the 'Gray Swan's' crew?" "Lawless! The man is going mad! The best boy ever mother had!-- Be sure he sailed with the crew! What would you have him do?"

"And has he never written line, Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, To say he was alive?" "Hold! If 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; Besides, he may lie in the brine; And could he write from the grave? Tut, man! what would you have?"

"Gone twenty years,--a long, long cruise! 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse! But if the lad still live, And come back home, think you you can Forgive him?" "Miserable man! You're mad as the sea, you rave! What have I to forgive?"

The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, And from within his bosom drew The kerchief. She was wild. "O God, my Father! is it true? My little lad, my Elihu! My blessed boy, my child! My dead, my living child!"

ALICE CARY.

_The Wreck of the Hesperus_

It was the schooner Hesperus That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter To bear him company.

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May.

The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South.

Then up and spake an old Sailor Had sailed to the Spanish main, "I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane.

"Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he.

Colder and colder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast; The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast.

Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length.

"Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow."

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast.

"O father! I hear the church-bells ring; O say, what may it be?" "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" And he steered for the open sea.

"O father! I hear the sound of guns; O say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!"

"O father I see a gleaming light; O say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee.

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.

And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.

The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.

She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board: Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank,-- Ho! ho! the breakers roared!

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach A fisherman stood aghast To see the form of a maiden fair Lashed close to a drifting mast.

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise.

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this On the reef of Norman's Woe!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

_A Greyport Legend_

They ran through the streets of the seaport town; They peered from the decks of the ships that lay: The cold sea-fog that comes whitening down Was never as cold or white as they. "Ho, Starbuck, and Pinckney, and Tenterden, Run for your shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay!"

Good cause for fear! In the thick midday The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, Filled with the children in happy play, Parted its moorings and drifted clear; Drifted clear beyond reach or call,-- Thirteen children they were in all,-- All adrift in the lower bay!

Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all! She will not float till the turning tide!" Said his wife, "My darling will hear _my_ call, Whether in sea or heaven she bide!" And she lifted a quavering voice and high, Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.

The fog drove down on each laboring crew, Veiled each from each and the sky and shore; There was not a sound but the breath they drew, And the lap of water and creak of oar. And they felt the breath of the downs fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, But not from the lips that had gone before.

They came no more. But they tell the tale That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, The mackerel-fishers shorten sail; For the signal they know will bring relief, For the voices of children, still at play In a phantom-hulk that drifts alway Through channels whose waters never fail.

It is but a foolish shipman's tale, A theme for a poet's idle page; But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, And we lie becalmed by the shores of age, We hear from the misty troubled shore The voice of the children gone before, Drawing the soul to its anchorage!

BRET HARTE.

_The Glove and the Lions_

King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king,--a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

LEIGH HUNT.

_How's My Boy?_

Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy--my boy? "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?"

My boy John-- He that went to sea-- What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John.

How's my boy--my boy? And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no, Brass button or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no! Sure his ship was the _Jolly Briton_-- "Speak low, woman, speak low!"

And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town! Why should I speak low, sailor? "That good ship went down."

How's my boy--my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor, I never was aboard her. Be she afloat, or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound Her owners can afford her! I say, how's my John? "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her."

How's my boy--my boy? What care I for the men, sailor? I'm not their mother-- How's my boy--my boy? Tell me of him and no other! How's my boy--my boy?

SYDNEY DOBELL.

_The Child-Musician_

He had played for his lordship's levee, He had played for her ladyship's whim, Till the poor little head was heavy, And the poor little brain would swim.

And the face grew peaked and eerie, And the large eyes strange and bright; And they said--too late--"He is weary! He shall rest, for at least to-night!"

But at dawn, when the birds were waking, As they watched in the silent room, With the sound of a strained cord breaking, A something snapped in the gloom.

'Twas the string of his violoncello, And they heard him stir in his bed:-- "Make room for a tired little fellow, "Kind God!" was the last he said.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

_How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix_

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he: I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through, Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace-- Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas a moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom a great yellow star came out to see; At Dueffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime-- So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare through the mist at us galloping past; And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray; And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance; And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on.

By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her; We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh; 'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrups, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer-- Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

_The Inchcape Rock_

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion; Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay; All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round. And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring; It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float; Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away; He scour'd the seas for many a day; And now, grown rich with plunder'd store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, They cannot see the Sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day; At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon."

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." "Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- "Oh God! it is the Inchcape Rock!"

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; He curs'd himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side; The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear-- A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, The fiends below were ringing his knell.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

_A Night With a Wolf_

Little one, come to my knee! Hark, how the rain is pouring Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, And the wind in the woods a-roaring!

Hush, my darling, and listen, Then pay for the story with kisses; Father was lost in the pitch-black night, In just such a storm as this is!

High up on the lonely mountains, Where the wild men watched and waited; Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, And I on my path belated.

The rain and the night together Came down, and the wind came after, Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, And snapping many a rafter.

I crept along in the darkness, Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,-- Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, And a sheltering rock behind it.

There, from the blowing and raining, Crouching, I sought to hide me: Something rustled, two green eyes shone, And a wolf lay down beside me.

Little one, be not frightened; I and the wolf together, Side by side, through the long, long night Hid from the awful weather.

His wet fur pressed against me; Each of us warmed the other; Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, That beast and man was brother.

And when the falling forest No longer crashed in warning, Each of us went from our hiding-place Forth in the wild, wet morning.

Darling, kiss me in payment! Hark, how the wind is roaring; Father's house is a better place When the stormy rain is pouring!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

_The Dove of Dacca_

The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower-- Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings-- And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur. Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!

The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall; He set in his bosom a dove of flight-- "If she return, be sure that I fall." Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.

"Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep-- Leave to the foeman no spoil at all. In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep If the dove, if the dove--if the homing dove Come and alone to the palace wall."

The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad-- The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all. Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,-- And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove! She thought of her cote on the palace wall.

She opened her wings and she flew away-- Fluttered away beyond recall; She came to the palace at break of day. Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall.

The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame-- Slept in the flame of the palace old-- To save their honour from Moslem shame. And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove! She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled.

The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet, Followed as fast as a horse could fly, He came and the palace was black at his feet; And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove! Circled alone in the stainless sky.

So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower-- Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings; So the thorns covered the city of Gaur, And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings. Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! Dacca is lost from the roll of the kings!

RUDYARD KIPLING.

_The Abbot of Inisfalen_

I

The Abbot of Inisfalen Awoke ere dawn of day; Under the dewy green leaves Went he forth to pray.

The lake around his island Lay smooth and dark and deep, And, wrapt in a misty stillness, The mountains were all asleep.

Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, When the dawn was dim and gray; The prayers of his holy office He faithfully 'gan say.

Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, When the dawn was waxing red, And for his sins' forgiveness A solemn prayer he said.

Low kneel'd that holy Abbot When the dawn was waxing clear; And he pray'd with loving-kindness For his convent brethren dear.

Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot, When the dawn was waxing bright; He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, He pray'd with all his might.

Low kneel'd that good old father, While the sun began to dart; He pray'd a prayer for all mankind, He pray'd it from his heart.

II

The Abbot of Inisfalen Arose upon his feet; He heard a small bird singing, And, oh, but it sung sweet!

He heard a white bird singing well Within a holly-tree; A song so sweet and happy Never before heard he.

It sung upon a hazel, It sung upon a thorn; He had never heard such music Since the hour that he was born.

It sung upon a sycamore, It sung upon a briar; To follow the song and hearken This Abbot could never tire.

Till at last he well bethought him He might no longer stay; So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, And gladly went his way.

III

But when he came to his Abbey walls, He found a wondrous change; He saw no friendly faces there, For every face was strange.

The strangers spoke unto him; And he heard from all and each The foreign tone of the Sassenach, Not wholesome Irish speech.

Then the oldest monk came forward, In Irish tongue spake he: "Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, And who hath given it to thee?"

"I wear the holy Augustine's dress, And Cormac is my name, The Abbot of this good Abbey By grace of God I am.

"I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; And when my prayers were said, I hearkened awhile to a little bird That sung above my head."

The monks to him made answer, "Two hundred years have gone o'er, Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, And never was heard of more.

"Matthias now is our Abbot, And twenty have passed away. The stranger is lord of Ireland; We live in an evil day."

IV

"Now give me absolution; For my time is come," said he. And they gave him absolution As speedily as might be.

Then, close outside the window, The sweetest song they heard That ever yet since the world began Was uttered by any bird.

The monks looked out and saw the bird, Its feathers all white and clean; And there in a moment, beside it, Another white bird was seen.

Those two they sung together, Waved their white wings, and fled; Flew aloft, and vanished; But the good old man was dead.

They buried his blessed body Where lake and greensward meet; A carven cross above his head, A holly-bush at his feet;

Where spreads the beautiful water To gay or cloudy skies, And the purple peaks of Killarney From ancient woods arise.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

_The Cavalier's Escape_

Trample! trample! went the roan, Trap! trap! went the gray; But pad! _pad!_ PAD! like a thing that was mad, My chestnut broke away. It was just five miles from Salisbury town, And but one hour to day.

Thud! THUD! came on the heavy roan, Rap! RAP! the mettled gray; But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare, That she showed them all the way. Spur on! spur on!--I doffed my hat, And wished them all good-day.

They splashed through miry rut and pool,-- Splintered through fence and rail; But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,-- I saw them droop and tail. To Salisbury town--but a mile of down, Once over this brook and rail.

Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs Past the walls of mossy stone; The roan flew on at a staggering pace, But blood is better than bone. I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur, For I knew it was all my own.

But trample! trample! came their steeds, And I saw their wolf's eyes burn; I felt like a royal hart at bay, And made me ready to turn. I looked where highest grew the May, And deepest arched the fern.

I flew at the first knave's sallow throat; One blow, and he was down. The second rogue fired twice, and missed; I sliced the villain's crown,-- Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate, _Fast, fast to Salisbury town!_

Pad! pad! they came on the level sward, Thud! thud! upon the sand,-- With a gleam of swords and a burning match, And a shaking of flag and hand; But one long bound, and I passed the gate, Safe from the canting band.

WALTER THORNBURY.

_The Pied Piper of Hamelin_

I

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

II

Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

III

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy, "And as for our Corporation--shocking "To think we buy gowns lined with ermine "For dolts that can't or won't determine "What's best to rid us of our vermin! "You hope, because you're old and obese, "To find in the furry civic robe ease? "Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking "To find the remedy we're lacking, "Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

IV

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

V

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

VI

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

VII

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

VIII

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

IX

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

X

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

XI

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

XII

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

XIII

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

XIV

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

XV

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

ROBERT BROWNING.

_Herve Riel_

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signalled to the place "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!"

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!"

Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) Not a minute more to wait! "Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate.

"Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at foot of Solidor.

"Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fitty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Greve, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Herve Riel.

Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried his chief. "Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief." Still the north-wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face, As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harboured to the last, And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate Up the English come, too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Greve. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance, As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Herve Riel!"

As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. So, for better and for worse, Herve Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

ROBERT BROWNING.

_Vision of Belshazzar._

The King was on his throne, The Satraps throng'd the hall: A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deem'd divine-- Jehovah's vessels hold The godless Heathen's wine.

In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand: The fingers of a man-- A solitary hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand.

The monarch saw, and shook, And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look, And tremulous his voice. "Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth, And expound the words of fear, Which mar our royal mirth."

Chaldea's seers are good, But here they have no skill; And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage, They saw--but knew no more.

A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth, He heard the king's command, He saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, The prophecy in view; He read it on that night-- The morrow proved it true.

"Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom pass'd away, He, in the balance weigh'd, Is light and worthless clay; The shroud his robe of state, His canopy the stone; The Mede is at his gate! The Persian on his throne!"

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

_Solomon and the Bees_

When Solomon was reigning in his glory, Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came-- (So in the Talmud you may read the story)-- Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame, To see the splendors of his court, and bring Some fitting tribute to the mighty King.

Nor this alone: much had her highness heard What flowers of learning graced the royal speech; What gems of wisdom dropped with every word; What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth, To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth.

Besides, the Queen had heard (which piqued her most) How through the deepest riddles he could spy; How all the curious arts that women boast Were quite transparent to his piercing eye; And so the Queen had come--a royal guest-- To put the sage's cunning to the test.

And straight she held before the monarch's view, In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers; The one bedecked with every charming hue, Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers; The other, no less fair in every part, Was the rare product of divinest Art.

"Which is the true, and which the false?" she said. Great Solomon was silent. All amazed, Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head; While at the garlands long the monarch gazed, As one who sees a miracle, and fain For very rapture, ne'er would speak again.

"Which is the true?" once more the woman asked, Pleased at the fond amazement of the King; "So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!" But still the sage was silent; it was plain A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain.

While thus he pondered, presently he sees, Hard by the casement--so the story goes-- A little band of busy bustling bees, Hunting for honey in a withered rose. The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head; "Open the window!"--that was all he said.

The window opened at the King's command; Within the rooms the eager insects flew, And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand! And so the King and all the courtiers knew That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled Queen Returned to tell the wonders she had seen.

My story teaches (every tale should bear A fitting moral) that the wise may find In trifles light as atoms of the air Some useful lesson to enrich the mind-- Some truth designed to profit or to please-- As Israel's King learned wisdom from the bees.

JOHN G. SAXE.

_The Burial of Moses_

"And He buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."--Deut. xxxiv. 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab There lies a lonely grave. And no man knows that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er, For the angels of God upturn'd the sod, And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral That ever passed on earth; But no man heard the trampling, Or saw the train go forth-- Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Grows into the great sun;

Noiselessly as the spring-time Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills, Open their thousand leaves; So without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain's crown, The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle, On grey Beth-peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie Look'd on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking, Still shuns that hallow'd spot, For beast and bird have seen and heard That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth, His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drum, Follow his funeral car; They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his masterless steed While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land We lay the sage to rest, And give the bard an honour'd place With costly marble drest, In the great minster transept Where lights like glories fall (And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings) Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word. And never earth's philosopher Traced with his golden pen On the deathless page truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honour, The hill-side for a pall, To lie in state, while angels wait With stars for tapers tall, And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, Over his bier to wave, And God's own hand in that lonely land To lay him in the grave.

In that strange grave without a name, Whence his uncoffin'd clay Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Before the Judgment Day, And stand with glory wrapt around On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife, that won our life, With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, And teach them to be still. God hath his mysteries of grace, Ways that we cannot tell, He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him he loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

INTERLEAVES

_When Banners Are Waving_

Here are poems of Valor, Fortitude, Fearlessness, Courage. Give yourself up to the martial swing of the verse, with its clang of armor, its champing of war-steed, its sound of pibroch, its blare of trumpet, fife, and drum, its dancing of plumes and glitter of helmets. Pray Heaven that the fighting be all in a good cause and that the tramp, tramp of soldierly feet be that of the armies of Right, for there is no resisting this spirit of daring and bearing when it is voiced so nobly.

_"When cannon are roaring, And hot bullets flying, He that would honor win Must not fear dying."_

Here are hymns in praise of famous battles that have changed the fate of nations; here, records of gallant deeds that make the blood leap in the veins. Into the Valley of Death rode the immortal Six Hundred, and into that same Valley plunged "furious Frank and fiery Hun," Scot, Turk, Greek, and the brave Huguenot charging at Ivry for the Golden Lilies of France. Here are the songs of triumph, the loud hurrahs when the red field is won; here tales of glorious defeats and no less splendid failures; here, too, the dirge for the storied Brave, who lie at rest by all their Country's wishes blest.

The banners that once beckoned on the armed hosts are hanging to-day in dim cathedrals, tattered, faded, and torn; high-hung banners that with every "opened door seem the old wave of battle to remember." And as for the heroes who carried them, can we not say, as of Marco Bozzaris,

_"For ye are Freedom's now, and Fame's, Among the few, th' immortal names That were not born to die."_

XIV

WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING

_When Banners Are Waving_

When banners are waving, And lances a-pushing; When captains are shouting, And war-horses rushing; When cannon are roaring, And hot bullets flying, He that would honour win, Must not fear dying.

Though shafts fly so thick That it seems to be snowing; Though streamlets with blood More than water are flowing; Though with sabre and bullet Our bravest are dying, We speak of revenge, but We ne'er speak of flying.

Come, stand to it, heroes! The heathen are coming; Horsemen are round the walls, Riding and running; Maidens and matrons all Arm! arm! are crying, From petards the wildfire's Flashing and flying.

The trumpets from turrets high Loudly are braying; The steeds for the onset Are snorting and neighing; As waves in the ocean, The dark plumes are dancing; As stars in the blue sky, The helmets are glancing.

Their ladders are planting, Their sabres are sweeping; Now swords from our sheaths By the thousand are leaping; Like the flash of the levin Ere men hearken thunder, Swords gleam, and the steel caps Are cloven asunder.

The shouting has ceased, And the flashing of cannon! I looked from the turret For crescent and pennon: As flax touched by fire, As hail in the river, They were smote, they were fallen, And had melted for ever.

UNKNOWN.

_Battle of the Baltic_

Of Nelson and the north Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold, determined hand, And the prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line-- It was ten of April morn by the chime. As they drifted on their path There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

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

Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave: "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save; So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king."

Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day. While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant, good Riou-- Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

_The Pipes at Lucknow_

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled, and nearer crept; Round and round, the jungle-serpent Near and nearer circles swept. "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- Pray to-day!" the soldier said, "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread."

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true;-- As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all!"

O, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "God be praised!--the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

_The Battle of Agincourt_

Fair stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance, Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry; But putting to the main, At Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort, Furnished in warlike sort, Marched towards Agincourt In happy hour-- Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power.

Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending. Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending.

And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, "Though they be one to ten, Be not amazed; Yet have we well begun, Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised.

"And for myself," quoth he, "This my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me, Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain, Or on this earth lie slain, Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me."

Poitiers and Cressy tell, When most their pride did swell, Under our swords they fell; No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat, By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led; With the main Henry sped, Amongst his henchmen. Excester had the rear-- A braver man not there: O Lord! how hot they were On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone; Armor on armor shone; Drum now to drum did groan-- To hear was wonder; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake; Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham! Which did the signal aim To our hid forces; When, from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses, With Spanish yew so strong, Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung, Piercing the weather; None from his fellow starts, But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts, Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw, And forth their bilboes drew, And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy; Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent, Down the French peasants went, Our men were hardy.

This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it; And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent Bruised his helmet.

Gloucester, that duke so good, Next of the royal blood, For famous England stood, With his brave brother, Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade; Oxford the foe invade, And cruel slaughter made, Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry; Oh, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen, Or England breed again Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

_The Battle of Blenheim_

It was a summer's evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he, beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory!"

"I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory!"

"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory!

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by: They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory!

"And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

_The Armada: A Fragment_

Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vain The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain. It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums: The yeoman round the market cross make clear an ample space; For there behooves him to set up the standard of Her Grace: And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon swells.

Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield. So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades: Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; Our glorious _Semper Eadem_, the banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold; The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day;

For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, Cape beyond cape, in endless range those twinkling points of fire. The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves: The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves: O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew: He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down; The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red light: Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear; And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street; And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent: Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill; Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales; Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light; Till broad and fierce the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent: Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULEY.

_Ivry_

A Song of the Huguenots.

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

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

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may-- For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray-- Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the Golden Lilies--upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish Count is slain; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry--"No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white-- Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide--that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne, Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre!

THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY.

_On the Loss of the Royal George_

Written when the News Arrived, September, 1782.

Toll for the brave! The brave that are no more! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset; Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave! Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle; No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er, And he and his eight hundred Must plough the waves no more.

WILLIAM COWPER.

_The Charge of the Light Brigade_

Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death, Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered; Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die;-- Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well; Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery smoke, Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not-- Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, Those that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light Brigade! Noble six hundred!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

_Bannockburn_

Robert Bruce's Address to his Army.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lower; See approach proud Edward's power-- Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!-- Let us do or die!

ROBERT BURNS.

_The Night Before Waterloo_

There was a sound of revelry by night. And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!

* * * *

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! They come! they come!" Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms--the day Battle's magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

_Hohenlinden_

On Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flash'd the red artillery.

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

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

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

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

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

_Incident of the French Camp_

You know we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming day; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall Let once my army-leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,"-- Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through,) You looked twice e'er you saw his breast, Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The marshal's in the market-place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him." The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes: "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said; "I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

_Marco Bozzaris_

At midnight, in his guarded tent, The Turk was dreaming of the hour When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Should tremble at his power; In dreams, through camp and court he bore The trophies of a conqueror; In dreams, his song of triumph heard; Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; Then press'd that monarch's throne--a king: As wild his thoughts, as gay of wing, As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight in the forest shades, Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, True as the steel of their tried blades, Heroes in heart and hand. There had the Persian's thousands stood, There had the glad earth drunk their blood, On old Plataea's day; And now there breathed that haunted air The sons of sires who conquer'd there, With arm to strike, and soul to dare, As quick, as far, as they.

An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke: That bright dream was his last. He woke to hear his sentries shriek, "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke, And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud, And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, Bozzaris cheer his band: "Strike!--till the last arm'd foe expires; Strike!--for your altars and your fires; Strike!--for the green graves of your sires; God, and your native land!"

They fought like brave men, long and well; They piled that ground with Moslem slain; They conquer'd;--but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their loud hurrah, And the red field was won; Then saw in death his eyelids close, Calmly as to a night's repose,-- Like flowers at set of sun.

* * * *

Bozzaris! with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Rest thee: there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. She wore no funeral weeds for thee, Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, The heartless luxury of the tomb; But she remembers thee as one Long loved, and for a season gone;

For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed; Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thee her evening prayer is said At palace-couch and cottage-bed; Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak, The memory of her buried joys,-- And even she who gave thee birth Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, Talk of thy doom without a sigh; For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, One of the few, th' immortal names That were not born to die.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

_The Destruction of Sennacherib_

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

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

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

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

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

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

INTERLEAVES

_Tales of the Olden Time_

These ancient ballads have come down to us from the long ago, having been told, like the old nursery tales, from generation to generation, altered, abbreviated, patched, and added to, as they passed from mouth to mouth of poet, high harper, gleeman, wandering minstrel, ballad-monger, and camp-follower. Some of them were repeated by the humble stroller who paid for a corner in the chimney-nook by the practice of his rude art; others were sung by minstrels of the court; most of them were chanted to a tune which served for a score of similar songs, while the verses were frequently interrupted by refrains of one sort or another, as, for instance, in "Hynde Horn," which is sometimes printed as follows:

"Near the King's Court was a young child born _With a hey lillalu and a how lo lan;_ And his name it was called Young Hynde Horn _And the birk and the broom blooms bonnie."_

Many of the ballads are gloomy and tragic stories, but told simply and with right feeling; others are gay tales of true love ending happily. Some, like "Sir Patrick Spens" and "Chevy Chace," are built upon historical foundations, and others, while not following history, have a real personage for hero or heroine. Lord Beichan, for instance, is supposed to be Gilbert Becket, father of the famous Saint Thomas of Canterbury, while Glenlogie is Sir George, one of the "gay Gordons," but whoever they are, wise abbots, jolly friars, or noble outlaws, they are always bold fellows, true lovers, and merry men.

Inconsequent, fascinating, high-handed, impossible, picturesque, these old ballads have come to us from the childhood of the world, and still speak to the child-heart in us all.

XV

TALES OF THE OLDEN TIME

_Sir Patrick Spens_

The king sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, To sail this new ship o' mine!"

O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee,-- "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, That ever sail'd the sea."

The king has written a braid letter, And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis thou maun bring her hame."

The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud, loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e.

"O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea?

Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame."

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wodensday.

They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say,--

"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lee.

"For I brought as much white monie, As gane my men and me, And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud, Out o'er the sea wi' me.

"Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm!

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And, if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm."

They had not sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a gude sailor, To tak' my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast, To see if I can spy land?"

"O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till you go up to the tall top-mast; But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He hadna gane a step, a step, A step but barely ane, When a bout flew out o' our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in.

"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Anither o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And letna the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Anither of the twine, And wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea cam' in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heel'd shoon! But lang or a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed, That floated o'er the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair came hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves; For them they'll see na mair.

O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see na mair.

Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, It's fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

OLD BALLAD.

_The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington_

There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, And he was a squire's son; He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, That lived in Islington.

Yet she was coye, and would not believe That he did love her soe, Noe nor at any time would she Any countenance to him showe.

But when his friendes did understand His fond and foolish minde, They sent him up to faire London, An apprentice for to binde.

And when he had been seven long yeares, And never his love could see,-- "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, When she little thought of mee."

Then all the maids of Islington Went forth to sport and playe, All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; She secretly stole awaye.

She pulled off her gowne of greene, And put on ragged attire, And to faire London she would go Her true love to enquire.

And as she went along the high road, The weather being hot and drye, She sat her downe upon a green bank, And her true love came riding bye.

She started up, with a colour soe redd, Catching hold of his bridle-reine; "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, "Will ease me of much paine."

"Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, Praye tell me where you were borne." "At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, "Where I have had many a scorne."

"I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, O tell me, whether you knowe The bayliffe's daughter of Islington." "She is dead, sir, long agoe."

"If she be dead, then take my horse, My saddle and bridle also; For I will into some farr countrye, Where noe man shall me knowe."

"O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, She standeth by thy side; She is here alive, she is not dead, And readye to be thy bride."

"O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, Ten thousand times therefore; For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, Whom I thought I should never see more."

OLD BALLAD.

_King John and the Abbot of Canterbury_

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong and maintained little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his housekeeping and high renown, They rode post for him to fair London town.

An hundred men, the King did hear say, The Abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.

"How now, Father Abbot, I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a far better house than me; And for thy housekeeping and high renown, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."

"My liege," quo' the Abbot, "I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your Grace will not put me in fear, For spending of my owne true-gotten gear."

"Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is highe, And now for the same thou needst must dye; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

"And first," quo' the King, "when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe, Thou must tell to one penny what I am worthe.

"Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think."

"Oh, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your Grace."

"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."

Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold, And he met his Shepherd a-going to fold: "How now, my Lord Abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from good King John?"

"Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give, That I have but three days more to live; I must answer the King his questions three, Or my head will be smitten from my bodie.

"The first is to tell him, there in that stead, With his crown of gold so fair on his head, Among all his liegemen so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

"The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke."

"Now cheare up, Sire Abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

"Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your Lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne."

"Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our Father the Pope."

"Now welcome, Sire Abbot," the king he did say, "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

"And first, when thou seest me, here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth."

"For thirty pence our Saviour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worse than he."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so little! Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride this whole world about."

"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your Grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think it could be gone so soon. Now from the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what do I think."

"Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."

The King he laughed, and swore by the mass, "I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!" "Nay, nay, my Liege, be not in such speed, For alack, I can neither write nor read."

"Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me; And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."

OLD BALLAD.

_Lord Beichan and Susie Pye_

Lord Beichan was a noble lord, A noble lord of high degree; But he was ta'en by a savage Moor, Who treated him right cruellie.

In ilka shoulder was put a bore, In ilka bore was put a tree; And heavy loads they made him draw, Till he was sick, and like to dee.

Then he was cast in a dungeon deep, Where he cou'd neither hear nor see; And seven long years they kept him there, Both cold and hunger sore to dree.

The Moor he had an only daughter, The damsel's name was Susie Pye; And ilka day as she took the air, Lord Beichan's prison she pass'd by.

Young Susie Pye had a tender heart, Tho' she was come of a cruel kin; And sore she sigh'd, she knew not why, For him who lay that dungeon in.

"Oh, were I but the prison keeper, As I'm a lady of high degree, I soon wou'd set this youth at large, And send him to his own countrie."

She gave the keeper a piece of gold, And many pieces of white monie, To unlock to her the prison doors, That she Lord Beichan might go see.

Lord Beichan he did marvel sore, The Moor's fair daughter there to see; But took her for some captive maid, Brought from some land in Christendie.

For when she saw his wretched plight, Her tears fell fast and bitterlie; And thus the Moor's fair daughter spake Unto Lord Beichan tenderlie:

"Oh, have ye any lands," she said, "Or castles in your own countrie, That ye cou'd give to a lady fair, From prison strong to set you free?"

"Oh, I have lands both fair and braid, And I have castles fair to see; But I wou'd give them all," he said, "From prison strong to be set free."

"Plight me the truth of your right hand, The truth of it here plight to me, That till seven years are past and gone, No lady ye will wed but me."

"For seven long years I do make a vow, And seven long years I'll keep it true, If you wed with no other man, No other lady I'll wed but you."

Then she has bribed the prison-keeper, With store of gold and white monie, To loose the chain that bound him so, And set Lord Beichan once more free.

A ring she from her finger broke, And half of it to him gave she,-- "Keep it, to mind you of the maid Who out of prison set you free."

She had him put on good shipboard, That he might safely cross the main; Then said, "Adieu! my Christian lord, I fear we ne'er may meet again."

Lord Beichan turn'd him round about, And lowly, lowly bent his knee; "Ere seven years are come and gone, I'll take you to my own countrie."

But Susie Pye cou'd get no rest, Nor day nor night cou'd happy be; For something whisper'd in her breast, "Lord Beichan will prove false to thee."

So she set foot on good shipboard, Well mann'd and fitted gallantlie; She bade adieu to her father's towers, And left behind her own countrie.

Then she sailed west, and she sailed north, She sailed far o'er the salt sea faem; And after many weary days, Unto fair England's shore she came.

Then she went to Lord Beichan's gate, And she tirl'd gently at the pin, And ask'd--"Is this Lord Beichan's hall, And is that noble lord within?"

The porter ready answer made,-- "Oh yes, this is Lord Beichan's hall; And he is also here within, With bride and guests assembled all."

"And has he betroth'd another love, And has he quite forgotten me, To whom he plighted his love and troth, When from prison I did him free?

"Bear to your lord, ye proud porter, This parted ring, the plighted token Of mutual love, and mutual vows, By him, alas! now falsely broken.

"And bid him send one bit of bread, And bid him send one cup of wine, Unto the maid he hath betray'd, Tho' she freed him from cruel pine."

The porter hasten'd to his lord, And fell down on his bended knee: "My lord, a lady stands at your gate, The fairest lady I e'er did see.

"On every finger she has a ring, And on her middle finger three; With as much gold above her brow As wou'd buy an earldom to me."

It's out then spake the bride's mother, Both loud and angry out spake she,-- "Ye might have excepted our bonnie bride, If not more of this companie."

"My dame, your daughter's fair enough, Her beauty's not denied by me; But were she ten times fairer still, With this lady ne'er compare cou'd she.

"My lord, she asks one bit of bread, And bids you send one cup of wine; And to remember the lady's love, Who freed you out of cruel pine."

Lord Beichan hied him down the stair,-- Of fifteen steps he made but three, Until he came to Susie Pye, Whom he did kiss most tenderlie.

He's ta'en her by the lily hand, And led her to his noble hall, Where stood his sore-bewilder'd bride, And wedding guests assembled all.

Fair Susie blushing look'd around, Upon the lords and ladies gay; Then with the tear-drops in her eyes, Unto Lord Beichan she did say:

"Oh, have ye ta'en another bride, And broke your plighted vows to me? Then fare thee well, my Christian lord, I'll try to think no more on thee.

"But sadly I will wend my way, And sadly I will cross the sea, And sadly will with grief and shame Return unto my own countrie."

"Oh, never, never, Susie Pye, Oh, never more shall you leave me; This night you'll be my wedded wife, And lady of my lands so free."

Syne up then spake the bride's mother, She ne'er before did speak so free,-- "You'll not forsake my dear daughter, For sake of her from Pagandie."

"Take home, take home your daughter dear, She's not a pin the worse of me; She came to me on horseback riding, But shall go back in a coach and three."

Lord Beichan got ready another wedding, And sang, with heart brimful of glee,-- "Oh, I'll range no more in foreign lands, Since Susie Pye has cross'd the sea."

OLD BALLAD.

_The Gay Gos-hawk_

"O well is me, my gay gos-hawk, That you can speak and flee; For you can carry a love-letter To my true love frae me."

"O how can I carry a letter to her, Or how should I her know? I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spak', And eyes that ne'er her saw."

"The white o' my love's skin is white As down o' dove or maw; The red o' my love's cheek is red As blood that's spilt on snaw.

"When ye come to the castle, Light on the tree of ash, And sit you there and sing our loves As she comes frae the mass.

"Four and twenty fair ladies Will to the mass repair; And weel may ye my lady ken, The fairest lady there."

When the gos-hawk flew to that castle, He lighted on the ash; And there he sat and sang their loves As she came frae the mass.

"Stay where ye be, my maidens a', And sip red wine anon, Till I go to my west window And hear a birdie's moan."

She's gane unto her west window, The bolt she fainly drew; And unto that lady's white, white neck The bird a letter threw.

"Ye're bidden to send your love a send, For he has sent you twa; And tell him where he may see you soon, Or he cannot live ava."

"I send him the ring from my finger, The garland off my hair, I send him the heart that's in my breast; What would my love have mair? And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, Ye'll bid him wait for me there."

She hied her to her father dear As fast as gang could she: "I'm sick at the heart, my father dear; An asking grant you me!" "Ask me na for that Scottish lord, For him ye'll never see!"

"An asking, an asking, dear father!" she says, "An asking grant you me; That if I die in fair England, In Scotland ye'll bury me.

"At the first kirk o' fair Scotland, You cause the bells be rung; At the second kirk o' fair Scotland, You cause the mass be sung;

"At the third kirk o' fair Scotland, You deal gold for my sake; At the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland, O there you'll bury me at!

"This is all my asking, father, I pray you grant it me!" "Your asking is but small," he said; "Weel granted it shall be. But why do ye talk o' suchlike things? For ye arena going to dee."

The lady's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu' woman was she, As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash, And were about to dee.

The lady's gane to her chamber As fast as she could fare; And she has drunk a sleepy draught, She mix'd it wi' mickle care.

She's fallen into a heavy trance, And pale and cold was she; She seemed to be as surely dead As ony corpse could be.

Out and spak' an auld witch-wife, At the fireside sat she: "Gin she has killed herself for love, I wot it weel may be:

"But drap the het lead on her cheek, And drap in on her chin, And rap it on her bosom white, And she'll maybe speak again. 'Tis much that a young lady will do To her true love to win."

They drapped the het lead on her cheek, They drapped it on her chin, They drapped it on her bosom white, But she spake none again.

Her brothers they went to a room, To make to her a bier; The boards were a' o' the cedar wood, The edges o' silver clear.

Her sisters they went to a room, To make to her a sark; The cloth was a' o' the satin fine, And the stitching silken-wark.

"Now well is me, my gay gos-hawk, That ye can speak and flee! Come show me any love-tokens That you have brought to me."

"She sends you the ring frae her white finger, The garland frae her hair; She sends you the heart within her breast; And what would you have mair? And at the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland, She bids you wait for her there."

"Come hither, all my merry young men! And drink the good red wine; For we must on towards fair England To free my love frae pine."

The funeral came into fair Scotland, And they gart the bells be rung; And when it came to the second kirk, They gart the mass be sung.

And when it came to the third kirk, They dealt gold for her sake; And when it came to the fourth kirk, Her love was waiting thereat.

At the fourth kirk in fair Scotland Stood spearmen in a row; And up and started her ain true love, The chieftain over them a'.

"Set down, set down the bier," he says, "Till I look upon the dead; The last time that I saw her face, Its color was warm and red."

He stripped the sheet from aff her face A little below the chin; The lady then she open'd her eyes, And looked full on him.

"O give me a shive o' your bread, love, O give me a cup o' your wine! Long have I fasted for your sake, And now I fain would dine.

"Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers, Gae hame and blaw the horn! And ye may say that ye sought my skaith, And that I hae gi'en you the scorn.

"I cam' na here to bonny Scotland To lie down in the clay; But I cam' here to bonny Scotland To wear the silks sae gay!

"I cam' na here to bonny Scotland Amang the dead to rest; But I cam' here to bonny Scotland To the man that I lo'e best!"

OLD BALLAD.

_Earl Mar's Daughter_

It was intill a pleasant time, Upon a simmer's day, The noble Earl of Mar's daughter Went forth to sport and play.

And as she played and sported Below a green aik tree, There she saw a sprightly doo Set on a branch sae hie.

"O Coo-my-doo, my love sae true, If ye'll come doun to me, Ye'se hae a cage o' gude red goud Instead o' simple tree.

"I'll tak' ye hame and pet ye weel, Within my bower and ha'; I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird As ony o' them a'!"

And she had nae these words weel spoke, Nor yet these words weel said, Till Coo-my-doo flew frae the branch, And lighted on her head.

Then she has brought this pretty bird Hame to her bower and ha', And made him shine as fair a bird As ony o' them a'.

When day was gane, and night was come, About the evening-tide, This lady spied a bonny youth Stand straight up by her side.

"Now whence come ye, young man," she said, "To put me into fear? My door was bolted right secure, And what way cam' ye here?"

"O haud your tongue, my lady fair, Lat a' your folly be; Mind ye not o' your turtle-doo Ye coax'd from aff the tree?"

"O wha are ye, young man?" she said, "What country come ye frae?" "I flew across the sea," he said, "'Twas but this verra day.

"My mither is a queen," he says, Likewise of magic skill; 'Twas she that turned me in a doo, To fly where'er I will.

"And it was but this verra day That I cam' ower the sea: I loved you at a single look; With you I'll live and dee."

"O Coo-my-doo, my love sae true, Nae mair frae me ye'se gae." "That's never my intent, my love; As ye said, it shall be sae."

There he has lived in bower wi' her, For six lang years and ane; Till sax young sons to him she bare, And the seventh she's brought hame.

But aye, as soon's a child was born, He carried them away, And brought them to his mither's care, As fast as he could fly.

Thus he has stay'd in bower wi' her For seven lang years and mair; Till there cam' a lord o' hie renown To court that lady fair.

But still his proffer she refused, And a' his presents too; Says, "I'm content to live alane Wi' my bird Coo-my-doo!"

Her father sware an angry oath, He sware it wi' ill-will: "To-morrow, ere I eat or drink, That bird I'll surely kill."

The bird was sitting in his cage, And heard what he did say; He jumped upon the window-sill: "'Tis time I was away."

Then Coo-my-doo took flight and flew Beyond the raging sea, And lighted at his mither's castle, Upon a tower sae hie.

The Queen his mither was walking out, To see what she could see, And there she saw her darling son Set on the tower sae hie.

"Get dancers here to dance," she said, "And minstrels for to play; For here's my dear son Florentine Come back wi' me to stay."

"Get nae dancers to dance, mither, Nor minstrels for to play; For the mither o' my seven sons, The morn's her wedding day."

"Now tell me, dear son Florentine, O tell, and tell me true; Tell me this day, without delay, What sall I do for you?"

"Instead of dancers to dance, mither, Or minstrels for to play, Turn four-and-twenty well-wight men, Like storks, in feathers gray;

"My seven sons in seven swans, Aboon their heads to flee; And I myself a gay gos-hawk, A bird o' high degree."

Then, sighing, said the Queen to hersell, "That thing's too high for me!" But she applied to an auld woman, Who had mair skill than she.

Instead o' dancers to dance a dance, Or minstrels for to play, Were four-and-twenty well-wight men Turn'd birds o' feathers gray;

Her seven sons in seven swans, Aboon their heads to flee; And he himsell a gay gos-hawk, A bird o' high degree.

This flook o' birds took flight and flew Beyond the raging sea; They landed near the Earl Mar's castle, Took shelter in every tree.

They were a flock o' pretty birds, Right wondrous to be seen; The weddin'eers they looked at them Whilst walking on the green.

These birds flew up frae bush and tree, And, lighted on the ha'; And, when the wedding-train cam' forth, Flew down amang them a'.

The storks they seized the boldest men, That they could not fight or flee; The swans they bound the bridegroom fast Unto a green aik tree.

They flew around the bride-maidens, Around the bride's own head; And, wi' the twinkling o' an ee, The bride and they were fled.

There's ancient men at weddings been For eighty years or more; But siccan a curious wedding-day They never saw before.

For naething could the company do, Nor naething could they say; But they saw a flock o' pretty birds That took their bride away.

OLD BALLAD.

_Chevy-Chace_

God prosper long our noble king, Our lives and safeties all; A woful hunting once there did In Chevy-Chace befall.

To drive the deer with hound and horn Earl Percy took his way; The child may rue that is unborn The hunting of that day.

The stout Earl of Northumberland A vow to God did make, His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer days to take,--

The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace To kill and bear away. These tidings to Earl Douglas came, In Scotland where he lay;

Who sent Earl Percy present word He would prevent his sport. The English earl, not fearing that, Did to the woods resort

With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright.

The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran To chase the fallow deer; On Monday they began to hunt Ere daylight did appear;

And long before high noon they had A hundred fat bucks slain; Then having dined, the drovers went To rouse the deer again.

The bowmen mustered on the hills, Well able to endure; And all their rear, with special care, That day was guarded sure.

The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deer to take, That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make.

Lord Percy to the quarry went, To view the slaughtered deer; Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised This day to meet me here;

"But if I thought he would not come, No longer would I stay;" With that a brave young gentleman Thus to the Earl did say:

"Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, His men in armor bright; Full twenty hundred Scottish spears All marching in our sight;

"All men of pleasant Teviotdale, Fast by the river Tweed;" "Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, "And take your bows with speed;

"And now with me, my countrymen, Your courage forth advance; For never was there champion yet, In Scotland or in France,

"That ever did on horseback come, But if my hap it were, I durst encounter man for man, With him to break a spear."

Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, Most like a baron bold, Rode foremost of his company, Whose armor shone like gold.

"Show me," said he, "whose men you be, That hunt so boldly here, That, without my consent, do chase And kill my fallow-deer."

The first man that did answer make, Was noble Percy he-- Who said, "We list not to declare, Nor show whose men we be:

"Yet will we spend our dearest blood Thy chiefest harts to slay." Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, And thus in rage did say:

"Ere thus I will out-braved be, One of us two shall die; I know thee well, an earl thou art-- Lord Percy, so am I.

"But trust me, Percy, pity it were, And great offence, to kill Any of these our guiltless men, For they have done no ill.

"Let thou and I the battle try, And set our men aside." "Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, "By whom this is denied."

Then stepped a gallant squire forth, Witherington was his name, Who said, "I would not have it told To Henry, our king, for shame,

"That e'er my captain fought on foot, And I stood looking on. You two be earls," said Witherington, "And I a squire alone;

"I'll do the best that do I may, While I have power to stand; While I have power to wield my sword, I'll fight with heart and hand."

Our English archers bent their bows-- Their hearts were good and true; At the first flight of arrows sent, Full fourscore Scots they slew.

Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, As Chieftain stout and good; As valiant Captain, all unmoved, The shock he firmly stood.

His host he parted had in three, As leader ware and tried; And soon his spearmen on their foes Bore down on every side.

Throughout the English archery They dealt full many a wound; But still our valiant Englishmen All firmly kept their ground.

And throwing straight their bows away, They grasped their swords so bright; And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, On shields and helmets light.

They closed full fast on every side-- No slackness there was found; And many a gallant gentleman Lay gasping on the ground.

In truth, it was a grief to see How each one chose his spear, And how the blood out of their breasts Did gush like water clear.

At last these two stout earls did meet; Like captains of great might, Like lions wode, they laid on lode, And made a cruel fight.

They fought until they both did sweat, With swords of tempered steel, Until the blood, like drops of rain, They trickling down did feel.

"Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said; "In faith I will thee bring Where thou shalt high advanced be By James, our Scottish king.

"Thy ransom I will freely give, And this report of thee, Thou art the most courageous knight That ever I did see."

"No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, "Thy proffer I do scorn; I will not yield to any Scot That ever yet was born."

With that there came an arrow keen Out of an English bow, Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, A deep and deadly blow;

Who never spake more words than these: "Fight on, my merry men all; For why, my life is at an end; Lord Percy sees my fall."

Then leaving life, Earl Percy took The dead man by the hand; And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life Would I had lost my land!

"In truth, my very heart doth bleed With sorrow for thy sake; For sure a more redoubted knight Mischance did never take."

A knight amongst the Scots there was Who saw Earl Douglas die, Who straight in wrath did vow revenge Upon the Earl Percy.

Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, Who, with a spear full bright, Well mounted on a gallant steed, Ran fiercely through the fight;

And past the English archers all, Without a dread or fear; And through Earl Percy's body then He thrust his hateful spear;

With such vehement force and might He did his body gore, The staff ran through the other side A large cloth-yard and more.

So thus did both these nobles die, Whose courage none could stain. An English archer then perceived The noble Earl was slain.

He had a bow bent in his hand, Made of a trusty tree; An arrow of a cloth-yard long To the hard head haled he.

Against Sir Hugh Montgomery So right the shaft he set, The gray goose wing that was thereon In his heart's blood was wet.

This fight did last from break of day Till setting of the sun: For when they rung the evening-bell, The battle scarce was done.

With stout Earl Percy there was slain Sir John of Egerton, Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, Sir James, that bold baron.

And with Sir George and stout Sir James, Both knights of good account, Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, Whose prowess did surmount.

For Witherington needs must I wail As one in doleful dumps; For when his legs were smitten off, He fought upon his stumps.

And with Earl Douglas there was slain Sir Hugh Montgomery, Sir Charles Murray, that from the field, One foot would never flee.

Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too-- His sister's son was he; Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, But saved he could not be.

And the Lord Maxwell in like case Did with Earl Douglas die: Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, Scarce fifty-five did fly.

Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, Went home but fifty-three; The rest on Chevy-Chace were slain, Under the greenwood tree.

Next day did many widows come, Their husbands to bewail; They washed their wounds in brinish tears, But all would not prevail.

Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, They bore with them away; They kissed them dead a thousand times, Ere they were clad in clay.

The news was brought to Edinburgh, Where Scotland's king did reign, That brave Earl Douglas suddenly Was with an arrow slain:

"Oh heavy news," King James did say; "Scotland can witness be I have not any captain more Of such account as he."

Like tidings to King Henry came Within as short a space, That Percy of Northumberland Was slain in Chevy-Chace:

"Now God be with him," said our king, "Since 'twill no better be; I trust I have within my realm Five hundred as good as he:

"Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say But I will vengeance take: I'll be revenged on them all, For brave Earl Percy's sake."

This vow full well the king performed After at Humbledown; In one day fifty knights were slain, With lords of high renown;

And of the rest, of small account, Did many hundreds die: Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, Made by the Earl Percy.

God save the king, and bless this land, With plenty, joy and peace; And grant, henceforth, that foul debate 'Twixt noblemen may cease!

OLD BALLAD.

_Hynde Horn_

"Oh, it's Hynde Horn fair, and it's Hynde Horn free; Oh, where were you born, and in what countrie?" "In a far distant countrie I was born; But of home and friends I am quite forlorn."

Oh, it's seven long years he served the king, But wages from him he ne'er got a thing: Oh, it's seven long years he served, I ween, And all for love of the king's daughter Jean.

Oh, he gave to his love a silver wand, Her sceptre of rule over fair Scotland; With three singing laverocks set thereon, For to mind her of him when he was gone.

And his love gave to him a gay gold ring, With three shining diamonds set therein; Oh, his love gave to him this gay gold ring, Of virtue and value above all thing; Saying--"While the diamonds do keep their hue, You will know that my love holds fast and true; But when the diamonds grow pale and wan, I'll be dead, or wed to another man."

Then the sails were spread, and away sail'd he; Oh, he sail'd away to a far countrie; And when he had been seven years to sea, Hynde Horn look'd to see how his ring might be.

But when Hynde Horn look'd the diamonds upon, Oh, he saw that they were both pale and wan; And at once he knew, from their alter'd hue, That his love was dead or had proved untrue.

Oh, the sails were spread, and away sail'd he Back over the sea to his own countrie; Then he left the ship when it came to land, And he met an auld beggar upon the strand.

"What news, thou auld beggar man?" said he; "For full seven years I've been over the sea." Then the auld man said--"The strangest of all Is the curious wedding in our king's hall.

"For there's a king's daughter, came frae the wast, Has been married to him these nine days past; But unto him a wife the bride winna be, For love of Hynde Horn, far over the sea."

"Now, auld man, give to me your begging weed, And I will give to thee my riding steed; And, auld man, give to me your staff of tree, And my scarlet cloak I will give to thee.

"And you must teach me the auld beggar's role, As he goes his rounds, and receives his dole." The auld man he did as young Hynde Horn said, And taught him the way to beg for his bread.

Then Hynde Horn bent him to his staff of tree, And to the king's palace away hobbled he; And when he arrived at the king's palace gate, To the porter he thus his petition did state:

"Good porter, I pray, for Saints Peter and Paul, And for sake of the Saviour who died for us all, For one cup of wine, and one bit of bread, To an auld man with travel and hunger bestead.

"And ask the fair bride, for the sake of Hynde Horn, To hand them to one so sadly forlorn." Then the porter for pity the message convey'd, And told the fair bride all the beggar man said.

And when she did hear it, she tripp'd down the stair, And in her fair hands did lovingly bear A cup of red wine, and a farle of cake, To give the old man, for loved Hynde Horn's sake.

And when she came to where Hynde Horn did stand, With joy he did take the cup from her hand; Then pledged the fair bride, the cup out did drain, Dropp'd in it the ring, and return'd it again.

"Oh, found you that ring by sea or on land, Or got you that ring off a dead man's hand?" "Oh, I found not that ring by sea or on land, But I got that ring from a fair lady's hand.

"As a pledge of true love she gave it to me, Full seven years ago, as I sail'd o'er the sea; But now that the diamonds are chang'd in their hue, I know that my love has to me proved untrue."

"Oh, I will cast off my gay costly gown, And follow thee on from town unto town, And I will take the gold combs from my hair, And follow my true love for ever mair."

"You need not cast off your gay costly gown, To follow me on from town unto town; You need not take the gold combs from your hair, For Hynde Horn has gold enough, and to spare."

He stood up erect, let his beggar weed fall, And shone there the foremost and noblest of all; Then the bridegrooms were chang'd, and the lady re-wed, To Hynde Horn thus come back, like one from the dead.

OLD BALLAD.

_Glenlogie_

There was monie a braw noble Came to our Queen's ha'; But the bonnie Glenlogie Was the flower of them a'. And the young Ladye Jeanie, Sae gude and sae fair, She fancied Glenlogie Aboon a' that were there.

She speired at his footman, That ran by his side, His name, and his sirname, And where he did bide. "He bides at Glenlogie, When he is at hame; He's of the gay Gordons, And George is his name."

She wrote to Glenlogie, To tell him her mind: "My love is laid on you, Oh, will you prove kind?" He turn'd about lightly, As the Gordons do a': "I thank you, fair Ladye, But I'm promis'd awa."

She call'd on her maidens Her jewels to take, And to lay her in bed, For her heart it did break. "Glenlogie! Glenlogie! "Glenlogie!" said she; "If I getna Glenlogie, I'm sure I will dee."

"Oh, hold your tongue, daughter, And weep na sae sair; For you'll get Drumfindlay, His father's young heir." "Oh, hold your tongue, father, And let me alane; If I getna Glenlogie, I'll never wed ane."

Then her father's old chaplain-- A man of great skill-- He wrote to Glenlogie, The cause of this ill; And her father, he sent off This letter with speed, By a trusty retainer, Who rode his best steed.

The first line that he read, A light laugh gave he; The next line that he read, The tear fill'd each e'e: "Oh, what a man am I, That a leal heart should break? Or that sic a fair maid Should die for my sake?

"Go, saddle my horse, Go, saddle him soon, Go, saddle the swiftest E'er rode frae the toun." But ere it was saddled, And brought to the door, Glenlogie was on the road Three miles or more.

When he came to her father's, Great grief there was there; There was weepin' and wailin', And sabbin' full sair. Oh, pale and wan was she When Glenlogie gaed in; But she grew red and rosy When Glenlogie gaed ben.

Then out spake her father, With tears in each e'e: "You're welcome, Glenlogie, You're welcome to me." And out spake her mother: "You're welcome," said she; "You're welcome, Glenlogie, Your Jeanie to see."

"Oh, turn, Ladye Jeanie, Turn round to this side, And I'll be the bridegroom, And you'll be the bride." Oh, it was a blythe wedding, As ever was seen; And bonnie Jeanie Melville Was scarcely sixteen.

OLD BALLAD.

INTERLEAVES

_Life Lessons_

_"They also serve who only stand and wait."_

MILTON.

_"Small service is true service while it lasts."_

WORDSWORTH.

_"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll!"_

HOLMES.

_"When Duty whispers low 'Thou must,' The youth replies, 'I can.'"_

EMERSON.

_"Thou must be true thyself, If thou the truth wouldst teach."_

BONAR.

_"I am content with what I have, Little be it, or much."_

BUNYAN.

_"As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, So nobleness enkindleth nobleness."_

LOWELL.

_"Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws Makes that and th' action fine."_

HERBERT.

"_This above all--to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man._"

SHAKESPEARE.

XVI

LIFE LESSONS

_Life_

* * * *

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

_From the "Psalm of Life."_

_In a Child's Album_

Small service is true service while it lasts; Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one; The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

_To-Day_

So here hath been dawning Another blue day: Think, wilt thou let it Slip useless away.

Out of Eternity This new day was born; Into Eternity, At night, will return.

Behold it aforetime No eye ever did; So soon it for ever From all eyes is hid.

Here hath been dawning Another blue day: Think, wilt thou let it Slip useless away.

THOMAS CARLYLE.

_The Noble Nature_

It is not growing like a tree In bulk doth make Man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night,-- It was the plant and flower of Light: In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

_Forbearance_

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, Nobility more nobly to repay? O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_The Chambered Nautilus_

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:--

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

_Duty_

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man; When Duty whispers low "Thou must," The youth replies, "I can."

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

_On His Blindness_

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide,-- Doth God exact day-labor, light denied, I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best: His State Is Kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er Land and Ocean without rest:-- They also serve who only stand and wait."

JOHN MILTON.

_Sir Launfal and the Leper_

As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same, Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, And midway its leap his heart stood still Like a frozen waterfall; For this man, so foul and bent of stature, Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,-- So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn.

The leper raised not the gold from the dust: "Better to me the poor man's crust, Better the blessing of the poor, Though I turn me empty from his door; That is no true alms which the hand can hold; He gives nothing but worthless gold Who gives from a sense of duty; But he who gives a slender mite, And gives to that which is out of sight, That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty Which runs through all and doth all unite,-- The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, The heart outstretches its eager palms, For a god goes with it and makes it store To the soul that was starving in darkness before."

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

_From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."_

_Opportunity_

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-- There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-- That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this Blunt thing!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

_Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel_

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An Angel writing in a book of gold:-- Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?"--The Vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men."

The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

_Be True_

Thou must be true thyself, If thou the truth wouldst teach; Thy soul must overflow, if thou Another's soul wouldst reach! It needs the overflow of heart To give the lips full speech.

Think truly, and thy thoughts Shall the world's famine feed; Speak truly, and each word of thine Shall be a fruitful seed; Live truly, and thy life shall be A great and noble creed.

HORATIO BONAR.

_The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation_

He that is down needs fear no fall, He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it or much: And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage: Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

JOHN BUNYAN.

_A Turkish Legend_

A certain pasha, dead five thousand years, Once from his harem fled in sudden tears,

And had this sentence on the city's gate Deeply engraven, "Only God is great."

So these four words above the city's noise Hung like the accents of an angel's voice.

And evermore from the high barbican, Saluted each returning caravan.

Lost is that city's glory. Every gust Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown pasha's dust,

And all is ruin, save one wrinkled gate Whereon is written, "Only God is great."

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

_Elegy written in a Country Churchyard_

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour-- The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes--

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove: Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.-- Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

_Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own._

_Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend._

_No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God._

THOMAS GRAY.

_Polonius to Laertes_

And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear't, that th' opposer may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are of a most select and generous choice in that. Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all,--to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "Hamlet."_

_The Olive Tree_

Said an ancient hermit, bending Half in prayer upon his knee, "Oil I need for midnight watching, I desire an olive tree."

Then he took a tender sapling, Planted it before his cave, Spread his trembling hands above it, As his benison he gave.

But he thought, the rain it needeth, That the root may drink and swell; "God! I pray Thee send Thy showers!" So a gentle shower fell.

"Lord, I ask for beams of summer, Cherishing this little child." Then the dripping clouds divided, And the sun looked down and smiled.

"Send it frost to brace its tissues, O my God!" the hermit cried. Then the plant was bright and hoary, But at evensong it died.

Went the hermit to a brother Sitting in his rocky cell: "Thou an olive tree possessest; How is this, my brother, tell?

"I have planted one, and prayed, Now for sunshine, now for rain; God hath granted each petition, Yet my olive tree hath slain!"

Said the other, "I entrusted To its God my little tree; He who made knew what it needed, Better than a man like me.

"Laid I on him no condition, Fixed no ways and means; so I Wonder not my olive thriveth, Whilst thy olive tree did die."

SABINE BARING-GOULD.

_Coronation_

At the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings."

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour-glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?" The beggar turned, and pitying, Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown, and threw it by. "O man! thou must have known," he said, "A greater king than I."

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before _his_ throne I stand?"

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king's hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced. "This is his presence now."

At the king's gate, the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one.

"Ho there! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead.

H. H.

_December_

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity: The north cannot undo them, With a sleety whistle through them; Nor frozen thawings glue them From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at passed joy? To know the change and feel it, When there is none to heal it, Nor numbed sense to steal it, Was never said in rhyme.

JOHN KEATS.

_The End of the Play_

The play is done; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's anything but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends, Let's close it with a parting rhyme, And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas time. On life's wide scenes you, too, have parts, That Fate ere long shall bid you play; Good-night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!

* * * *

Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with ah honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize? Go, lose or conquer as you can: But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman.

A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days: The shepherds heard it overhead-- The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men.

My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still-- Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

_From "Dr. Birch and his Young Friends."_

_A Farewell_

My fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day.

* * * *

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

_A Boy's Prayer_

God who created me Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free, To run, to ride, to swim: Not when the sense is dim, But now from the heart of joy, I would remember Him: Take the thanks of a boy.

* * * *

HENRY CHARLES BEECHING.

_Chartless_

I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.

I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.

EMILY DICKINSON.

_Peace_

My soul, there is a country, Afar beyond the stars, Where stands a winged sentry, All skilful in the wars. There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious friend, And (O my soul, awake!) Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither, There grows the flower of peace, The rose that cannot wither, Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But One who never changes, Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure.

HENRY VAUGHAN.

_Consider_

Consider The lilies of the field, whose bloom is brief-- We are as they; Like them we fade away, As doth a leaf.

Consider The sparrows of the air, of small account: Our God doth view Whether they fall or mount-- He guards us too.

Consider The lilies, that do neither spin nor toil, Yet are most fair-- What profits all this care, And all this coil?

Consider The birds, that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; God gives them food-- Much more our Father seeks To do us good.

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

_The Elixir_

Teach me, my God and King, In all things Thee to see, And what I do in anything, To do it as for Thee.

* * * *

All may of Thee partake: Nothing can be so mean Which with this tincture (for Thy sake) Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine: Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, Makes that and th' action fine.

This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold; For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for less be told.

GEORGE HERBERT.

_One by One_

One by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going; Do not strive to grasp them all.

One by one thy duties wait thee-- Let thy whole strength go to each, Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach.

One by one (bright gifts from heaven) Joys are sent thee here below; Take them readily when given-- Ready, too, to let them go.

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee; Do not fear an armed band; One will fade as others greet thee-- Shadows passing through the land.

Do not look at life's long sorrow; See how small each moment's pain; God will help thee for to-morrow, So each day begin again.

Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear; Luminous the crown, and holy, When each gem is set with care.

Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond; Nor, thy daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond.

Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven; but, one by one, Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

_The Commonwealth of the Bees_

(Type of a Well-ordered State.)

For government, though high, and low, and lower, Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, Congreeing in a full and natural close, Like music. Therefore doth heaven divide The state of man in divers functions, Setting endeavor in continual motion; To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, Obedience; for so work the honey-bees, Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach The art of order to a peopled kingdom: They have a king and officers of state, Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil citizens kneading up the honey, The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate; The sad-eyed Justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o'er to executors pale The lazy, yawning drone.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "King Henry V."_

_The Pilgrim_

Who would true valor see Let him come hither! One here will constant be, Come wind, come weather: There's no discouragement Shall make him once relent His first-avow'd intent To be a Pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round With dismal stories, Do but themselves confound; His strength the more is. No lion can him fright; He'll with a giant fight; But he will have a right To be a Pilgrim.

Nor enemy, nor fiend, Can daunt his spirit; He knows he at the end Shall Life inherit:-- Then, fancies, fly away; He'll not fear what men say; He'll labor, night and day, To be a Pilgrim.

JOHN BUNYAN.

_Be Useful_

Be useful where thou livest, that they may Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still. ----Find out men's wants and will, And meet them there. All worldly joys go less To the one joy of doing kindnesses.

GEORGE HERBERT.

INTERLEAVES

_The Glad Evangel_

When the Child of Nazareth was born, the sun, according to the Bosnian legend, "leaped in the heavens, and the stars around it danced. A peace came over mountain and forest. Even the rotten stump stood straight and healthy on the green hill-side. The grass was beflowered with open blossoms, incense sweet as myrrh pervaded upland and forest, birds sang on the mountain top, and all gave thanks to the great God."

It is naught but an old folk-tale, but it has truth hidden at its heart, for a strange, subtle force, a spirit of genial good-will, a new-born kindness, seem to animate child and man alike when the world pays its tribute to the "heaven-sent youngling," as the poet Drummond calls the infant Christ.

When the Three Wise Men rode from the East into the West on that "first, best Christmas night," they bore on their saddle-bows three caskets filled with gold and frankincense and myrrh, to be laid at the feet of the manger-cradled babe of Bethlehem. Beginning with this old, old journey, the spirit of giving crept into the world's heart. As the Magi came bearing gifts, so do we also; gifts that relieve want, gifts that are sweet and fragrant with friendship, gifts that breathe love, gifts that mean service, gifts inspired still by the star that shone over the City of David nearly two thousand years ago.

Then hang the green coronet of the Christmas-tree with glittering baubles and jewels of flame; heap offerings on its emerald branches; bring the Yule log to the firing; deck the house with holly and mistletoe,

_"And all the bells on earth shall ring On Christmas day in the morning."_

XVII

THE GLAD EVANGEL

_A Christmas Carol_[24]

There's a song in the air! There's a star in the sky! There's a mother's deep prayer And a baby's low cry! And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.

There's a tumult of joy O'er the wonderful birth, For the virgin's sweet boy Is the Lord of the earth, Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing, For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king!

In the light of that star Lie the ages impearled; And that song from afar Has swept over the world. Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing In the homes of the nations that Jesus is king.

We rejoice in the light, And we echo the song That comes down through the night From the heavenly throng. Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King!

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

[Footnote 24: _From "The Poetical Works of J. G. Holland." Copyright, 1881, by Charles Scribner's Sons._]

_The Angels_

Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears. We bring the best of news; be not dismayed: A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven's rolling height this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid, A weakling did him bear, who all upbears; There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres: Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth. This is that night--no, day, grown great with bliss, In which the power of Satan broken is: In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth! Thus singing, through the air the angels swam, And cope of stars re-echoed the same.

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

"_While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night"_

Like small curled feathers, white and soft, The little clouds went by, Across the moon, and past the stars, And down the western sky: In upland pastures, where the grass With frosted dew was white, Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay, That first, best Christmas night.

The shepherds slept; and, glimmering faint, With twist of thin, blue smoke, Only their fire's crackling flames The tender silence broke-- Save when a young lamb raised his head, Or, when the night wind blew, A nesting bird would softly stir, Where dusky olives grew--

With finger on her solemn lip, Night hushed the shadowy earth, And only stars and angels saw The little Saviour's birth; Then came such flash of silver light Across the bending skies, The wondering shepherds woke, and hid Their frightened, dazzled eyes!

And all their gentle sleepy flock Looked up, then slept again, Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars Brought endless Peace to men-- Nor even heard the gracious words That down the ages ring-- "The Christ is born! the Lord has come, Good-will on earth to bring!"

Then o'er the moonlit, misty fields, Dumb with the world's great joy, The shepherds sought the white-walled town, Where lay the baby boy-- And oh, the gladness of the world, The glory of the skies, Because the longed-for Christ looked up In Mary's happy eyes!

MARGARET DELAND.

_The Star Song_

Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue, Where is the Babe but lately sprung? Lies he the lily-banks among?

Or say, if this new Birth of ours Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers, Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear All doubts, and manifest the where.

Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek Him in the morning's blushing cheek, Or search the beds of spices through, To find him out?

_Star._--No, this ye need not do; But only come and see Him rest, A princely babe, in's mother's breast.

ROBERT HERRICK.

_Hymn for Christmas_

Oh! lovely voices of the sky Which hymned the Saviour's birth, Are ye not singing still on high, Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"? To us yet speak the strains Wherewith, in time gone by, Ye blessed the Syrian swains, Oh! voices of the sky!

Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams That hour Heaven's glory shed, Around the palms, and o'er the streams, And on the shepherd's head. Be near, through life and death, As in that holiest night Of hope, and joy, and faith-- Oh! clear and shining light!

* * * *

FELICIA HEMANS.

_New Prince, New Pomp_

Behold a simple, tender Babe, In freezing winter night, In homely manger trembling lies; Alas! a piteous sight.

The inns are full; no man will yield This little Pilgrim bed; But forced he is with silly beasts In crib to shroud his head.

Despise him not for lying there; First what he is inquire: An Orient pearl is often found In depth of dirty mire.

Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish, Nor beasts that by him feed; Weigh not his mother's poor attire, Nor Joseph's simple weed. This stable is a Prince's court, The crib his chair of state; The beasts are parcel of his pomp, The wooden dish his plate.

The persons in that poor attire His royal liveries wear; The Prince himself is come from heaven: This pomp is praised there.

With joy approach, O Christian wight! Do homage to thy King; And highly praise this humble pomp, Which he from heaven doth bring.

ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

_The Three Kings_

Three Kings came riding from far away, Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; Three Wise Men out of the East were they, And they travelled by night and they slept by day, For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large and clear, That all the other stars of the sky Became a white mist in the atmosphere; And by this they knew that the coming was near Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, Three caskets of gold with golden keys; Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, Through the dusk of night over hills and dells, And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, With the people they met at the wayside wells.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; For we in the East have seen his star, And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain; We know of no king but Herod the Great!" They thought the Wise Men were men insane, As they spurred their horses across the plain Like riders in haste who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem, Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away, and the star stood still, The only one in the gray of morn; Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, Right over Bethlehem on the hill, The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, Through the silent street, till their horses turned And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay, In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, The little child in the manger lay, The Child that would be King one day Of a kingdom not human, but divine.

His mother, Mary of Nazareth, Sat watching beside his place of rest, Watching the even flow of his breath, For the joy of life and the terror of death Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet: The gold was their tribute to a King; The frankincense, with its odor sweet, Was for the Priest, the Paraclete; The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, And sat as still as a statue of stone; Her heart was troubled yet comforted, Remembering what the angel had said Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; But they went not back to Herod the Great, For they knew his malice and feared his hate, And returned to their homes by another way.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

_The Three Kings_[25]

From out Cologne there came three kings To worship Jesus Christ, their King; To him they sought fine herbs they brought And many a beauteous golden thing; They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town And in that manger set them down.

Then spake the first king, and he said: "O Child most heavenly, bright and fair, I bring this crown to Bethlehem town For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; So give a heavenly crown to me When I shall come at last to Thee."

The second then: "I bring thee here This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; "Of silk 'tis spun and such an one There is not in the world beside! So in the day of doom requite Me with a heavenly robe of white!"

The third king gave his gift, and quoth: "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, And with these twain would I most fain Anoint the body of my King. So may their incense some time rise To plead for me in yonder skies."

Thus spake the three kings of Cologne That gave their gifts and went their way; And now kneel I in prayer hard-by The cradle of the Child to-day; Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring As offering unto Christ my King.

Yet have I brought a gift the Child May not despise, however small; For here I lay my heart to-day, And it is fun of love to all! Take Thou the poor, but loyal thing, My only tribute, Christ, my King.

EUGENE FIELD.

[Footnote 25: _From "With Trumpet and Drum" by Eugene Field Copyright, 1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons._]

_A Christmas Hymn_

It was the calm and silent night! Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was queen of land and sea. No sound was heard of clashing wars-- Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars Held undisturbed their ancient reign, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago.

'Twas in the calm and silent night! The senator of haughty Rome, Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, From lordly revel rolling home; Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago?

Within that province far away Went plodding home a weary boor; A streak of light before him lay, Falling through a half-shut stable-door Across his path. He passed--for naught Told what was going on within; How keen the stars, his only thought-- The air how calm, and cold, and thin, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

Oh, strange indifference! low and high Drowsed over common joys and cares; The earth was still--but knew not why, The world was listening, unawares. How calm a moment may precede One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment, none would heed, Man's doom was linked no more to sever-- In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness--charmed and holy now! The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay, new-born, The peaceful prince of earth and heaven, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago!

ALFRED DOMMETT.

_O Little Town of Bethlehem_

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light; The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary, And, gathered all above, While mortals sleep, the angels keep Their watch of wondering love. O morning stars, together Proclaim the holy birth! And praises sing to God the King, And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently, The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming, But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem! Descend to us, we pray; Cast out our sin, and enter in, Be born in us to-day. We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell; Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!

PHILLIPS BROOKS.

_While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night_

While shepherds watched their flocks by night, All seated on the ground, The angel of the Lord came down, And glory shone around.

"Fear not," said he, for mighty dread Had seized their troubled mind; "Glad tidings of great joy I bring To you and all mankind.

"To you, in David's town, this day Is born, of David's line, The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, And this shall be the sign:

"The heavenly babe you there shall find To human view displayed, All meanly wrapped in swaddling bands, And in a manger laid."

Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith Appeared a shining throng Of angels, praising God, who thus Addressed their joyful song:

"All glory be to God on high, And to the earth be peace; Good will henceforth from Heaven to men Begin and never cease."

NAHUM TATE.

_Christmas Carol_

As Joseph was a-walking, He heard an angel sing, "This night shall be the birthnight Of Christ our heavenly King.

"His birth-bed shall be neither In housen nor in hall, Nor in the place of paradise, But in the oxen's stall.

"He neither shall be rocked In silver nor in gold, But in the wooden manger That lieth in the mould.

"He neither shall be washen With white wine nor with red, But with the fair spring water That on you shall be shed.

"He neither shall be clothed In purple nor in pall, But in the fair, white linen That usen babies all."

As Joseph was a-walking, Thus did the angel sing, And Mary's son at midnight Was born to be our King.

Then be you glad, good people, At this time of the year; And light you up your candles, For His star it shineth clear.

OLD ENGLISH.

_Old Christmas_

Now he who knows old Christmas, He knows a carle of worth; For he is as good a fellow As any upon earth.

He comes warm cloaked and coated, And buttoned up to the chin, And soon as he comes a-nigh the door We open and let him in.

We know that he will not fail us, So we sweep the hearth up clean; We set him in the old arm-chair, And a cushion whereon to lean.

And with sprigs of holly and ivy We make the house look gay, Just out of an old regard to him, For it was his ancient way.

* * * *

He must be a rich old fellow: What money he gives away! There is not a lord in England Could equal him any day.

Good luck unto old Christmas, And long life, let us sing, For he doth more good unto the poor Than many a crowned king!

MARY HOWITT.

_God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen_

God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing you dismay, For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day. The dawn rose red o'er Bethlehem, the stars shone through the gray, When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.

God rest ye, little children; let nothing you affright, For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night; Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay, When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas-day.

God rest ye, all good Christians; upon this blessed morn The Lord of all good Christians was of a woman born: Now all your sorrows He doth heal, your sins He takes away; For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

_Minstrels and Maids_

Outlanders, whence come ye last? _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ Through what green seas and great have ye past? _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

From far away, O masters mine, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ We come to bear you goodly wine, _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

From far away we come to you, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ To tell of great tidings strange and true, _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

News, news of the Trinity, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ And Mary and Joseph from over the sea! _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

For as we wandered far and wide, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ What hap do you deem there should us betide! _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

Under a bent when the night was deep, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ There lay three shepherds tending their sheep. _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

"O ye shepherds, what have ye seen, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?" _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

"In an ox-stall this night we saw, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ A babe and a maid without a flaw. _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

"There was an old man there beside, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ His hair was white and his hood was wide. _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

"And as we gazed this thing upon, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ Those twain knelt down to the Little One, _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

"And a marvellous song we straight did hear, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ That slew our sorrow and healed our care." _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

News of a fair and marvellous thing, _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing! _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._

WILLIAM MORRIS.

_An Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour_

In numbers, and but these few, I sing thy birth, O Jesu! Thou pretty baby, born here With sup'rabundant scorn here: Who for thy princely port here, Hadst for thy place Of birth, a base Out-stable for thy court here.

Instead of neat enclosures Of interwoven osiers, Instead of fragrant posies Of daffodils and roses, Thy cradle, kingly stranger, As gospel tells, Was nothing else But here a homely manger.

But we with silks, not crewels, With sundry precious jewels, And lily work will dress thee; And, as we dispossess thee Of clouts, we'll make a chamber, Sweet babe, for thee Of ivory, And plaster'd round with amber.

* * * *

ROBERT HERRICK.

_Old Christmas Returned_

All you that to feasting and mirth are inclined, Come here is good news for to pleasure your mind, Old Christmas is come for to keep open house, He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse: Then come, boys, and welcome for diet the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.

The holly and ivy about the walls wind And show that we ought to our neighbors be kind, Inviting each other for pastime and sport, And where we best fare, there we most do resort; We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.

All travellers, as they do pass on their way, At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay, Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest, Since that he must be Old Christmas's guest; Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief, Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.

OLD CAROL.

_Ceremonies for Christmas_

Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing, While my good dame, she Bids ye all be free, And drink to your heart's desiring.

With the last year's brand Light the new block, and For good success in his spending, On your psalteries play, That sweet luck may Come while the log is a-teending.

Drink now the strong beer, Cut the white loaf here, The while the meat is a-shredding; For the rare mince-pie, And the plums stand by, To fill the paste that's a-kneading.

ROBERT HERRICK.

_Christmas in England._

Heap on more wood!--the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still; Each age has deem'd the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer; Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane At Iol more deep the mead did drain; High on the beach his galleys drew, And feasted all his pirate crew.

* * * *

On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; On Christmas Eve the mass was sung: That only night in all the year Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; The hall was dressed with holly green; Forth to the wood did merry-men go, To gather in the mistletoe; Then open'd wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all. Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes, That night might village partner choose; The Lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of "Post and pair." All hail'd with uncontroll'd delight And general voice the happy night, That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down.

* * * *

"England was merry England when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

_From "Marmion."_

_The Gracious Time_

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long: And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "Hamlet."_

_Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning_

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odors of Edom and offerings divine? Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favor secure: Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

REGINALD HEBER.

THE END

INDEX BY AUTHORS

ADDISON, JOSEPH [1672-1719]: _The Spacious Firmament on High_, 54.

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY [1836--]: _Maple Leaves_, 17; _Before the Rain_, 31; _Tiger-Lilies_, 71; _A Turkish Legend_, 611.

ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES [1830-1895]: _The Burial of Moses_, 504.

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM [1824-1889]: _Wild Rose_, 70; _The Fairy Folk_, 174; _Blowing Bubbles_, 195; _Windlass Song_, 268; _The Abbot of Inisfalen_, 474.

ANDERSON, ALEXANDER [1845--]: _Cuddle Doon_, 126.

ARNOLD, EDWIN [1831--]: _Almond Blossom_, 69.

ARNOLD, GEORGE [1834-1865]: _Sweet September_, 15.

ARNOLD, MATTHEW [1822-1888]: _The Forsaken Merman_, 444.

AUSTIN, ALFRED [1835--]: _To America_, 347.

AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE [1813-1865]: _The Old Scottish Cavalier_, 281.

BALLADS, OLD: _Sir Patrick Spens_, 551; _The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington_, 555; _King John and the Abbot of Canterbury_, 558; _Lord Beichan and Susie Pye_, 563; _The Gay Gos-hawk_, 569; _Earl Mar's Daughter_, 576; _Chevy-Chace,_ 582; _Hynde Horn,_ 593; _Glenlogie,_ 597.

BARING-GOULD, SABINE [1834--]: _The Olive Tree_, 619.

BEECHING, HENRY CHARLES [1859--]: _Bicycling Song_, 196; _A Boy's Prayer_, 626.

BENNETT, HENRY HOLCOMB [1863--]: _The Flag Goes By_, 324.

BENNETT, WILLIAM COX [1820-1895]: _Invocation to Rain in Summer_, 34; _To a Cricket_, 113.

BLAKE, WILLIAM [1757-1828]: _The Tiger_, 53.

BOKER, GEORGE HENRY [1823-1890]: _The Black Regiment_, 326.

BONAR, HORATIO [1808-1890]: _Be True_, 610.

BROOKS, PHILLIPS [1835-1893]: _O Little Town of Bethlehem,_ 648.

BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD [1820-1872]: _Abraham Lincoln_, 321; _Night Quarters_, 329.

BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT [1809-1861]: _Reading_ (from "Aurora Leigh"), 209; _A Portrait_, 231; _Romance of the Swan's Nest_, 423.

BROWNING, ROBERT [1812-1889]: _April in England_, 8; _How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix_, 464; _The Pied Piper of Hamelin_, 480; _Herve Riel_, 493; _Incident of the French Camp_, 544.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN [1794-1878]: _March_, 6; _The Planting of the Apple Tree_, 59; _To the Fringed Gentian_, 72; _The Death of the Flowers_, 88; _To a Waterfowl_, 105; _The Twenty-second of December_, 306.

BUNYAN, JOHN [1628-1688]: _The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation_, 610; _The Pilgrim_, 632.

BURNS, ROBERT [1759-1796]: _To a Mountain Daisy_, 73; _Chloe_, 238; _O Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet_, 239; _I Love My Jean_, 252; _My Nannie's Awa'_, 253; _My Heart's in the Highlands_, 277; _Bannockburn_, 539.

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD [1788-1824]: _Swimming_ (from "The Two Foscari"), 202; _To the Ocean_ (from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"), 225; _Vision of Belshazzar_, 500; _The Night before Waterloo_ (from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"), 540; _The Destruction of Sennacherib_, 548.

CAMPBELL, THOMAS [1777-1844]: _Ye Mariners of England_, 290; _Lord Ullin's Daughter_, 416; _Battle of the Baltic_, 511; _Hohenlinden_, 542.

CAREW, THOMAS [1589-1639]: _Spring_, 7.

CARLYLE, THOMAS [1795-1881]: _To-Day_, 602.

CARMAN, BLISS [1861--]: _A Vagabond Song_, 201.

CARROLL, LEWIS (REV. CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON)[1832-1890]: _A Song of Love_, 122; _The Walrus and the Carpenter_, 381.

CARY, ALICE [1820-1871]: The "_Gray Swan_," 452.

CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH [1819-1861]: _Where Lies the Land?_ 273.

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR [1772-1834]: _Kubla Khan_, 160; _The Knight's Tomb_, 292.

COLLINS, WILLIAM [1720-1756]: _How Sleep the Brave!_ 292.

COOLIDGE, SUSAN (SARAH C. WOOLSEY) [1845-1905]: _Bind-Weed_, 74; _Time to Go_, 86.

CORNWALL, BARRY (BRYAN WALLER PROCTER) [1790-1874]: _The Hunter's Song_, 223; _The Blood Horse_, 225; _The Sea_, 258.

COWPER, WILLIAM [1731-1800]: _The Diverting History of John Gilpin_, 359; _On the Loss of the Royal George_, 535.

CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE [1813-1892]: _The Bobolinks_, 103.

CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN [1784-1842]: _A Sea-Song_, 259; _Loyalty_, 276.

DELAND, MARGARET [1857--]: _While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night_, 637.

DICKINSON, EMILY [1830-1886]: _The Grass_, 81; _The Bee_, 116; _Chartless_, 626.

DOBELL, SYDNEY [1824-1874]: _The Procession of the Flowers_, 67; _How's My Boy?_ 462.

DOBSON, AUSTIN [1840--]: _The Child-Musician_, 463.

DOMMETT, ALFRED [1811-1887]: _A Christmas Hymn_, 646.

DOUGLAS OF FINGLAND, WILLIAM: _Annie Laurie_, 243.

DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN [1795-1820]: _The Culprit Fay_ (Extracts), 168; _The American Flag_ (Extract), 311.

DRAYTON, MICHAEL [1563-1631]: _A Fine Day_, 5; _The Arming of Pigwiggen_ (from "Nymphidia"), 149; _The Battle of Agincourt_, 517.

DRUMMOND, WILLIAM [1585-1649]: _Phyllis_, 251; _The Angels_, 636.

DRYDEN, JOHN [1631-1700]: _Alexander's Feast_ (from "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day"), 158; _Fife and Drum_ (from "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day"), 280.

ELIOT, GEORGE [1820-1880]: _I Am Lonely_ (from "The Spanish Gypsy"), 128; _Brother and Sister_, 129.

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO [1803-1882]: _April and May_ (from "May-Day"), 9; _The Snow Storm_, 21; _The Rhodora_, 76; _The Humble-Bee_, 116; _Concord Hymn_, 315; _Ode Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857_, 316; _Forbearance_, 603; _Duty_, 605.

FANSHAWE, CATHERINE M. [1765-1834]: _A Riddle_, 373.

FLETCHER, JOHN [1576-1625]: _Evening Song_, 3.

FORD, ROBERT [1846--]: _The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl'_, 125.

FIELD, EUGENE [1850-1895]: _The Three Kings_, 644.

FIELDS, JAMES T. [1816-1881]: _Song of the Turtle and Flamingo_, 385.

FITZGERALD, EDWARD [1809-1883]: _Old Song_, 213.

GAY, JOHN [1688-1732]: _The Council of Horses_, 356; _The Lion and the Cub_, 378.

GILBERT, WILLIAM SCHWENCK [1836--]: _Captain Reece_, 387.

GOLDSMITH, OLIVER [1728-1774]: _The First, Best Country_ (from "The Traveller"), 275; _Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog_, 379.

GRAY, THOMAS [1746-1771]: _On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes_, 353; _Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard_, 612.

HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE [1790-1867]: _Marco Bozzaris_, 545.

HARTE, BRET [1839-1902]: _Jessie_, 246; _The Reveille_, 288; _A Greyport Legend_, 458.

HAY, JOHN [1838--]: _The Enchanted Shirt_, 395.

HEBER, REGINALD [1783-1826]: _Providence_, 119; _Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning_, 661.

H. H. (HELEN HUNT JACKSON) [1831-1885]: _October's Bright Blue Weather_, 16; _Down to Sleep_, 18; _Coronation_, 620.

HEMANS, FELICIA [1749-1835]: _Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers_, 305; _Hymn for Christmas_, 639.

HENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST [1849-1903]: _Home_, 131; _Made in the Hot Weather_, 398.

HERBERT, GEORGE [1593-1632]: _The Elixir_, 629; _Be Useful_, 633.

HERRICK, ROBERT [1591-1674]: _To Daffodils_, 78; _Going A-Maying_, 197; _The Star Song_, 638; _An Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour_, 656; _Ceremonies for Christmas_, 658.

HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENTWORTH [1823--]: _The Snowing of the Pines_, 66.

HOGG, JAMES (THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD) [1772-1835]: _The Skylark_, 102.

HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT [1819-1881]: _A Christmas Carol_, 635.

"HOLM, SAXE": _A Song of Clover_, 76.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL [1809-1894]: _Old Ironsides_ (U. S. S. "Constitution"), 312; _The Chambered Nautilus_, 604.

HOOD, THOMAS [1798-1845]: _Ruth_, 242; _November_, 402.

HOUGHTON, LORD (RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) [1809-1885]: _Our Mother Tongue_, 345.

HOWE, JULIA WARD [1819--]: _Battle-Hymn of the Republic_, 331.

HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN [1837--]: _In August_, 14.

HOWITT, MARY [1804-1888]: _The Monkey_, 401; _Old Christmas_, 652.

HOWITT, WILLIAM [1792-1879]: _The Northern Seas_, 226.

HUNT, JAMES HENRY LEIGH [1784-1859]: _To the Grasshopper and the Cricket_, 115; _Two Heavens_, 121; _Captain Sword_, 403; _The Glove and the Lions_, 460; _Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel_, 609.

INGELOW, JEAN [1830-1897]: _Seven Times Two_, 411; _The Long White Seam_, 413; _The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire_, 438.

JONSON, BEN [1574-1637]: _Hesperus' Song_ (from "Cynthia's Revels"), 151; _So Sweet Is She_ (from "The Triumph of Charis"), 251; _The Noble Nature_, 603.

KEATS, JOHN [1796-1820]: _Morning_, 1; _Minnows_, 45; _The Sigh of Silence_, 58; _Sweet Peas_, 68; _Goldfinches_, 107; _On the Grasshopper and Cricket_, 114; _On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer_, 210; _December_, 622.

KINGSLEY, CHARLES [1819-1875]: _Ode to the Northeast Wind_, 36; _Clear and Cool_ (from "The Water-Babies"), 44; _A Myth_, 173; _Ballad_, 422; _The Sands of Dee_, 450; _A Farewell_, 625.

KIPLING, RUDYARD [1865--]: _Recessional_, 297; _The Dove of Dacca_, 472.

LARCOM, LUCY [1826-1893]: _Hannah Binding Shoes_, 414.

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH [1807-1882]: _The Harvest Moon_, 27; _Rain in Summer_, 32; _A New Household_, 121; _Home Song_, 138; _The Wreck of the Hesperus_, 454; _Life_ (from the "Psalm of Life"), 601; _The Three Kings_, 641.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL [1819-1891]: _June Weather_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 11; _A Winter Morning_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 20; _The Brook in Winter_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 42; _To the Dandelion_ (Extract), 77; _The Fatherland_, 298; _Washington_ (from "Under the Old Elm"), 307; _Stanzas on Freedom_, 317; _The Singing Leaves_, 407; _Sir Launfal and the Leper_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 606.

LAMB, CHARLES [1775-1834] AND MARY [1765-1847]: _Feigned Courage_, 374.

LAMB, CHARLES: _The Housekeeper_, 400.

LANG, ANDREW [1844--]: _Scythe Song_, 86.

LANIER, SIDNEY [1842-1881]: _Dear Land of All My Love_ (from "The Centennial Ode," 1876), 301.

MACAULAY, LORD (THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY) [1800-1859]: _The Armada: A Fragment_, 524; _Ivry_, 530.

MACDONALD, GEORGE [1824--]: _Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable_, 99

MARKHAM, EDWIN [1852--]: _Lincoln the Great Commoner_, 319.

MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER [1564-1593]: _The Shepherd to His Love_, 420.

MARTIN, WILLIAM [1834-1896]: _An Apple Orchard in the Spring_, 63.

MARVELL, ANDREW [1621-1678]: _Bermudas_, 272.

McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREYS [1829-1887]: _Carmen Bellicosum_, 309.

MEREDITH, OWEN (EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON) [1831-1892]: _The White Anemone_, 80.

MICKLE, WILLIAM J. [1734-1788]: _The Sailor's Wife_, 134.

MILLER, JOAQUIN [1841--]: _Columbus_, 301; _Crossing the Plains_, 314.

MILNES, RICHARD MONCKTON. See Houghton, Lord.

MILTON, JOHN [1608-1674]: _Evening in Paradise_ (from "Paradise Lost"), 2; _The Eternal Spring_, 5; _Song on May Morning_, 10; _The World Beautiful_ (from "Paradise Lost"), 27; _A Scene in Paradise_ (from "Paradise Lost"), 52; _L'Allegro_ (Extracts), 152; _Sabrina Fair_ (from "Comus"), 157; _On His Blindness_, 606.

MITCHELL, WALTER [1826--]: _Tacking Ship Off Shore_, 265.

MORE, HANNAH [1745-1853]: _A Riddle_, 371.

MOORE, THOMAS [1779-1852]: _The Minstrel-Boy_, 278; _The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls_, 279.

MORRIS, WILLIAM [1834-1899]: _Minstrels and Maids_, 654.

MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM [1797-1835]: _Sing On, Blithe Bird!_ 93; _The Cavalier's Song_, 280.

MULOCK, DINAH MARIA (MRS. CRAIK) [1826-1887]: _Autumn's Processional_, 16; _Highland Cattle_, 50; _Green Things Growing_, 57; _God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen_, 653.

NOEL, THOMAS [1799-1861]: _Old Winter_, 22.

NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH (LADY STIRLING-MAXWELL) [1808-1876]: _The King of Denmark's Ride_, 418.

PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM [1819-1892]: _Dirge for One Who Fell in Battle_, 293.

PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE [1785-1866]: _The Priest and the Mulberry Tree_, 355.

PECK, SAMUEL MINTURN [1854--]: _Autumn's Mirth_, 90.

PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES [1795-1856]: _The Coral Grove_, 269.

PIERPONT, JOHN [1785-1866]: _Whittling_, 220; _Warren's Address_, 308.

POE, EDGAR ALLAN [1809-1849]: _The Raven_, 182; _The Bells_, 189.

POPE, ALEXANDER [1688-1744]: _Descend, Ye Nine_ (from "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day"), 212.

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH [1802-1839]: _Charade_, 370.

PRIOR, MATTHEW [1664-1721]: _To a Child of Quality_, 369.

PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE [1826-1864]: _One by One_, 629.

PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER. See Cornwall, Barry.

PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN [1838--]: _Columbia's Emblem_, 84.

RAMSAY, ALLAN [1713-1784]: _My Peggy_ (from "The Gentle Shepherd"), 243.

READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN [1822-1872]: _The Windy Night_, 39; _Drifting_, 262; _Sheridan's Ride_, 332.

RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB [1853--]: _The Name of Old Glory_ (from "Home Folks"), 349.

ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. [1830-1894]: _Child's Talk in April_, 109; _All Things Wait Upon Thee_, 119; _Consider_, 628.

ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL [1828-1882]: _A Young Fir-Wood_, 65.

SARGENT, EPES [1813-1880]: _A Life on the Ocean Wave_, 257.

SAXE, JOHN G. [1816-1887]: _Solomon and the Bees_, 502.

SCOTT, SIR WALTER [1771-1832]: _Hunting Song_, 222; _My Native Land_ (from "The Lay of the Last Minstrel"), 276; _Border Ballad_ (from "The Monastery"), 286; _Gathering Song of Donuil Dhu_, 287; _Soldier, Rest!_ (from "The Lady of the Lake"), 296; _Lochinvar_ (from "Marmion"), 427; _Jock of Hazeldean_, 430; _Christmas in England_ (from "Marmion"), 659.

SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM [1564-1616]: _A Morning Song_ (from "Cymbeline"), 2; _When Icicles Hang by the Wall_ (from "Love's Labor's Lost"), 19; _Under the Greenwood Tree_ (from "As You Like It"), 59; _Fairyland_ (from "Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 145; _Puck and the Fairy_ (from "Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 145; _Lullaby for Titania_ (from "Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 146; _Oberon and Titania to the Fairy Train_ (from "Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 147; _Ariel's Songs_ (from "The Tempest"), 147; _Orpheus with His Lute_ (from "King Henry VIII."), 149; _Jog On, Jog On_ (from "A Winter's Tale"), 200; _Music's Silver Sound_ (from "Romeo and Juliet"), 210; _The Power of Music_ (from "The Merchant of Venice"), 211; _Who Is Silvia?_ (from "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"), 240; _Helena and Hermia_ (from "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 250; _Polonius to Laertes_ (from "Hamlet"), 618; _The Commonwealth of the Bees_ (from "King Henry V."), 631; _The Gracious Time_ (from "Hamlet"), 661.

SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE [1792-1822]: _Daybreak_, 1; _Dirge for the Year_, 25; _The Cloud_, 28; _To a Skylark_, 94; _The Magic Car Moved On_ (from "Queen Mab"), 162; _Arethusa_, 165; _A Child of Twelve_ (from "The Revolt of Islam"), 237.

SHENSTONE, WILLIAM [1714-1763]: _The Shepherd's Home_, 112.

SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND [1841-1887]: _Opportunity_, 608.

SKELTON, JOHN [1460-1529]: _To Mistress Margaret Hussey_, 240.

SOUTHEY, ROBERT [1774-1843]: _Night_, 4; _The Cataract of Lodore_, 391; _The Inchcape Rock_, 468; _The Battle of Blenheim_, 522.

SOUTHWELL, ROBERT [1556-1595]: _New Prince, New Pomp_, 640.

SPENSER, EDMUND [1552-1599]: _The Seasons_ (from "The Faerie Queene"), 5; _May_, 9; _Summer_ (from "The Faerie Queene"), 10; _August_, 14; _Autumn_ (from "The Faerie Queene"), 15; _Winter_, 19.

SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT [1835--]: _A Snowdrop_, 69.

SPRAGUE, CHARLES [1791-1875]: _Indians_, 313.

STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE [1833--]: _The Flight of the Birds_, 111; _Going A-Nutting_, 219.

STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS [1850-1894]: _The Wind_, 35; _A Visit from the Sea_, 261.

STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY [1825-1909]: _Abraham Lincoln_, 318.

STODDART, THOMAS TOD [1810-1880]: _The Angler's Invitation_, 207.

STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE [1819-1895]: _The English Language_ (Extracts), 346.

SWETT, SUSAN HARTLEY: _July_, 13.

SWIFT, JONATHAN [1667-1745]: _A Riddle_, 372; _Baucis and Philemon_, 375.

SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES [1837-1909]: _Etude Realiste_, 139; _Swimming_ (from "Tristram of Lyonesse"), 201.

TABB, JOHN B. [1845--]: _The Tax-Gatherer_, 114.

TATE, NAHUM [1652-1715]: _While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night_, 649.

TAYLOR, BAYARD [1825-1878]: _The Song of the Camp_, 284; _A Night With a Wolf_, 471.

TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD [1809-1892]: _The Brook_, 40; _The Eagle_ (Fragment), 109; _The Merman_, 177; _The Mermaid_, 178; _Bugle Song_ (from "The Princess"), 181; _Leolin and Edith_ (from "Aylmer's Field"), 218; _Olivia_ (from "The Talking Oak"), 247; _The Shell_, 270; _The Lady of Shalott_, 431; _The Charge of the Light Brigade_, 537.

TENNYSON, FREDERICK [1807-1898]: _The Skylark_, 101.

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE [1811-1863]: _Pocahontas_, 303; _The End of the Play_ (from "Dr. Birch and His Young Friends"), 623.

THAXTER, CELIA [1836-1894]: _The Sandpiper_, 107; _Nikolina_, 248.

THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER [1828-1876]: _The Cavalier's Escape_, 479.

TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND [1827--]: _Midwinter_, 23; _Evening at the Farm_, 136.

UNKNOWN: _Mother's Song_ (West of England Lullaby), 123; _Love Will Find Out the Way_ (Old English), 133; _When Banners Are Waving_, 509; _Christmas Carol_ (Old English), 650; _Old Christmas Returned_ (Old Carol), 657.

VAN DYKE, HENRY [1852--]: _The Angler's Reveille_, 203.

VAUGHAN, HENRY [1621-1695]: _Peace_, 627.

VERY, JONES [1813-1880]: _The Latter Rain_, 35; _The Tree_, 65.

WATSON, WILLIAM [1858--]: _Song to April_, 7.

WESTWOOD, THOMAS [1850-1888]: _Mine Host of "The Golden Apple,"_ 64; _Little Bell_, 234.

WHITMAN, WALT [1819-1892]: _O Captain! My Captain!_ 323; _Two Veterans_, 340.

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF [1807-1892]: _Snow-Bound_ (Extracts), 46; _The Corn-Song_, 82; _The Barefoot Boy_, 214; _Song of the Negro Boatman_, 335; _Barbara Frietchie_, 337; _The Pipes at Lucknow_, 514.

WILDER, JOHN NICHOLS [1814-1858]: _Stand by the Flag_, 342.

WOLFE, CHARLES [1791-1823]: _The Burial of Sir John Moore_, 295.

WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD [1855--]: _At Gibraltar_, 343, 344.

WOODWORTH, SAMUEL: _The Needle_, 228.

WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM [1770-1850]: _The Daffodils_, 79; _We Are Seven_, 141; _Skating_ (from "The Prelude"), 207; _Lucy_, 245; _The Solitary Reaper_, 249; _Faith and Freedom_, 345; _In a Child's Album_, 602.

INDEX BY TITLES

Abbot of Inisfalen, The, 474

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel, 609

Abraham Lincoln (Brownell), 321

Abraham Lincoln (Stoddard), 318

Alexander's Feast, 158

Allegro, L', 152

All Things Wait Upon Thee, 119

Almond Blossoms, 69

American Flag, The, 311

Angels, The, 636

Angler's Invitation, The, 207

Angler's Reveille, The, 203

Annie Laurie, 243

Apple Orchard in the Spring, An, 63

April and May, 9

April in England, 8

Arethusa, 165

Ariel's Songs, 147

Armada, The, 524

Arming of Pigwiggen, The, 149

At Gibraltar, 343, 344

August, 14

Autumn, 15

Autumn's Mirth, 90

Autumn's Processional, 16

Bailiff's Daughter of Islington, The, 555

Ballad, 422

Bannockburn, 539

Barbara Frietchie, 337

Barefoot Boy, The, 214

Battle of Agincourt, The, 517

Battle of Blenheim, The, 522

Battle of the Baltic, 511

Battle-Hymn of the Republic, 331

Baucis and Philemon, 375

Bee, The, 116

Bees, Commonwealth of the, 631

Before the Rain, 31

Bells, The, 189

Belshazzar, Vision of, 500

Bermudas, 272

Be True, 610

Be Useful, 633

Bicycling Song, 196

Bind-Weed, 74

Black Regiment, The, 326

Blood Horse, The, 225

Blowing Bubbles, 195

Bobolinks, The, 103

Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl', The, 125

Border Ballad, 286

Boy's Prayer, A, 626

Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning, 661

Brook, The, 40

Brook in Winter, The, 42

Brother and Sister, 129

Bugle Song, 181

Burial of Moses, The, 504

Burial of Sir John Moore, The, 295

Captain Reece, 387

Captain Sword, 403

Carmen Bellicosum, 309

Cataract of Lodore, The, 391

Cavalier's Escape, The, 479

Cavalier's Song, The, 280

Ceremonies for Christmas, 658

Chambered Nautilus, The, 604

Chanted Calendar, A, 1

Charade, 370

Charge of the Light Brigade, The, 537

Chartless, 626

Chevy-Chace, 582

Child-Musician, The, 463

Child of Twelve, A, 237

Child's Talk in April, 109

Chloe, 238

Christmas Carol, 650

Christmas Carol, A, 635

Christmas Hymn, A, 646

Christmas in England, 659

Clear and Cool, 44

Cloud, The, 28

Columbia's Emblem, 84

Columbus, 301

Commonwealth of the Bees, The, 631

Concord Hymn, 315

Consider, 628

Coral Grove, The, 269

Corn-Song, The, 82

Coronation, 620

Council of Horses, The, 356

Cricket, To a, 113

Crossing the Plains, 314

Cuddle Doon, 126

Culprit Fay, The (Extracts), 168

Daffodils, The, 79

Daffodils, To, 78

Daybreak, 1

Dear Land of All My Love, 301

Death of the Flowers, The, 88

December, 622

Descend, Ye Nine, 212

Destruction of Sennacherib, The, 548

Dirge, for One Who Fell in Battle, 293

Dirge for the Year, 25

Diverting History of John Gilpin, The, 359

Dove of Dacca, The, 472

"Down to Sleep," 18

Drifting, 262

Duty, 605

Eagle, The, 109

Earl Mar's Daughter, 576

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, 379

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 612

Elixir, The, 629

Enchanted Shirt, The, 395

End of the Play, The, 623

English Language, The (Extracts), 346

Eternal Spring, The, 5

Etude Realiste, 139

Evening at the Farm, 136

Evening in Paradise, 2

Evening Song, 3

Extracts from "L'Allegro," 152

Fairy Folk, The, 174

Fairy Land, 145

Fairy Songs and Songs of Fancy, 145

Faith and Freedom, 345

Farewell, A, 625

Fatherland, The, 298

Feigned Courage, 374

Fife and Drum, 280

Fine Day, A, 5

First, Best Country, The, 275

Flag Goes By, The, 324

Flight of the Birds, The, 111

For Home and Country, 275

Forbearance, 603

Forsaken, Merman, The, 444

Garden of Girls, A, 231

Gathering Song of Donuil Dhu, 287

Glad Evangel, The, 635

Glenlogie, 597

Glove and the Lions, The, 460

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen, 653

Going A-Maying, 197

Going A-Nutting, 219

Goldfinches, 107

Gos-hawk, The Gay, 569

Gracious Time, The, 661

Grass, The, 81

Grasshopper and Cricket, On the, 114

Grasshopper and the Cricket, To the, 115

"Gray Swan," The, 452

Green Things Growing, 57

Greyport Legend, A, 458

Hannah Binding Shoes, 414

Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls, The, 279

Harvest Moon, The, 27

Helena and Hermia, 250

Herve Riel, 493

Hesperus' Song, 151

High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, The, 438

Highland Cattle, 50

Hohenlinden, 542

Home, 131

Home Song, 138

Housekeeper, The, 400

How Sleep the Brave! 292

How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 464

How's My Boy? 462

Humble-Bee, The, 116

Hunter's Song, The, 223

Hunting Song, 222

Hymn for Christmas, 639

Hynde Horn, 593

I Am Lonely, 128

I Love My Jean, 252

In a Child's Album, 602

In August, 14

In Merry Mood, 353

Inchcape Rock, The, 468

Incident of the French Camp, 544

Indians, 313

Inglenook, The, 121

Invocation to Rain in Summer, 34

Ivry, 530

Jessie, 246

Jock of Hazeldean, 430

Jog On, Jog On, 200

July, 13

June Weather, 11

King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, 558

King of Denmark's Ride, The, 418

Knight's Tomb, The, 292

Kubla Khan, 160

Lady of Shalott, The, 431

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, 305

Latter Rain, The, 35

Leolin and Edith, 218

Life, 601

Life Lessons, 601

Life on the Ocean Wave, A, 257

Lincoln, the Great Commoner, 319

Lion and the Cub, The, 378

Little Bell, 234

Lochinvar, 427

Long White Seam, The, 413

Lord Beichan and Susie Pye, 563

Lord Ullin's Daughter, 416

Love Will Find Out the Way, 133

Loyalty, 276

Lucy, 245

Lullaby for Titania, 146

Made in the Hot Weather, 398

Magic Car Moved On, The, 162

Maple Leaves, 17

March, 6

Marco Bozzaris, 545

May, 9

Mermaid, The, 178

Merman, The, 177

Midwinter, 23

Mine Host of "The Golden Apple," 64

Minnows, 45

Minstrel-Boy, The, 278

Minstrels and Maids, 654

Monkey, The, 401

Morning, 1

Morning Song, A, 2

Mother's Song, 123

Music's Silver Sound, 210

My Heart's in the Highlands, 277

My Nannie's Awa', 253

My Native Land, 276

My Peggy, 243

Myth, A, 173

Name of Old Glory, The, 349

Needle, The, 228

New Household, A, 121

New Prince, New Pomp, 640

New World and Old Glory, 301

Night, 4

Night Before Waterloo, The, 540

Night Quarters, 329

Night With a Wolf, A, 471

Nikolina, 248

Noble Nature, The, 603

Northern Seas, The, 226

November, 402

Oberon and Titania to the Fairy Train, 147

O Captain! My Captain! 323

O Little Town of Bethlehem, 648

October's Bright Blue Weather, 16

Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour, An, 656

Ode Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, 316

Ode to the Northeast Wind, 36

Old Christmas, 652

Old Christmas Returned, 657

Old Ironsides, 312

Old Scottish Cavalier, The, 281

Old Song, 213

Old Winter, 22

Olive Tree, The, 619

Olivia, 247

O Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet, 239

On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes, 353

On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer, 210

On His Blindness, 606

On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 114

On the Loss of the Royal George, 535

On the Wing, 93

One by One, 629

Opportunity, 608

Orpheus with His Lute, 149

Our Mother Tongue, 345

Peace, 627

Phyllis, 251

Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, 480

Pigwiggen, The Arming of, 149

Pilgrim, The, 632

Pipes at Lucknow, The, 514

Planting of the Apple Tree, The, 59

Pocahontas, 303

Polonius to Laertes, 618

Portrait, A, 231

Power of Music, The, 211

Priest and the Mulberry Tree, The, 355

Procession of the Flowers, The, 67

Providence, 119

Puck and the Fairy, 145

Rain in Summer, 32

Raven, The, 182

Reading, 209

Recessional, 297

Reveille, The, 288

Rhodora, The, 76

Riddle, A (A Book), 371

Riddle, A (The Letter H), 373

Riddle, A (The Vowels), 372

Romance and Reality, 407

Romance of the Swan's Nest, 423

Ruth, 242

Sabrina Fair, 157

Sailor's Wife, The, 134

Sandpiper, The, 107

Sands of Dee, The, 450

Scene in Paradise, A, 52

Scythe Song, 86

Sea, The, 258

Sea-Song, A, 259

Seasons, The, 5

Seven Times Two, 411

Shell, The, 270

Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation, The, 610

Shepherd to His Love, The, 420

Shepherd's Home, The, 112

Sheridan's Ride, 332

Sigh of Silence, The, 58

Sing on, Blithe Bird! 93

Singing Leaves, The, 407

Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable, 99

Sir Launfal and the Leper, 606

Sir Patrick Spens, 551

Skating, 207

Skylark, The (Hogg), 102

Skylark, The (Tennyson), 101

Snow-Bound (Extracts), 46

Snowdrop, A, 69

Snowing of the Pines, The, 66

Snow Storm, The, 21

Soldier, Rest! 296

Solitary Reaper, The, 249

Solomon and the Bees, 502

Song of Clover, A, 76

Song of Love, A, 122

Song of the Camp, The, 284

Song of the Negro Boatman, 335

Song of the Turtle and Flamingo, 385

Song on May Morning, 10

Song to April, 7

So Sweet is She, 251

Spacious Firmament on High, The, 54

Sports and Pastimes, 195

Spring, 7

Stand by the Flag! 342

Stanzas on Freedom, 317

Star Song, The, 638

Summer, 10

Sweet Peas, 68

Sweet September, 15

Swimming (Byron), 202

Swimming (Swinburne), 201

Tacking Ship Off Shore, 265

Tales of the Olden Time, 551

Tax-Gatherer, The, 114

Three Kings, The (Field), 644

Three Kings, The (Longfellow), 641

Tiger, The, 53

Tiger-Lilies, 71

Time to Go, 86

To a Child of Quality, 369

To a Cricket, 113

To a Mountain Daisy, 73

To a Skylark, 94

To a Waterfowl, 105

To America, 347

To Daffodils, 78

To-day, 602

To Mistress Margaret Hussey, 240

To the Dandelion, 77

To the Fringed Gentian, 72

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket, 115

To the Ocean, 255

Tree, The, 65

Turkish Legend, A, 611

Twenty-second of December, The, 306

Two Heavens, 121

Two Veterans, 340

Under the Greenwood Tree, 59

Vagabond Song, A, 201

Vision of Belshazzar, The, 500

Visit from the Sea, A, 261

Walrus and the Carpenter, The, 381

Warren's Address, 308

Washington, 307

Waterfowl, To a, 105

Waterloo, The Night Before, 540

We are Seven, 141

When Banners are Waving, 509

When Icicles Hang by the Wall, 19

Where Lies the Land? 273

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night (Deland), 637

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night (Tate), 649

White Anemone, The, 80

Whittling, 220

Who is Silvia? 240

Wild Rose, 70

Wind, The, 35

Windlass Song, 268

Windy Night, The, 39

Winter, 19

Winter Morning, A, 20

World Beautiful, The, 27

World of Waters, The, 255

Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 454

Ye Mariners of England, 290

Young Fir-wood, A, 65