PART II

SELECTIONS FOR MEMORIZING

FIRST YEAR

MOTHER GOOSE SONGS

I

Hark, hark, The dogs do bark, The beggars are coming to town; Some in tags, Some in rags, And some in velvet gowns.

II

Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold, Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old. Some like it hot, Some like it cold, Some like it in the pot, nine days old.

III

"Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?" "I've been to London to look at the Queen." "Pussy cat, pussy cat, what did you there?" "I frightened a little mouse under a chair."

IV

Three mice went into a hole to spin; Puss passed by and Puss looked in: "What are you doing, my little men?" "Weaving coats for gentlemen." "Please let me help you to wind off your threads." "Ah, no, Mistress Pussy, you'd bite off our heads."

V

Little Boy Blue, come blow your horn, The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn. Where's the boy that looks after the sheep? He's under the haycock, fast asleep. "Will you wake him?" "No, not I; For if I do, he'll be sure to cry."

VI

Sleep, baby, sleep! Our cottage vale is deep: The little lamb is on the green, With snowy fleece so soft and clean. Sleep, baby, sleep!

Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy rest shall angels keep: While on the grass the lamb shall feed, And never suffer want or need. Sleep, baby, sleep!

VII

Hush thee, my babby, Lie still with thy daddy, Thy mammy has gone to the mill, To grind thee some wheat To get thee some meat, And so, my dear babby, lie still.

VIII

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, Upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown, Rapping at the window, crying through the lock, "Are the children in their beds? now it's eight o'clock."

LITTLE BO-PEEP

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, And can't tell where to find them; Leave them alone and they'll come home, And bring their tails behind them.

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, And dreamt she heard them bleating; But when she awoke she found it a joke, For still they all were fleeting.

Then up she took her little crook, Determined for to find them; She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, For they'd left all their tails behind 'em. --MOTHER GOOSE.

I SAW A SHIP A-SAILING

I saw a ship a-sailing, A-sailing on the sea; And, oh! it was all laden With pretty things for thee.

There were comfits in the cabin, And apples in the hold; The sails were made of silk, And the masts were made of gold.

The four-and-twenty sailors That stood between the decks Were four-and-twenty white mice, With chains about their necks.

The captain was a duck, With a packet on his back; And when the ship began to move, The captain said, "Quack! quack!" --MOTHER GOOSE.

THREE HAPPY THOUGHT SONGS

I

The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.

II

The rain is raining all around, It falls on field and tree, It rains on the umbrellas here, And on the ships at sea.

III

Of speckled eggs the birdie sings And nests among the trees; The sailor sings of ropes and things In ships upon the seas.

The children sing in far Japan, The children sing in Spain; The organ with the organ man Is singing in the rain. --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

BOATS SAIL ON THE RIVERS

Boats sail on the rivers, And ships sail on the seas; But clouds that sail across the sky Are prettier far than these.

There are bridges on the rivers, As pretty as you please; But the bow that bridges heaven And overtops the trees, And builds a road from earth to sky, Is prettier far than these. --CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND?

Who has seen the wind? Neither I nor you; But when the leaves hang trembling The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I; But when the trees bow down their heads The wind is passing by. --CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

THE FRIENDLY COW

The friendly cow all red and white I love with all my heart; She gives me milk with all her might, To eat with apple tart.

She wanders lowing here and there, And yet she cannot stray, All in the pleasant open air, The pleasant light of day.

And blown by all the winds that pass, And wet with all the showers, She walks among the meadow grass And eats the meadow flowers. --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

WINDY NIGHTS

Whenever the moon and stars are set, Whenever the wind is high, All night long in the dark and wet, A man goes riding by. Late in the night when the fires are out, Why does he gallop and gallop about?

Whenever the trees are crying aloud, And ships are tossed at sea, By, on the highway, low and loud, By at the gallop goes he. By at the gallop he goes, and then By he comes back at the gallop again. --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

BED IN SUMMER

In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle light; In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree; Or hear the grown-up people's feet Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day? --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE SAY?

What does little birdie say, In her nest at peep of day? Let me fly, says little birdie, Mother, let me fly away. Birdie, rest a little longer, Till the little wings are stronger. So she rests a little longer, Then she flies away.

What does little baby say, In her bed at peep of day? Baby says, like little birdie, Let me rise and fly away. Baby, sleep a little longer, Till the little limbs are stronger. If she sleeps a little longer, Baby too shall fly away. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

A SLUMBER SONG

Sleep, baby, sleep. Thy father is tending the sheep: Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, And down comes a little dream on thee. Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep. The large stars are the sheep: The little stars are the lambs, I guess, And the bright moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep.

Sleep, baby, sleep. Our Saviour loves His sheep: He is the Lamb of God on high, Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep. --_From the German by_ CAROLINE SOUTHEY.

PSALM XXIII

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: For thou art with me; Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me In the presence of mine enemies: Thou anointest my head with oil; My cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. --KING DAVID.

SECOND YEAR

THE LIGHT-HEARTED FAIRY

Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh ho! As the light-hearted fairy? heigh ho, Heigh ho! He dances and sings To the sound of his wings With a hey and a heigh and a ho.

Oh, who is so merry, so airy, heigh ho! As the light-headed fairy? heigh ho, Heigh ho! His nectar he sips From the primroses' lips With a hey and a heigh and a ho.

Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh ho! As the light-footed fairy? heigh ho, Heigh ho! The night is his noon And his sun is the moon, With a hey and a heigh and a ho. --UNKNOWN.

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE

When I was sick and lay a-bed, I had two pillows for my head,

And all my toys beside me lay To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so I watched my leaden soldiers go,

With different uniforms and drills, Among the bed-clothes through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets All up and down among the sheets;

Or brought my trees and houses out, And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and still That sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain, The pleasant land of counterpane. --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

MY SHADOW

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; And I see him jump before me when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow-- Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see; I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me.

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

SWEET AND LOW

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea; Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea. Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon; Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

LULLABY FOR TITANIA

_First Fairy_

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.

_Chorus_

Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby: Never harm, Nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby.

_Second Fairy_

Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence; Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail, do no offence.

_Chorus_

Philomel, with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby: Never harm, Nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh; So, good night, with lullaby. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

AN OLD GAELIC CRADLE SONG

Hush! the waves are rolling in, White with foam, white with foam! Father toils amid the din; But baby sleeps at home.

Hush! the winds roar hoarse and deep. On they come, on they come! Brother seeks the lazy sheep; But baby sleeps at home.

Hush! the rain sweeps o'er the knowes, Where they roam, where they roam; Sister goes to seek the cows; But baby sleeps at home. --UNKNOWN.

CHILD-SONGS

I

THE CITY CHILD

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty home, the home where mother dwells? "Far, and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the gardens, auriculas, anemones, Roses and lilies and Canterbury-bells."

Dainty little maiden, whither would you wander? Whither from this pretty house, this city-house of ours? "Far and far away," said the dainty little maiden, "All among the meadows, the clover and the clematis, Daisies and kingcups, and honeysuckle-flowers."

II

MINNIE AND WINNIE

Minnie and Winnie Slept in a shell. Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well.

Pink was the shell within, Silver without; Sounds of the great sea Wander'd about.

Sleep, little ladies! Wake not soon! Echo on echo Dies to the moon.

Two bright stars Peep'd into the shell. "What are they dreaming of? Who can tell?"

Started a green linnet Out of the croft; Wake, little ladies, The sun is aloft! --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

THE LAMB

Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice; Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee. Little Lamb, I'll tell thee. He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb:--

He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child: I, a child, and thou, a lamb, We are called by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee; Little Lamb, God bless thee. --WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE FAIRIES

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!

Down along the rocky shore Some make their home: They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow tide-foam; Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, With frogs for their watch-dogs, All night awake.

By the craggy hill-side, Through the mosses bare, They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall find their sharpest thorns In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen, We daren't go a-hunting For fear of little men; Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather! --WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

SPRING

Spring, the sweet spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! Spring, the sweet Spring! --THOMAS NASH.

LADY MOON

"I love the moon and the moon loves me; God bless the moon and God bless me."--Old Song.

"Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?" "Over the sea." "Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?" "All that love me."

"Are you not tired with rolling, and never Resting to sleep? Why look so pale and so sad as forever Wishing to weep?"

"Ask me not this, little child, if you love me; You are too bold. I must obey the great Father above me, And do as I'm told." --LORD HOUGHTON.

SONG TO NAOMI

Entreat me not to leave thee, Or to return from following after thee; For whither thou goest, I will go; And where thou lodgest, I will lodge; Thy people shall be my people, And thy God my God; Where thou diest, will I die, And there will I be buried; The Lord do so to me, And more also, If aught but death part thee and me. --RUTH THE MOABITESS.

THIRD YEAR

THE WIND

I saw you toss the kites on high And blow the birds about the sky; And all around I heard you pass, Like ladies' skirts across the grass; O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all: O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!

O you that are so strong and cold, O blower, are you young or old? Are you a beast of field and tree, Or just a stronger child than me? O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song! --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

ARIEL'S SONGS

I

Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

II

Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd The wild waves whist,-- Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. Hark, hark! Bow-wow. The watch-dogs bark: Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow! --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

SONGS OF GOOD CHEER

I

When daffodils begin to peer, With heigh the doxy over the dale, Why then comes in the sweet o' the year: For the red blood reigns in the winter's pale.

II

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a.

III

A great while ago the world began, With heigh-ho the wind and the rain: But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE OWL

When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush, say, "I love and I love!" In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong. What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing, and loving,--all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings; and forever sings he-- "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!" --SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

ROBIN REDBREAST

Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our thrushes now are silent, Our swallows flown away,-- But Robin's here with coat of brown, And ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! Robin sings so sweetly In the falling of the year.

Bright yellow, red, and orange, The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian princes, But soon they'll turn to ghosts; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough; It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be Winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And what will this poor Robin do? For pinching days are near.

The fire-side for the cricket, The wheat-stack for the mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron, The branches plumed with snow,-- Alas! in winter dead and dark, Where can poor Robin go? Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer! --WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE UNSEEN PLAYMATE

When children are playing alone on the green, In comes the playmate that never was seen. When children are happy and lonely and good, The Friend of the Children comes out of the wood.

Nobody heard him and nobody saw, His is a picture you never could draw, But he's sure to be present, abroad or at home, When children are happy and playing alone.

He lies in the laurel, he runs on the grass, He sings when you tinkle the musical glass; Whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why, The Friend of the Children is sure to be by!

He loves to be little, he hates to be big, 'Tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig; 'Tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin That sides with the Frenchmen and never can win.

'Tis he, when at night you go off to your bed, Bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head; For wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf, 'Tis he will take care of your playthings himself! --ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

A LAUGHING SONG

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; When the air does laugh with our merry wit, And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green, And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene; When Mary, and Susan, and Emily, With their sweet round mouths sing, "Ha, ha, he!"

When the painted birds laugh in the shade, Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread: Come live, and be merry, and join with me To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, ha, he!" --WILLIAM BLAKE.

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF

Oh, hush thee, my babie! thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draw near to thy bed.

Oh, hush thee, my babie! the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling! take rest while you may; For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. --SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE FAIRY QUEEN

(An Old Song)

Come follow, follow me, You fairy elves that be, Which circle on the green; Come, follow Mab your queen. Hand in hand let's dance around, For this place is fairy ground.

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly, Serve for our minstrelsy; Grace said, we dance a while And so the time beguile: And if the moon doth hide her head, The glowworm lights us home to bed.

On tops of dewy grass So nimbly do we pass, The young and tender stalk Ne'er bends when we do walk; Yet in the morning may be seen Where we the night before have been. --UNKNOWN.

RING OUT, WILD BELLS

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

SONG OF SPRING

The voice of my beloved! behold, he cometh, Leaping upon the mountains, Skipping upon the hills. My beloved is like a roe or a young hart: Behold, he standeth behind our wall, He looketh forth at the windows, Showing himself through the lattice. My beloved spake and said unto me: Rise up, my love, my fair one, And come away.

For, lo, the winter is past, The rain is over and gone; The flowers appear on the earth; The time of the singing of birds is come, And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, And the vines with the tender grape Give a good smell. Arise, my love, my fair one, And come away. --KING SOLOMON.

FOURTH YEAR

PIPPA'S SONG

The year's at the spring And day's at the morn; Morning's at seven; The hill-side's dew-pearled; The lark's on the wing; The snail's on the thorn: God's in his heaven-- All's right with the world! --ROBERT BROWNING.

A SEA DIRGE

Full fathom five thy father lies: Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Hark! now I hear them,-- Ding, dong, bell. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

HARK! HARK! THE LARK

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

WINTER

When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail; When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marion's nose looks red and raw; When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, To-who; Tu-whit, to-who, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

A FAIRY'S SONG

Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the fairy queen, To dew her orbs upon the green: The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours: I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

A LAND DIRGE

Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover, And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field mouse, and the mole To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm, And (when gay tombs are robb'd) sustain no harm: But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men: For with his nails he'll dig them up again. --JOHN WEBSTER.

MY HEART LEAPS UP

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

A MORNING SONG

Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day: With night we banish sorrow; Sweet air blow soft, mount larks aloft, To give my Love good-morrow! Wings from the wind to please her mind, Notes from the lark I'll borrow; Bird, prune thy wing, nightingale, sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them both I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, Robin-red-breast, Sing, birds, in every furrow; And from each hill, let music shrill Give my fair Love good-morrow! Blackbird and thrush in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair Love good-morrow To give my Love good-morrow; Sing, birds, in every furrow! --THOMAS HEYWOOD.

IN MARCH

The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun: The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest: The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising, There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated, The snow has retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping--anon--anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains, Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing, The rain is over and gone! --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CHORAL SONG TO THE ILLYRIAN PEASANTS

Up, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay! To the meadows trip away. 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. --SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

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-wall'd 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, ranged 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 for ever 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 sate with you and me. On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate 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, by 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 long 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 for ever 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 hill-side-- 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.

PSALM VIII

O Lord, our Lord, How excellent is thy name in all the earth!

Who hast set thy glory above the heavens, Out of the mouth of babes and sucklings hast thou ordained strength, Because of thine enemies, That thou mightest still the enemy and the avenger.

When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, The moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained; What is man that thou art mindful of him? And the son of man, that thou visitest him?

For thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, And hast crowned him with glory and honour. Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of thy hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet:

All sheep and oxen, Yea, and the beasts of the field; The fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, And whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas.

O Lord, our Lord, How excellent is thy name in all the earth! --KING DAVID.

FIFTH YEAR

THE BUGLE SONG

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

THE BROOK

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go. But I go on forever. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

HYMN TO DIANA

Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia's shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wished sight, Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak'st a day of night, Goddess excellently bright! --BEN JONSON.

THE BURNING BABE

As I in hoary winter's night stood shivering in the snow, Surprised I was with sudden heat, which made my heart to glow; And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, A pretty babe, all burning bright, did in the air appear; Who, scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed, As though his floods should quench his flames which with his tears were fed:-- "Alas!" quoth He, "but newly born, in fiery heats I fry, Yet none approach to warm their hearts or feel my fire but I!

"My faultless breast the furnace is, the fuel wounding thorns; Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scorns; The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals, The metal in this furnace wrought are men's defiled souls, For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good, So will I melt into a bath to wash them in my blood."-- With this He vanished out of sight, and swiftly shrunk away; And straight I called unto mind that it was Christmas-day. --ROBERT SOUTHWELL.

AT SEA

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

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

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

WHERE LIES THE LAND?

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say. --ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat-- Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats And pleased with what he gets-- Come hither, come hither, come hither! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

TO DAFFODILS

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising Sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or anything. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain; Or as the pearls of Morning's dew Ne'er to be found again. --ROBERT HERRICK.

AUTUMN

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, Months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array,-- Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling, For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling. Come, Months, come away; Put on white, black, and gray; Let your light sisters play; Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. --PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

ROBIN GOODFELLOW

From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revel rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And merry be, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho!

More swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon, And, in a minute's space, descry Each thing that's done below the moon. There's not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or cry 'ware goblins, where I go; But, Robin, I Their feast will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam; Through woods, through lakes, Through bogs, through brakes, Or else, unseen, with them I go, All in the nick To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!

Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. But if to ride, My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, O'er hedge and lands. Through pools and ponds, I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

By wells and rills, in meadows green, We nightly dance our heyday guise; And to our fairy King and Queen, We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. When larks 'gin sing, Away we fling; And babes new born steal as we go; And elf in bed, We leave instead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin's time have I Thus nightly revell'd to and fro; And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, Who haunt the nights, The hags and goblins do me know; And beldames old So _vale_, _vale_! ho, ho, ho! --UNKNOWN.

BOOT AND SADDLE

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray, Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay-- Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array, Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest, and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they? Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" --ROBERT BROWNING.

PSALM XIX

The heavens declare the glory of God; And the firmament showeth his handiwork. Day unto day uttereth speech, And night unto night sheweth knowledge. There is no speech nor language, Where their voice is not heard. Their line is gone out through all the earth, And their words to the end of the world.

In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, Which is as a bridegroom coming out of his chamber, And rejoiceth as a strong man to run a race. His going forth is from the end of the heaven, And his circuit unto the ends of it: And there is nothing hid from the heat thereof.

The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul: The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple. The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart: The commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes. The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever: The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether. More to be desired are they than gold, yea, than much fine gold: Sweeter also than honey and the honeycomb.

Moreover by them is thy servant warned: And in keeping of them there is great reward. Who can understand his errors? cleanse thou me from secret faults. Keep back thy servant also from presumptuous sins; let them not have dominion over me: Then shall I be upright, And I shall be innocent from the great transgression.

Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength, and my redeemer. --KING DAVID.

SIXTH YEAR

THE NORTHERN STAR

(A Tynemouth Ship)

The "Northern Star" Sail'd over the bar Bound to the Baltic Sea; In the morning gray She stretch'd away:-- 'Twas a weary day to me!

For many an hour In sleet and shower By the lighthouse rock I stray; And watch till dark For the winged bark Of him that is far away.

The castle's bound I wander round, Amidst the grassy graves: But all I hear Is the north-wind drear, And all I see are the waves.

The "Northern Star" Is set afar! Set in the Baltic Sea: And the waves have spread The sandy bed That holds my Love from me. --UNKNOWN.

THE FIRST SWALLOW

The gorse is yellow on the heath; The banks of speedwell flowers are gay; The oaks are budding, and beneath, The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath, The silver wreath of May.

The welcome guest of settled spring, The swallow, too, is come at last Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, I saw her dash with rapid wing, And hail'd her as she past.

Come, summer visitant, attach To my reed roof your nest of clay, And let my ear your music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch, At the gray dawn of day. --CHARLOTTE SMITH.

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly! This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember'd not. Heigh ho! sing, heigh ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then heigh ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perish'd long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchid died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

It was the schooner Hesperus, That sail'd 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 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 louder blew the wind, A gale from the North-east; 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 frightened 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 a 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 waves, 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 weary 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.

THE SANDS OF DEE

"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 dark with foam, And all alone went she.

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.

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

They row'd 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.

CANADIAN BOAT SONG

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

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

Ottawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon: Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh! grant us cool heavens, and favouring airs. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past. --THOMAS MOORE.

RETURN OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

O wedding-guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!

To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. --SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

NOW FADES THE LAST LONG STREAK OF SNOW

Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives,

From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

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 cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas 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 Dueffield, '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 thro' 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 upwards 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 buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is--friends flocking round As I sat 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 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. --LORD BYRON.

PSALM XCI

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High Shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: My God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, And from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, And under his wings shalt thou trust: His truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; Nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; Nor for the destruction that wasteth by noon-day. A thousand shall fall at thy side, And ten thousand at thy right hand; But it shall not come nigh thee. Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold And see the reward of the wicked.

Because thou hast made the Lord, which is my refuge, Even the most High, thy habitation; There shall no evil befall thee, Neither shall any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee, To keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, Lest thou dash thy foot against a stone. Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder: The young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet. Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him: I will set him on high, because he hath known my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him. With long life will I satisfy him, And show him my salvation. --KING DAVID.

SEVENTH YEAR

THE PILGRIM

Who would true valour 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 labour night and day, To be a Pilgrim. --JOHN BUNYAN.

THE CLOUD

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast, As she dances in the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits; In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder-- It struggles and howls by fits. Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I, all the while, bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. --PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset! --SIR WALTER SCOTT.

INDIAN SUMMER

From gold to gray Our mild, sweet day Of Indian summer fades too soon: But tenderly Above the sea Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire The village spire Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance: The painted walls Whereon it falls Transfigured stand in marble trance. --JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

MORNING

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the Lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the Cock with lively din, Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn door, Stoutly struts his dames before, Oft list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Through the high wood echoing shrill. Sometime walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great Sun begins his state, Robed in flames and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries dight: While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. --JOHN MILTON.

WHO IS SYLVIA?

Who is Sylvia? what is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.

Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness: Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness, And, being help'd, inhabits there.

Then to Sylvia let us sing, That Sylvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling: To her let us garlands bring. --WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE REVENGE

(A Ballad of the Fleet)

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land Very carefully and slow, Men of Bideford in Devon, And we laid them on the ballast down below; For we brought them all aboard, And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain, To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight, With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. "Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between. Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and laugh'd, Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft Running on and on, till delay'd By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons, And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns, Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud Whence the thunderbolt will fall Long and loud, Four galleons drew away From the Spanish fleet that day, And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to hand, For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers, And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears When he leaps from the water to the land.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three. Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came, Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and flame; Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and her shame. And some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight us no more-- God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world before?

For he said "Fight on! fight on!" Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone, With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead, And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head, And he said "Fight on! fight on!"

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could sting, So they watch'd what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maim'd for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die--does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow." And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do; With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true, And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep, And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew, Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their flags, And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of Spain, And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags To be lost evermore in the main. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung: There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there! --WILLIAM COLLINS.

A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE

A life on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep!

Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging shore: Oh! give me the flashing brine, The spray and the tempest's roar!

Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail! farewell to the land! The gale follows fair abaft. We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free: Like the ocean-bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea.

The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown: But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, Let the storm come down! And the song of our heart shall be, While the winds and waters rave, A home on the rolling sea! A life on the ocean wave! --EPES SARGENT.

THE EAGLE

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. --ALFRED LORD TENNYSON.

PSALM XC

Lord, thou hast been our dwelling place In all generations.

Before the mountains were brought forth, Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, Even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. Thou turnest man to destruction; And sayest, Return, ye children of men. For a thousand years in thy sight Are but as yesterday when it is past, And as a watch in the night. Thou carriest them away as with a flood; They are as a sleep: In the morning they are like grass which groweth up. In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; In the evening it is cut down, and withereth.

For we are consumed by thine anger, And by thy wrath are we troubled.

Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance. For all our days are passed away in thy wrath: We spend our years as a tale that is told. The days of our years are threescore years and ten; And if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, Yet is their strength labour and sorrow; For it is soon cut off, and we fly away. Who knoweth the power of thine anger? Even according to thy fear, so is thy wrath.

So teach us to number our days, That we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.

Return, O Lord, how long? And let it repent thee concerning thy servants. O satisfy us early with thy mercy; That we may rejoice and be glad all our days. Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, And the years wherein we have seen evil. Let thy work appear unto thy servants, And thy glory unto their children. And let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us: And establish thou the work of our hands upon us; Yea, the work of our hands establish thou it. --KING DAVID.

EIGHTH YEAR

THE CONCORD HYMN

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. --RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD

I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-- A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. --WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

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, And 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.

TO AUTUMN

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them,--thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. --JOHN KEATS.

TO A WATERFOWL

Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fann'd, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone--the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form--yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. --WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer rul'd as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise-- Silent, upon a peak in Darien. --JOHN KEATS.

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-- The Captains and the Kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! --RUDYARD KIPLING.

SIR PATRICK SPENS

I. _The Sailing_

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 spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee: "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail'd the sea."

Our 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 o' Noroway, 'Tis thou must bring her hame."

The first word that Sir Patrick read So loud, loud laugh'd 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 o' 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 o' 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.

II. _The Return_

"Mak ready, mak ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now ever alack, 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 hadna sail'd 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 topmast lap, It was sic a deadly storm: And the waves cam owre the broken ship Till a' her sides were torn.

"Go fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine, And wap them into our ship's side, And let nae the sea come in."

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith Another o' the twine, And they wapp'd them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in.

O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords To wet 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 flatter'd on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son That never mair cam hame.

O lang, lang may the ladies 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 gowd kames in their hair, A-waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see nae mair.

Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour, 'Tis fifty fathoms deep; And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet! --UNKNOWN.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind 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 forever 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 Memory 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 waked 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 history in a nation's eyes--

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade thro' 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' unlettered 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, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed 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 favourite 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 Graved 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 ('twas all he wished) 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.

PSALM CIII

Bless the Lord, O my soul: And all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, And forget not all his benefits: Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; Who healeth all thy diseases; Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; Who crowneth thee with loving kindness and tender mercies; Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; So that thy youth is renewed like the eagle's.

The Lord executeth righteousness And judgment for all that are oppressed. He made known his ways unto Moses, His acts unto the children of Israel. The Lord is merciful and gracious, Slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. He will not always chide: Neither will he keep his anger forever. He hath not dealt with us after our sins; Nor rewarded us according to our iniquities.

For as the heaven is high above the earth, So great is his mercy toward them that fear him. As far as the east is from the west, So far hath he removed our transgressions from us. Like as a father pitieth his children, So the Lord pitieth them that fear him. For he knoweth our frame; He remembereth that we are dust.

As for man, his days are as grass: As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it, and it is gone; And the place thereof shall know it no more. But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting to everlasting upon them that fear him, And his righteousness unto children's children; To such as keep his covenant, And to those that remember his commandments to do them.

The Lord hath prepared his throne in the heavens; And his kingdom ruleth over all. Bless the Lord, ye his angels, That excel in strength, That do his commandments, Hearkening unto the voice of his word. Bless ye the Lord, all ye his hosts; Ye ministers of his, that do his pleasure. Bless the Lord, all his works In all places of his dominion: Bless the Lord, O my soul. --KING DAVID.

ANTHOLOGIES OF CHILDREN'S POEMS

IN addition to what the student has mastered by heart he needs to own and keep within arm's reach a good anthology. He should first own "A Children's Treasury of English Song," and about the time he is ready to leave the elementary school the greatest of all collections of verse, "The Golden Treasury of the Best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language," must fall into his hands. The next best collection is doubtless "The Oxford Book of English Verse," by A. T. Quiller-Couch. For ballad literature "The Oxford Book of English Ballads" by the last-named editor and "The Ballad Book" by Allingham are both good. It is to be hoped that if he has a taste for verse of the ballad form, the boy may some day wander back to Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry." An occasional boy who cares little for great poetry may have a bent toward songs of war and daring. Though this tendency is to be deplored if it comes late in the boy's school life, it is best to satisfy it. A fairly good but not altogether judiciously selected anthology for this purpose is Henley's "Lyra Heroica." From this reading of poetry in anthologies the boy might go to the carefully edited and selected volumes of the great poets in the Golden Treasury Series. The step to choice complete editions is then easy.

It may chance that the boy who has once tasted of the honeydew of great poetry and who has left the elementary school to take up the actual affairs of life will go back to the authority of his teacher who first pointed out to him such a pure pleasure for his quiet hours. If this gratifying condition should come about, the teacher might name to him the following poems that are still more rare in their appeal--as he will surely come to know when he has felt the touch of "An Ode on a Grecian Urn." Here are the titles: "Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day," Shakespeare; "The Time of Year Thou May'st in Me Behold," Shakespeare; "On the Late Massacre in Piedmont," Milton; "The World is too Much with Us," Wordsworth; "Milton, Thou Should'st Be Living at This Hour," Wordsworth; "Tuscan, That Wander'st in the Realms of Gloom," Longfellow; "Rose Aylmer," Landor; "Out of the Night That Covers Me," Henley; "Go Fetch to Me a Pint o' Wine," Burns; "Proud Maisie is in the Woods," Scott; "She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways," Wordsworth; "Helen, Thy Beauty is to Me," Poe; "She Walks in Beauty," Byron; "The Lost Leader," Browning; "It Was a Lover and His Lass," Shakespeare; "Callicles beneath Etna," Arnold; "La Belle Dame sans Merci," Keats; "Ode to Evening," Collins; "Ode to a Skylark," Shelley; "Ode on a Grecian Urn," Keats; "Kubla Khan," Coleridge; "Ulysses," Tennyson; "L'Allegro," Milton. From these the boy may with the coming of manhood be led to heights of such tunes of the masters as Wordsworth's powerful "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality from Earliest Childhood," and Tennyson's song that is so near to the heart of great things, "In Memoriam."