Part 5

When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

_William Blake._

* * * * *

A SNOW-STORM.

I.

'Tis a fearful night in the winter time, As cold as it ever can be; The roar of the blast is heard like the chime Of the waves on an angry sea. The moon is full; but her silver light The storm dashes out with its wings to-night; And over the sky from south to north Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth In the strength of a mighty glee.

II.

All day had the snow come down,--all day As it never came down before; And over the hills, at sunset, lay Some two or three feet, or more; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone; The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, As it lay by the farmer's door.

The night sets in on a world of snow, While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a fearful blow Is heard on the distant hill; And the norther, see! on the mountain peak In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek! He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will.

III.

Such a night as this to be found abroad, In the drifts and the freezing air, Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair. He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; He lifts his head, and moans and howls; Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, His nose is pressed on his quivering feet,-- Pray, what does the dog do there?

A farmer came from the village plain,-- But he lost the travelled way; And for hours he trod with might and main A path for his horse and sleigh; But colder still the cold winds blew, And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, At last in her struggles floundered down, Where a log in a hollow lay.

In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, She plunged in the drifting snow, While her master urged, till his breath grew short, With a word and a gentle blow; But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; His hands were numb and had lost their might; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, And strove to shelter himself till day, With his coat and the buffalo.

IV.

He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, To rouse up his dying steed; And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For help in his master's need. For a while he strives with a wistful cry To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, And whines when he takes no heed.

V.

The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,-- 'Tis the hour of midnight, past; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, Afar on the plain are cast.

But cold and dead by the hidden log Are they who came from the town,-- The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, And his beautiful Morgan brown,-- In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand,-- The dog with his nose on his master's feet, And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down.

_Charles Gamage Eastman._

* * * * *

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. Heaped 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.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sunflower 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.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

_William Cullen Bryant._

* * * * *

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 dank 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.

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

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

_Charles Kingsley._

* * * * *

HYMN TO THE NIGHT.

I heard the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls! I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls!

I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love.

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes.

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-- From those deep cisterns flows.

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before! Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more.

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-belovéd Night!

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

* * * * *

NIGHT AND DEATH.

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came; And lo! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find, While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?-- If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?

_Joseph Blanco White._

* * * * *

THE SKYLARK.

Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place,-- O, to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay and loud Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place, O, to abide in the desert with thee!

_James Hogg._

* * * * *

THE EAGLE.

He clasps the crag with hookéd hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed 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 Tennyson._

* * * * *

TO THE SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert,-- That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning Of the setting sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run; Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.

What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;

Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower;

Like a glow-worm golden, In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view;

Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves.

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous and fresh and clear thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chant, Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt,-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? What ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.

Better than all measures Of delight and sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

_Percy Bysshe Shelley._

* * * * *

TO THOMAS MOORE.

My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh for those that love me, And a smile for those who hate; And, whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.

Were 't the last drop in the well, As I gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell 'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be,--Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore!

_Lord Byron._

* * * * *

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

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

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

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

_Thomas Moore._

* * * * *

A FAREWELL.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver; No more by thee my steps shall be, Forever and forever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet, then a river; Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, Forever and forever.

But here will sigh thine alder-tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, Forever and forever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, Forever and forever.

_Alfred Tennyson._

* * * * *

STANZAS.

My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, But, ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground--to die! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see,-- But none shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray; Its hold is frail--its date is brief, Restless--and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree,-- But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea,-- But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

_Richard Henry Wilde._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE YEARS.

These years! these years! these naughty years! Once they were pretty things: Their fairy footfalls met our ears, Our eyes their glancing wings. They flitted by our school-boy way; We chased the little imps at play.

We knew them, soon, for tricksy elves: They brought the college gown, With thoughtful books filled up our shelves, Darkened our lips with down, Played with our throat, and lo! the tone Of manhood had become our own.

They smiling stretched our childish size; Their soft hands trimmed our hair; Cast the deep thought within our eyes, And left it glowing there; Sang songs of hope in college halls, Bright fancies drew upon the walls.

They flashed upon us love's bright gem; They showed us gleams of fame; Stout-hearted work we learned from them, And honor more than name: And so they came, and went away; We said not go, we said not stay.

But one sweet day, when quiet skies And still leaves brought me thought, When hazy hills drew forth my eyes, And woods with deep shade fraught, That day I carelessly found out What work these elves had been about.

Alas! those little rogues, the years, Had fooled me many a day, Plucked half the locks above my ears, And tinged the rest all gray. They'd left me wrinkles great and small. I fear that they have tricked us all.

Well,--give the little years their way; Think, speak, and act the while; Lift up the bare front to the day, And make their wrinkles smile. They mould the noblest living head; They carve the best tomb for the dead.

_Robert T. S. Lowell._

* * * * *

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho! pretty page with the dimpled chin, That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win; This is the way that boys begin,-- Wait till you come to forty year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains; Billing and cooing is all your cheer,-- Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes,-- Wait till you come to forty year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; Grizzling hair the brain doth clear; Then you know a boy is an ass, Then you know the worth of a lass,-- Once you have come to forty year.

Pledge me round; I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are gray,-- Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was passed away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper and we not list, Or look away and never be missed,-- Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead! God rest her bier,-- How I loved her twenty years syne! Marian's married; but I sit here, Alone and merry at forty year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

_William Makepeace Thackeray._

* * * * *

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before, As he passed by the door; And again The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady! she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff; And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here, But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches,--and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

_Oliver Wendell Holmes._

* * * * *

THE LOST LEADER.

Just for a handful of silver he left us: Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,-- Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed: How all our copper had gone for his service! Rags,--were they purple, his heart had been proud! We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die! Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!

We shall march prospering,--not through his presence; Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre: Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name then,--record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! Life's night begins; let him never come back to us! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain; Forced praise on our part,--the glimmer of twilight, Never glad, confident morning again! Best fight on well, for we taught him,--strike gallantly, Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

_Robert Browning._

* * * * *

TOO LATE.

"Ah! si la jeunesse savait,--si la vieillenne pouvait!"

There sat an old man on a rock, And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,-- That concern where we all must take stock Though our vote has no hearing or weight; And the old man sang him an old, old song,-- Never sang voice so clear and strong That it could drown the old man's long, For he sang the song "Too late! too late!"

"When we want, we have for our pains The promise that if we but wait Till the want has burned out of our brains, Every means shall be present to sate; While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold, While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old, When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold, And everything comes too late,--too late!

"When strawberries seemed like red heavens,-- Terrapin stew a wild dream,-- When my brain was at sixes and sevens, If my mother had "folks" and ice-cream, Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger,-- But oh! how I wished I were younger When the goodies all came in a stream, in a stream!