Part 7

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts;

The warrior's name would be a name abhorréd; And every nation that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!"

Peace!--and no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies; But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, The holy melodies of love arise.

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

* * * * *

ODE.

What constitutes a state? Not high raised battlement or labored mound, Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. No: men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude,-- Men who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain; These constitute a state; And sovereign law, that state's collected will, O'er thrones and globes elate, Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. Smit by her sacred frown, The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks; And e'en the all-dazzling crown Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! No more shall freedom smile? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? Since all must life resign, Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave 'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

_Sir William Jones._

* * * * *

PHILIP, MY KING.

"Who bears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty."

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, Philip, my king! For round thee the purple shadow lies Of babyhood's royal dignities. Lay on my neck thy tiny hand With Love's invisible sceptre laden; I am thine Esther, to command Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, Philip, my king!

O, the day when thou goest a-wooing, Philip, my king! When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there Sittest love-glorified!--Rule kindly, Tenderly over thy kingdom fair; For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, Philip, my king!

Up from thy sweet mouth,--up to thy brow, Philip, my king! The spirit that there lies sleeping now May rise like a giant, and make men bow As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer Let me behold thee in future years! Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, Philip, my king;--

A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, Philip, my king, Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; Rebels within thee and foes without Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, Martyr, yet monarch; till angels shout, As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the king!"

_Dinah Maria Mulock Craik._

* * * * *

HOW'S MY BOY?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_Sydney Dobell._

* * * * *

THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.

Between the dark and the daylight, When the night is beginning to lower, Comes a pause in the day's occupations That is known as the children's hour,

I hear in the chamber above me The patter of little feet, The sound of a door that is opened, And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, Descending the broad hall-stair, Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall: By three doors left unguarded They enter my castle wall.

They climb up into my turret O'er the arms and back of my chair; If I try to escape, they surround me: They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses; Their arms about me entwine, Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti! Because you have scaled the wall, Such an old mustache as I am Is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress, And will not let you depart, But put you down into the dungeon In the round tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,-- Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away.

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._

* * * * *

MY CHILD.

I cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; Yet when my eyes, now dim With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes,--he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor, And through the open door I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; I'm stepping toward the hall To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that--he is not there!

I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that--he is not there!

I know his face is hid Under the coffin lid; Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; My hand that marble felt; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there!

I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that--he is not there!

When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there!

When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there!

Not there!--Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked;--he is not there!

He lives!--In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair; In dreams I see him now; And on his angel brow I see it written, "Thou shalt see me _there_!"

Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there!

_John Pierpont._

* * * * *

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And oh! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy's a-comin' fast, John, The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal.

Sae dear's that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal. Oh! dry your glist'ning e'e, John, My saul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal.

Oh! haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearin' thro', John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain, In the land o' the leal.

_Lady Nairne._

* * * * *

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride; The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary; The day is bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near,-- The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest,-- For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,-- For the poor make no new friends; But, oh! they love the better still The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary,-- My blessin' and my pride: There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow,-- I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break,-- When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore,-- Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary,--kind and true! But I'll not forget you, darling, In the land I'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there,-- But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I'll sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I'll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

_Lady Dufferin._

* * * * *

THE DEATH-BED.

We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied,-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed,--she had Another morn than ours.

_Thomas Hood._

* * * * *

EVELYN HOPE.

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead,-- Sit and watch by her side an hour. That is her book-shelf, this her bed; She plucked that piece of geranium flower, Beginning to die, too, in the glass. Little has yet been changed, I think,-- The shutters are shut, no light may pass, Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.

Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,-- It was not her time to love: beside, Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares; And now was quiet, now astir,-- Till God's hand beckoned unawares, And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? What! your soul was pure and true; The good stars met in your horoscope, Made you of spirit, fire, and dew,-- And just because I was thrice as old, And our paths in the world diverged so wide, Each was naught to each, must I be told? We were fellow-mortals,--naught beside?

No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love,-- I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few,-- Much is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come--at last it will-- When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, in the years long still, That body and soul so pure and gay? Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, And your mouth of your own geranium's red,-- And what you would do with me, in fine, In the new life come in the old one's stead.

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, Given up myself so many times, Gained me the gains of various men, Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, Either I missed or itself missed me,-- And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! What is the issue? let us see!

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; My heart seemed full as it could hold,-- There was space and to spare for the frank young smile, And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. So hush,--I will give you this leaf to keep,-- See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand.

_Robert Browning._

* * * * *

A BRIDAL DIRGE.

Weave no more the marriage-chain! All unmated is the lover; Death has ta'en the place of Pain; Love doth call on Love in vain: Life and years of hope are over!

No more want of marriage-bell! No more need of bridal favor! Where is she to wear them well? You beside the lover tell! Gone,--with all the love he gave her!

Paler than the stone she lies; Colder than the winter's morning! Wherefore did she thus despise (She with pity in her eyes) Mother's care and lover's warning?

Youth and beauty,--shall they not Last beyond a brief to-morrow? No: a prayer, and then forgot! This the truest lover's lot; This the sum of human sorrow!

_Bryan Waller Procter._

* * * * *

SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.

She died in beauty,--like a rose Blown from its parent stem; She died in beauty,--like a pearl Dropped from some diadem.

She died in beauty,--like a lay Along a moonlit lake; She died in beauty,--like the song Of birds amid the brake.

She died in beauty,--like the snow On flowers dissolved away; She died in beauty,--like a star Lost on the brow of day.

She lives in glory,--like night's gems Set round the silver moon; She lives in glory,--like the sun Amid the blue of June.

_Charles Doyne Sillery._

* * * * *

SHE WAS NOT FAIR, NOR FULL OF GRACE.

She was not fair, nor full of grace, Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; Nor wealth had she, of mind or face, To win our love or raise our pride; No lover's thought her cheek did touch; No poet's dream was round her thrown; And yet we miss her,--ah, too much, Now--she hath flown!

We miss her when the morning calls, As one that mingled in our mirth; We miss her when the evening falls,-- A trifle wanted on the earth! Some fancy small, or subtile thought, Is checked ere to its blossom grown; Some chain is broken that we wrought, Now--she hath flown!

No solid good, nor hope defined, Is marred now she has sunk in night; And yet the strong immortal Mind Is stopped in its triumphant flight! Perhaps some grain lost to its sphere Might cast the great Sun from his throne; For all we know is--"She was here," And--"She hath flown!"

_Bryan Waller Procter._

* * * * *

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfald her robes, And there the langest tarry! For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! How rich the hawthorn blossom! As, underneath their fragrant shade, I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours, on angel wings, Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly! But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

_Robert Burns._

* * * * *

TOO LATE!

"Douglas, Douglas, tendir and treu."

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do,-- Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

O to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few; Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas, Not half worthy the like of you; Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,-- I love _you_, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

_Dinah Maria Mulock Craik._

* * * * *

TOM BOWLING.

Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling,-- For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty; His heart was kind and soft; Faithful below, he did his duty; But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed,-- His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted; His Poll was kind and fair. And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,-- Ah, many's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doffed; For, though his body's under hatches, His soul is gone aloft.

_Charles Dibdin._

* * * * *

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine,--

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee.

_Fitz-Greene Halleck._

* * * * *

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying!

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking; Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved island of sorrow!

_Thomas Moore._

* * * * *

MINSTREL'S SONG.

O sing unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.

Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.

Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O, he lies by the willow tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.