Part 8

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers Round his holy corse to gre; Ouphant fairy, light your fires; Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow tree.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your lethal tide. I die! I come! my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died.

_Thomas Chatterton._

* * * * *

IN MEMORIAM.

Farewell! since nevermore for thee The sun comes up our earthly skies, Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be To some fond hearts and saddened eyes.

There are who for thy last long sleep Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, Shall weep because thou canst not weep, And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.

Sad thrift of love! the loving breast, On which the aching head was thrown, Gave up the weary head to rest, But kept the aching for its own.

_Thomas K. Hervey._

* * * * *

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one home with glee,-- Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight,-- Where are those dreamers now?

One, 'midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream is laid,-- The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one; He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed Above the noble slain; He wrapped his colors round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one,--o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded 'midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band.

And parted thus they rest, who played Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth,-- Alas for love! if _thou_ wert all, And naught beyond, O earth!

_Felicia Hemans._

* * * * *

THE HERMIT.

At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove, 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself or with nature at war, He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man:

"Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,-- Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn! O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away! Full quickly they pass,--but they never return.

"Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays; But lately I marked when majestic on high She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendor again! But man's faded glory what change shall renew? Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. I mourn,--but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching your charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,-- Kind nature the embryo blossom will save; But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?

"'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, 'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee! Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.'

"And darkness and doubt are now flying away: No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending, And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."

_James Beattie._

* * * * *

O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection who proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed, Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by; And the memory of those who have loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed That withers away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-- We drink the same stream, and we view the same sun, And run the same course that our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death that we shrink from our fathers would shrink; To the life that we cling to they also would cling; But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, ay! they died: and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, We mingle together in sunshine and rain; And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-- O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

_William Knox._

* * * * *

PROGRESS.

When Liberty lives loud on every lip, But Freedom moans, Trampled by nations whose faint footfalls slip Round bloody thrones; When, here and there, in dungeon and in thrall, Or exile pale, Like torches dying at a funeral, Brave natures fail; When Truth, the armed archangel, stretches wide God's tromp in vain, And the world, drowsing, turns upon its side To drowse again;-- O Man, whose course hath called itself sublime Since it began, What art thou in such dying age of time, As man to man?

When Love's last wrong hath been forgotten coldly, As First Love's face; And, like a rat that comes to wanton boldly In some lone place, Once festal, in the realm of light and laughter Grim Doubt appears, Whilst weird suggestions from Death's vague Hereafter, O'er ruined years, Creep, dark and darker, with new dread to mutter Through life's long shade, Yet make no more in the chill breast the flutter Which once they made: Whether it be, that all doth at the grave Round to its term, That nothing lives in that last darkness, save The little worm, Or whether the tired spirit prolong its course Through realms unseen,-- Secure, that unknown world cannot be worse Than this hath been: Then when thro' Thought's gold chain, so frail and slender, No link will meet; When all the broken harps of Language render No sound that's sweet; When, like torn books, sad days weigh down each other I' the dusty shelf;-- O Man, what art thou, O my friend, my brother, Even to thyself?

_Robert Bulwer Lytton._

* * * * *

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY.

My mother bore me in the southern wild, And I am black; but, O, my soul is white! White as an angel is the English child, But I am black as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree; And, sitting down before the heat of day, She took me on her lap, and kisséd me, And, pointing to the east, began to say:--

"Look on the rising sun; there God does live, And gives his light, and gives his heat away; And flowers and trees, and beasts and men, receive Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

"And we are put on earth a little space, That we may learn to bear the beams of love, And these black bodies and this sunburnt face Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

"For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, The clouds will vanish; we shall hear his voice, Saving: 'Come from the grove, my love and care, And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'"

Thus did my mother say and kisséd me, And thus I say to little English boy; When I from black, and he from white cloud free, And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, And be like him, and he will then love me.

_William Blake._

* * * * *

DEATHS FINAL CONQUEST.

The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate,-- Death lays his icy hands on kings; Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield,-- They tame but one another still; Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,-- Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar, now, See where the victor victim bleeds! All heads must come To the cold tomb,-- Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.

_James Shirley._

* * * * *

TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN.

Slave of the dark and dirty mine, What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear? The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear For twilight converse, arm in arm; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear When mirth and music wont to charm.

By Cherical's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave!

Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played, Revives no more in after-time. Far from my sacred natal clime, I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave.

Slave of the mine, thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widowed heart to cheer: Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine.

For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true! I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. The cold wind of the stranger blew Chill on my withered heart; the grave Dark and untimely met my view,-- And all for thee, vile yellow slave!

Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, Now that his frame the lightning shock Of sun-rays tipped with death has borne? From love, from friendship, country, torn, To memory's fond regrets the prey, Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! Go mix thee with thy kindred clay!

_John Leyden._

* * * * *

GOING HOME.

Drawn by horses with decorous feet, A carriage for one went through the street, Polished as anthracite out of the mine, Tossing its plumes so stately and fine, As nods to the night a Norway pine.

The passenger lay in Parian rest, As if, by the sculptor's hand caressed, A mortal life through the marble stole, And then till an angel calls the roll It waits awhile for a human soul.

He rode in state, but his carriage-fare Was left unpaid to his only heir; Hardly a man, from hovel to throne, Takes to this route in coach of his own, But borrows at last and travels alone.

The driver sat in his silent seat; The world, as still as a field of wheat, Gave all the road to the speechless twain, And thought the passenger never again Should travel that way with living men.

Not a robin held its little breath, But sang right on in the face of death; You never would dream, to see the sky Give glance for glance to the violet's eye, That aught between them could ever die.

A wain bound east met the hearse bound west, Halted a moment, and passed abreast; And I verily think a stranger pair Have never met on a thoroughfare, Or a dim by-road, or anywhere:

The hearse as slim and glossy and still As silken thread at a woman's will, Who watches her work with tears unshed, Broiders a grief with needle and thread, Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead;

Spotless the steeds in a satin dress, That run for two worlds the Lord's Express,-- Long as the route of Arcturus's ray, Brief as the Publican's trying to pray, No other steeds by no other way Could go so far in a single day.

From wagon broad and heavy and rude A group looking out from a single hood; Striped with the flirt of a heedless lash, Dappled and dimmed with many a splash, "Gathered" behind like an old calash.

It made you think of a schooner's sail Mildewed with weather, tattered by gale, Down "by the run" from mizzen and main,-- That canvas mapped with stipple and stain Of Western earth and the prairie rain.

The watch-dog walked in his ribs between The hinder wheels, with sleepy mien; A dangling pail to the axle slung; Astern of the wain a manger hung,-- A schooner's boat by the davits swung.

The white-faced boys sat three in a row, With eyes of wonder and heads of tow; Father looked sadly over his brood; Mother just lifted a flap of the hood; All saw the hearse,--and two understood.

They thought of the one-eyed cabin small, Hid like a nest in the grasses tall, Where plains swept boldly off in the air, Grooved into heaven everywhere,-- So near the stars' invisible stair

That planets and prairie almost met,-- Just cleared its edges as they set! They thought of the level world's "divide," And their hearts flowed down its other side To the grave of the little girl that died.

They thought of childhood's neighborly hills, With sunshine aprons and ribbons of rills, That drew so near when the day went down, Put on a crimson and golden crown, And sat together in mantles brown;

The Dawn's red plume in their winter caps, And Night asleep in their drowsy laps, Lightening the load of the shouldered wood By shedding the shadows as they could, That gathered round where the homestead stood.

They thought,--that pair in the rugged wain, Thinking with bosom rather than brain; They'll never know till their dying day That what they thought and never could say, Their hearts throbbed out in an Alpine lay, The old Waldensian song again; Thank God for the mountains, and amen!

The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,-- A moment or two, and both were gone; The wain bound east, the hearse bound west, Both going home, both looking for rest. The Lord save all, and his name be blest!

_Benjamin F. Taylor._

* * * * *

MAN'S MORTALITY.

Like as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossoms on the tree, Or like the dainty flower of May, Or like the morning of the day, Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had; Even such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, The flower fades, the morning hasteth, The sun sets, the shadow flies, The gourd consumes, and man,--he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung, Or like a tale that's new begun, Or like the bird that's here to-day, Or like the pearléd dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended, The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, The hour is short, the span not long, The swan near death,--man's life is done!

Like to a bubble in the brook, Or in a glass much like a look, Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, Or like the writing on the sand, Or like a thought, or like a dream, Or like the gliding of a stream; Even such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot, The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot, The thought is past, the dream is gone, The water glides,--man's life is done!

Like to a blaze of fond delight, Or like a morning clear and bright, Or like a frost, or like a shower, Or like the pride of Babel's tower, Or like the hour that guides the time, Or like to Beauty in her prime; Even such is man, whose glory lends That life a blaze or two, and ends. The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain, The frost is thawed, dried up the rain, The tower falls, the hour is run, The beauty lost,--man's life is done!

Like to an arrow from the bow, Or like swift course of waterflow, Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb, Or like the spider's tender web, Or like a race, or like a goal, Or like the dealing of a dole; Even such is man, whose brittle state Is always subject unto Fate. The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, The time 's no time, the web soon rent, The race soon run, the goal soon won, The dole soon dealt,--man's life is done!

Like to the lightning from the sky, Or like a post that quick doth hie, Or like a quaver in a short song, Or like a journey three days long, Or like the snow when summer 's come, Or like the pear, or like the plum; Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. The lightning 's past, the post must go, The song is short, the journey's so, The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, The snow dissolves,--and so must all!

_Simon Wastel._

* * * * *

LIFE.

Like to the falling of a star, Or as the flights of eagles are, Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, Or silver drops of morning dew, Or like a wind that chafes the flood, Or bubbles which on water stood; Even such is man, whose borrowed light Is straight called in, and paid to-night. The wind blows out, the bubble dies, The spring entombed in autumn lies, The dew dries up, the star is shot, The flight is past,--and man forgot!

_Henry King._

* * * * *

A LAMENT.

O World! O Life! O Time! On whose last steps I climb, Trembling at that where I had stood before; When will return the glory of your prime? No more,--O nevermore!

Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more,--O nevermore!

_Percy Bysshe Shelley._

* * * * *

LIFE.

Life! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time, Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning.

_Anna Lætitia Barbauld._

* * * * *

TITHONUS.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapors weep their burden to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the east, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man,-- So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a god! I asked thee, "Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, And beat me down and marred and wasted me, And though they could not end me, left me maimed To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?