Part 3
Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great sized monster of ingratitudes; Those scraps are good deeds past; which are devour’d As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright; to have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take th’ instant way; For honor travels in a straight so narrow, Where one but goes abreast; keep, then, the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons, That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an enter’d tide, they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O’errun and trampled on.
A DEED AND A WORD. BY CHARLES MACKAY.
Charles Mackay was born at Perth In 1814. He was, from 1844 to 1847, the editor of the Glasgow Argus, and later of the Illustrated London News. During the civil war he was the New York correspondent for the London Times. He died at London in 1889. Several of his writings are “The Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality,” “Voices from the Crowd,” “Voices from the Mountains,” and “History of the Mormons.”
A little stream had lost its way Amid the grass and fern; A passing stranger scooped a well, Where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, But judged that all might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, By summer never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid a crowd That thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of hope and love, Unstudied, from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown, A transitory breath— It raised a brother from the dust, It saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, But mighty at the last.
TWO LOVERS. BY GEORGE ELIOT.
Mary Ann Evans was born at Warwickshire, in 1819. She received her education at Nuneaton, and also at Coventry. In 1851 she was given the position of assistant editor on the “Westminster Review,” which she held until 1853. In the following year she entered into a domestic and philosophical partnership with George Henry Lewes. Two years after his death she married John Walter Cross, a man much younger than herself. After her death her husband published her memoirs. She died at Chelsea, London, in 1880. Though shunned by the women of her acquaintance, Eliot was courted by the greatest philosophers of her time.
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. O budding time! O, love’s blest prime!
Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carolings, The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride! O tender pride!
Two faces o’er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked; These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power!
Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife!
The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past!
The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, “Once more!” O memories! O past that is!
DRIFTING. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
Thomas Buchanan Read, artist and poet, was born in 1822 and died in 1872. His youth was spent in poverty and he earned a miserable existence at tailoring and cigar-making. He played on the stage and took to painting in oils. His work attracted interest and he opened a studio. About the same time he began writing, alternating the brush with the pen. His best-known poems are “Sheridan’s Ride” and “Drifting.” He published a volume of poetry and two of prose. His pictures include portraits of Longfellow, Dallas, Ex-Queen of Naples, Mrs. Browning and “The Lost Pleiad,” “The Star of Bethlehem,” “Spirit of the Waterfall,” and “Sheridan’s Ride.”
My soul today Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; My winged boat, A bird afloat, Swims round the purple peaks remote:—
Round purple peaks It sails, and seeks Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, Where high rocks throw, Through deeps below, A duplicated golden glow.
Far, vague, and dim, The mountains swim; While on Vesuvius’ misty brim With outstretched hands The gray smoke stands O’erlooking the volcanic lands.
Here Ischia smiles O’er liquid miles; And yonder, bluest of the isles, Calm Capri waits, Her sapphire gates Beguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not, if My rippling skiff Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;— With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls Where swells and falls The bay’s deep breast at intervals, At peace I lie, Blown softly by, A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day so mild, Is Heaven’s own child, With earth and ocean reconciled;— The airs I feel Around me steal Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.
Over the rail My hand I trail Within the shadow of the sail. A joy intense, The cooling sense Glides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Where summer sings and never dies,— O’erveiled with vines. She glows and shines Among her future oil and wines.
Her children hid, The cliffs amid, Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; Or down the walls, With tipsy calls, Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.
The fisher’s child With tresses wild, Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, With glowing lips, Sings as she skips, Or gazes at the far-off ships.
Yon deep bark goes Where Traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one Its course has run From lands of snow to lands of sun.
O happy ship, To rise and dip, With the blue crystal at your lip! O happy crew, My heart with you Sails, and sails, and sings anew!
No more, no more The worldy shore Upbraids me with its loud uproar! With dreamful eyes My spirit lies Under the walls of Paradise!
DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. BY GEORGE H. BOKER.
George Henry Boker, the American poet, was born in Philadelphia in 1823, and died there in 1890. He was educated at Princeton, and studied law, but never practiced. In 1871 he was made Minister Resident to Turkey, and from 1875 to 1879 he was Minister to Russia. He wrote several volumes of verse and the tragedies “Francesca da Rimini,” “Anne Boleyn,” and “Leonore de Guzman.”
Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon or set of sun, Hand of man or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low!
As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn might, Sleep for ever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low!
Fold him in his country’s stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low!
Leave him to God’s watching eye; Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by; God alone has power to aid him. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? He cannot know; Lay him low!
EVENING SONG. BY SIDNEY LANIER.
Sidney Lanier was born at Macon, Ga., in 1842. On account of ill health he went to Baltimore, where for a while he played the flute in the famous Peabody concerts—he was passionately fond of music and brought marvelous harmonies out of his flute. In 1879 he became lecturer in English literature at the Johns Hopkins university, Baltimore. He died at Lynn, N. C., in 1881. He wrote a novel, “Tiger Lilies,” “Centennial Ode,” “Science of English Verse,” “The English Novel and Its Development,” and a volume of poems.
Look off, dear love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands, Ah! longer, longer, we.
Now in the sea’s red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt’s pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. ’Tis done, Love, lay thy hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven’s heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O, night! divorce our sun and sky apart, Never our lips our hands.
THE BRIDGE. BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
The poems of this well-loved poet are the stepping stones by which every American child ascends to the realm of poetry.
I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city Behind the dark church tower.
I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea.
And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon.
Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away;
As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide.
And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o’er me That filled my eyes with tears.
How often, O, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky!
How often, O, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O’er the ocean wild and wide!
For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear.
But now it has fallen from me— It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me.
Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years.
And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then.
I see the long procession Still passing to and fro— The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow!
And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes,
The moon and its broken reflection And its shadow shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.
SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT. BY LORD BYRON.
She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes, Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress Or softly lightens o’er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow But tell of days in goodness spent— A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent.
THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON HIGH. BY JOSEPH ADDISON.
Joseph Addison was born at Milston in 1672. He went to Queen’s College, Oxford; after he finished his course he traveled on the continent, studying for the diplomatic service. Returning, he held the position of Secretary of State, 1706–’8, and until a year of his death held different political positions. He wrote, besides his famous contributions to the Tatler, and Spectator, “The Campaign,” a treatise on Medals, a “Letter from Italy,” and one play worthy the name, “Cato.” He died at London in 1719.
The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator’s power display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball; What though no real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found; In reason’s ear they all rejoice And utter forth a glorious voice; Forever singing, as they shine, “The hand that made us is divine.”
LUCY. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, O, The difference to me!
AN EMPEROR’S DAUGHTER STANDS ALONE. BY GEOFFREY CHAUCER.
Geoffrey Chaucer, often called the father of English verse, was born some time after 1340, served with Edward III. in the French campaigns and was imprisoned in France. He was on an embassy to Genoa in 1372, met Petrarch, and got from him the tale of Griselda and other Italian legends. On his return he occupied various positions of trust, principally of a diplomatic nature. His last days were spent in obscurity. He died in London in 1400, and was buried in Westminster Abbey. His “Canterbury Tales,” founded for the most part upon the same stories that Boccaccio and other writers had made famous in prose, are almost the first evidence of the influence of the Italian Renaissance upon English literature. He wrote many detached pieces as well, although his reputation rests largely upon the “Tales.” He had not only the true poetic instinct, but a deep knowledge and intense love of nature, and he gave a great inspiration to the writers of the golden age which followed his own. As Tennyson says of him in “A Dream of Fair Women:”
“_Dan Chaucer_, _the first warbler whose sweet breath_ _Preluded those melodious bursts that fill_ _The spacious times of great Elizabeth_ _With sounds that echo still_.”
Have ye nat seyn som tyme a pale face Among a press, of hym that hath be lad Toward his deeth, where as hym gat no grace? And swich a colour in his face hath had, Men myghte knowe his face that was bistad, Amonges alle the faces in that route; So stant Custance, and looketh hire aboute. O, queenes, lyvynge in prosperitee! Duchesses, and ladyes everichone! Haveth som routhe on hire adversitee. An Emperoures doghter stant allone; She hath no wight to whom to make hir mone! O, blood roial, that stondest in this drede, Fer been thy freendes at thy grete nede! This Alla, kyng, hath swich compassioun, As gentil herte is fulfild of pitee, That from hise eyen ran the water doun. “Now hastily do fecche a book,” quod he, “And if this knyght wol sweren how that she This womman slow, yet wol we us avyse Whom that we wole that shall been our justise.” A Briton book written with Evaungiles Was fet, and on this book he swore anoon She gilty was, and in the meene whiles An hand hym smoot upon the nekke boon, That doun he fil atones as a stoon; And bothe hise eyen broste out of his face In sighte of every body in that place! A voys was herd in general audience And seyde, “Thou has desclaundred, giltlees, The doghter of hooly chirche in heigh presence; Thus hastou doon, and yet holde I my pees.” Of this mervaille agast was al the prees; As mazed folk they stoden everichone, For drede of wreche, save Custance allone. Greet was the drede, and eek the repentance, Of hem that hadden wronge suspecioun Upon this sely, innocent Custance; And for this miracle, in conclusion, And by Custance’s mediacioun, The Kyng, and many another in that place Converted was—thanked be Christes grace!
DELIGHT IN DISORDER. BY ROBERT HERRICK.
It is in such poems as the following one that Herrick is at his best; his religious, or, as he called them, his “noble numbers,” being for the most part inferior. But in his lyrics, as Austin Dobson says, his “numbers are of gold.”
A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness; A lawn about the shoulders thrown, Into a fine distraction; An erring lace, which here and there Enthralls the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglected, and thereby Ribbands to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoestring, in whose tie I see a wild civility; Doth more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.
OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. BY THOMAS MOORE.
Oft in the stilly night, E’re slumber’s chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of another day around me: The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood’s years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.
When I remember all The friends so linked together, I’ve seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed.
Thus in the stilly night, E’re slumber’s chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.
JIM BLUDSO. JOHN HAY.
John Hay, Secretary of State, was born at Salem, Ind., on Oct. 8, 1838, and he was graduated at Brown twenty years later. He studied law in Springfield, Ill., and in 1861 became assistant secretary to President Lincoln. He saw some of the civil war as an aid-de-camp under Generals Hunter and Gilmore, with rank of Major and Assistant Adjutant General, Brevet Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel. He was First Assistant Secretary of Legation in Paris and in charge several times from 1865 to 1867, was diplomat in charge at Vienna 1867–’68, Secretary of Legation at Madrid 1868–’70, editorial writer for five years of the New York Tribune, First Assistant Secretary of State, and Ambassador to England. He is the author of “Pike County Ballads,” “Castillian Days,” and part author of a life of Lincoln, written in conjunction with John G. Nicolay.
Wall no! I can’t tell where he lives Because he don’t live, you see; Leastways he’s got out of the habit Of livin’ like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven’t heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks The night of the Prairie Belle?
He weren’t no saint—them engineers Is all pretty much alike— One wife in Natchez-Under-the-Hill And another one here in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row, But he never flunked and he never lied— I reckon he never knowed how.
And this was all the religion he had— To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot’s bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire— A thousand times he swore He’d hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore.
All boats has their day on the Mississipp, And her day come at last— The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn’t be passed, And so she come tearin’ along that night— The oldest craft on the line— With a nigger squat on her safety-valve And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer bank on the right. There was runnin’ and cursin’, but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, “I’ll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot’s ashore.”
Through the hot, black breath of the burnin’ boat Jim Bludso’s voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And know’d he would keep his word, And, sure’s you’re born they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell— And Bludso’s ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.
He weren’t no saint—but at jedgment I’d run my chance with Jim, ’Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn’t shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing— And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain’t a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men.
MORAL. BY ALFRED TENNYSON.
So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say, What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wildweed-flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose?
But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humors lead, A meaning suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend; So ’twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end.
BEDOUIN LOVE SONG. BY BAYARD TAYLOR.
From the desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire, And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry: I love thee, I love but thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!
Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh, And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!