Part 4

My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold!

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. BY HENRY CAREY.

Little is known of this English poet and musical composer except that he was born near the end of the seventeenth century—about 1693—and that he is supposed to have committed suicide at London in 1743. He wrote several burlesques and farces, but is chiefly noted as the author of “God Save the King” and “Sally in Our Alley.”

Of all the girls that are so smart There’s none like pretty Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land Is half so sweet as Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage nets, And through the streets does cry ’em; Her mother she sells laces long To such as please to buy ’em; But sure such folks could ne’er beget So sweet a girl as Sally! She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that’s in the week I dearly love but one day— And that’s the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday; For then I’m drest all in my best To walk abroad with Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church, And often am I blamed Because I leave him in the lurch As soon as text is named; I leave the church in sermon time And slink away to Sally; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley.

ELIA. BY E. J. McPHELIM.

Edward J. McPhelim, a singer of many sweet songs, became mute in 1896 at an age all too young. For several years he was dramatic and literary critic for “The Tribune,” departments in which his rare critical ability and wonderful command of language found full scope. His poems, which have never been collected, contain fancies as poetic and delicate as any in the English tongue. The following, on Lamb and his sister, is significant, considering where McPhelim’s last days were spent:

Across the English meadows sweet, Across the smiling sunset land, I see them walk with faltering feet, Brother and sister, hand in hand.

They know the hour of parting nigh, They pass into the dying day, And, lo! against the sunset sky Looms up the madhouse gaunt and gray.

He keeps the lonely lamp aglow, While old loves whisper in the air Of unforgotten long ago Before his heart had known despair.

He waits till she may come once more From out the darkness to his side, To share the changeless love of yore When all the old, old loves have died.

Between me and this gentle book, Shining with humor rich and quaint, The sad scene rises, and I look Upon a jester—or a saint.

I lift my eyes, still brimming o’er With love and laughter—and there falls Across the page forever more, The shadow of the madhouse walls!

SONG. BY WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE.

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

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT. BY CARDINAL NEWMAN.

Cardinal Newman was born in London in 1801 and died in 1890. He graduated from Oxford, and was ordained in 1824. He was the recognized leader of the high church party in England until 1845, when he united with the Roman Catholic Church. He was appointed rector of the Catholic university at Dublin in 1854, and was made a Cardinal by the Pope in 1879.

Lead, kindly Light amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet! I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Should’st lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day; and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will; remember not past years.

So long Thy power has blest me, sure it still Will lead me on. O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile, Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

AN UNTIMELY THOUGHT. BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

I wonder what day of the week, I wonder what month of the year— Will it be midnight, or morning, And who will bend over my bier?

What a hideous fancy to come As I wait at the foot of the stair, While she gives the last touch to her robe Or sets the white rose in her hair.

As the carriage rolls down the dark street The little wife laughs and makes cheer— But. . . I wonder what day of the week, I wonder what month of the year.

PSALM XIX.

The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth 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.

THE POMPADOUR’S FAN. BY AUSTIN DOBSON.

Austin Dobson is today, as he has been for years, one of the leading English critics and writers of light verse. He is an authority on the literature and society of the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, and he excels in verse of the sort here printed.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew— This was the Pompadour’s fan

See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Oeil de Boeuf through; Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke—to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue— This was the Pompadour’s fan!

Ah, but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez-vous! Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, may be, overthrew Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sigh and the cue— This was the Pompadour’s fan!

ENVOY

Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour’s fan!

THE BANKS O’ DOON. BY ROBERT BURNS.

Ye banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu’ o’ care! Thou’lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro’ the flowering thorn; Thou minds me o’ departed joys, Departed—never to return!

Aft hae I rov’d by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o’ its luve, And fondly sae did I o’ mine. Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose, Fu’ sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose, But, ah! he left the thorn wi’ me.

BALLADE OF NICOLETE. BY GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

This ballad by a poet of our own time finds its way into the hearts of those who have read and loved the song-story of Aucassin and Nicolete. It has about it the fragrance and naïveté of that “good lay,” it contains the “force and freshness of young passion, the troubadour’s sweetness of literary manner,” as Mr. Le Gallienne says of another poem on the same subject written by Edmund Clarence Stedman.

All bathed in pearl and amber light She rose to fling the lattice wide, And leaned into the fragrant night, Where brown birds sang of summertide; (’Twas Love’s own voice that called and cried). “Ah Sweet!” she said, “I’ll seek thee yet, Though thorniest pathways should betide The fair white feet of Nicolete.”

They slept, who would have staid her flight; (Full fain were they the maid had died); She dropped adown her prison’s height On strands of linen featly tied. And so she passed the garden side With loose leaved roses sweetly set, And dainty daisies, dark beside The fair white feet of Nicolete!

Her lover lay in evil plight (So many lovers yet abide!) I would my tongue could praise aright Her name, that should be glorified. Those lovers now, whom foes divide A little weep—and soon forget. How far from these faint lovers glide The fair white feet of Nicolete.

ENVOY.

My princess, doff thy frozen pride, Nor scorn to pay Love’s golden debt, Through his dim woodland take for guide The fair white feet of Nicolete.

NIGHT. BY JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.

Joseph Blanco White was born of Irish parents in Seville, Spain, July 11, 1775, and was put in training for a mercantile career, but he left his father’s counting house and was ordained a priest in 1796, and continued in the priesthood until 1810, when, because of the political crisis in Spain, he went to England, residing in London as a man of letters, where he contributed largely to the leading reviews and periodicals, and produced several books, treating mostly of Spain and its affairs. He died in May, 1841. His “Sonnet to Night” was pronounced by Coleridge the finest in the English language.

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 a curtain of translucent hue, 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 would have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find, Whilst flower 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 us, wherefore not life?

THE SHEPHERD’S RESOLUTION. BY GEORGE WITHER.

George Wither was born at Brentworth, 1588. He went to Magdalene College, Oxford. He led a troop of Royalist horse against the Covenanters, but three years later he became a Puritan and held command in Cromwell’s army. He was imprisoned during the Restoration for a time. He died in 1667. Wither wrote, besides his poems, a volume of church hymns, several satires, and a translation of the Psalms.

Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman’s fair? Or make pale my cheek with care ’Cause another’s rosy are? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flow’ry meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be?

Shall a woman’s virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or her well-deservings known Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may merit name of best, If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be?

Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne’er the more despair; If she love me, this believe. I will die ere she shall grieve; If she slight me when I woo I can scorn and let her go, For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be?

THE SONG OF THE MYSTIC. BY FATHER RYAN.

Father Abram Ryan was born about 1834 some say, in Limerick, Ireland, and others, Norfolk, Va., while still others say, Hagerstown, Md. He lived nearly all his life in the South. He was educated at a seminary at Niagara, N. Y., was ordained to the priesthood and labored in many Southern cities. He established a Catholic newspaper at Augusta, Ga. He died in 1883. He was devoted to the cause of the South, and, aside from his devotional poems, none of his writings have more passion or sincerity than those commemorating the deeds of the Confederate army and the cause for which it fought.

I walk down the Valley of Silence— Down the dim, voiceless valley—alone! And I hear not the fall of a footstep Around me, save God’s and my own; And the hush of my heart is as holy As hovers where angels have flown!

Long ago I was weary of voices Whose music my heart could not win; Long ago I was weary of noises That fretted my soul with their din; Long ago I was weary of places Where I met but the human—and sin.

In the hush of the Valley of Silence I dream all the songs that I sing; And the music floats down the dim Valley, Till each finds a word for a wing, That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge A message of Peace they may bring.

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care? It lieth afar between mountains, And God and His angels are there; And one is the dark mount of Sorrow And one the bright mountain of Prayer.

GO, LOVELY ROSE. BY EDMUND WALLER.

Edmund Waller was born in Hertfordshire, England, in 1605. He went to King’s College, Cambridge. Later he entered parliament and took an active part in the long parliament. In 1664 he was exiled on account of participating in royalist plots. He returned to England under Cromwell’s administration. He died at Beaconsfield in 1687. Waller’s poems were first published in 1645.

Go, lovely rose! Tell her, that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that’s young And shuns to have her graces spied That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

THE LAST LEAF. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

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 So forlorn; 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 prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

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.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. BY THOMAS HOOD.

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the “Song of the Shirt!”

Work! work! work While the cock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It’s oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where a woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

Work—work—work Till the brain begins to swim; Work—work—work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam and gusset, and band, Band and gusset and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

Oh, men, with sisters dear! Oh, men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you’re wearing out But human creature’s lives! Stitch—stitch—stitch, In poverty, hunger and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. BY SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

Samuel Woodworth was born at Scituate, Mass., in 1785, and was the son of a farmer and revolutionary soldier. He had no educational advantages until taken up by a clergyman, who had read some of his poetical writings and who gave him instruction in the classics. Woodworth was apprenticed to a printer, and later published a paper of his own, of which he was editor, printer, and carrier. Later he removed to New York, where he edited magazines and wrote a number of volumes. His patriotic songs of the war of 1812 were widely popular. His “Old Oaken Bucket” will always hold its place among the choicest songs of America. Woodworth died in New York in 1842.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And, now far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturesome bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where 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!

“ONE TOUCH OF NATURE.” WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. (“From Troilus and Cressida.”)

For time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps—in the corner; welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin— That all, with one consent, praise new-born gauds, Though they are made and molded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o’er dusted.

A REQUIEM. BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

Robert Louis Stevenson, the son of a lighthouse engineer, was born at Edinburgh in 1850. He studied in the university of that city and became a lawyer, though he never practiced. On account of his ill-health he went to Samoa, where he lived with his family and wrote his books. He died in 1894. A few of his stories are: “Treasure island,” “Kidnapped,” “New Arabian Nights,” “St. Ives”; his essays are, “Virginibus Puerisque,” “Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes,” and “Familiar Studies on Men and Books.”

Under the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie, Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me; Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea And the hunter home from the hill.

REQUIESCAT. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Matthew Arnold, son of the famous head master of Rugby, was born at Laleham, Middlesex, 1822. He studied at Winchester, Rugby, and Balliol College, Oxford, and was a fellow of Oriel. In 1851 he was made lay inspector of schools, and in ’57 received the appointment of professor of poetry at Oxford. He died at Liverpool in 1888. He wrote “Empedocles on Etna,” “Essays in Criticism,” “Study of Celtic Literature,” “Culture and Anarchy,” and other books of essays.

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew! In quiet she reposes; Ah! would that I did, too,

Her mirth the world required; She bathed it in smiles of glee, But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound; But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin’d ample spirit, It flutter’d and fail’d for breath; To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of death.

AT THE CHURCH GATE. BY W. M. THACKERAY.