Part 5

William Makepeace Thackeray was horn at Calcutta in 1811. He was brought up in England, where he went to Charterhouse School and later to Trinity College, Cambridge. He left college after one year’s study and went to Paris, where he studied with the hope of becoming an artist. His first contributions in the way of writing were to Frazer’s Magazine, and among them were his famous “Yellowplush Papers.” He wrote other satires and humorous ballads for Punch. Thackeray was the first editor of the Cornhill Magazine, which is still in publication. He died in London in 1863.

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

My lady comes at last, Timid and stepping fast, And hastening hither With modest eyes downcast; She comes—she’s here, she’s past! May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits who wait, And see, through heaven’s gate, Angels within it.

HE’D HAD NO SHOW. BY SAM WALTER FOSS.

Joe Beall ’ud set upon a keg Down to the groc’ry store, an’ throw One leg right over t’other leg An’ swear he’d never had no show, “O, no,” said Joe, “Hain’t hed no show,” Then shif his quid to t’other jaw, An’ chaw, an’ chaw, an’ chaw, an’ chaw.

He said he got no start in life, Didn’t get no money from his dad, The washin’ took in by his wife Earned all the funds he ever had. “O, no,” said Joe, “Hain’t hed no show,” An’ then he’d look up at the clock An’ talk, an’ talk, an’ talk, an’ talk.

“I’ve waited twenty year—let’s see— Yes, twenty-four, an’ never struck, Altho’ I’ve sot roun’ patiently, The fust tarnation streak er luck, O, no,” said Joe, “Hain’t hed no show,” Then stuck like mucilage to the spot, An’ sot, an’ sot, an’ sot, an’ sot.

“I’ve come down regerler every day For twenty years to Piper’s store. I’ve sot here in a patient way, Say, hain’t I, Piper?” Piper swore. “I tell ye, Joe, Yer hain’t no show; Yer too dern patient”—ther hull raft Jest laffed, an’ laffed, an’ laffed, an’ laffed.

TO THE CUCKOO. BY JOHN LOGAN.

John Logan was born in Scotland in 1748. He wrote lyric poems and published his poems in collaboration with Michael Bruce in 1770. This double volume of poems led probably to the confusion of the authorship of the “Ode to the Cuckoo.” The question is still debated, but the poem is generally attributed to Logan. He died in 1788 at London.

Hail beauteous stranger of the grove! Thou messenger of Spring! Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, And woods thy welcome ring.

What time the daisy decks the green, Thy certain voice we hear; Hast thou a star to guide thy path, Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee I hail the time of flowers, And hear the sound of music sweet From birds among the bowers.

* * *

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year!

O, could I fly, I’d fly with thee! We’d make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit oe’r the globe, Companions of the Spring.

HER MORAL. BY THOMAS HOOD.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold, Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled; Heavy to get, and light to hold; Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold, Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled; Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old To the very verge of the churchyard mould; Price of many a crime untold.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold! Good or bad a thousandfold! How widely its agencies vary— To save—to ruin—to curse—to bless— As even its minted coins express, Now stamp’d with the image of Good Queen Bess And now of a bloody Mary.

SERENADE. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Stars of the summer night! Far in yon azure deeps, Hide, hide your golden light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night! Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink in silver light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night! Where yonder woodbine creeps, Fold, fold thy pinions light! She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night! Tell her, her lover keeps Watch, while in slumbers light She sleeps! My lady sleeps! Sleeps!

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. BY JOHN KEATS.

John Keats was born at London in 1795. He studied medicine, but after passing his examinations he never practiced. About this time he became acquainted with Shelley, Leigh Hunt, and Haydon. In 1820 he went to Naples on account of his health, and from there to Rome, where he died in 1821. His longer poems are; “Endymion” (which poem was most severely criticised at the time of its publication), “Lamia,” “Isabella,” and “The Eve of Saint Agnes.”

Thou still unravished bride of quietness, Thou foster child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme; What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady: What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone; Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet do not grieve, She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

O, Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man to whom thou say’st, “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”—that is all Ye know on earth, truth, and all ye need to know.

TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. BY RICHARD LOVELACE.

This lyric of Richard Lovelace’s is, with the “Lucasta,” the best known and most often quoted of his poems.

When Love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates; When I lie tangled in her hair And fettered with her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups pass swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free— Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.

When linnet-like confined, With shriller throat shall sing Thy mercy, sweetness, majesty And glories of my king; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, The enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage; If I have freedom in my love And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above, Enjoy such liberty.

SONG. BY JOHN BUNYAN.

John Bunyan was born at Elstow in 1628. He was a tinker, as his father was before him, but he finally became a soldier in the parliamentary army. In 1653 he became a nonconformist and went about the country preaching until he was arrested under the statutes against that doctrine. While in prison Bunyan began his well-known allegory—“Pilgrim’s Progress.” Under Charles II. he was released and made pastor at Bedford. He died at London in 1688.

He that is down need fear no fall; He that is low, no pride; He that is humble ever shall Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have, Little be it or much; And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Because thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is That go on pilgrimage; Here little, and hereafter bliss, Is best from age to age.

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS. BY THOMAS MOORE.

In the early part of the last century, when the star of Moore was at its zenith, no song was more popular than this, perhaps as much for the charming air to which it is set as for the beauty and rhythm of its words.

Believe me, if all those endearing charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be ador’d, as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofan’d by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as surely loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look that she turned when he rose.

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US. BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not—Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn!

ODE ON SOLITUDE. BY ALEXANDER POPE.

Pope was born at London in 1688. He had no school education, as he was always sickly, but he learned Latin and Greek from several friends. By the time he was 17 he was an acknowledged wit and critic. His first published poem was “The Pastorals,” 1709; then followed “The Rape of the Lock,” his best satirical poem, and the next year (1713) he began his translation of the “Iliad.” He died at Twickenham in 1744.

Happy the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away; In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night, study and ease, Together mixt, sweet recreation; And innocence, which most doth please, With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus, unlamented, let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

PATRIOTISM. BY SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott was born at Edinburgh in 1771. He first began his writing by translating Burger and Goethe, but he left this work to take up the Border Minstrelsy of his own country. In 1814 he published the first of the well-known “Waverley” novels. He sold his copyrights to the firm of Constable, and as the house failed a few years later Scott was heavily involved. As he had also recently bought and repaired the estate of Abbotsford, he was in debt for that also. In spite of ill health he wrote incessantly in order to meet his bills, and gave to the world the novels and poems with which all are so familiar. He died in 1832.

Breathes there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, “This is my own, my native land!” Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well! For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim— Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentered all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

ROCKED IN THE CRADLE OF THE DEEP. BY EMMA WILLARD.

Emma Willard, the American educator and author, was one of a family of seventeen children. Her maiden name was Hart. She was born at Berlin, Conn., in 1787. She began teaching in the village school and later became principal of a girls’ college at Westfield, Conn., and after her marriage to Dr. John Willard in 1814, opened a boarding school at Middlebury, Conn, into which she introduced new methods and new studies. The school was removed to Troy, N. Y., and became the Troy Female Academy. Retiring from the school in 1858, Mrs. Willard spent the remaining years of her life in revising her text books and writing a volume of poems. She died in 1876.

Rocked in the cradle of the deep. I lay me down in peace to sleep; Secure I rest upon the wave, For Thou, O Lord, hast power to save.

I know Thou wilt not slight my call, For Thou dost mark the sparrow’s fall; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o’er the brine, Or though the tempest’s fiery breath Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.

In ocean’s caves still safe with Thee, The germ of immortality; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

The influence of poetry is greater than is generally realized, and many find inspiration to action in reading it. Mrs. Browning in this pathetic poem did much to rouse England to the evil of child labor and to perceive the wrongs done the little ones toiling in its factories and coal mines far beyond their strength.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O, my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears.

But the young, young children, O, my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free.

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children’s souls which God is calling sunward, Spin on blindly in the dark.

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. BY LEIGH HUNT.

James Henry Leigh Hunt was born at Southgate in 1784. He was an essayist, an author, and a poet, chief among his poems being “The Story of Rimini.” He died at Putney in 1859.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight of his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold— Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head, And with a look made all of sweet accord, Answer’d, “The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one who loves his fellowmen.” The angel wrote and vanish’d. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And show’d the names whom love of God had bless’d, And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

BUGLE SONG. BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

This poem is one of the lyrics from the “Princess,” yet there is so little connection between the story and these five or six charming songs embedded within the mock heroic poem that one does not think of them as part of the medley.

The splendor falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying; Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

OPPORTUNITY. BY JOHN J. INGALLS.

John James Ingalls was born in Massachusetts in 1833 and was graduated from Williams College in 1853. He was admitted to the bar in 1857, and removed to Atchison, Kas., in 1859. He took an active interest in the exciting Kansas politics, and, besides serving as a delegate to the Wyandotte convention that framed the State constitution, he served as secretary to the Territorial Council. In 1862 he was a State Senator. He edited the Atchison Champion for three years and served in the State militia. In 1873 he was elected to the United States Senate, and then began his remarkably brilliant political career. After serving twenty years he was retired by the political revolution in his State. As an orator he held high rank. He frequently contributed to the leading magazines and reviews. He died about two years ago.

Master of human destinies am I. Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait, Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel, and mart, and palace, soon or late I knock unbidden once at every gate! If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore— I answer not, and I return no more.

MIGNON’S SONG FROM “WILHELM MEISTER.”

“After having sung the song a second time, she paused for a moment, and, attentively surveying Wilhelm, she asked him, ‘Know’st thou the land?’ ‘It must be Italy!’ he replied.”—Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship.

Know’st thou the land where the lemon tree blows— Where deep in the bower the gold orange grows? Where zephyrs from heaven die softly away, And the laurel and myrtle tree never decay? Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee, My dearest, my fondest! with thee would I flee.

Know’st thou the hall with its pillared arcades, Its chambers so vast and its long colonnades? Where the statues of marble with features so mild Ask “Why have they used thee so harshly, my child?” Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee, My guide, my protector! with thee would I flee.

Know’st thou the Alp which the vapor enshrouds, Where the bold muleteer seeks his way thro’ the clouds? In the cleft of the mountain the dragon abides, And the rush of the stream tears the rock from its sides; Know’st thou it? Thither, O! thither with thee, Leads our way, father—then come, let us flee.

PSALM LXXXIV.

How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts!

My soul longeth, yea, even fainteth for the courts of the Lord; my heart and my flesh crieth out for the living God.

Yea, the sparrow hath found an house, and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay her young, even thine altars, O Lord of hosts, my King and my God.

Blessed are they that dwell in thy house; they will be still praising thee. Selah.

Blessed is the man whose strength is in thee; in whose heart are the ways of them.

Who, passing through the valley of Baca, make it a well; the rain also filleth the pools.

They go from strength to strength; every one of them in Zion appeareth before God.

O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer; give ear, O God of Jacob. Selah.

Behold, O God our shield, and look upon the face of thine anointed.

For a day in thy courts is better than a thousand. I had rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.

For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give grace and glory; no good thing will he withhold from them that walk uprightly.

O Lord of hosts, blessed is the man that trusteth in thee.

THANATOPSIS. BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

This imperishable poem was written by William Cullen Bryant when he was 18 years old. It was sent to the North American Review either by the poet or his father. Richard Henry Dana of the Review supposed the writer to be some one of international repute. The poet’s father was then a member of the Massachusetts senate. Dana went to the statehouse to call on him, but the appearance of Dr. Bryant seemed to satisfy Dana that he must look elsewhere for the author, and so he returned to Cambridge without an interview with the senator. Later he learned that the author was the doctor’s son.