Part 6

To him who, in the love of nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature’s teachings, while from all around— Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding Sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting place Shalt thou retire alone—nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste— Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone! So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men— The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray headed man— Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES. BY FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON.

Francis William Bourdillon was born in Woolbeding in 1852. Re received his education at Worcester College, Oxford, and was afterwards a private tutor to the sons of the Prince and Princess Christian. A few of his published works are, “Among the Flowers and Other Poems,” 1874; “Ailes d’Alouette,” 1891; “A Lost God,” 1892; and “Sursum Corda,” 1893.

The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done.

THE HERITAGE. BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

The rich man’s son inherits lands, And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft, white hands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares; And soft, white hands could scarcely earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The rich man’s son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part In every useful toil and art; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit? Wishes o’erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, Content that from employment springs. A heart that in his labor sings; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

What doth the poor man’s son inherit? A patience learned of being poor; Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it. A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee.

O, rich man’s son! there is a toil That with all others level stands; Large charity doth never soil, But only whiten, soft white hands— This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee.

O, poor man’s son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign— A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee.

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well filled past— A heritage, it seems to me, Well worth a life to hold in fee.

A DITTY. BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

My true love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one to the other given; I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss, There never was a better bargain driven; My true love hath my heart and I have his.

His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides; He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his because in me it bides: My true love hath my heart and I have his.

PSALM CXXI.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved; he that keepeth thee will not slumber.

Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is thy keeper; the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.

The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.

The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; he shall preserve thy soul.

The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in from this time forth and even for evermore.

THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER. BY FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.

Francis Scott Key was born in Frederick County, Maryland, in 1780. He was the author of a volume of poems published in 1857, but the poem that will keep him alive in the memory of the nation is his “Star Spangled Banner.” This poem was written on shipboard during the war of 1812, while the English were bombarding Fort McHenry. Mr. Key died at Baltimore in 1843.

O! say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light, What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars thro’ the perilous fight, O’er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was still there; O! say, does that star spangled banner yet wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On that shore, dimly seen thro’ the mists of the deep, Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam, In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream; ’Tis the star spangled banner, O, long may it wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion, A home and a country should leave us no more? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ pollution; No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave. And the star spangled banner in triumph doth wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

O! thus be it ever when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation; Blest with vict’ry and peace, may the heav’n-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must when our cause it is just, And this be our motto, “In God is our trust.” And the star spangled banner in triumph shall wave O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

FROM “IN MEMORIAM.” BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

O, yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroyed, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain, That not a moth with vain desire Is shriveled in a fruitless fire, Or but subserves another’s gain.

* * *

So runs my dream: But what am I? An infant crying in the night; An infant crying for the light; And with no language but a cry.

The wish that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul?

Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear

I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world’s altar-stairs That slope thro’ darkness up to God

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. BY THOMAS HOOD.

I remember, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow.

I remember, I remember The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky; It was a childish ignorance, But now ’tis little joy To know I’m farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

MARY’S DREAM. BY JOHN LOWE.

John Lowe, the author of this poem, was born at Kenmure, parish of Kells, Kircudbrightshire, Scotland, in 1750. His father was a gardener, and at the age of 14 John was apprenticed to a weaver, but in 1771 he was enabled to go to the University of Edinburgh. Later he entered the family of Mr. McGhie of Airds, whose house was located on an elevated piece of ground washed by the Dee and Ken, a spot reverenced by Lowe for its beauty. Within the grounds he erected a rural seat environed with honeysuckle, woodbine, and other shrubs, which is known to this day as “Lowe’s Seat,” and there he composed many of his most beautiful verses.

The moon had climbed the highest hill That rises o’er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed Her silver light on tower and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep, Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When, soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me.”

She from her pillow gently raised Her head to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale and hollow e’e. “O, Mary dear, cold is my clay, It lies beneath a stormy sea; Far, far from thee I sleep in death, So, Mary, weep no more for me.

“Three stormy nights and stormy days We tossed upon the raging main; And long we strove our barque to save, But all our striving was in vain. Even then, when horror chilled my blood, My heart was filled with love for thee. The storm is past and I at rest, So, Mary, weep no more for me.

“O, maiden dear, thyself prepare! We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more!” Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled; No more of Sandy could she see, But soft the passing spirit said, “Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!”

ON A BUST OF DANTE. BY T. W. PARSONS.

Thomas William Parsons was born at Boston in 1818. He spent the greater part of his life in Europe. In 1867 he translated Dante’s “Inferno.” In 1854 he published, under the title “Ghetto di Roma,” a collection of his poems. He died at Scituate, Mass., in 1892.

See, from his counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song! There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn abide; Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside.

Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his life was, but a fight; Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibeline’s gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cumæ’s cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe; Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Peace dwells not here—this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line.

BALLAD OF OLD TIME LADIES. BY FRANÇOIS VILLON.

This ballad, of which we give Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s translation, was written by Villon in 1450. There are many translations of the poems of that beggar, poet, thief—that first lucid poet of France. Andrew Lang has interpreted him in one way, John Payne in another. The following translation is, perhaps, the happiest of this particular poem, though the ballad cannot but lose some of its spirit in an English rendering.

Tell me, now, in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman? Where’s Hipparchia, and where is Thais— Neither of them the fairer woman? Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere— She whose beauty was more than human? But where are the snows of yesteryear?

Where’s Heloise, the learned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From love he won such dule and teen!) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer, Sewed in a sack’s mouth, down the Seine? But where are the snows of yesteryear?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies With a voice like any mermaiden— Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice, And Ermengarde, the lady of the Maine— And that good Joan, whom Englishmen At Rouen doomed, and burned her there— Mother of God, where are they, then? But where are the snows of yesteryear?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Except with this for an overword— But where are the snows of yesteryear?

SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN. BY ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

Mr. Hawker was a clergyman, born at Plymouth, England, in 1804, and died there in 1875. He was educated at Oxford and became a noted figure in the church. He was a stalwart and heroic character. In 1834 he became vicar of a lonely parish on the Cornwall coast. His “Echoes From Old Cornwall” appeared in 1845; “Cornish Ballads” in 1869. Shortly before his death he joined the Roman Catholic Church.

A good sword and a trusty hand! And merry heart and true! King James’ men shall understand What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when? And shall Trelawney die? Here’s twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why!

Out spake their Captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he; “If London Tower were Michael’s hold, We’ll set Trelawney free!

“We’ll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay; With ‘one and all’ and hand in hand, And who shall bid us nay?

“And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! Come forth, ye cowards all, Here’s men as good as you!

“Trelawney he’s in keep and hold, Trelawney he may die; But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold, Will know the reason why!”

THE SHEPHERDESS. BY ALICE MEYNELL.

Mrs. Meynell is considered by many critics as the most elegant poet in England at this present time. She has written, besides several volumes of verse, two or three books of essays: “The Color of Life,” “The Rhythm of Life,” and “The Children.”

She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep. Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep. She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep. Into her tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap. She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep. She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.

INVICTUS. BY W. E. HENLEY.

William Ernest Henley was born in England about 1850. In 1888 he became editor of the Scots Observer, and in the same year published his first volume of poems—“A Book of Verses.” He is a writer and a critic as well as a poet.

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud; Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbow’d.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how straight the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.

’TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. BY THOMAS MOORE.

’Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh,

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o’er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from love’s shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?

MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory; Odors, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heapt for the belovèd bed; And so thy thoughts when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.

A SEA SONG. BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

“And who shall sing the glory of the deep” better than Allan Cunningham has done in this song of a sailor’s love, a poet’s love, for the sea?

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, And a wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.

Oh, for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free; The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There’s tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free— While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

SONG FROM “PIPPA PASSES.” BY ROBERT BROWNING.

Robert Browning was born at Camberwell in 1812. He was educated at the London University. While his wife lived Browning spent most of his time in Florence—later he divided his time between London and Venice. He died at Venice in 1889. His poems have been collected into several volumes under the titles of “Men and Women,” “Dramatis Personae,” “The Ring and the Book,” “Dramatic Idylls,” and “Sordello.”

The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hillside’s dew-pearled. The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in his heaven— All’s right with the world!

THE WAITING. BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Massachusetts in 1807. He was successively the editor of the “American Manufacturer,” the “Haverhill Gazette,” and the “New England Weekly Review.” In 1836 he went to Philadelphia to edit the “Pennsylvania Freeman,” for he was an abolitionist of strong principle. He died in 1892.

I wait and watch; before my eyes Methinks the night grows thin and gray; I wait and watch the eastern skies To see the golden spears uprise Beneath the oriflamme of day!