Part 7

Like one whose limbs are bound in trance I hear the day-sounds swell and grow, And see across the twilight glance, Troop after troop, in swift advance, The shining ones with plumes of snow!

I know the errand of their feet, I know what mighty work is theirs; I can but lift up hands unmeet The thrashing floors of God to beat, And speed them with unworthy prayers.

I will not dream in vain despair, The steps of progress wait for me; The puny leverage of a hair The planet’s impulse well may spare, A drop of dew the tided sea.

The loss, if loss there be, is mine; And yet not mine if understood; For one shall grasp and one resign, One drink life’s rue, and one its wine, And God shall make the balance good.

O, power to do! O, baffled will! O, prayer and action! ye are one. Who may not strive may yet fulfill The harder task of standing still, And good but wished with God is done!

A MATCH. BY ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

This poem is an excellent example of Swinburne’s wonderful inventiveness in the meter of his verses.

If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields or flowerful closes, Green pleasure or gray grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf.

If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We’d play for lives and seasons With loving looks and treasons And tears of night and morrow And laughs of maid and boy; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy.

If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May, We’d throw with leaves for hours And draw for days with flowers, Till day, like night, were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April’s lady, And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We’d hunt down love together, Pluck out his flying feather, And teach his feet a measure, And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain.

COUNSEL TO VIRGINS. BY ROBERT HERRICK.

The advice contained in this poem is not given so subtly nor so gracefully as it is in the other two poems of the trio—Ronsard’s and Waller’s—but the writer is neither a sweet singer like Ronsard nor a poet of nicer instincts like Waller. He was a man who did not scruple to “sully the purity of his style with impurity of sentiment.”

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of Heaven, the sun, The higher he’s a-getting The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he’s to setting.

The age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time, And, while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN? BY SIR JOHN SUCKLING.

Sir John Suckling was born in Whitton in 1609. He went to Trinity College, Cambridge, and afterwards entered the service of the King, Charles I. He fought in the army of Gustavus Adolphus in 1631–32; while in 1639 he levied a troop of horse against the Covenanters. He was a member of the long parliament in 1640. The next year he was charged with high treason and fled to Paris, where he was supposed to have committed suicide in 1642. Though he wrote several plays, he is chiefly noted for his poems.

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? Prithee, why so pale? Will, when looking well can’t move her, Looking ill prevail? Prithee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? Prithee, why so mute? Will, when speaking well can’t win her, Saying nothing do’t? Prithee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame; this will not move; This cannot take her. If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her; The devil take her!

THALASSA! THALASSA! BY BROWNLEE BROWN.

Of this poem Thomas Wentworth Higginson says (in the Outlook, February, 1890): “It is so magnificent that it cheapens most of its contemporary literature, and is alone worth a life otherwise obscure. When all else of American literature has vanished, who knows but that some single masterpiece like this may remain to show the high water mark not merely of a poet but of a nation and a civilization?”

I stand upon the summit of my life, Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove, The battle, and the burden: vast, afar Beyond these weary ways, behold, the Sea! The sea, o’erswept by clouds, and winds, and wings; By thoughts and wishes manifold; whose breath Is freshness, and whose mighty pulse is peace.

Palter no question of the horizon dim— Cut loose the bark! Such voyage itself is rest; Majestic motion, unimpeded scope, A widening heaven, a current without care, Eternity! Deliverance, promise, course, Time tired souls salute thee from the shore.

AN INDIAN SERENADE. BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Percy Bysshe Shelley was born in Sussex, England, in 1792. He was educated at Eton and later at University College, Oxford. When he was 19 Shelley married Harriet Westbrook, but after meeting Mary Wollstonecraft he left Harriet and went to Switzerland with Mary. Harriet drowned herself in 1816, and Shelley married Mary. In 1818 they went to Italy, where they lived, for the rest of Shelley’s life, with Byron, Trelawney, Edward Williams, and Hunt. Shelley and Williams were drowned in the bay of Spezzia in 1822, and their bodies were burned on a funeral pyre.

I arise from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Hath led me—who knows how? To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint In the dark, the silent stream— And the champak odors pine Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale’s complaint It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, Oh, belovèd as thou art!

Oh, lift me from the grass! I die! I faint! I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast; Oh, press it to thine own again, Where it will break at last!

THE FOUNT OF CASTALY. BY JOSEPH O’CONNOR.

Joseph O’Connor was born at Tribes Hill, N. Y., in 1841. He is a graduate of Rochester University, and was admitted to the bar, but never practiced. He taught for a while at the Rochester Free Academy, but soon left this work for journalism and became editor of the Rochester Post and Express. His poems were published in 1895.

I would the fount of Castaly, Had never wet my lips; For woe to him that hastily Its sacred water sips.

Apollo’s laurel flourishes Above that stream divine; Its secret virtue nourishes The leaves of love and wine.

* * *

Its joyous tide leaps crystally Up ’neath the crystal moon, And falling ever mistily The sparkling drops keep tune.

The wavelets circle gleamingly, With lilies keeping trysts; The emeralds glisten dreamily Below, and amethysts.

Once taste that fountain’s witchery On old Parnassus’ crown, And to this world of treachery O, never more come down!

Your joy will be to think of it, ’Twill ever haunt your dreams; You’ll thirst again to drink of it, Among a thousand streams.

THE ROSE. BY PIERRE RONSARD.

This poem of Pierre Ronsard (1542) is given a place here, as it is an example of that theme which is as old as love or life—the decay of youth and beauty—a subject which has been a favorite with poets in all times. The motive of this little lyric is that of Waller’s “Go, Lovely Rose,” and of Herrick’s “Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May.”

Come, my Mignonne, let us go— Let us see if yonder rose, That this morning did disclose Robes of crimson to the sun, Now that evening has begun, Still with tints like yours does glow.

Ah, my Mignonne, look and see— Look there, underneath the bough; Short the space from then till now, But its beauties all are past! Scarce from morn till eve they last— Such is nature’s harsh decree.

Ah, my Mignonne, trust to me; While your youth as yet is seen In its freshest, fairest green, Seize the moments to enjoy; Old age hastens to destroy Roses, beauty, youth, and thee.

FAITH. BY THOMAS CHATTERTON.

Thomas Chatterton was born in Bristol, England, Nov. 20, 1752. He ended his life by taking arsenic in a lodging room in London, Aug. 24, 1770. He received a meager education at a charity school in his native city, began to write verses when he was 12 years old, and at 15 was apprenticed to a Bristol attorney. He went to London in April, 1770. He tried to make a living by writing for the newspapers, but failed, and, reduced to extreme destitution, committed suicide. His Rowley poems, which he said were translations from the writings of a monk of the fifteenth century, have been the subject of much discussion. Besides those he wrote “The Tragedy of Aella,” “The Battle of Hastings,” “The Tournament,” and several shorter poems. His correspondence with Horace Walpole proved a bitter experience for the precocious poet, who wrote some savage lines on that nobleman author.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky, Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To thee, my only rock, I fly, Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will, The shadows of celestial light, Are past the power of human skill; But what the Eternal acts is right.

Oh, teach me in the trying hour, When anguish swells the dewy tear, To still my sorrows, own thy power, Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but thee Encroaching sought a boundless sway, Omniscience could the danger see, And Mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain, Why drooping seek the dark recess? Shake off the melancholy chain, For God created all to bless.

But ah! my breast is human still; The rising sigh, the falling tear, My languid vitals’ feeble rill, The sickness of my soul declare.

But yet, with fortitude resigned, I’ll thank the inflicter of the blow; Forbid the sigh, compose my mind, Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night, Which on my sinking spirit steals, Will vanish at the morning light, Which God, my east, my sun, reveals.

THE SONG OF THE CAMP. BY BAYARD TAYLOR.

Bayard Taylor was born in Pennsylvania in 1825. He was connected with the New York Tribune 1849–’50. Most of his life was spent in travel. In 1853 he joined Perry’s expedition to Japan. He corresponded with the American papers, and on his return to this country he lectured. From 1862–’63 he lived at St. Petersburg as Secretary of the Legation there. He died in Berlin, where he was United States Minister, in 1878. He has written of his travels, has translated Goethe’s “Faust,” and was besides a poet and novelist.

“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay grim and threatening under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belch’d its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said: “We storm the forts tomorrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow.”

They lay along the battery’s side, Below the smoking cannon; Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love and not of fame; Forgot was Britain’s glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang “Annie Laurie.”

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender passion Rose like an anthem, rich and strong— Their battle-eve confession.

Dear girl, her name he dared not speak, But as the song grew louder, Something upon the soldier’s cheek Washed off the stains of powder.

Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset’s embers, While the Crimean valleys learn’d How English love remembers.

And once again a fire of hell Rain’d on the Russian quarters, With scream of shot and burst of shell, And bellowing of the mortars!

An Irish Nora’s eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; An English Mary mourns for him Who sang of “Annie Laurie.”

Sleep, soldiers! still in honor’d rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest— The loving are the daring.

UPHILL. BY CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI.

Christina Rossetti was born at London in 1828. She came of that versatile family, in which the father and sons as well as the daughter were writers, artists, critics and poets. While still in her teens, Miss Rossetti published a little volume called “Maud, Prose and Verse,” and crude and morbid as the work was it gave promise of better things. She wrote later, “Goblin Market” (which Dante Gabriel Rossetti illustrated), “A Pageant and Other Poems,” and several religious studies. She died in 1894.

Does the road wind uphill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come.

DOUGLAS, DOUGLAS, TENDER AND TRUE. BY MISS MULOCK.

Mrs. Craik, better known as Dinah Maria Mulock, was born at Stoke-Upon-Trent, England, 1828, and died at Shortlands, Kent, October 12, 1887. She was the author of many popular novels. She published a volume of poems in 1859, and “Thirty Years’ Poems” in 1881, besides many children’s books, fairy tales, etc. She married George Lillie Craik, Jr., in 1865.

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, In the old likeness that I knew, I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I’d smile on ye sweet as the angels do— Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

O, to call back the days that are not! My eyes were blinded, your words were few; Do you know the truth now, up in heaven? Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

I never was worthy of you, Douglas, Not half worthy the like of you; Now, all men beside seem to me like shadows— I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas. Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

TEARS, IDLE TEARS. BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

This song is found in the “Princess.” It was sung on the memorable occasion when the three disguised youths are discovered.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds To dying ears when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O, death in life, the days that are no more.

HIGHLAND MARY. BY ROBERT BURNS.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o’ Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie! There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry! For there I took the last fareweel O’ my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn’s blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom! The golden hours on angel wings Flew o’er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi’ monie a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu’ tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore ourselves asunder; But O! fell death’s untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early! Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary.

O pale, pale now those rosy lips I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly! And mould’ring now in silent dust That heart that lo’ed me dearly! But still within my bosom’s core Shall live my Highland Mary.

THE LAMB. BY WILLIAM BLAKE.

In speaking of William Blake’s “Songs of Innocence,” Swinburne says: “These poems are really unequaled of their kind. Such verse was never written for children since verse writing began.”

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee, Gave thee life and bade thee feed By the stream and o’er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For he calls himself a lamb. He is meek and he is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by his name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee!

PSALM XXIV.

The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof; The world and they that dwell therein. For he hath founded it upon the seas, And established it upon the floods. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, And a pure heart; Who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, Nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, And righteousness from the God of his salvation. This is the generation of them that seek him, That seek thy face, O Jacob. Lift up your heads, O ye gates; And be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord strong and mighty, the Lord mighty in battle. Lift up your heads, O ye gates; Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in. Who is this King of glory? The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory.

SELF-DEPENDENCE. BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At the vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o’er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire O’er the sea and to the stars I send; “Ye, who from my childhood up have claimed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

“Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

From the intense, clear, star sown vault of heaven, O’er the lit sea’s unquiet way, In the rustling night air came the answer— “Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

“Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

“And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon silver’d roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul.

“Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God’s other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see.”

O, air born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear— “Resolve to be thyself; and know that he Who finds himself loses his misery!”

THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. BY HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Mr. Longfellow and his second wife, during their honeymoon, visited the United States arsenal at Springfield, Mass., about half a century ago. The figure of speech in which the poet speaks of the burnished arms rising like a huge organ was suggested by Mrs. Longfellow. The poem was inspired by Charles Sumner’s oration, “The True Grandeur of Nations,” which was an argument for peace and against war.

This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling, Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing Startles the villages with strange alarms.

Ah, what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, When the death angel touches those swift keys! What loud lament and dismal Miserere Will mingle with their awful symphonies!

I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus, The cries of agony, the endless groan, Which, through the ages that have gone before us, In long reverberations reach our own.

On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer, Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song, And loud, amid the universal clamor, O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.

I hear the Florentine, who from his palace Wheels out his battle bell with dreadful din, And Aztec priests upon their teocallis Beat the wild war drums made of serpent’s skin.

The tumult of each sacked and burning village; The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage; The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;

The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, The diapason of the cannonade.

Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, With such accursed instruments as these, Thou drownest nature’s sweet and kindly voices, And jarrest the celestial harmonies?

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.

The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred And every nation, that should lift again Its hand against a brother, on its forehead Would wear for evermore the curse of Cain!

Down the dark future, through long generations, The echoing sounds grow fainter, and then cease; And, like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, I hear once more the voice of Christ say “Peace!”

Peace! And no longer from its brazen portals The blast of war’s great organ shakes the skies! But beautiful as songs of the immortals The holy melodies of love arise.

ALL. BY FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.