PART II

Cambridge: at the University Press 1916

NOTE

The Editor has to express his thanks for permission to use copyright matter to the Editor of _A Sailor’s Garland_ and its publishers, Messrs Methuen, to Mr Elkin Mathews for the poem by Richard Hovey, to Messrs G. Routledge & Sons for a poem by Joaquin Miller.

CONTENTS

PAGE

NATURE, COUNTRY AND THE OPEN AIR

To Meadows _R. Herrick_ 1 The Brook _A. Tennyson_ 2 Recollections of Early Childhood _W. Wordsworth_ 4 To Autumn J. _Keats_ 7 Ode to the West Wind _P. B. Shelley_ 9 To a Skylark ” 13 The Moon-Goddess _Ben Jonson_ 18 Home-Thoughts from Abroad _R. Browning_ 19 Home-Thoughts from the Sea ” 20

GREEN SEAS AND SAILOR MEN

1. _The Call of the Sea_ Ye Mariners of England _T. Campbell_ 21 The Secret of the Sea _H. W. Longfellow_ 22 A Dutch Picture ” 24 Sea Memories ” 26 The Sea Gypsy _Richard Hovey_ 27 The Greenwich Pensioner 28 The Press-Gang 30 A Sea Dirge _W. Shakespeare_ 30

2. _Its Lawless Joys_ The Old Buccaneer _C. Kingsley_ 31 The Salcombe Seaman’s Flaunt to the Proud Pirate 34 The Smuggler 36

ARMS AND THE MAN

The Maid _Theodore Roberts_ 37 The Eve of Waterloo _Lord Byron_ 39 The Glory that was Greece ” 43 Battle Hymn of the American Republic _Julia Ward Howe_ 47 To Lucasta, on going to the Wars _Richard Lovelace_ 48 The Black Prince _Sir Walter Scott_ 49 The Burial of Sir John Moore _Charles Wolfe_ 50 How Sleep the Brave _William Collins_ 52 Soldier, Rest! _Sir Walter Scott_ 53

THE OTHER SIDE OF IT

1. The Patriot _Robert Browning_ 54 2. For those who fail _Joaquin Miller_ 56 3. Keeping On _A. H. Clough_ 57

STORY-POEMS

The Lady of Shalott _Alfred Tennyson_ 58 The Forsaken Merman _Matthew Arnold_ 65 The Legend Beautiful _H. W. Longfellow_ 72 Abou Ben Adhem _Leigh Hunt_ 77 The Sands of Dee _Charles Kingsley_ 78 Lochinvar _Sir Walter Scott_ 79

DAY-DREAMS

Dreams to Sell _T. L. Beddoes_ 83 The Lost Bower _E. B. Browning_ 84 Echo and the Ferry _Jean Ingelow_ 92 Poor Susan’s Dream _W. Wordsworth_ 100 Fancy W. _Shakespeare_ 101

TWO HOME-COMINGS

1. The Good Woman Made Welcome in Heaven _R. Crashaw_ 102 2. The Soldier Relieved _R. Browning_ 103

WHEN KNIGHTS WERE BOLD

Hunting Song _Sir Walter Scott_ 104 The Riding to the Tournament _G. W. Thornbury_ 105

VARIOUS

A Red, Red Rose _Robert Burns_ 113 Blow, Bugle, Blow _Alfred Tennyson_ 114 West and East _Matthew Arnold_ 115 Genseric _Owen Meredith_ 116 Kubla Khan _S. T. Coleridge_ 118 Something to Remember _R. Browning_ 120 Ring Out, Wild Bells _A. Tennyson_ 121

NATURE, COUNTRY, AND THE OPEN AIR

TO MEADOWS

Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill’d with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.

You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

You’ve heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round: Each virgin like a spring, With honeysuckles crown’d.

But now we see none here Whose silv’ry feet did tread And with dishevelled hair Adorn’d this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, You’re left here to lament Your poor estates, alone.

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE BROOK

I come from haunts of coot and hern[26], I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps[27], a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

I chatter over stony ways In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I wind about and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

[26] _hern_: heron.

[27] _thorps_: villages.

RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight, To me did seem Apparell’d in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe’er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more.

The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where’er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor’s sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;-- Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy!

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May morning, And the children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide,

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:-- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! --But there’s a tree, of many one, A single field which I have look’d upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily further from the east Must travel, still is Nature’s priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

* * * * *

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

(_This is only a portion of the poem, which later you should take an opportunity of reading as a whole._)

TO AUTUMN

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows[28], borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn[29]; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft[30]; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

JOHN KEATS.

[28] _sallows_: willows.

[29] _bourn_: stream, water-course.

[30] _croft_: enclosure.

ODE TO THE WEST WIND

I.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II.

Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion, Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad[31], even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith’s height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear!

III.

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull’d by the coil[32] of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice[33] isle in Baiae’s bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV.

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem’d a vision--I would ne’er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of years has chain’d and bow’d One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud.

V.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own? The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

[31] _Maenad_: a priestess of Bacchus, the wine-god.

[32] _coil_: confused noise, murmur.

[33] _pumice_: formed of volcanic lava.

TO A SKYLARK

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert-- That from heaven or near it Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O’er which clouds are bright’ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d.

What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:--

Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

Like a rose embower’d In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower’d, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves:

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken’d flowers-- All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh--thy music doth surpass.

Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal Or triumphal chant, Match’d with thine would be all But an empty vaunt-- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.

Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Yet if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

THE MOON-GODDESS

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is laid to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted manner keep: Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade Dare itself to interpose; Cynthia’s shining orb was made Heaven to clear when day did close: Bless us then with wishèd sight, Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal-shining quiver; Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: Thou that mak’st a day of night-- Goddess excellently bright.

BEN JONSON.

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

O, to be in England Now that April’s there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England--now!

And after April, when May follows, And the white throat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray’s edge-- That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,

Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children’s dower --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

ROBERT BROWNING.

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray; “Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?”--say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

ROBERT BROWNING.

GREEN SEAS AND SAILOR MEN

1. _The Call of the Sea_

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow! While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave; For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow! While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow! When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger’s troubled night depart And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow! When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE SECRET OF THE SEA

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me As I gaze upon the sea! All the old romantic legends, All my dreams come back to me.

Sails of silk and ropes of sendal[34], Such as gleam in ancient lore; And the singing of the sailors, And the answer from the shore!

Most of all, the Spanish ballad Haunts me oft, and tarries long, Of the noble Count Arnaldos And the sailor’s mystic song.

Telling how the Count Arnaldos, With his hawk upon his hand, Saw a fair and stately galley, Steering onward to the land;--

How he heard the ancient helmsman Chant a song so wild and clear, That the sailing sea-bird slowly Poised upon the mast to hear,

Till his soul was full of longing, And he cried, with impulse strong,-- “Helmsman! for the love of heaven, Teach me, too, that wondrous song!”

“Wouldst thou,”--so the helmsman answered, “Learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery!”

In each sail that skims the horizon, In each landward-blowing breeze, I behold that stately galley, Hear those mournful melodies.

Till my soul is full of longing For the secret of the sea, And the heart of the great ocean Sends a thrilling pulse through me.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[34] _sendal_: coarse narrow silken material.

A DUTCH PICTURE

Simon Danz has come home again, From cruising about with his buccaneers[35]; He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, And carried away the Dean of Jaen, And sold him in Algiers.

In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles, And weathercocks flying aloft in air, There are silver tankards in antique styles, Plunder of convent and castle, and piles Of carpets rich and rare.

In his tulip-garden there by the town, Overlooking the sluggish stream, With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, The old sea-captain, hale and brown, Walks in a waking dream.

A smile in his gray mustachio lurks Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, And the listed[36] tulips look like Turks, And the silent gardener as he works Is changed to the Dean of Jaen[37].

The windmills on the outermost Verge of the landscape in the haze, To him are towers on the Spanish coast, With whiskered sentinels at their post, Though this is the river Maese.

But when the winter rains begin, He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old seafaring men come in, Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in colour and design Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, Half darkness and half light.

And they talk of ventures lost or won, And their talk is ever and ever the same, While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, From the cellars of some Spanish Don, Or convent set on flame.

Restless at times, with heavy strides He paces his parlour to and fro; He is like a ship that at anchor rides, And swings with the rising and falling tides, And tugs at her anchor-tow.

Voices mysterious far and near, Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, Are calling and whispering in his ear, “Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? Come forth and follow me!”

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his buccaneers, To singe the beard of the King of Spain, And capture another Dean of Jaen, And sell him in Algiers.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[35] _buccaneers_: sea rovers, pirates.

[36] _listed_: striped.

[37] _Jaen_: a town in Spain.

SEA MEMORIES

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides[38] Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[38] _Hesperides_: the fabulous “Isles of the Blest” in far western seas.

THE SEA GYPSY

I am fever’d with the sunset, I am fretful with the bay, For the wander-thirst is on me And my soul is in Cathay.

There’s a schooner in the offing, With her topsails shot with fire, And my heart has gone aboard her For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow! With the sunset I must be Hull down on the trail of rapture In the wonder of the Sea.

RICHARD HOVEY.

THE GREENWICH PENSIONER

’Twas in the good ship _Rover_, I sailed the world all round, And for three years and over I ne’er touched British ground; At length in England landed, I left the roaring main, Found all relations stranded, And went to sea again, And went to sea again.

That time bound straight for Portugal, Right fore and aft we bore, But when we made Cape Ortegal, A gale blew off the shore; She lay, so did it shock her, A log upon the main, Till, saved from Davy’s locker, We put to sea again, We put to sea again.

Next sailing in a frigate I got my timber toe. I never more shall jig it As once I used to do; My leg was shot off fairly, All by a ship of Spain; But I could swab the galley, I went to sea again, I went to sea again.

And still I am enabled To bring up in the rear, Although I’m quite disabled And lie in Greenwich tier. There’s schooners in the river A riding to the chain, But I shall never, ever Put out to sea again, Put out to sea again.

From _A Sailor’s Garland_.

THE PRESS-GANG

Here’s the tender[39] coming, Pressing all the men; O, dear honey, What shall we do then? Here’s the tender coming, Off at Shields Bar. Here’s the tender coming, Full of men of war.

Here’s the tender coming, Stealing of my dear; O, dear honey, They’ll ship you out of here, They’ll ship you foreign, For that is what it means. Here’s the tender coming, Full of red marines.

From _A Sailor’s Garland_.

[39] _tender_: a boat or other small vessel, that ‘attends’ a ship with men, stores, etc.

A SEA DIRGE

Full fathom five thy father lies: Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: Hark! now I hear them, Ding, dong, bell.

SHAKESPEARE.

2. _Its Lawless Joys_

THE OLD BUCCANEER

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high, But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; And such a port for mariners I ne’er shall see again As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout, All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate and gold, Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, Who flog men, and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

O the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold, And the colibris[40] and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee, To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea.

O sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze, A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; So the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we. All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; And I fled in a piragua[41], sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I’m old and going--I’m sure I can’t tell where; One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t be worse off there: If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly across the main, To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

[40] _colibris_: humming-birds.

[41] _piragua_: a “dug-out” canoe.

THE SALCOMBE SEAMAN’S FLAUNT TO THE PROUD PIRATE

A lofty ship from Salcombe came, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ She had golden trucks[42] that shone like flame, _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

“Masthead, masthead,” the captains hail, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ “Look out and round, d’ye see a sail?” _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

“There’s a ship that looms like Beachy Head,” _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ “Her banner aloft it blows out red,” _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

“Oh, ship ahoy, where do you steer?” _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ “Are you man-of-war, or privateer?” _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

“I am neither one of the two,” said she, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ “I’m a pirate, looking for my fee,” _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

“I’m a jolly pirate, out for gold:” _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ “I will rummage through your after hold,” _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

The grumbling guns they flashed and roared, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ Till the pirate’s masts went overboard, _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

They fired shots till the pirate’s deck, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ Was blood and spars and broken wreck, _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

“O do not haul the red flag down,” _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ “O keep all fast until we drown,” _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

They called for cans of wine, and drank, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ They sang their songs until she sank, _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

Now let us brew good cans of flip, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ And drink a bowl to the Salcombe ship, _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

And drink a bowl to the lad of fame, _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ Who put the pirate ship to shame, _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_.

From _A Sailor’s Garland_.

[42] _trucks_: mast-head caps.

THE SMUGGLER

O my true love’s a smuggler and sails upon the sea, And I would I were a seaman to go along with he; To go along with he for the satins and the wine, And run the tubs at Slapton when the stars do shine.

O Hollands is a good drink when the nights are cold, And Brandy is a good drink for them as grows old. There is lights in the cliff-top when the boats are home-bound, And we run the tubs at Slapton when the word goes round.

The King he is a proud man in his grand red coat, But I do love a smuggler in a little fishing-boat; For he runs the Mallins lace and he spends his money free, And I would I were a seaman to go along with he.

From _A Sailor’s Garland_.

ARMS AND THE MAN

_The generations pass, each in its turn wondering whether it is to be the one to see the ending of War and the awakening of the common sense of nations. But the Poetry of the glory of Battle, the hymning of high heroisms, the dirges for those who nobly died--these will remain, to gild its memory, long after the last echo of the last war-drum has faded out of the world._

THE MAID

Thunder of riotous hoofs over the quaking sod; Clash of reeking squadrons, steel-capped, iron-shod; The White Maid and the white horse, and the flapping banner of God.

Black hearts riding for money; red hearts riding for fame; The Maid who rides for France and the King who rides for shame-- Gentlemen, fools, and a saint riding in Christ’s high name!

“Dust to dust!” it is written. Wind-scattered are lance and bow. Dust, the Cross of Saint George; dust, the banner of snow. The bones of the King are crumbled, and rotted the shafts of the foe.

Forgotten, the young knight’s valour; forgotten, the captain’s skill; Forgotten, the fear and the hate and the mailed hands raised to kill; Forgotten, the shields that clashed and the arrows that cried so shrill.

Like a story from some old book, that battle of long ago: Shadows, the poor French King and the might of his English foe; Shadows, the charging nobles and the archers kneeling a-row-- But a flame in my heart and my eyes, the Maid with her banner of snow!

THEODORE ROBERTS.

THE EVE OF WATERLOO

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?--No; ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a window’d niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear That sound, the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem’d it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier, And rous’d the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Rous’d up the soldier ere the morning star; While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips--“The foe! they come! they come!”

And wild and high the “Camerons’ gathering” rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years, And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day Battle’s magnificently stern array! The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent The earth is cover’d thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent, Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!

LORD BYRON.

THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE

_I include this among the War Poems, because it is a call to a conquered nation to rise in arms against their oppressors--a call that was in due course answered._

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all except their sun is set.

The Scian and the Teian[43] muse, The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse: Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.”

The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea; And, musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free; For, standing on the Persian’s grave, I could not deem myself a slave.

A king sate on the rocky brow Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; And ships by thousands lay below, And men in nations;--all were his! He counted them at break of day, And when the sun set, where were they?

And where are they? and where art thou, My country? On thy voiceless shore The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Degenerate into hands like mine?

’Tis something in the dearth of fame, Though linked among the fettered race, To feel at least a patriot’s shame, Even as I sing, suffuse my face; For what is left the poet here? For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear!

Must _we_ but weep o’er days more blest? Must _we_ but blush? Our fathers bled. Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

What, silent still? and silent all? Ah! no: the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, And answer, “Let one living head, But one arise,--we come, we come!” ’Tis but the living who are dumb.

In vain--in vain; strike other chords; Fill high the cup with Samian wine! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! Hark! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal!

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? Of two such lessons, why forget The nobler and the manlier one? You have the letters Cadmus gave; Think ye he meant them for a slave?

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! We will not think of themes like these! It made Anacreon’s song divine: He served--but served Polycrates: A tyrant; but our masters then Were still, at least, our countrymen.

The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom’s best and bravest friend; _That_ tyrant was Miltiades! Oh that the present hour would lend Another despot of the kind! Such chains as his were sure to bind.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! On Suli’s rock and Parga’s shore Exists the remnant of a line Such as the Doric mothers bore; And there, perhaps, some seed is sown The Heracleidan blood might own.

Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- They have a king who buys and sells; In native swords and native ranks The only hope of courage dwells: But Turkish force and Latin fraud Would break your shield, however broad.

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- I see their glorious black eyes shine; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves.

Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, Where nothing save the waves and I May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine-- Dash down yon cup of Samian wine!

LORD BYRON.

[43] _Scian_ and _Teian_: i.e. Homer and Anacreon.

BATTLE HYMN OF THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: His day is marching on.

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his Judgment Seat; O, be swift, my soul to answer Him, be jubilant my feet! Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

JULIA WARD HOWE.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more.

RICHARD LOVELACE.

THE BLACK PRINCE

O for the voice of that wild horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, The dying hero’s call, That told imperial Charlemagne How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain Had wrought his champion’s fall.

Sad over earth and ocean sounding, And England’s distant cliffs astounding, Such are the notes should say How Britain’s hope, and France’s fear, Victor of Cressy and Poitier, In Bordeaux dying lay.

“Raise my faint head, my squires,” he said, “And let the casement be displayed, That I may see once more The splendour of the setting sun Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne, And Blay’s empurpled shore.

“Like me, he sinks to Glory’s sleep, His fall the dews of evening steep, As if in sorrow shed. So soft shall fall the trickling tear, When England’s maids and matrons hear Of their Black Edward dead.

“And though my sun of glory set, Nor France nor England shall forget The terror of my name; And oft shall Britain’s heroes rise, New planets in these southern skies, Through clouds of blood and flame.”

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O’er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning, By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow’d his narrow bed And smooth’d down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him-- But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

CHARLES WOLFE.

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country’s wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung; By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay; And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

SOLDIER, REST!

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking! Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle’s enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, Dream of fighting fields no more; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour’s clang, or war-steed champing Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here, Here’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveillé. Sleep! the deer is in his den; Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveillé.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE OTHER SIDE OF IT

1. THE PATRIOT

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels-- But give me your sun from yonder skies!” They had answered, “And afterward, what else?”

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep! Nought man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.

There’s nobody on the house-tops now-- Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles’ Gate--or, better yet, By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go! In triumphs, people have dropped down dead, “Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?”--God might question; now instead, ’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

ROBERT BROWNING.

2. FOR THOSE WHO FAIL

“All honour to him who shall win the prize,” The world has cried for a thousand years; But to him who tries and who fails and dies, I give great honour and glory and tears.

O great is the hero who wins a name, But greater many and many a time Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame, And lets God finish the thought sublime.

And great is the man with a sword undrawn, And good is the man who refrains from wine; But the man who fails and yet fights on, Lo he is the twin-born brother of mine!

JOAQUIN MILLER.

3. KEEPING ON

Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!

A. H. CLOUGH.

STORY-POEMS

THE LADY OF SHALOTT

I.

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle embowers The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil’d, Slide the heavy barges trail’d By slow horses; and unhail’d The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d Skimming down to Camelot: But who has seen her wave her hand? Or at the casement seen her stand? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot: And by moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in upland airy, Listening, whispers, “’Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott.”

II.

There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro’ a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village-churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower’d Camelot: And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror’s magic sights, For often through the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights And music, went to Camelot: Or, when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; “I am half sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott.

III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley-sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves[44] Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy[45]. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon’d baldric[46] slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armour rung, Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn’d like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro’ the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d; On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow’d His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash’d into the crystal mirror, “Tirra lirra,” by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro’ the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look’d down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack’d from side to side; “The curse is come upon me,” cried The Lady of Shalott.

IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower’d Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote _The Lady of Shalott_.

And down the river’s dim expanse-- Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance-- With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right-- The leaves upon her falling light-- Thro’ the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken’d wholly, Turn’d to tower’d Camelot. For ere she reached upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher[47], lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, _The Lady of Shalott_.

Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross’d themselves for fear All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, “She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.”

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

[44] _greaves_: leg-armour below the knee.

[45] _galaxy_: the “Milky Way.”

[46] _blazon’d baldric_: a broad shoulder-belt painted heraldically.

[47] _burgher_: citizen.

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

Come, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This way, this way!

Call her once before you go-- Call once yet! In a voice that she will know: “Margaret! Margaret!” Children’s voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; Children’s voices, wild with pain-- Surely she will come again! Call her once and come away. This way, this way! “Mother dear, we cannot stay!” The wild white horses foam and fret. Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-wall’d town, And the little grey church on the windy shore. Then come down. She will not come though you call all day. Come away, come away!

Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream; Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea; She said: “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day, ’Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.” I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves; Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.” She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone? “The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say. Come!” I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town. Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: “Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone. The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.” But, ah! she gave me never a look, For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Come away, children, call no more. Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down, Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy! For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; For the wheel where I spun, And the blessèd light of the sun!” And so she sings her fill. Singing most joyfully, Till the spindle drops from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window and looks at the sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children! Come children, come down! The hoarse wind blows coldly; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing: “Here came a mortal, But faithless was she: And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.”

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow, When clear falls the moonlight, When spring-tides are low: When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr’d with broom; And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch’d sands a gloom: Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie, Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side-- And then come back down. Singing: “There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she. She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.”

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL

“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!” That is what the Vision said.

In his chamber all alone, Kneeling on the floor of stone, Prayed the Monk in deep contrition For his sins of indecision, Prayed for greater self-denial In temptation and in trial; It was noonday by the dial, And the Monk was all alone.

Suddenly, as if it lighten’d, An unwonted splendour brighten’d All within him and without him In that narrow cell of stone; And he saw the Blessed Vision Of our Lord, with light Elysian[48] Like a vesture wrapped about him, Like a garment round him thrown.

Not as crucified and slain, Not in agonies of pain, Not with bleeding hands and feet, Did the Monk his Master see; But as in the village street, In the house or harvest-field, Halt and lame and blind he healed, When he walked in Galilee.

In an attitude imploring, Hands upon his bosom crossed, Wondering, worshipping, adoring, Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, Who am I, that thus thou deignest To reveal thyself to me? Who am I, that from the centre Of thy glory thou shouldst enter This poor cell, my guest to be?

Then amid his exaltation, Loud the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Rang through court and corridor With persistent iteration He had never heard before. It was now the appointed hour When alike in sun or shower, Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, To the convent portals came All the blind and halt and lame, All the beggars of the street, For their daily dole of food Dealt them by the brotherhood; And their almoner[49] was he Who upon his bended knee, Rapt in silent ecstasy Of divinest self-surrender, Saw the Vision and the Splendour.

Deep distress and hesitation Mingled with his adoration; Should he go or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait Hungry at the convent gate, Till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his radiant guest, Slight his visitant celestial, For a crowd of ragged, bestial Beggars at the convent gate? Would the Vision there remain? Would the Vision come again?

Then a voice within his breast Whispered, audible and clear, As if to the outward ear: “Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest!” Straightway to his feet he started, And with longing look intent On the Blessed Vision bent, Slowly from his cell departed, Slowly on his errand went.

At the gate the poor were waiting, Looking through the iron grating, With that terror in the eye That is only seen in those Who amid their wants and woes Hear the sound of doors that close, And of feet that pass them by; Grown familiar with disfavour, Grown familiar with the savour Of the bread by which men die! But to-day, they knew not why, Like the gate of Paradise Seemed the convent gate to rise, Like a sacrament divine Seemed to them the bread and wine. In his heart the Monk was praying, Thinking of the homeless poor, What they suffer and endure; What we see not, what we see; And the inward voice was saying: “Whatsoever thing thou doest To the least of mine and lowest, That thou doest unto me!”

Unto me! but had the Vision Come to him in beggar’s clothing, Come a mendicant imploring, Would he then have knelt adoring, Or have listened with derision, And have turned away with loathing?

Thus his conscience put the question, Full of troublesome suggestion, As at length, with hurried pace, Towards his cell he turned his face, And beheld the convent bright With a supernatural light, Like a luminous cloud expanding Over floor and wall and ceiling.

But he paused with awe-struck feeling At the threshold of his door, For the Vision still was standing As he left it there before, When the convent bell appalling, From its belfry calling, calling, Summoned him to feed the poor.

Through the long hour intervening It had waited his return, And he felt his bosom burn, Comprehending all the meaning, When the Blessed Vision said, “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[48] _Elysian_: heavenly.

[49] _almoner_: giver of alms or charity.

ABOU BEN ADHEM

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in 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 rais’d its head, And with a look made all of sweet accord, Answer’d, “The names of those that love the Lord.” “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And show’d the names whom love of God had blest, And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.

LEIGH HUNT.

THE SANDS OF DEE

“O Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee”; The western wind was wild and dank with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o’er and o’er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

“O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- A tress of golden hair, A drownèd maiden’s hair, Above the nets at sea?” Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee.

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

LOCHINVAR

O young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stay’d not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”

“I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now I am come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”

The bride kiss’d the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup; She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard[50] did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “’Twere better by far To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reach’d the hall door and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur[51]; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[50] _galliard_: a gay dance.

[51] _scaur_: a steep bank.

DAY-DREAMS

_This section will appeal to girls rather than to boys. And yet day-dreams are no bad things for either sex--just now and again, as a getting away from realities._

DREAMS TO SELL

If there were dreams to sell, What would you buy? Some cost a passing bell; Some a light sigh, That shakes from Life’s fresh crown Only a rose-leaf down. If there were dreams to sell, Merry and sad to tell, And the crier rang the bell, What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still, With bowers nigh, Shadowy, my woes to still, Until I die. Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown Fain would I shake me down. Were dreams to have at will, This would best heal my ill, This would I buy.

T. L. BEDDOES.

THE LOST BOWER

In the pleasant orchard closes, “God bless all our gains,” say we; But “May God bless all our losses,” Better suits with our degree.-- Listen gentle--ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee!

Green the land is where my daily Steps in jocund childhood played-- Dimpled close with hill and valley, Dappled very close with shade; Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade.

There is one hill I see nearer, In my vision of the rest; And a little wood seems clearer, As it climbeth from the west, Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest.

Small the wood is, green with hazels, And, completing the ascent, Where the wind blows and sun dazzles, Thrills in leafy tremblement: Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content.

Not a step the wood advances O’er the open hill-top’s bound: There, in green arrest, the branches See their image on the ground: You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with sound.

For you hearken on your right hand, How the birds do leap and call In the greenwood, out of sight and Out of reach and fear of all; And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal.

On your left, the sheep are cropping The slant grass and daisies pale; And five apple-trees stand, dropping Separate shadows toward the vale, Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!”

Yet in childhood little prized I That fair walk and far survey: ’Twas a straight walk, unadvised by The least mischief worth a nay-- Up and down--as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday!

But the wood, all close and clenching Bough in bough and root in root,-- No more sky (for over-branching) At your head than at your foot,-- Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute.

Few and broken paths showed through it, Where the sheep had tried to run,-- Forced with snowy wool to strew it Round the thickets, when anon They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back into the sun.

But my childish heart beat stronger Than those thickets dared to grow: _I_ could pierce them! _I_ could longer Travel on, methought, than so! Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they would go.

On a day, such pastime keeping, With a fawn’s heart debonair, Under-crawling, overleaping Thorns that prick and boughs that bear, I stood suddenly astonished--I was gladdened unaware!

From the place I stood in, floated Back the covert dim and close; And the open ground was suited Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across.

’Twas a bower for garden fitter, Than for any woodland wide! Though a fresh and dewy glitter Struck it through, from side to side, Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied.

Rose-trees, either side the door, were Growing lithe and growing tall; Each one set a summer warder For the keeping of the hall,-- With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall.

As I entered--mosses hushing Stole all noises from my foot: And a round elastic cushion, Clasped within the linden’s root, Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute.

So, young muser, I sat listening To my Fancy’s wildest word-- On a sudden, through the glistening Leaves around, a little stirred, Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard.

Softly, finely, it inwound me-- From the world it shut me in,-- Like a fountain falling round me, Which with silver waters thin Clips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within.

Whence the music came, who knoweth? _I_ know nothing. But indeed Pan or Faunus never bloweth So much sweetness from a reed Which has sucked the milk of waters, at the oldest river-head.

Never lark the sun can waken With such sweetness! when the lark, The high planets overtaking In the half-evanished Dark, Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark.

Never nightingale so singeth-- Oh! she leans on thorny tree, And her poet-soul she flingeth Over pain to victory! Yet she never sings such music,--or she sings it not to me!

Never blackbirds, never thrushes, Nor small finches sing as sweet, When the sun strikes through the bushes To their crimson clinging feet, And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete.

In a child-abstraction lifted, Straightway from the bower I passed; Foot and soul being dimly drifted Through the greenwood, till, at last, In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast.

And I said within me, laughing, I have found a bower to-day, A green lusus[52]--fashioned half in Chance, and half in Nature’s play-- And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay.

Henceforth, _I_ will be the fairy Of this bower, not built by one; I will go there, sad or merry, With each morning’s benison; And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won.

So I said. But the next morning, (--Child, look up into my face-- ’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning! This is truth in its pure grace;) The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place.

Day by day, with new desire, Toward my wood I ran in faith-- Under leaf and over brier-- Through the thickets, out of breath-- Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death.

But his sword of mettle clashèd, And his arm smote strong, I ween; And her dreaming spirit flashèd Through her body’s fair white screen, And the light thereof might guide him up the cedarn alleys green.

But for me, I saw no splendour-- All my sword was my child-heart; And the wood refused surrender Of that bower it held apart, Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives swart.

I have lost--oh many a pleasure-- Many a hope, and many a power-- Studious health and merry leisure-- The first dew on the first flower! But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower.

All my losses did I tell you, Ye, perchance, would look away;-- Ye would answer me, “Farewell! you Make sad company to-day; And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.”

For God placed me like a dial In the open ground, with power; And my heart had for its trial, All the sun and all the shower! And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[52] _lusus_: a sport, a freak.

ECHO AND THE FERRY

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh, a girl was no good,” So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven! At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. The pear trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flashed about; And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven--eleven!

So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered, And under and over the branches those little birds twittered, While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet. And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should scold! Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; And then some one else--oh, how softly! came after, came after With laughter--with laughter came after.

So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall-- A little low wall--and looked over, and there was the river, The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river. Clear-shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow; But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long flow, And she murmured methought, with a speech very soft, very low-- “The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the river, “To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river--the river.

I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of bee That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one’s ear and then fly, And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”--he whispered it low-- “Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he, But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling-- We might cross if I thought I would spend it.” “Oh yes, I was willing”-- And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very--was very Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, “Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry--the ferry!” By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide--she replied, And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry “You man of the ferry, You man of--you man of the ferry!”

“Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast;-- Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassed All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling, Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was there!) Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair.

We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown-- Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown.

So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall. Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak carven seat Was empty. We saw the great Bible--old, old, very old, And the parson’s great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said, “Look, Katie! Look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small Seven, “Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?”

All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven; “You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers--because it was old, And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke. Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand, While bleating of flocks and birds piping made sweeter the land, And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry, “O Katie!” “O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on, then!” “For, see, The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”--“by the tree.” “By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and merry: “Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”--“the ferry.” “You man of the ferry--you man of--you man of--the ferry.”

Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white To that little old church? and will Oliver meet me anon? Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over--passed on? Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!” “And Katie.” “And Katie.” “Art out with the glowworms to-night, My Katie?” “My Katie.” For gladness I break into laughter And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; Again, some one else--Oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after, Comes after--with laughter comes after.

JEAN INGELOW.

POOR SUSAN’S DREAM

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the bird.

’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

FANCY

Tell me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head? How begot, how nourishèd? Reply, reply. It is engender’d in the eyes, With gazing fed; and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring Fancy’s knell: I’ll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell. Ding, dong, bell.

SHAKESPEARE.

TWO HOME-COMINGS

1. THE GOOD WOMAN MADE WELCOME IN HEAVEN

Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, Glad at their own home now to meet thee. All thy good works which went before, And waited for thee at the door, Shall own thee there; and all in one Weave a constellation Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, Shall build up thy triumphant brows. All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, And thy pains sit bright upon thee: All thy sorrows here shall shine, And thy sufferings be divine. Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, And wrongs repent to diadems. Even thy deaths shall live, and new Dress the soul which late they slew. Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars As keep account of the Lamb’s wars.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

2. THE SOLDIER RELIEVED

I’d like now, yet had haply been afraid, To have just looked, when this man came to die, And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides, And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, Thro’ a whole campaign of the world’s life and death, Doing the King’s work all the dim day long, In his old coat and up to knees in mud, Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,-- And, now the day was won, relieved at once! No further show or need of that old coat, You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! A second, and the angels alter that.

ROBERT BROWNING.

WHEN KNIGHTS WERE BOLD

HUNTING SONG

Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With horse, and hawk, and hunting spear! Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling[53]. Merrily, merrily, mingle they, “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain grey, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake[54] are gleaming, And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay, “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot, and tall of size; We can show the marks he made When ’gainst the oak his antlers[55] frayed; You shall see him brought to bay; “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay! Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk? Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[53] _knelling_: sounding like a bell.

[54] _brake_: fern, bracken.

[55] _antlers_: horns.

THE RIDING TO THE TOURNAMENT

Over meadows purple-flowered, Through the dark lanes oak-embowered, Over commons dry and brown, Through the silent red-roofed town, Past the reapers and the sheaves, Over white roads strewn with leaves, By the gipsy’s ragged tent, Rode we to the Tournament.

Over clover wet with dew, Whence the sky-lark, startled, flew, Through brown fallows, where the hare Leapt up from its subtle lair, Past the mill-stream and the reeds Where the stately heron feeds, By the warren’s sunny wall, Where the dry leaves shake and fall, By the hall’s ancestral trees, Bent and writhing in the breeze, Rode we all with one intent, Gaily to the Tournament.

Golden sparkles, flashing gem, Lit the robes of each of them, Cloak of velvet, robe of silk, Mantle snowy-white as milk, Rings upon our bridle-hand, Jewels on our belt and band, Bells upon our golden reins, Tinkling spurs and shining chains-- In such merry mob we went Riding to the Tournament.

Laughing voices, scraps of song, Lusty music loud and strong, Rustling of the banners blowing, Whispers as of rivers flowing. Whistle of the hawks we bore As they rise and as they soar, Now and then a clash of drums As the rabble louder hums, Now and then a burst of horns Sounding over brooks and bourns, As in merry guise we went Riding to the Tournament.

There were abbots fat and sleek, Nuns in couples, pale and meek, Jugglers tossing cups and knives, Yeomen with their buxom wives, Pages playing with the curls Of the rosy village girls, Grizzly knights with faces scarred, Staring through their vizors barred, Huntsmen cheering with a shout At the wild stag breaking out, Harper, stately as a king, Touching now and then a string, As our revel laughing went To the solemn Tournament.

Charger with the massy chest, Foam-spots flecking mane and breast, Pacing stately, pawing ground, Fretting for the trumpet’s sound, White and sorrel, roan and bay, Dappled, spotted, black, and grey, Palfreys snowy as the dawn, Ponies sallow as the fawn, All together neighing went Trampling to the Tournament.

Long hair scattered in the wind, Curls that flew a yard behind, Flags that struggled like a bird Chained and restive--not a word But half buried in a laugh; And the lance’s gilded staff Shaking when the bearer shook At the jester’s merry look, As he grins upon his mule, Like an urchin leaving school, Shaking bauble, tossing bells, At the merry jest he tells,-- So in happy mood we went, Laughing to the Tournament.

What a bustle at the inn, What a stir, without--within; Filling flagons, brimming bowls For a hundred thirsty souls; Froth in snow-flakes flowing down, From the pitcher big and brown, While the tankards brim and bubble With the balm for human trouble; How the maiden coyly sips, How the yeoman wipes his lips, How the old knight drains the cup Slowly and with calmness up, And the abbot, with a prayer, Fills the silver goblet rare, Praying to the saints for strength As he holds it at arm’s length; How the jester spins the bowl On his thumb, then quaffs the whole; How the pompous steward bends And bows to half-a-dozen friends, As in a thirsty mood we went Duly to the Tournament.

Then again the country over Through the stubble and the clover, By the crystal-dropping springs, Where the road dust clogs and clings To the pearl-leaf of the rose, Where the tawdry nightshade blows, And the bramble twines its chains Through the sunny village lanes, Where the thistle sheds its seed, And the goldfinch loves to feed, By the milestone green with moss, By the broken wayside cross, In a merry band we went Shouting to the Tournament.

Pilgrims with their hood and cowl, Pursy burghers cheek by jowl, Archers with their peacock’s wing Fitting to the waxen string, Pedlars with their pack and bags, Beggars with their coloured rags, Silent monks, whose stony eyes Rest in trance upon the skies, Children sleeping at the breast, Merchants from the distant West, All in gay confusion went To the royal Tournament.

Players with the painted face And a drunken man’s grimace, Grooms who praise their raw-boned steeds, Old wives telling maple beads,-- Blackbirds from the hedges broke, Black crows from the beeches croak, Glossy swallows in dismay From the mill-stream fled away, The angry swan, with ruffled breast, Frowned upon her osier nest, The wren hopped restless on the brake, The otter made the sedges shake, The butterfly before our rout Flew like a blossom blown about, The coloured leaves, a globe of life, Spun round and scattered as in strife, Sweeping down the narrow lane Like the slant shower of the rain, The lark in terror, from the sod, Flew up and straight appealed to God, As a noisy band we went Trotting to the Tournament.

But when we saw the holy town, With its river and its down, Then the drums began to beat And the flutes piped mellow sweet; Then the deep and full bassoon Murmured like a wood in June, And the fifes, so sharp and bleak, All at once began to speak. Hear the trumpets clear and loud, Full-tongued, eloquent and proud, And the dulcimer that ranges Through such wild and plaintive changes; Merry sounds the jester’s shawm[56], To our gladness giving form; And the shepherd’s chalumeau[57], Rich and soft and sad and low; Hark! the bagpipes squeak and groan-- Every herdsman has his own; So in measured step we went Pacing to the Tournament.

All at once the chimes break out, Then we hear the townsmen shout, And the morris-dancers’ bells Tinkling in the grassy dells; The bell thunder from the tower Adds its sound of doom and power, As the cannon’s loud salute For a moment made us mute; Then again the laugh and joke On the startled silence broke;-- Thus in merry mood we went Laughing to the Tournament.

G. W. THORNBURY.

[56] _shawm_: reed pipe.

[57] _chalumeau_: reed pipe.

VARIOUS

A RED, RED ROSE

O, my love is like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June: O, my love is like the melody That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in love am I, And I will love thee still, my dear, Till all the seas gang[58] dry.

Till all the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun! And I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only love, And fare thee well a while! And I will come again, my love, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

ROBERT BURNS.

[58] _gang_: go.

BLOW, BUGLE, BLOW

The splendour 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[59] 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 for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

[59] _scar_: a crag, a precipice.

WEST AND EAST

_Rome is chiefly known to young readers through the medium of Macaulay’s spirited “Lays,” which, however, are only a re-telling, in English ballad form, of some of the legends which survived into historical times concerning the infant city, about which nothing certain is known. They give no idea of the Rome of history, the world-power, or of the brooding immensity of her influence through centuries. This and the following poem illustrate, to some slight extent, the later Rome._

In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, The Roman noble lay; He drove abroad, in furious guise, Along the Appian way.

He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, And crown’d his hair with flowers-- No easier nor no quicker pass’d The impracticable hours.

The brooding East with awe beheld Her impious younger world. The Roman tempest swell’d and swell’d, And on her head was hurled.

The East bow’d low before the blast In patient, deep disdain; She let the legions thunder past, And plunged in thought again.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

GENSERIC

Genseric, King of the Vandals, who, having laid waste seven lands, From Tripolis far as Tangier, from the sea to the great desert sands, Was lord of the Moor and the African,--thirsting anon for new slaughter, Sail’d out of Carthage, and sail’d o’er the Mediterranean water; Plunder’d Palermo, seiz’d Sicily, sack’d the Lucanian coast, And paused, and said, laughing, “Where next?” Then there came to the Vandal a Ghost From the Shadowy Land that lies hid and unknown in the Darkness Below. And answered, “To Rome!” Said the King to the Ghost, “And whose envoy art thou? Whence com’st thou? and name me his name that hath sent thee: and say what is thine.” “From far: and His name that hath sent me is God,” the Ghost answered, “and mine Was Hannibal once, ere thou wast: and the name that I now have is Fate. But arise, and be swift, and return. For God waits, and the moment is late.” And, “I go,” said the Vandal. And went. When at last to the gates he was come, Loud he knock’d with his fierce iron fist. And full drowsily answer’d him Rome. “Who is it that knocketh so loud? Get thee hence. Let me be. For ’tis late.” “Thou art wanted,” cried Genseric. “Open! His name that hath sent me is Fate, And mine, who knock late, Retribution.” Rome gave him her glorious things; The keys she had conquer’d from kingdoms: the crowns she had wrested from kings: And Genseric bore them away into Carthage, avenged thus on Rome, And paused, and said, laughing, “Where next?” And again the Ghost answer’d him, “Home! For now God doth need thee no longer.” “Where leadest thou me by the hand?” Cried the King to the Ghost. And the Ghost answer’d, “Into the Shadowy Land.”

OWEN MEREDITH.

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossom’d many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play’d, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

SOMETHING TO REMEMBER

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, And did he stop and speak to you, And did you speak to him again? How strange it seems, and new!

But you were living before that. And also you are living after, And the memory I started at-- My starting moves your laughter!

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own And a certain use in the world, no doubt, Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone ’Mid the blank miles round about:

For there I picked up on the heather And there I put inside my breast A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! Well, I forget the rest.

ROBERT BROWNING.

RING OUT, WILD BELLS

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

INDEX OF AUTHORS

PAGE

Anonymous 28, 30, 34, 36

Arnold, Matthew 65, 115

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell 83

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 84

Browning, Robert 19, 20, 54, 103, 120

Burns, Robert 113

Byron, Lord 39, 43

Campbell, Thomas 21

Clough, Arthur Hugh 57

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 118

Collins, William 52

Crashaw, Richard 102

Herrick, Robert 1

Hovey, Richard 27

Howe, Julia Ward 47

Hunt, Leigh 77

Ingelow, Jean 92

Jonson, Ben 18

Keats, John 7

Kingsley, Charles 31, 78

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 22, 24, 26, 72

Lovelace, Richard 48

Meredith, Owen 116

Miller, Joaquin 56

Roberts, Theodore 37

Scott, Sir Walter 49, 53, 79, 104

Shakespeare, William 30, 101

Shelley, Percy Bysshe 9, 13

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 2, 58, 114, 121

Thornbury, G. W. 105

Wolfe, Charles 50

Wordsworth, William 4, 100

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

PAGE

A lofty ship from Salcombe came 34

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 77

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain 120

Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me 22

“All honour to him who shall win the prize” 56

Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee 102

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears 100

Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven 92

Come, dear children, let us away 65

Full fathom five thy father lies 30

Genseric, King of the Vandals, who, having laid waste seven lands 116

“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled” 72

Hail to thee, blithe spirit 13

Here’s the tender coming 30

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 52

I am fever’d with the sunset 27

I come from haunts of coot and hern 2

I’d like now, yet had haply been afraid 103

If there were dreams to sell 83

In his cool hall, with haggard eyes 115

In the pleasant orchard closes 84

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 118

It was roses, roses, all the way 54

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord 47

Nobly, nobly Cape St Vincent to the North-west died away 20

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 50

Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high 31

O for the voice of that wild horn 49

O Mary, go and call the cattle home 78

O, my love is like a red, red rose 113

O my true love’s a smuggler and sails upon the sea 36

O, to be in England 19

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being 9

O young Lochinvar is come out of the West 79

Often I think of the beautiful town 26

On either side the river lie 58

Over meadows purple-flowered 105

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair 18

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky 121

Say not the struggle nought availeth 57

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness 7

Simon Danz has come home again 24

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er 53

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 48

Tell me where is Fancy bred 101

The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! 43

The splendour falls on castle walls 114

There was a sound of revelry by night 39

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 4

Thunder of riotous hoofs over the quaking sod 37

’Twas in the good ship _Rover_ 28

Waken, lords and ladies gay 104

Ye have been fresh and green 1

Ye Mariners of England 21

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=Poems by William Wordsworth.= Selected and annotated by Miss CLARA L. THOMSON. 1_s._ 9_d._ net.

* * * * *

=The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children.= Edited by KENNETH GRAHAME. Crown 8vo. In two parts. 1_s._ net each. In one volume, cloth extra. 3_s._ net.

=A Book of Verse for Children.= Compiled by ALYS RODGERS, L.L.A. (Hons.). Crown 8vo. Complete, cloth gilt, 3_s._ net; cloth back, 2_s._ _6d._ net. Parts I-III separately, limp cloth, 1_s._ net.

=English Patriotic Poetry.= Selected by L. GODWIN SALT, M.A. 1_s._ 9_d._ net. Text only, without introduction and notes, 9_d._ net.

=A Book of English Poetry for the Young.= Arranged for Preparatory and Elementary Schools by W. H. WOODWARD. 1_s._ net.

=A Second Book of English Poetry for the Young.= Arranged for Secondary and High Schools by W. H. WOODWARD. 1_s._ net.

Transcriber’s Note:

Spelling, word usage an punctuation have been retained as in the original publication, except as follows: