PART TWO.

UNION AND LIBERTY.

Flag of the heroes who left us their glory, Borne through their battlefields' thunder and flame, Blazoned in song and illumined in story, Wave o'er us all who inherit their fame! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,-- UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

Light of our firmament, guide of our Nation, Pride of her children, and honored afar, Let the wide beams of thy full constellation Scatter each cloud that would darken a star! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,-- UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

Empire unsceptered! what foe shall assail thee, Bearing the standard of Liberty's van? Think not the God of thy fathers shall fail thee, Striving with men for the birthright of man! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,-- UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

Yet if, by madness and treachery blighted, Dawns the dark hour when the sword thou must draw, Then with the arms of thy millions united, Smite the bold traitors to Freedom and Law! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,-- UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

Lord of the Universe! shield us and guide us, Trusting Thee always, through shadow and sun! Thou hast united us, who shall divide us? Keep us, O keep us, the MANY IN ONE! Up with our banner bright, Sprinkled with starry light, Spread its fair emblems from mountain to shore, While through the sounding sky Loud rings the Nation's cry,-- UNION AND LIBERTY! ONE EVERMORE!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery That little dread us near, On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again; And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil: We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout, As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads-- The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp-- A moment--and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs, Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our shore.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

STARS.

They glide upon their endless way, Forever calm, forever bright; No blind hurry, no delay, Mark the Daughters of the Night; They follow in the track of Day, In divine delight.

Shine on, sweet-orbèd Souls for aye, Forever calm, forever bright; We ask not whither lies your way, Nor whence ye came, nor what your light. Be--still a dream throughout the day, A blessing through the night.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (BARRY CORNWALL).

NIGHT.

The sun descendeth in the west, The evening star does shine; The birds are silent in their nest, And I must seek for mine. The moon, like a flower, In heaven's high bower, With silent delight Sits and smiles on the night.

Farewell, green fields and happy groves, Where flocks have ta'en delight; Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves The feet of angels bright; Unseen, they pour blessing, And joy without ceasing, On each bud and blossom, And each sleeping bosom.

They look in every thoughtless nest, Where birds are covered warm, They visit caves of every beast, To keep them all from harm. If they see any weeping That should have been sleeping, They pour sleep on their head, And sit down by their bed.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC.

Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.--

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.--

But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane, To our cheering sent us back;-- Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-- Then cease--and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.--

Now joy, Old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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 mold, 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 Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

LLEWELLYN AND HIS DOG.

The spearmen heard the bugle sound, And cheer'ly smiled the morn; And many a dog, and many a hound, Attend Llewellyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast, And gave a louder cheer; "Come, Gelert! why art thou the last Llewellyn's horn to hear?

"Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, The flower of all his race? So true, so brave--a lamb at home, A lion in the chase."

That day Llewellyn little loved The chase of hart or hare, And scant and small the booty proved, For Gelert was not there.

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, When, near the portal seat, His truant Gelert he espied, Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained the castle door, Aghast the chieftain stood; The hound was smeared with gouts of gore, His lips and fangs ran blood!

Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise; Unused such looks to meet, His fav'rite checked his joyful guise, And crouched, and licked his feet.

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed (And on went Gelert too), And still, where'er his eyes were cast, Fresh blood gouts shocked his view.

O'erturned his infant's bed he found, The bloodstained cover rent; And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent.

He called his child--no voice replied; He searched with terror wild; Blood! blood! he found on every side, But nowhere found his child!

"Hell-hound! by thee my child's devoured!" The frantic father cried; And to the hilt his vengeful sword He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, No pity could impart; But still his Gelert's dying yell Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumberer wakened nigh; What words the parent's joy can tell, To hear his infant cry!

Concealed beneath a mangled heap, His hurried search had missed, All glowing from his rosy sleep, His cherub boy he kissed!

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread, But the same couch beneath Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,-- Tremendous still in death!

Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain! For now the truth was clear; The gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe; "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic deed which laid thee low This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raised, With costly sculpture decked; And marbles storied with his praise Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass, Or forester, unmoved, Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass Llewellyn's sorrow proved.

And here he hung his horn and spear, And oft, as evening fell, In fancy's piercing sounds would hear, Poor Gelert's dying yell.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

FIDELITY.

A barking sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts--and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks: And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there anyone in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes--the cloud-- And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, a while The shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveler passed this way.

But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog, had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that, since the day When this ill-fated traveler died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the grasshopper's--he takes the lead In summer luxury,--he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The grasshopper's among some grassy hills.

JOHN KEATS.

ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET.

Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, When ev'n the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass; Oh sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both, though small are strong At your dear hearts; and both were sent on earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,-- Indoors and out, summer and winter, mirth!

LEIGH HUNT.

EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue, Nor swifter greyhound follow, Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew, Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo!

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, Who, nursed with tender care, And to domestic bounds confined, Was still a wild Jack hare.

Though duly from my hand he took His pittance every night, He did it with a jealous look, And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread, And milk, and oats, and straw; Thistles, or lettuces instead, With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, On pippin's russet peel, And when his juicy salads failed, Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn, Whereon he loved to bound, To skip and gambol like a fawn, And swing himself around.

His frisking was at evening hours, For then he lost his fear, But most before approaching showers, Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons He thus saw steal away, Dozing out all his idle noons, And every night at play.

I kept him for his humor's sake, For he would oft beguile My heart of thoughts that made it ache, And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut shade, He finds his long last home, And waits, in snug concealment laid, Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE COUNCIL OF HORSES.

Upon a time a neighing steed, Who grazed among a numerous breed, With mutiny had fired the train, And spread dissension through the plain. On matters that concerned the state, The council met in grand debate. A colt whose eyeballs flamed with ire, Elate with strength and youthful fire, In haste stept forth before the rest, And thus the listening throng addressed: "Goodness, how abject is our race, Condemned to slavery and disgrace! Shall we our servitude retain, Because our sires have borne the chain? Consider, friends! your strength and might; 'Tis conquest to assert your right. How cumbrous is the gilded coach! The pride of man is our reproach. Were we designed for daily toil, To drag the plowshare through the soil, To sweat in harness through the road, To groan beneath the carrier's load? How feeble are the two-legg'd kind! What force is in our nerves combined! Shall then our nobler jaws submit To foam and champ the galling bit? Shall haughty man my back bestride? Shall the sharp spur provoke my side? Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein; Your shame, your infamy, disdain. Let him the lion first control, And still the tiger's famished growl. Let us, like them, our freedom claim, And make him tremble at our name." A general nod approved the cause, And all the circle neighed applause. When, lo! with grave and solemn pace, A steed advanced before the race, With age and long experience wise; Around he cast his thoughtful eyes, And, to the murmurs of the train, Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain. "When I had health and strength like you The toils of servitude I knew; Now grateful man rewards my pains, And gives me all these wide domains. At will I crop the year's increase; My latter life is rest and peace. I grant, to man we lend our pains, And aid him to correct the plains; But doth he not divide the care, Through all the labors of the year? How many thousand structures rise, To fence us from inclement skies! For us he bears the sultry day, And stores up all our winter's hay. He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain; We share the toil and share the grain. Since every creature was decreed To aid each other's mutual need, Appease your discontented mind, And act the part by heaven assigned." The tumult ceased, the colt submitted, And, like his ancestors, was bitted.

JOHN GAY.

RUTH.

She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened;--such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim;-- Thus she stood amid the stocks, Praising God with sweetest looks:--

Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come, Share my harvest and my home.

THOMAS HOOD.

THE ELIXIR.

Teach me, my God and King, In all things Thee to see, And what I do in anything, To do it as for Thee.

All may of Thee partake: Nothing can be so mean Which with this tincture, for Thy sake, Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine; Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, Makes that and the action fine.

This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold; For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for less be told.

GEORGE HERBERT.

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

Morning, evening, noon, and night, "Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned, Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well; O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period, He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw, And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

"As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way.

"This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome."

Said Theocrite, "Would God that I Might praise Him that great way, and die!"

Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone.

With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day.

God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night Now brings the voice of my delight."

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth;

Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well;

And morning, evening, noon, and night, Praised God in place of Theocrite.

And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man put off the stripling's hue:

The man matured and fell away Into the season of decay:

And ever o'er the trade he bent, And ever lived on earth content.

(He lived God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.)

God said, "A praise is in mine ear; There is no doubt in it, no fear:

"So sing old worlds, and so New worlds that from my footstool go.

"Clearer loves sound other ways: I miss my little human praise."

Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell The flesh disguise, remained the cell.

'Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome.

In the tiring-room close by The great outer gallery,

With his holy vestments dight, Stood the new Pope Theocrite:

And all his past career Came back upon him clear,

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, Till on his life the sickness weighed;

And in his cell, when death drew near, An angel in a dream brought cheer:

And, rising from the sickness drear, He grew a priest, and now stood here.

To the East with praise he turned, And on his sight the angel burned.

"I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, And set thee here; I did not well.

"Vainly I left my angel sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year.

"Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped-- Creation's chorus stopped!

"Go back and praise again The early way, while I remain.

"With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain.

"Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy!"

Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome.

One vanished as the other died: They sought God side by side.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty, side by side, They filled one home with glee; Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair, sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight: Where are those sleepers now?

One, midst the forest of the West, By a dark stream is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest, Far in the cedar shade.

The sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one; He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dressed Above the noble slain; He wrapped the colors round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one--o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves by soft winds fanned; She faded midst Italian flowers-- The last of that fair band.

And parted thus, they rest who played Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee.

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth; Alas for love! if thou wert all, And nought beyond, O earth!

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.

THE EVENING WIND.

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow: Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone--a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fullness of delight; And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound Livelier, at coming of the wind of night; And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth, God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest, Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast: Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed, Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, And softly part his curtains to allow Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go--but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange, Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free! Sing,--for the pride of the tyrant is broken, His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave,-- How vain was their boasting! the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah has triumphed,--His people are free!

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord! His word was our arrow, His breath was our sword. Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride? For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! Jehovah hath triumphed,--His people are free!

THOMAS MOORE.

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS.

Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay! To the meadows trip away, 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, And scare the small birds from the corn. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house To the cricket and the mouse: Find grannam out a sunny seat, With babe and lambkin at her feet. Not a soul at home may stay: For the shepherds must go With lance and bow To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY.

An ancient story I'll tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with main and with might, For he did great wrong and maintained little right.

And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; How for his housekeeping and high renown, They rode post for him to fair London town.

An hundred men, the king did hear say, The Abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, In velvet coats waited the Abbot about.

"How now, father Abbot, I hear it of thee, Thou keepest a far better house than me; And for thy housekeeping and high renown, I fear thou work'st treason against my crown."

"My liege," quoth the Abbot, "I would it were known I never spend nothing but what is my own; And I trust your Grace will do me no deere For spending of my own true gotten geere."

"Yes, yes, father Abbot, thy fault it is high, And now for the same thou needest must die; For except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

"And first," quoth the king, "when I'm in this stead, With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liegemen so noble of birth, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.

"Secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride the whole world about; And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think."

"O these are hard questions for my shallow wit, Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weeks' space, I'll do my endeavor to answer your Grace."

"Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me."

Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold, And he met his shepherd a-going to fold: "How now, my lord Abbot, you are welcome home; What news do you bring us from good King John?"

"Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give, That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

"The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crown of gold so fair on his head, Among all his liegemen so noble of birth, To within one penny of what he is worth.

"The second to tell him without any doubt, How soon he may ride this whole world about; And at the third question I must not shrink, But tell him there truly what he does think."

"Now cheer up, sir Abbot, did you never hear yet That a fool he may learn a wise man wit? Lend me horse, and serving men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answer your quarrel.

"Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me, I am like your lordship as ever may be; And if you will but lend me your gown There is none shall know us in fair London town."

"Now horses and serving men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appear 'fore our father the Pope."

"Now welcome, sir Abbot," the king he did say, "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keep thy day: For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall be.

"And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of gold so fair on my head, Among all my liegemen so noble of birth, Tell me to one penny what I am worth."

"For thirty pence our Savior was sold Among the false Jews, as I have been told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I think thou art one penny worser than he."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, "I did not think I had been worth so little! Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soon I may ride this whole world about."

"You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth again; And then your Grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about."

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, "I did not think it could be gone so soon. Now from the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what do I think."

"Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry; You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for me."

The King he laughed, and swore by the mass, "I'll make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" "Nay, nay, my liege, be not in such speed, For alack, I can neither write nor read."

"Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me; And tell the old Abbot, when thou com'st home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John."

THOMAS PERCY.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets, They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little flower!--I'll make a stir, Like a sage astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met I have seen thee, high and low, Thirty years or more, and yet 'Twas a face I did not know; Thou hast now, go where I may, Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush Has a thought about her nest, Thou wilt come with half a call, Spreading out thy glossy breast Like a careless prodigal; Telling tales about the sun, When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood! Travel with the multitude: Never heed them; I aver That they are all wanton wooers; But the thrifty cottager, Who stirs little out of doors, Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming spirit! Careless of thy neighborhood, Thou dost show thy pleasant face On the moor, and in the wood, In the lane;--there's not a place, Howsoever mean it be, But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours! Buttercups, that will be seen, Whether we will see or no; Others, too, of lofty mien; They have done as worldlings do, Taken praise that should be thine, Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth, Ill requited upon earth; Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Serving at my heart's command, Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise, of what I love!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY.

I have read, in some old, marvelous tale, Some legend strange and vague, That a midnight host of specters pale Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, There stood, as in an awful dream, The army of the dead.

White as a sea fog, landward bound, The spectral camp was seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there, No drum, nor sentry's pace; The mistlike banners clasped the air, As clouds with clouds embrace.

But, when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, The white pavilions rose and fell On the alarmèd air.

Down the broad valley, fast and far The troubled army fled; Up rose the glorious morning star, The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvelous heart of man, That strange and mystic scroll, That an army of phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, In Fancy's misty light, Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle ground The spectral camp is seen, And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice, nor sound is there, In the army of the grave; No other challenge breaks the air, But the rushing of Life's wave.

And, when the solemn and deep church bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.

And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jades, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread, When Colin's at the door? Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockins pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Benn fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!

If Colin's well, and weel content, I hae nae mair to crave; And gin I live to keep him sae, I'm blest aboon the lave: And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa.

WILLIAM J. MICKLE.

SOLDIER AND SAILOR.

I love contemplating, apart From all his homicidal glory, The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story!

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffered him, I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain halfway over With envy; _they_ could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning--dreaming--doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day laborious; lurking Until he launched a tiny boat By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'Twas a thing beyond Description, wretched: such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry.

For plowing in the salt sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, No sail--no rudder.

From neighb'ring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows--

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering; Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger; And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger:--

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad; "But--absent long from one another-- Great was the longing that I had To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "Ye've both my favor fairly won; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty; But _never_ changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparté.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM.

It was a summer's evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found. He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory!

"I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plow, The plowshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory!"

"Now, tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory!

"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burned his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died. But things, like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory!

"And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory!"

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE REVENGE.

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the summer sea, And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring; But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that we still could sting; So they watched what the end would be. And we had not fought them in vain, But in perilous plight were we, Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, And half of the rest of us maimed for life In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and cold, And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of it spent; And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, "We have fought such a fight for a day and a night As may never be fought again! We have won great glory, my men! And a day less or more At sea or ashore, We die--does it matter when? Sink me the ship, Master Gunner--sink her, split her in twain! Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

And the gunner said, "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply: "We have children, we have wives, And the Lord hath spared our lives. We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go; We shall live to fight again, and to strike another blow." And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last, And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace; But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: "I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true; I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: With a joyful spirit I, Sir Richard Grenville, die!" And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

_From "The Revenge."_

HALLOWED GROUND.

What's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod Its maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free, Unscourged by Superstition's rod To bow the knee?

That's hallowed ground--where, mourned and missed, The lips repose our love has kissed:-- But where's their memory's mansion? Is't Yon churchyard's bowers? No! in ourselves their souls exist, A part of ours.

What hallows ground where heroes sleep? 'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap! In dews that heavens far distant weep Their turf may bloom; Or Genii twine beneath the deep Their coral tomb:

But strew his ashes to the wind Whose sword or voice has served mankind-- And is he dead, whose glorious mind Lifts thine on high?-- To live in hearts we leave behind, Is not to die.

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right? He's dead alone that lacks her light! And murder sullies in Heaven's sight The sword he draws:-- What can alone ennoble fight? A noble cause!

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!-- Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth Earth's compass round; And your high priesthood shall make earth _All hallowed ground_.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP.

You know we French stormed Ratisbon: A mile or so away On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day; With neck out thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army leader Lannes Waver at yonder wall,--" Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's mane, a boy: You hardly could suspect-- (So tight he kept his lips compressed, Scarce any blood came through), You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace We've got you Ratisbon! The Marshal's in the market place, And you'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes. "You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THY VOICE IS HEARD THRO' ROLLING DRUMS.

Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums, That beat to battle where he stands; Thy face across his fancy comes, And gives the battle to his hands: A moment, while the trumpets blow, He sees his brood about thy knee; The next, like fire he meets the foe, And strikes him dead for thine and thee.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

QUIET, LORD, MY FROWARD HEART.

Quiet, Lord, my froward heart: Make me teachable and mild, Upright, simple, free from art,-- Make me as a weanèd child: From distrust and envy free, Pleased with all that pleaseth Thee.

What Thou shalt to-day provide, Let me as a child receive; What to-morrow may betide, Calmly to Thy wisdom leave; 'Tis enough that Thou wilt care: Why should I the burden bear?

As a little child relies On a care beyond his own, Knows he's neither strong nor wise, Fears to stir a step alone; Let me thus with Thee abide, As my Father, Guard, and Guide.

JOHN NEWTON.

MORNING.

Oh! timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise! Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove; Through sleep and darkness safely brought, Restored to life, and power, and thought.

New mercies, each returning day, Hover around us while we pray; New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.

JOHN KEBLE.

EVENING.

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air 'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course has run. See the dewdrops how they kiss Every little flower that is, Hanging on their velvet heads, Like a rope of crystal beads. See the heavy clouds low falling, And bright Hesperus down calling The dead night from underground, At whose rising, mists unsound, Damps and vapors fly apace, Hovering o'er the wanton face Of these pastures, where they come Striking dead both bud and bloom. Therefore from such danger lock Every one of his loved flock; And let your dogs lie loose without, Lest the wolf come, as a scout From the mountain, and ere day Bear a kid or lamb away; Or the crafty thievish fox Break upon your simple flocks. To secure yourselves from these, Be not too secure in ease. So shall you good shepherds prove, And deserve your master's love. Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers And soft silence fall in numbers On your eyelids; so, farewell; Thus I end my evening knell.

JOHN FLETCHER.

SONG.

Orpheus with his lute made trees And the mountain tops that freeze Bow themselves when he did sing: To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring.

Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

A FAREWELL.

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet, then a river: Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee. A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

TO A MOUSE.

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOW.

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion Has broken nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earthborn companion, An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request: I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, And never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin; Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin', Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin' fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till, crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft a-gley, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But, och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear.

ROBERT BURNS.

A SELECTION FROM CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;-- Man marks the earth with ruin--his control Stops with the shore;--upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-- Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since: their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:--not so thou, Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play-- Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-- Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time Calm or convulsed--in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers--they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror--'twas a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE SONS OF THE MORNING.

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Savior of all!

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Odors of Edom and offerings divine? Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favor secure: Richer by far is the heart's adoration; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid!

REGINALD HEBER.

THE LAND OF SONG: BOOK II.

_PART III._