PART THREE.

CONCORD HYMN.

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

MONTEREY.

We were not many--we who stood Before the iron sleet that day-- Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if he but could Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot, it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray, Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on--still on our column kept Through walls of flame its withering way; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns that swept The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past And braving full their murderous blast Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

Our banners on those turrets wave, And there our evening bugles play; Where orange boughs above their grave Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many--we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest, Than not have been at Monterey?

CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN.

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 DEATH OF NELSON.

'Twas in Trafalgar's bay We saw the Frenchmen lay; Each heart was bounding then. We scorned the foreign yoke, Our ships were British oak, And hearts of oak our men. Our Nelson marked them on the wave, Three cheers our gallant seamen gave, Nor thought of home and beauty. Along the line this signal ran,-- "England expects that every man This day will do his duty."

And now the cannons roar Along the affrighted shore; Brave Nelson led the way: His ship the Victory named; Long be that victory famed! For victory crowned the day. But dearly was that conquest bought, Too well the gallant hero fought For England, home, and beauty. He cried, as 'midst the fire he ran,-- "England shall find that every man This day will do his duty!"

At last the fatal wound Which shed dismay around, The hero's breast received. "Heaven fights on our side; The day's our own!" he cried; "Now long enough I've lived. In honor's cause my life was passed, In honor's cause I fall at last, For England, home, and beauty!" Thus ending life as he began; England confessed that every man That day had done his duty.

ARNOLD.

ODE TO THE NORTHEAST WIND.

Welcome, wild Northeaster! Shame it is to see Odes to every zephyr; Ne'er a verse to thee. Welcome, black Northeaster! O'er the German foam; O'er the Danish moorlands, From thy frozen home. Tired we are of summer, Tired of gaudy glare, Showers soft and steaming, Hot and breathless air. Tired of listless dreaming, Through the lazy day; Jovial wind of winter Turn us out to play! Sweep the golden reed beds; Crisp the lazy dike; Hunger into madness Every plunging pike. Fill the lake with wild fowl; Fill the marsh with snipe; While on dreary moorlands Lonely curlew pipe. Through the black fir forest Thunder harsh and dry, Shattering down the snowflakes Off the curdled sky. Hark! the brave Northeaster! Breast high lies the scent, On by bolt and headland, Over heath and bent. Chime, ye dappled darlings, Through the sleet and snow, Who can override you? Let the horses go! Chime, ye dappled darlings, Down the roaring blast; You shall see a fox die Ere an hour be past. Go! and rest to-morrow, Hunting in your dreams, While our skates are ringing O'er the frozen streams. Let the luscious South wind Breathe in lovers' sighs, While the lazy gallants Bask in ladies' eyes. What does he but soften Heart alike and pen? 'Tis the hard gray weather Breeds hard English men. What's the soft Southwester? 'Tis the ladies' breeze, Bringing home their true loves Out of all the seas; But the black Northeaster, Through the snowstorm hurled, Drives our English hearts of oak Seaward round the world! Come! as came our fathers, Heralded by thee, Conquering from the eastward, Lords by land and sea. Come! and strong within us Stir the Vikings' blood; Bracing brain and sinew; Blow, thou wind of God!

CHARLES KINGSLEY.

ENGLAND.

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "Richard II."_

SONG OF THE GREEKS.

Again to the battle, Achaians! Our hearts bid the tyrants defiance! Our land, the first garden of Liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall yet be, the land of the free. For the cross of our faith is replanted, The pale dying crescent is daunted, And we march that the footprints of Mahomet's slaves May be washed out in blood from our forefathers' graves. Their spirits are hovering o'er us, And the sword shall to glory restore us.

Ah! what though no succor advances, Nor Christendom's chivalrous lances Are stretched in our aid--be the combat our own! And we'll perish or conquer more proudly alone; For we've sworn by our country's assaulters, By the virgins they've dragged from our altars, By our massacred patriots, our children in chains, By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins, That, living, we shall be victorious, Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.

A breath of submission we breathe not; The sword that we've drawn we will sheathe not! Its scabbard is left where our martyrs are laid, And the vengeance of ages has whetted its blade. Earth may hide--waves engulf--fire consume us, But they shall not to slavery doom us: If they rule, it shall be o'er our ashes and graves; But we've smote them already with fire on the waves, And new triumphs on the land are before us, To the charge!--Heaven's banner is o'er us.

This day shall ye blush for its story, Or brighten your lives with its glory. Our women, oh, say, shall they shriek in despair, Or embrace us from conquest with wreaths in their hair? Accursed may his memory blacken, If a coward there be that would slacken Till we've trampled the turban, and shown ourselves worth Being sprung from and named for the godlike of earth. Strike home, and the world shall revere us As heroes descended from heroes.

Old Greece lightens up with emotion Her inlands, her isles of the Ocean; Fanes rebuilt and fair towns shall with jubilee ring, And the Nine shall new hallow their Helicon's spring: Our hearths shall be kindled in gladness, That were cold and extinguished in sadness; Whilst our maidens shall dance with their white waving arms, Singing joy to the brave that delivered their charms, When the blood of yon Mussulman cravens Shall have purpled the beaks of our ravens.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

OCTOBER 19, 1864.

Up from the South at break of day, Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold, As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down; And there, through the flash of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; As if he knew the terrible need, He stretched away with the utmost speed; Hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; On the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Forboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, And the landscape flowed away behind, Like an ocean flying before the wind; And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire; But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire, He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops; What was done--what to do--a glance told him both, Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, He dashed down the lines 'mid a storm of huzzas, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray, By the flash of his eye and the red nostril's play He seemed to the whole great army to say: "I've brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down to save the day!"

Hurrah! hurrah! for Sheridan! Hurrah! hurrah! for horse and man! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky-- The American soldier's temple of fame-- There with the glorious General's name, Be it said, in letters both bold and bright: "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight From Winchester, twenty miles away!"

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

THE HURRICANE.

Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-- A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come! he is come! do ye not behold His ample robes on the winds unrolled? Giant of air! we bid thee hail!-- How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale: How his huge and writhing arms are bent, To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space.

Darker--still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air: And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thundercloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?--'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds!--ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. And I, cut off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

WHEN ALL THY MERCIES, O MY GOD.

When all Thy mercies, O my God, My rising soul surveys; Transported with the view, I'm lost In wonder, love, and praise.

O how shall words with equal warmth The gratitude declare That glows within my ravished heart! But Thou canst read it there.

Unnumbered comforts on my soul Thy tender care bestowed, Before my infant heart conceived From whom these comforts flowed.

Ten thousand thousand precious gifts My daily thanks employ; Nor is the least a cheerful heart, That tastes those gifts with joy.

Through every period of my life, Thy goodness I'll pursue; And after death in distant worlds, The glorious theme renew.

Through all eternity, to Thee A joyful song I'll raise; For, oh! eternity's too short To utter all Thy praise.

JOSEPH ADDISON.

THE KINGDOM OF GOD.

I say to thee, do thou repeat To the first man thou mayest meet In lane, highway, or open street--

That he and we and all men move Under a canopy of love, As broad as the blue sky above;

That doubt and trouble, fear and pain And anguish, all are shadows vain, That death itself shall not remain;

That weary deserts we may tread, A dreary labyrinth may thread, Through dark ways underground be led;

Yet, if we will one Guide obey, The dreariest path, the darkest way, Shall issue out in heavenly day;

And we, on divers shores now cast, Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, All in our Father's house at last.

RICHARD C. TRENCH.

THE NOBLE NATURE.

It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night-- It was the plant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauty see; And in short measures life may perfect be.

BEN JONSON.

WINSTANLEY.

Winstanley's deed, you kindly folk, With it I fill my lay, And a nobler man ne'er walked the world, Let his name be what it may.

The good ship Snowdrop tarried long; Up at the vane looked he; "Belike," he said, for the wind had dropped, "She lieth becalmed at sea."

The lovely ladies flocked within, And still would each one say, "Good mercer, be the ships come up?"-- But still he answered, "Nay."

Then stepped two mariners down the street, With looks of grief and fear: "Now, if Winstanley be your name, We bring you evil cheer!

"For the good ship Snowdrop struck,--she struck On the rock,--the Eddystone, And down she went with threescore men, We two being left alone.

"Down in the deep with freight and crew, Past any help she lies, And never a bale has come to shore Of all thy merchandise."

"For cloth o' gold and comely frieze," Winstanley said and sighed, "For velvet coif, or costly coat, They fathoms deep may bide.

"O thou brave skipper, blithe and kind, O mariners, bold and true, Sorry at heart, right sorry am I, A-thinking of yours and you.

"Many long days Winstanley's breast Shall feel a weight within, For a waft of wind he shall be 'feared, And trading count but sin.

"To him no more it shall be joy To pace the cheerful town, And see the lovely ladies gay Step on in velvet gown."

The Snowdrop sank at Lammas tide, All under the yeasty spray; On Christmas Eve the brig Content Was also cast away.

He little thought o' New Year's night, So jolly as he sat then, While drank the toast and praised the roast The round-faced Aldermen,--

He little thought on Plymouth Hoe, With every rising tide, How the wave washed in his sailor lads, And laid them by his side.

There stepped a stranger to the board: "Now, stranger, who be ye?" He looked to the right, he looked to the left, And "Rest you merry," quoth he;

"For you did not see the brig go down, Or ever a storm had blown; For you did not see the white wave rear At the rock,--the Eddystone.

"She drave at the rock with stern sails set; Crash went the masts in twain; She staggered back with her mortal blow, Then leaped at it again.

"There rose a great cry, bitter and strong; The misty moon looked out! And the water swarmed with seamen's heads, And the wreck was strewed about.

"I saw her mainsail lash the sea, As I clung to the rock alone; Then she heeled over, and down she went, And sank like any stone.

"She was a fair ship, but all's one! For naught could bide the shock."-- "I will take horse," Winstanley said, "And see this deadly rock.

"For never again shall bark o' mine Sail o'er the windy sea, Unless, by the blessing of God, for this Be found a remedy."

Winstanley rode to Plymouth town All in the sleet and the snow; And he looked around on shore and sound, As he stood on Plymouth Hoe.

Till a pillar of spray rose far away, And shot up its stately head, Reared, and fell over, and reared again: "'Tis the rock! the rock!" he said.

Straight to the Mayor he took his way: "Good Master Mayor," quoth he, "I am a mercer of London town, And owner of vessels three.

"But for your rock of dark renown, I had five to track the main."-- "You are one of many," the old Mayor said, "That of the rock complain.

"An ill rock, mercer! your words ring right, Well with my thoughts they chime, For my two sons to the world to come It sent before their time."

"Lend me a lighter, good Master Mayor, And a score of shipwrights free; For I think to raise a lantern tower On this rock o' destiny."

The old Mayor laughed, but sighed also: "Ah, youth," quoth he, "is rash; Sooner, young man, thou'lt root it out From the sea that doth it lash.

"Who sails too near its jagged teeth, He shall have evil lot; For the calmest seas that tumble there Froth like a boiling pot.

"And the heavier seas few look on nigh, But straight they lay him dead; A seventy-gun-ship, sir!--they'll shoot Higher than her masthead.

"Oh, beacons sighted in the dark, They are right welcome things, And pitch pots flaming on the shore Show fair as angel wings.

"Hast gold in hand? then light the land, It 'longs to thee and me; But let alone the deadly rock In God Almighty's sea."

Yet said he, "Nay,--I must away, On the rock to set my feet; My debts are paid, my will I made, Or ever I did thee greet.

"If I must die, then let me die By the rock and not elsewhere; If I may live, Oh let me live To mount my lighthouse stair."

The old Mayor looked him in the face, And answered, "Have thy way; Thy heart is stout, as if round about It was braced with an iron stay:

"Have thy will, mercer! choose thy men, Put off from the storm-rid shore; God with thee be, or I shall see Thy face and theirs no more."

Heavily plunged the breaking wave, And foam flew up the lea; Morning and even the drifted snow Fell into the dark gray sea.

Winstanley chose him men and gear; He said, "My time I waste," For the seas ran seething up the shore, And the wrack drave on in haste.

But twenty days he waited and more, Pacing the strand alone, Or ever he sat his manly foot On the rock,--the Eddystone.

Then he and the sea began their strife, And worked with power and might; Whatever the man reared up by day The sea broke down by night.

He wrought at ebb with bar and beam, He sailed to shore at flow; And at his side, by that same tide, Came bar and beam also.

"Give in, give in," the old Mayor cried, "Or thou wilt rue the day."-- "Yonder he goes," the townsfolk sighed, "But the rock will have its way.

"For all his looks that are so stout, And his speeches brave and fair, He may wait on the wind, wait on the wave, But he'll build no lighthouse there."

In fine weather and foul weather The rock his arts did flout, Through the long days and the short days, Till all that year ran out.

With fine weather and foul weather Another year came in; "To take his wage," the workmen said, "We almost count a sin."

Now March was gone, came April in, And a sea fog settled down, And forth sailed he on a glassy sea, He sailed from Plymouth town.

With men and stores he put to sea, As he was wont to do: They showed in the fog like ghosts full faint,-- A ghostly craft and crew.

And the sea fog lay and waxed alway, For a long eight days and more; "God help our men," quoth the women then "For they bide long from shore."

They paced the Hoe in doubt and dread; "Where may our mariners be?" But the brooding fog lay soft as down Over the quiet sea.

A Scottish schooner made the port, The thirteenth day at e'en; "As I am a man," the captain cried, "A strange sight I have seen:

"And a strange sound heard, my masters all, At sea, in the fog and the rain, Like shipwrights' hammers tapping low, Then loud, then low again.

"And a stately house one instant showed, Through a rift on the vessel's lea; What manner of creatures may be those That build upon the sea."

Then sighed the folk, "The Lord be praised!" And they flocked to the shore amain: All over the Hoe that livelong night, Many stood out in the rain.

It ceased; and the red sun reared his head, And the rolling fog did flee; And, lo! in the offing faint and far Winstanley's house at sea!

In fair weather with mirth and cheer The stately tower uprose; In foul weather with hunger and cold They were content to close;

Till up the stair Winstanley went, To fire the wick afar; And Plymouth in the silent night Looked out and saw her star.

Winstanley set his foot ashore; Said he, "My work is done; I hold it strong to last as long As aught beneath the sun.

"But if it fail, as fail it may, Borne down with ruin and rout, Another than I shall rear it high, And brace the girders stout.

"A better than I shall rear it high, For now the way is plain; And though I were dead," Winstanley said, "The light would shine again.

"Yet were I fain still to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep;

"And if it stood, why then 'twere good, Amid their tremulous stirs, To count each stroke when the mad waves broke, For cheers of mariners.

"But if it fell, then this were well, That I should with it fall; Since, for my part, I have built my heart In the courses of its wall.

"Ay! I were fain, long to remain, Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep."

With that Winstanley went his way, And left the rock renowned, And summer and winter his pilot star Hung bright o'er Plymouth Sound.

But it fell out, fell out at last, That he would put to sea, To scan once more his lighthouse tower On the rock o' destiny.

And the winds broke, and the storm broke, And wrecks came plunging in; None in the town that night lay down Or sleep or rest to win.

The great mad waves were rolling graves, And each flung up its dead; The seething flow was white below, And black the sky o'erhead.

And when the dawn, the dull, gray dawn, Broke on the trembling town, And men looked south to the harbor mouth, The lighthouse tower was down.

Down in the deep, where he doth sleep Who made it shine afar, And then in the night that drowned its light, Set, with his pilot star.

Many fair tombs in the glorious glooms At Westminster they show; The brave and the great lie there in state; Winstanley lieth low.

JEAN INGELOW.

THE STORM.

The tempest rages wild and high, The waves lift up their voice and cry Fierce answers to the angry sky,-- _Miserere Domine._

Through the black night and driving rain, A ship is struggling, all in vain, To live upon the stormy main;-- _Miserere Domine._

The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, Vain is it now to strive or dare; A cry goes up of great despair,-- _Miserere Domine._

The stormy voices of the main, The moaning wind and pelting rain Beat on the nursery window pane:-- _Miserere Domine._

Warm curtained was the little bed, Soft pillowed was the little head; "The storm will wake the child," they said:-- _Miserere Domine._

Cowering among his pillows white He prays, his blue eyes dim with fright, "Father, save those at sea to-night!"-- _Miserere Domine._

The morning shone all clear and gay, On a ship at anchor in the bay, And on a little child at play,-- _Gloria tibi Domine!_

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

REST.

Rest is not quitting The busy career; Rest is the fitting Of self to one's sphere:

'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife; Fleeting to ocean, After its life:

'Tis loving and serving The highest and best; 'Tis onward, unswerving, And this is true rest.

GOETHE.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

Happy insect! what can be In happiness compared to thee? Fed with nourishment divine, The dewy morning's gentle wine! Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; 'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's self thy Ganymede. Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, Happier than the happiest king! All the fields which thou dost see, All the plants belong to thee, All that summer hours produce, Fertile made with early juice: Man for thee does sow and plow; Farmer he and landlord thou! Thou dost innocently joy, Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee, country minds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year: Thee Phoebus loves and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know: But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal, Epicurean animal,) Sated with the summer feast Thou retir'st to endless rest.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

THE CRICKET.

Little inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode, Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give.

Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest! While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Ev'ry dish, and spoil the best; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thine heart's desire.

Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpassest, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are; Theirs is but a summer's song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, Melody throughout the year.

Neither night, nor dawn of day, Puts a period to thy play: Sing then--and extend thy span Far beyond the date of man. Wretched man, whose years are spent In repining discontent, Lives not, aged though he be, Half a span, compared with thee.

WILLIAM COWPER.

A WREN'S NEST.

Among the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little wren's In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a labored roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and stormproof.

So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the kind by special grace Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are penthoused by a brae That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good, There is a better and a best; And, among fairest objects, some Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak, The leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge, Mistrusting her evasive skill, Had to a primrose looked for aid Her wishes to fulfill.

High on the trunk's projecting brow, And fixed an infant's span above The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest, The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain:

'Tis gone--a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth; And felt that all was well.

The primrose for a veil had spread The largest of her upright leaves; And thus, for purposes benign, A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent, Secure from evil eyes and hands On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, mother bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam, When withered is the guardian flower, And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Amid the unviolated grove, Housed near the growing primrose tuft In foresight, or in love.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

ON A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair, round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,-- She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize,-- What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between,-- Malignant Fate sat by and smiled,-- The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send: No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard,-- A favorite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts is lawful prize, Nor all that glitters gold!

THOMAS GRAY.

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travelers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands; A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard, In springtime from the cuckoo bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;-- I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

CORONACH.

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount reappearing From the raindrops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds, rushing, Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

LIFE'S "GOOD-MORNING."

Life! we have been long together, Through pleasant and through cloudy weather. 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear; Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not "Good-night," but in some brighter clime Bid me "Good-morning."

ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

MOONRISE.

The moon is up, and yet it is not night-- Sunset divides the sky with her--a sea Of glory streams along the Alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free From clouds, but of all colors seems to be-- Melted to one vast Iris of the West, Where the Day joins the past Eternity; While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air--an island of the blest.

A single star is at her side, and reigns With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny lea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill, As Day and Night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order:--gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instill The odorous purple of a new-born rose, Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

TO A WATERFOWL.

Whither, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

JERUSALEM, THE GOLDEN.

Jerusalem, the golden! With milk and honey blest; Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice opprest. I know not, O I know not What joys await us there; What radiancy of glory, What bliss beyond compare.

They stand, those halls of Zion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng. The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the blessèd Are decked in glorious sheen.

There is the throne of David; And there, from care released, The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast. And they, who with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, Forever and forever Are clad in robes of white.

ST. BERNARD (translated by John M. Neale).

O MOTHER DEAR, JERUSALEM.

O Mother dear, Jerusalem! When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end? Thy joys when shall I see?

O happy harbor of God's saints! O sweet and pleasant soil! In thee no sorrow can be found, Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.

No murky cloud o'ershadows thee, Nor gloom, nor darksome night; But every soul shines as the sun; For God Himself gives light.

O my sweet home, Jerusalem! Thy joys when shall I see? The King that sitteth on thy throne In His felicity?

Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green, Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen.

Right through thy streets, with pleasing sound The living waters flow, And on the banks, on either side, The trees of life do grow.

Those trees each month yield ripened fruit; For evermore they spring, And all the nations of the earth To thee their honors bring.

O Mother dear, Jerusalem! When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end? Thy joys when shall I see?

ANONYMOUS.

EVENING.

Abide with me from morn till eve, For without Thee I cannot live: Abide with me when night is nigh, For without Thee I dare not die.

Thou Framer of the light and dark, Steer through the tempest Thine own ark: Amid the howling wintry sea We are in port if we have Thee.

If some poor wandering child of Thine Have spurned, to-day, the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin; Let him no more lie down in sin.

Watch by the sick: enrich the poor With blessings from Thy boundless store: Be every mourner's sleep to-night Like infants' slumbers, pure and light.

Come near and bless us when we wake, Ere through the world our way we take; Till in the ocean of Thy love We lose ourselves in Heaven above.

JOHN KEBLE.

GOOD-NIGHT.

Close now thine eyes, and rest secure; Thy soul is safe enough; thy body sure; He that loves thee, He that keeps And guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps. The smiling Conscience in a sleeping breast Has only peace, has only rest: The music and the mirth of kings Are all but very discords, when she sings: Then close thine eyes and rest secure; No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.

FRANCIS QUARLES.

THE DEWDROP.

A dewdrop, falling on the ocean wave, Exclaimed, in fear, "I perish in this grave!" But, in a shell received, that drop of dew Unto a pearl of marvelous beauty grew; And, happy now, the grace did magnify Which thrust it forth--as it had feared--to die; Until again, "I perish quite!" it said Torn by rude diver from its ocean bed: O, unbelieving!--So it came to gleam Chief jewel in a monarch's diadem.

RICHARD C. TRENCH.

VIRTUE.

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright-- The bridal of the earth and sky; The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But though the whole world turns to coal, Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

THE HERITAGE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE FISHERMAN.

A perilous life, and sad as life may be, Hath the lone fisher, on the lonely sea, O'er the wild waters laboring far from home, For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam: Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life, And none to aid him in the stormy strife: Companion of the sea and silent air, The lonely fisher thus must ever fare: Without the comfort, hope,--with scarce a friend, He looks through life and only sees its end!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" "O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief--I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry: So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

"Oh haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When, Oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief, "Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--oh my daughter!"

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sall be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen"-- But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morningtide, The tapers glimmered fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bower and ha', The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate! said the heartbroken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend clearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy field,--sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,-- Erin mavournin--Erin go bragh!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

SONG.

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow; I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught! For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary: And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose To my young bride and me, Mary.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

_From "The Lady of The Lake."_

THE BANKS O' DOON.

(SECOND VERSION.)

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed--never to return!

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause lover stole my rose, But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS.

LADY CLARE.

It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air, Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn: Lovers long betrothed were they: They two will wed the morrow morn: God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, "Who was this that went from thee?" "It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me."

"O God be thanked!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare."

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God is above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child.

"The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth, as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead."

"Falsely, falsely have ye done, O mother," she said, "if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, "I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by."

"Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can." She said, "Not so: but I will know If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith?" said Alice the nurse, "The man will cleave unto his right." "And he shall have it," the lady replied, "Tho' I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." "O mother, mother, mother," she said, "So strange it seems to me.

"Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so, And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by town, With a single rose in her hair.

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And followed her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: "O Lady Clare, you shame your worth! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth?"

"If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and deed. Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."

O and proudly stood she up! Her heart within her did not fail: She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn: He turned and kissed her where she stood: "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the next in blood--

"If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare."

ALFRED TENNYSON.

BELSHAZZAR.

Belshazzar is king! Belshazzar is lord! And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board: Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood; Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth, And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth; And the crowds all shout, Till the vast roofs ring,-- "All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

"Bring forth," cries the Monarch, "the vessels of gold, Which my father tore down from the temples of old;-- Bring forth, and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone; Bring forth!" and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and drinks the dark wine; Whilst the trumpets bray, And the cymbals ring,-- "Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar the king!"

Now what cometh--look, look!--without menace, or call? Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall? What pierceth the king like the point of a dart? What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart? "Chaldeans! Magicians! the letters expound!" They are read--and Belshazzar is dead on the ground! Hark!--the Persian is come On a conqueror's wing; And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar the king.

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

THE PIPES AT LUCKNOW.

AN INCIDENT OF THE SEPOY MUTINY.

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of broom and heather, Nor the mountains dark with rain, Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, Have heard your sweetest strain!

Dear to the Lowland reaper, And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The Scottish pipes are dear;-- Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch O'er mountain, loch, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played.

Day by day the Indian tiger Louder yelled, and nearer crept; Round and round, the jungle serpent Near and nearer circles swept. "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- Pray to-day!" the soldier said, "To-morrow, death's between us And the wrong and shame we dread,"

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, Till their hope became despair; And the sobs of low bewailing Filled the pauses of their prayer. Then up spake a Scottish maiden, With her ear unto the ground: "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound!"

Hushed the wounded man his groaning; Hushed the wife her little ones; Alone they heard the drum-roll And the roar of Sepoy guns. But to sounds of home and childhood The Highland ear was true;-- As her mother's cradle crooning The mountain pipes she knew.

Like the march of soundless music Through the vision of the seer, More of feeling than of hearing, Of the heart than of the ear, She knew the droning pibroch, She knew the Campbell's call: "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, The grandest o' them all!"

Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless, And they caught the sound at last; Faint and far beyond the Goomtee Rose and fell the piper's blast! Then a burst of wild thanksgiving Mingled woman's voice and man's; "God be praised!--the march of Havelock! The piping of the clans!"

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, Stinging all the air to life. But when the far-off dust cloud To plaided legions grew, Full tenderly and blithesomely The pipes of rescue blew!

Round the silver domes of Lucknow, Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, Breathed the air to Britons dearest, The air of Auld Lang Syne. O'er the cruel roll of war drums Rose that sweet and homelike strain; And the tartan clove the turban, As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.

Dear to the corn-land reaper And plaided mountaineer,-- To the cottage and the castle The piper's song is dear. Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch O'er mountain, glen, and glade; But the sweetest of all music The pipes at Lucknow played!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

COMPANIONSHIP WITH NATURE.

Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home; Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, Were unto him companionship; they spake A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature's pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

THE GLADIATOR.

I see before me the Gladiator lie: He leans upon his hand--his manly brow Consents to death, but conquers agony, And his drooped head sinks gradually low-- And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, Like the first of a thunder shower; and now The arena swims around him--he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not--his eyes Were with his heart, and that was far away; He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother--he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday-- All this rushed with his blood--Shall he expire, And unavenged?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire.

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

_From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_

"HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX."

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate bolts undrew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Düffield, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church steeple we heard half the chime, So, Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' the mist at us galloping past, And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray:

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence,--ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughs a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome spire sprang white, And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight.

"How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

ROBERT BROWNING.

SANDALPHON.

Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air, Have you read it,--the marvelous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?

How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night?

The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express.

But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below;--

From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear.

And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend, I know,-- A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediæval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon, the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

HYMN.

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

It was the winter wild While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him Has doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize:

No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hookèd chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armèd throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began; The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed Whispering new joys to the mild ocean-- Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmèd wave.

The stars with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering And Heaven, as at some festival Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

But wisest Fate says no; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify; Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.

But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending; Heaven's youngest-teemèd star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

JOHN MILTON.

_A Selection._

THE NEW YEAR.

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 TENNYSON.

_RECOMMENDED POEMS._

As it has been impossible to include in this collection as many poems by American authors as we desired, we recommend the following, all of which are published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., with the exception of Bryant's poems, which are published by D. Appleton & Co.

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY. After the Rain. Barberries. Before the Rain. The Bluebells of New England.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. A Northern Legend. The Gladness of Nature.

CARY, ALICE. The Gray Swan.

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO. The Humblebee.

HARTE, BRET. The Reveillé.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. A Sunday Hymn. Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill. The Chambered Nautilus. The Height of the Ridiculous. The Music Grinders. The One Hoss Shay.

LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. A Psalm of Life. Burial of the Minnisink. Christmas Bells. Enceladus. Paul Revere's Ride. Santa Filomena. Snowflakes. Song of the Silent Land. The Bell of Atri. The Builders. The Day is Done. The Old Clock on the Stairs. The Open Window. The Ropewalk. The Two Angels. Victor Galbraith.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. Stanzas on Freedom. The Fatherland. The Shepherd of King Admetus.

WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. Abraham Davenport. Laus Deus. My Psalm. Nanhaught, the Deacon. The Corn Song.