PART TWO.

THE MAN THAT HATH NO MUSIC IN HIMSELF.

The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. _From "The Merchant of Venice."_

ADVERSITY.

Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. _From_ "_As You Like It._"

TO THE DAISY.

In youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy. But now my own delights I make,-- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of thee, sweet daisy!

Thee winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few gray hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs That she may sun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right: And autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted, Nor grieved if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling. Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention.

If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure.

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going.

Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;--thou not in vain Art Nature's favorite.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786.

A SELECTION.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, Wi' spreckled breast, When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Amid the storm, Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; But thou, beneath the random bield O' clod or stane, Adorns the histie stibble-field, Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies!

ROBERT BURNS.

COUNTY GUY.

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trilled all day, Sits hushed his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour-- But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings highborn Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know-- But where is County Guy?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

EVENING.

The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song; The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame on turret high, Who waits her gallant knight, Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade, Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart; And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The wood lark at his partner's side Twitters his closing song-- All meet whom day and care divide,-- But Leonard tarries long!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE BEGGAR MAID.

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Barefooted came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen:

One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.

HYMN TO DIANA.

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

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

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

BEN JONSON.

HELVELLYN.

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide, All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, was it meet, that,--no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-- Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall; Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long isle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, 'wildered, he drops from some rock huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam; And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be?-- By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown. The knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust;-- His soul is with the saints, I trust.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

A PETITION TO TIME.

Touch us gently, Time! Let us glide adown thy stream Gently,--as we sometimes glide Through a quiet dream! Humble voyagers are we, Husband, wife, and children three,-- (One is lost,--an angel, fled To the azure overhead!)

Touch us gently, Time! We've not proud nor soaring wings, Our ambition, our content, Lies in simple things. Humble voyagers are we, O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea, Seeking only some calm clime;-- Touch us gently, gentle Time!

BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).

GLENARA.

O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence,--they looked on the ground.

In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak tree grew lonely and hoar: "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn: Why speak ye no word?"--said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain:--no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud: "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne-- Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies wrought! Seven sisters that together dwell; But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly, to left, to right-- Of your fair household, father knight, Methinks you take small heed! Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly; And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow. Cried they, "Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There foot had never been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE BIRKENHEAD.

Amid the loud ebriety of War, With shouts of "la République" and "la Gloire," The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag And broadside blazing level with the wave Went down erect, defiant, to their grave Beneath the sea.--Twas but a Frenchman's brag, Yet Europe rang with it for many a year. Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear! And when they tell thee "England is a fen Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay, Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey For the first comer," tell how the other day A crew of half a thousand Englishmen Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay! Not with the cheer of battle in the throat, Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood, But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood, Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command. Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath, But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes! Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeled To face the King of Terrors mid the scaith Of many a hurricane and trenchèd field? Far other: weavers from the stocking frame; Boys from the plow; cornets with beardless chin, But steeped in honor and in discipline!

Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name, Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame, Disaster, and thy Captains held at bay By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay!

SIR HENRY YULE.

BEFORE SEDAN.

Here in this leafy place Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,-- Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves; So this man's eyes are dim;-- Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched There at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died;-- Message or wish, may be;-- Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled!-- Only the tremulous Words of a child;-- Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His--her dead father's--kiss, Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet; That is all. "Marguerite."

Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! If the grief died;--but no;-- Death will not have it so.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.

Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me: The smiles, the tears Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

When I remember all The friends so linked together I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

THOMAS MOORE.

AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to min'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes, And pu't the gowans fine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, Frae mornin' sun till dine: But seas between us braid hae roared, Sin' auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne!

ROBERT BURNS.

JOHN ANDERSON.

John Andersson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' are anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go; And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

ROBERT BURNS.

WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH THE SHIP WOULD GO?

Where lies the land to which the ship would go; Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below The foaming wake far widening as we go.

On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave, How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! The dripping sailor on the reeling mast Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. And where the land she travels from? Away, Far, far behind, is all that they can say.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

THE POET AND THE BIRD.

Said a people to a poet--"Go out from among us straightway! While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine. There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway, Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!"

The poet went out weeping--the nightingale ceased chanting, "Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?"-- --"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting, Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under the sun."

The poet went out weeping,--and died abroad, bereft there. The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails. And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left there Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THE NECKAN.

In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings his plaintive song.

Green rolls beneath the headlands, Green rolls the Baltic Sea; And there, below the Neckan's feet, His wife and children be.

He sings not of the ocean, Its shells and roses pale; Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings, He hath no other tale.

He sits upon the headlands, And sings a mournful stave Of all he saw and felt on earth, Far from the kind sea wave.

Sings how, a knight, he wandered By castle, field, and town-- But earthly knights have harder hearts Than the sea children own.

Sings of his earthly bridal-- Priests, knights, and ladies gay. "--And who art thou," the priest began, "Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?"--

"--I am no knight," he answered; "From the sea waves I come."-- The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed, The surpliced priest stood dumb.

He sings how from the chapel He vanished with his bride, And bore her down to the sea halls, Beneath the salt sea tide.

He sings how she sits weeping 'Mid shells that round her lie. "--False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps; "No Christian mate have I."--

He sings how through the billows He rose to earth again, And sought a priest to sign the cross, That Neckan Heaven might gain.

He sings how, on an evening, Beneath the birch trees cool, He sate and played his harp of gold, Beside the river pool.

Beside the pool sate Neckan-- Tears filled his mild blue eye. On his white mule, across the bridge, A cassocked priest rode by.

"--Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan, And play'st thy harp of gold? Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves, Than thou shalt Heaven behold."--

But, lo, the staff, it budded! It greened, it branched, it waved. "--O ruth of God," the priest cried out, "This lost sea creature saved!"

The cassocked priest rode onwards, And vanished with his mule; But Neckan in the twilight gray Wept by the river pool.

He wept: "The earth hath kindness, The sea, the starry poles; Earth, sea, and sky, and God above-- But, ah, not human souls!"

In summer, on the headlands, The Baltic Sea along, Sits Neckan with his harp of gold, And sings this plaintive song.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT.

The stream was smooth as glass; we said, "Arise and let's away:" The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay; And spread the sail, and strong the oar; we gayly took our way. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?

The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted plains, The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy rains; The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?

Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly large, Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their marge. The waves are bright with mirrored light as jacinths on our way. When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find the bay?

The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see The spreading river's either bank, and surging distantly There booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away. Now shall the sandy bar be crossed, now shall we find the bay!

The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering through the night. We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her lay, When once the sandy bar is crossed, and we are in the bay.

What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost? What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the coast? Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar away. O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the bay?

RICHARD GARNETT.

ON THE SEA.

It keeps eternal whisperings around Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Often 'tis in such gentle temper found, That scarcely will the very smallest shell Be moved for days from where it sometime fell, When last the winds of heaven were unbound. O ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the sea; O ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude, Or fed too much with cloying melody,-- Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!

JOHN KEATS.

THE WHITE SHIP.

HENRY I. OF ENGLAND.--25th NOVEMBER, 1120.

By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._)

'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._)

King Henry held it as life's whole gain That after his death his son should reign.

'Twas so in my youth I heard men say, And my old age calls it back to-day.

King Henry of England's realm was he, And Henry Duke of Normandy.

The times had changed when on either coast "Clerkly Harry" was all his boast.

Of ruthless strokes full many a one He had struck to crown himself and his son; And his elder brother's eyes were gone.

And when to the chase his court would crowd, The poor flung plowshares on his road, And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!"

But all the chiefs of the English land Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand.

And next with his son he sailed to France To claim the Norman allegiance:

And every baron in Normandy Had taken the oath of fealty.

'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come When the King and the Prince might journey home:

For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear, And Christmas now was drawing near.

Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,-- A pilot famous in seafaring;

And he held to the King, in all men's sight, A mark of gold for his tribute's right.

"Liege Lord! my father guided the ship From whose boat your father's foot did slip When he caught the English soil in his grip,

"And cried: 'By this clasp I claim command O'er every rood of English land!'

"He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now In that ship with the archer carved at her prow:

"And thither I'll bear, an' it be my due, Your father's son and his grandson too.

"The famed White Ship is mine in the bay; From Harfleur's harbor she sails to-day,

"With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears And with fifty well-tried mariners."

Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one, But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son.

"My son and daughter and fellowship Shall cross the water in the White Ship."

The King set sail with the eve's south wind, And soon he left that coast behind.

The Prince and all his, a princely show, Remained in the good White Ship to go.

With noble knights and with ladies fair, With courtiers and sailors gathered there, Three hundred living souls we were:

And I Berold was the meanest hind In all that train to the Prince assigned.

The Prince was a lawless, shameless youth; From his father's loins he sprang without ruth:

Eighteen years till then he had seen, And the devil's dues in him were eighteen.

And now he cried: "Bring wine from below; Let the sailors revel ere yet they row:

"Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight Though we sail from the harbor at midnight."

The rowers made good cheer without check; The lords and ladies obeyed his beck; The night was light, and they danced on the deck.

But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay, And the White Ship furrowed the water way.

The sails were set, and the oars kept tune To the double flight of the ship and the moon:

Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead:

As white as a lily glimmered she Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea.

And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing! Is a song bird's course so swift on the wing?"

And under the winter stars' still throng, From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong, The knights and the ladies raised a song.

A song,--nay, a shriek that rent the sky, That leaped o'er the deep!--the grievous cry Of three hundred living that now must die.

An instant shriek that sprang to the shock As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock.

'Tis said that afar--a shrill strange sigh-- The King's ships heard it and knew not why.

Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm 'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm.

A great King's heir for the waves to whelm, And the helpless pilot pale at the helm!

The ship was eager and sucked athirst, By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced:

And like the moil round a sinking cup, The waters against her crowded up.

A moment the pilot's senses spin,-- The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din, Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in.

A few friends leaped with him, standing near. "Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!"

"What! none to be saved but these and I?" "Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!"

Out of the churn of the choking ship, Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip, They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip.

'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim The Prince's sister screamed to him.

He gazed aloft, still rowing apace, And through the whirled surf he knew her face.

To the toppling decks clave one and all As a fly cleaves to a chamber wall.

I, Berold, was clinging anear; I prayed for myself and quaked with fear, But I saw his eyes as he looked at her.

He knew her face and he heard her cry, And he said, "Put back! she must not die!"

And back with the current's force they reel Like a leaf that's drawn to a water wheel.

'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float, But; he rose and stood in the rocking boat.

Low the poor ship leaned on the tide: O'er the naked keel as she best might slide, The sister toiled to the brother's side.

He reached an oar to her from below, And stiffened his arms to clutch her so.

But now from the ship some spied the boat, And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat.

And down to the boat they leaped and fell: It turned as a bucket turns in a well, And nothing was there but the surge and swell.

The Prince that was and the King to come, There in an instant gone to his doom, Despite of all England's bended knee And maugre the Norman fealty!

He was a Prince of lust and pride; He showed no grace till the hour he died.

When he should be King, he oft would vow, He'd yoke the peasant to his own plow. O'er him the ships score their furrows now.

God only knows where his soul did wake, But I saw him die for his sister's sake.

By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._)

'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._)

And now the end came o'er the water's womb Like the last great day that's yet to come.

With prayers in vain and curses in vain, The White Ship sundered on the midmain:

And what were men and what was a ship, Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.

I, Berold, was down in the sea; And passing strange though the thing may be, Of dreams then known I remember me.

Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand When morning lights the sails to land:

And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam When mothers call the children home:

And high do the bells of Rouen beat When the Body of Christ goes down the street.

These things and the like were heard and shown In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;

And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem, And not these things, to be all in a dream.

The ship was gone and the crowd was gone, And the deep shuddered and the moon shone:

And in a straight grasp my arms did span The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran; And on it with me was another man.

Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea sky, We told our names, that man and I.

"O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight, And son I am to a belted knight."

"And I am Berold the butcher's son Who slays the beasts in Rouen town."

Then cried we upon God's name, as we Did drift on the bitter winter sea.

But lo! a third man o'er the wave, And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!"

He clutched to the yard with panting stare, And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there.

He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he. "Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!" And loosed his hold and sank through the sea.

And soul with soul again in that space We two were together face to face:

And each knew each, as the moments sped, Less for one living than for one dead:

And every still star overhead Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead.

And the hours passed; till the noble's son Sighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone!

"O farewell, friend, for I can no more!" "Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er.

Three hundred souls were all lost but one, And I drifted over the sea alone.

At last the morning rose on the sea Like an angel's wing that beat towards me.

Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat; Half dead I hung, and might nothing note, Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher boat.

The sun was high o'er the eastern brim As I praised God and gave thanks to Him.

That day I told my tale to a priest, Who charged me, till the shrift was released, That I should keep it in mine own breast.

And with the priest I thence did fare To King Henry's court at Winchester.

We spoke with the King's high chamberlain, And he wept and mourned again and again, As if his own son had been slain:

And round us ever there crowded fast Great men with faces all aghast:

And who so bold that might tell the thing Which now they knew to their lord the King? Much woe I learnt in their communing.

The King had watched with a heart sore stirred For two whole days, and this was the third:

And still to all his court would he say, "What keeps my son so long away?"

And they said: "The ports lie far and wide That skirt the swell of the English tide;

"And England's cliffs are not more white Than her women are, and scarce so light Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright;

"And in some port that he reached from France The Prince has lingered for his pleasance."

But once the King asked: "What distant cry Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?"

And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie! Do the fishers fling their nets at sea."

And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest When the seamew misses its young from the nest?"

'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread, Albeit they knew not what they said:

But who should speak to-day of the thing That all knew there except the King?

Then pondering much they found a way, And met round the King's high seat that day:

And the King sat with a heart sore stirred, And seldom he spoke and seldom heard.

'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware Of a little boy with golden hair,

As bright as the golden poppy is That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss:

Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in spring, And his garb black like the raven's wing.

Nothing was heard but his foot through the hall, For now the lords were silent all.

And the King wondered, and said, "Alack! Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black?

"Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall As though my court were a funeral?"

Then lowly knelt the child at the dais, And looked up weeping in the King's face.

"O wherefore black, O King, ye may say, For white is the hue of death to-day.

"Your son and all his fellowship Lie low in the sea with the White Ship."

King Henry fell as a man struck dead; And speechless still he stared from his bed When to him next day my rede I read.

There's many an hour must needs beguile A King's high heart that he should smile,--

Full many a lordly hour, full fain Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:-- But this King never smiled again.

By none but me can the tale be told, The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold. (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._)

'Twas a royal train put forth to sea, Yet the tale can be told by none but me. (_The sea hath no King but God alone._)

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.

SAFE HOME.

Safe home, safe home in port! Rent cordage, shattered deck, Tom sails, provisions short, And only not a wreck: But, oh, the joy upon the shore, To tell our voyage,--perils o'er!

The prize, the prize secure! The athlete nearly fell; Bare all he _could_ endure, And bare not always well: But he may smile at troubles gone, Who sets the victor-garland on!

No more the foe can harm; No more of leaguered camp, And cry of night alarm, And need of ready lamp: And yet how nearly he had failed,-- How nearly had that foe prevailed!

The exile is at home! O nights and days of tears, O longings not to roam, O sins, and doubts, and fears: What matter now this bitter fray? The King has wiped those tears away.

ST. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM, A.D. 870 (translated by J. M. Neale).

THE LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS.

GOD moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs, And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning Providence He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast, Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste, But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err And scan His work in vain; God is His own interpreter, And He will make it plain.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD.

LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home-- Lead Thou me on! Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene,--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Shouldst lead me on. I loved to choose and see my path; but now Lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still Will lead me on, O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone; And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

IVRY.

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the league drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rose the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest, He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!" "And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day, And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.

Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear-men's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST.

O God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come, Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home:

Under the shadow of Thy throne Thy saints have dwelt secure; Sufficient is Thine arm alone, And our defense is sure.

Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame, From everlasting Thou art God, To endless years the same.

A thousand ages in Thy sight Are like an evening gone; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun.

Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away; They fly forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day.

O God, our help in ages past; Our hope for years to come; Be Thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home!

ISAAC WATTS.

HERVÉ RIEL.

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, With the English fleet in view.

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; Close on him fled, great and small, Twenty-two good ships in all; And they signaled to the place, "Help the winners of a race! Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker still, Here's the English can and will!"

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns Think to make the river mouth by the single narrow way, Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, And with flow at full beside? Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. Reach the mooring? Rather say, While rock stands or water runs, Not a ship will leave the bay!"

Then was called a council straight. Brief and bitter the debate: "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, For a prize to Plymouth Sound? Better run the ships aground!" (Ended Damfreville his speech.) Not a minute more to wait! "Let the Captains all and each Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! France must undergo her fate.

Give the word!" But no such word Was ever spoke or heard; For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? No such man of mark, and meet With his betters to compete! But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.

And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel: "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues? Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? Morn and eve, night and day, Have I piloted your bay, Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.

"Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty Hogues! Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! Only let me lead the line, Have the biggest ship to steer, Get this _Formidable_ clear, Make the others follow mine, And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, Right to Solidor past Grève, And there lay them safe and sound; And if one ship misbehave, --Keel so much as grate the ground, Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Hervé Riel.

Not a minute more to wait. "Steer us in, then, small and great! Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its chief. "Captains, give the sailor place! He is Admiral, in brief." Still the north wind, by God's grace! See the noble fellow's face, As the big ship with a bound, Clears the entry like a hound, Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! See, safe thro' shoal and rock, How they follow in a flock, Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, Not a spar that comes to grief! The peril, see, is past, All are harbored to the last, And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate Up the English come, too late!

So, the storm subsides to calm: They see the green trees wave On the heights o'erlooking Grève. Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. "Just our rapture to enhance, Let the English rake the bay, Gnash their teeth and glare askance, As they cannonade away! 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! Out burst all with one accord, "This is Paradise for Hell! Let France, let France's King Thank the man that did the thing!" What a shout, and all one word, "Hervé Riel!" As he stepped in front once more, Not a symptom of surprise In the frank blue Breton eyes, Just the same man as before.

Then said Damfreville, "My friend, I must speak out at the end, Though I find the speaking hard. Praise is deeper than the lips: You have saved the King his ships, You must name your own reward. 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! Demand whate'er you will, France remains your debtor still. Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."

Then a beam of fun outbroke On the bearded mouth that spoke, As the honest heart laughed through Those frank eyes of Breton blue: "Since I needs must say my say, Since on board the duty's done, And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- Since the others go ashore-- Come! A good whole holiday! Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.

Name and deed alike are lost: Not a pillar nor a post In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; Not a head in white and black On a single fishing smack, In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack All that France saved from the fight whence England bore the bell. Go to Paris: rank on rank Search the heroes flung pell-mell On the Louvre, face and flank! You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel. So, for better and for worse, Hervé Riel, accept my verse! In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore!

ROBERT BROWNING.

RUGBY CHAPEL.

But thou wouldst not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages....

* * * * *

Servants of God!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of His little ones lost-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died!

* * * * *

Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardor divine. Beacons of hope, ye appear! Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow. Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away. Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, reinspire the brave. Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go. Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of God.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide The din of battle and of slaughter rose; He saw God stand upon the weaker side, That sank in seeming loss before its foes; Many there were who made great haste and sold Unto the cunning enemy their swords, He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, And, underneath their soft and flowery words, Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went And humbly joined him to the weaker part, Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content So he could be the nearer to God's heart, And feel its solemn pulses sending blood Through all the widespread veins of endless good.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE PATRIOT.

AN OLD STORY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

ROBERT BROWNING.

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."

Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep: The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though with a pierced and bleeding heart And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God hath marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE DEATHBED.

We watched her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had Another morn than ours.

THOMAS HOOD.

THE SLEEP.

"He giveth his beloved sleep."--PSALM cxxvii. 2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward unto souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this-- "He giveth His beloved, sleep"?

What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart, to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown, to light the brows?-- He giveth His beloved, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. He giveth His beloved, sleep.

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, But have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises! O men, with wailing in your voices! O delvèd gold, the wailers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved, sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill; His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap. More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth His beloved, sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word I think their happy smile is _heard_-- "He giveth His beloved, sleep."

For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would childlike on His love repose, Who giveth His beloved, sleep.

And, friends, dear friends,--when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let one, most loving of you all, Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall; 'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'"

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

SLEEP.

How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee And hushed with buzzing night flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfumed chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lulled with sound of sweetest melody? O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch A watch case or a common 'larum bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude, And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. _From "King Henry IV."_

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather proof; Under the spars of which I lie Both soft, and dry; Where Thou my chamber for to ward Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me, while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by the poor, Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat: Like as my parlor, so my hall And kitchen's small: A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipt, unflead: Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire, Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it. Lord, I confess too, when I dine The pulse is Thine, And all those other bits, that be There placed by Thee; The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water cress, Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth; And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land; And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one: Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day: Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year: The while the conduits of my kine Run cream (for wine.) All these, and better, Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart; Which, fired with incense, I resign, As wholly Thine; But the acceptance,--that must be, My Christ, by Thee.

ROBERT HERRICK.

HYMN OF TRUST.

O Love Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earthborn care, We smile at pain while Thou art near!

Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread, Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!

When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!

On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

DORA.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son, And she his niece. He often looked at them, And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife." Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearned towards William; but the youth, because He had been always with her in the house, Thought not of Dora. Then there came a day When Allan called his son, and said, "My son, I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I die; And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora: she is well To look to; thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother's daughter; he and I Had once hard words, and parted, and he died In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred His daughter Dora: take her for your wife; For I have wished this marriage, night and day, For many years." But William answered short: "I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora." Then the old man Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus! But in my time a father's word was law, And so it shall be now for me. Look to it; Consider, William: take a month to think, And let me have an answer to my wish; Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, And never more darken my doors again." But William answered madly; bit his lips, And broke away. The more he looked at her The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison. Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, "It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy To William; then distresses came on him; And day by day he passed his father's gate, Heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: "I have obeyed my uncle until now, And I have sinned, for it was all thro' me This evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone, And for your sake, the woman that he chose, And for this orphan, I am come to you; You know there has not been for these five years So full a harvest; let me take the boy, And I will set him in my uncle's eye Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad Of the full harvest, he may see the boy, And bless him for the sake of him that's gone." And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. But when the morrow came, she rose and took The child once more, and sat upon the mound; And made a little wreath of all the flowers That grew about, and tied it round his hat To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye. Then, when the farmer passed into the field, He spied her, and he left his men at work, And came and said: "Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?" So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, And answered softly, "This is William's child!" "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again: "Do with me as you will, but take the child And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!" And Allan said, "I see it is a trick Got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy; But go you hence, and never see me more." So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bowed down her head, Remembering the day when first she came, And all the things that had been. She bowed down And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped, And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise To God, that helped her in her widowhood. And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more." Then answered Mary, "This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself; And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back. But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us." So the women kissed Each other, and set out, and reached the farm. The door was off the latch; they peeped, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees, Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm, And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in; but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her; And Allan set him down, and Mary said: "O Father!--if you let me call you so-- I never came a begging for myself, Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora; take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I asked him, and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me-- I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus; 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turned His face and passed--unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before." So Mary said, and Dora hid her face By Mary. There was silence in the room; And all at once the old man burst in sobs:-- "I have been to blame--to blame. I have killed my son. I have killed him--but I loved him--my dear son. May God forgive me!--I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children." Then they clung about The old man's neck, and kissed him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse; And all his love came back a hundredfold; And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child, Thinking of William. So those four abode Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die, Their place ye may not well supply, Though ye among a thousand try, With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be led To think upon the wormy bed And her together.

A springy motion in her gait, A rising step, did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate, That flushed her spirit.

I know not by what name beside I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied, She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool, But she was trained in Nature's school, Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor! gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet, as heretofore, Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away, A sweet forewarning?

CHARLES LAMB.

BONNIE LESLEY.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley As she ga'ed o'er the border? She's gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And ne'er made sic anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects we, before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o' men adore thee.

The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He'd look into thy bonnie face, And say, "I canna wrang thee."

The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha' na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie; That we may brag, we hae a lass There's nane again sae bonnie.

ROBERT BURNS.

ANNIE LAURIE.

Maxwelton braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true,-- Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee.

Her brow is like the snawdrift, Her throat is like the swan, Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on,-- That e'er the sun shone on; And dark blue is her e'e; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee.

Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; Like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet,-- Her voice is low and sweet; And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'd lay me doune and dee.

WILLIAM DOUGLAS.

A SONG OF THE CAMP.

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

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

There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow."

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

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

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

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

Beyond the darkening ocean burned The bloody sunset's embers, While the Crimean valleys learned How English love remembers.

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

And Irish Nora's eyes are dim For a singer dumb and gory; And English Mary mourns for him Who sang of "Annie Laurie."

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest Your truth and valor wearing; The bravest are the tenderest,-- The loving are the daring.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

EACH AND ALL.

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Of thee from the hilltop looking down; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse, and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough; I brought him home, in his nest, at even; He sings the song, but it cheers not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky; He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye. The delicate shells lay on the shore; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave, And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid, As 'mid the virgin train she strayed, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;-- The gay enchantment was undone, A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat; I leave it behind with the games of youth:"-- As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club moss burs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole; I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE RHODORA.

ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being. Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE LAND OF SONG: Book III.

_PART III._