Skip to main content

Full text of "Famous single and fugitive poems"

See other formats


mm 


II 


■  ■ 


IS 


'M 


mmm 


i^?&- 


i 


■  i 


•     -'-;>t.  .v.'.1   ■ 


Pass   fR\4Ag 


fopyiightN^ilr1® 


COPYRIGHT  DEPOSIT 


FAMOUS    SINGLE    AND 
FUGITIVE   POEMS 


COLLECTED   AND  EDITED 


BY 


ROSSITER   JOHNSON 


Does  he  paint  ?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem  ; 
Does  he  write  ?  he  lain  would  paint  a  picture,— 
Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's. 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  One  only. 

Robert  Bkowmng, 


REVISED  AND  ENLARGED 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  &  COMPANY 


LIBRARY  of  CUNGRESSj 
Two  Copies  Received 

NOV  21   1908 

Copyrignt  Entr; 


itSSW  * 


MA 


J 


Copyright,  1880,  1890 

BY 

HENRY    HOLT   &   CO. 


Copyright,  1908 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


PREFACE. 


There  are  wide  differences  in  the  fame  of  the  poems 
here  collected,  as  well  as  in  their  merits.  Some  are 
familiar  to  everybody  that  reads  poetry  at  all;  others  find 
reputation  and  perpetuity  only  with  particular  classes. 
Some  are  admired  only  by  those  who  know  nothing  of 
real  poetry;  others  almost  require  poets  for  appreciative 
readers.  A  few,  like  those  of  Bishop  Berkeley  and  Michael 
Barry,  have  been  saved  from  oblivion  by  a  single  happy 
line  or  quatrain ;  while  the  richness  and  perfection  of 
many  leave  us  in  wonder  that  their  authors  produced  no 
more.  If  critical  judgment  in  such  matters  is  worth  any- 
thing when  opposed  to  a  popular  verdict,  some  of  these 
authors  have  written,  for  no  reward  at  all,  better  poems 
than  those  that  have  given  them  fame.  However  that 
may  be,  this  volume  is  intended  to  represent  popular 
rather  than  critical  taste,  and  to  include  all  the  poems  in 
the  language  that  fairly  come  under  its  title,— excepting 
only  those  numerous  anonymous  ballads,  belonging  to 
the  early  centuries  of  our  literature,  which  are  preserved 
in  Percy's  and  other  similar  collections. 

It  is  not  expected  that  any  one  reader  will  prize  all  the 
pieces  here  brought  together  ;  if  each  finds  what  he  looks 
for,  no  one  need  be  offended  because  the  book  also  in- 
cludes some  that  he  could  have  spared.    Collecting  poetry 

iii 


IV  PREFACE. 

is  like  poking  the  fire  ;  nobody  can  sit  by  and  see  it  done, 
without  thinking  that  he  himself  could  do  it  a  little  bet- 
ter,— as  in  truth  he  could,  if  it  were  for  him  alone.  In 
all  such  work  it  is  necessary  to  make  a  personal  equation 
— a  small  allowance  for  quickness  or  slowness  of  appre- 
hension in  the  individual.  Taking  this  into  account,  1 
hope  the  volume  will  be  found  to  exhibit  a  generous  ap- 
preciation of  widely  varied  expressions  of  the  poetic  art, 

In  a  few  instances  the  plan  of  the  collection  has  been 
literally,  but  I  think  not  essentially,  transcended.  Charles 
Wolfe  wrote  two  other  poems  equally  famous  if  not 
equally  popular  with  "The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore," 
and  Francis  M.  Finch's  "  Nathan  Hale "  had  an  estab- 
lished place  before  he  wrote  "The  Blue  and  the  Gray." 
The  best  solution  for  this  apparent  difficulty  seemed  to  be 
to  include  them  all. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  living  writers  represented,  for 
permission  to  use  their  poems.  The  utmost  pains  have 
been  taken  to  make  the  text  absolutely  correct,  and  in 
many  instances  the  author's  owm  manuscript  has  been 
used.  Where  the  poems  have  any  special  history,  it  will 
be  found  in  the  notes  at  the  end  of  the  book.  R.  J. 

New  York.  September  1.  1890. 


CONTENTS. 


Afar  in  the  Desert    . 
Angler's  WrsH,  The 
Ann  Hathaway, 
Annuity,  The 
Antony  and  Cleopatra, 
Auld  Robin  Gray,   . 

Balaklava,    . 
Ballad  of  Agixcourt,  The 
Beacon,  The 
Beggar,  The    . 
Bells  of  Shandon,  The 
Bivouac  of  the  Dead,  The 
Blue  and  the  Gray,  The 
Bonnie  George  Campbell, 
Braes  of  Yarrow,  The 
Bride,  The 
Bucket,  The     . 
Burial  of  Beranger,  . 
Burial  of  Moses, 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore. 
Burns,  Ode  on  the  Cente- 
nary of  . 

Carcassonne,    . 
Carmen  Bellicosum,     . 
Chameleon,  The 
Children,  The 
Christmas  Hymn,  A 
Churchyard,   Lines  writ- 
ten in  A 
Civil  War,    . 


PAGE 

Thomas  Pringle    . 

119 

Izaak  Walton    . 

23 

William  Shakespeare  ?  . 

282 

George  Outram 

142 

William  H.  Lytle 

217 

Lady  Anne  Barnard 

88 

Alexander  B.  Meek 

186 

Michael  Drayton 

10 

Paul  Moon  James 

122 

Thomas  Moss 

96 

Francis  Mahony    . 

149 

TJieodore  O'Hara 

197 

Francis  M.  Finch 

291 

Anonymous 

36 

William  Hamilton 

52 

Sir  John  Suckling 

24 

Samuel  Woodicorth 

115 

Alfred  Watts     . 

309 

Cecil  Frances  Alexander 

249 

Charles  Wolfe     . 

276 

Isa  Craig  Kno.r 

229 

Gustave  Nadaud 

313 

Guy  H.  McMaster 

220 

James  Merrick  . 

65 

Charles  M.  Dickinson    . 

274 

Alfred  Domett    . 

180 

Herbert  Knowles   . 

130 

Charles  D.  Shanly  f  . 

262 

vi                                  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Closing  Year,  The 

George  D.  Prentice 

135 

Cloud,  The   . 

John  Wilson 

114 

CONNEL  AND  FLORA, 

Alexander  Wilson 

95 

Contented  Mind,  A 

Joshua  Sylvester 

15 

Countersign,  The   . 

Anonymous  . 

264 

Crossing    the    Rappahan- 

nock, .... 

Anonymous 

314 

Cuckoo,  To  the    . 

John  Logan  . 

87 

Cuddle  Doon,  . 

Alexander  Anderson 

331 

Cumnor  Hall, 

William  J.  Mickle 

72 

Curfew  Must  not  Ring  To- 

night, 

Rosa  Hartwick  Tltorpe 

253 

Death- Bed,  A 

James  Aldrich 

179 

Death  of  King  Bomba,  The 

Anonymous 

293 

Death  of  Napoleon,  The 

Isaac  McLellan     . 

151 

Death's  Final  Conquest, 

James  Shirley    . 

24 

Doneraile,  A  Litany  for 

Patrick  O'Kelly    . 

106 

Doris,     .... 

Arthur  Muriby  . 

221 

Driving  Home  the  Cows. 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood    . 

267 

Easter, 

Seicall  S.  Cutting 

328 

Exequy,     .... 

Henry  King 

19 

Exile  to  his  Wife,  The 

Joseph  Brenan   . 

223 

First  Miracle,  The 

Richard  Crashaw  . 

279 

Florence  Vane,   . 

Philip  P.  Cooke. 

190 

Forging   of   the   Anchor, 

The 

Samuel  Ferguson 

146 

Gaffer  Gray,  . 

Thomas  Holcroft   . 

85 

Geehale, 

Henry  R.  Schoolcraft 

127 

Gluggity  Glug, 

George  Colman 

158 

Golden  Wedding,  The 

David  Gray 

294 

Good  Ale, 

John  Still 

18 

Grave  of  Bonaparte,  The 

H.  S.  Washburn  ? 

152 

Grongar  Hill, 

John  Dyer     . 

46 

Groves  of  Blarney,  The 

Richard  A.  Millikin  . 

92 

Happy  Land,  The    . 

Andrew  Young     . 

157 

Health,  A 

Edward  C.  Pinkney  . 

138 

CONTENTS. 


vn 


Helen  of  Kirkconnel,   . 
Here  She  Goes— and  There 

She  Goes,    . 
Hermit,  The 
Heroes, 

Hospital,  In  the      . 
Hundred  Years  to  Come,  A 
Hylas,        .        •        • 

If  I  should  die  To-Night, 
Indian  Gold  Coin,  To  an 
Irish  Emigrant,  Lament  of 

the 
Ivy  Green,  The 
I  Would  not  Live  Alway, 

Javanese  Poem,  A   . 
Jolly  Old  Pedagogue,  The 

Last  Redoubt,  The 
Life,       .... 

Light 

Light, 

Lincoln,  Abraham  . 

Little  Goose,  A 

Love  me  Little,  Love  me 

Long, 
Lucy's  Flittin'. 
Lye,  The 

Man's  Mortality, 
Mariner's  Dream,  The 
Marys  Dream, 
Memory  of  the  Dead,  The 
Milton's    Prayer    of    Pa 

tience, 
Mistress  of  the  House,  The 
Mitherless  Bairn,  The 
Modest  Wit,  A 
Moonlight, 


PAGE 

John  Mayne  ...  93 

James  Nack       .         .  158 

Thomas  Parnell     .         .  37 

Edna  Dean  Proctor  317 

Mary  W.  Howland       .  299 

William  G.  Brown    .  203 

Anonymous        .        .  284 

Belle  E.  Smith      .        .  329 

John  Leyden      .        .  100 

Lady  Dufferin       .        .155 

Charles  Dickens         .  181 

William  A.  Muhlenberg  128 

Eduard  Douwes  Dekker  279 

George  Arnold       .         .  226 

Alfred  Austin    .        .  336 

Anna  L.  Barbauld        .  83 

Francis  W.  Bourdillon  333 

William  Pitt  Palmer     .  177 

Tom  Taylor       ■        .  193 

Eliza  Sproat  Turner     .  270 

Anonymous        .        .  16 

William  Laidlaw           .  105 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh    .  2 

Simon  Wastel        .        .  6 

William  Dimond       .  131 

John  Lowe     ...  89 

John  Kells  Ingram    .  195 

Elizabeth  Lloyd  Howell  .  252 

Leslie  Walter   .         .  297 
William  Thorn       .         .117 

Selleck  Osborn            .  Ill 

Robert  Kelley  Weeks      .  318 


Vlll 


CONTENTS. 


Mortality, 
My  Ain  Cotjntree, 
My  Dear  and  Only  Love 
My  Maryland, 
My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom 
is,     . 

Nathan  Hale, 
Nautilus  and  the  Ammo- 
nite, The    . 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee, 
Night,        .... 
Nothing  to  Wear, 

Ocean,  The 

Old  Canoe,  The    . 

Old  Grimes, 

Old  Sergeant,  The 

Old  Sexton,  The 

0  may  I  join  the  Choir, 

Only  a  Bary  Small, 

Only  Waiting, 

Orphan  Boy,  The     . 

Over  the  River, 

Parting  with  his  Books, 
On    . 

Passage,  The    . 

Pauper's  Drive,  The    . 

Petrified  Fern,  The 

Philosopher's  Scales,  The 

Picket  Guard,  The 

Place  where  Man  should 
Die,  The     . 

Polish  Boy,  The  . 

Popping  Corn, 

Private  of  the  Buffs,  The 

Prospect  of  Planting  Arts 
and  Learning  in  Amer- 
ica, On  the 


PAGE 

William  Knox   .         .  122 

Mary  Lee  Demarest       .  301 

Marquis  of  Montrose  .  27 

James  R.  Randall         .  259 

William  Byrd       .        .  1 

Francis  M.  Finch      .  289 

G.  F.  Richardson  .         .  218 

Sarah  Flower  Adams  199 

Joseph  Blanco  White      .  99 

William  Allen  Butler  207 

John  Augustus  Shea      .  307 

Emily  R.  Page  .         .  247 
Albert  G.  Greene  .         .133 

Forceythe  Willson      .  234 

Park  Benjamin  .         .  175 

George  Eliot       .         .  330 

Matthias  Barr       .         .  226 

Frances  Laughton  Mace  248 

Amelia  Opie          .        .  97 

Nancy  Priest  Wakefield  232 

William  Roscoe          .  284 

Ludwig  Uhland    .         .  282 

Thomas  Noel      .        .  189 

Mary  L.  Bolles  Branch  302 

Jane  Taylor        .        .  109 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers          .  263 

Michael  J.  Barry       .  202 
Ann  S.  Stephens   .        .182 

Anonymous       .        .  268 

Sir  Francis  H.  Doyle    .  176 


George  Berkeley 


44 


CONTENTS. 


IX 


Rain  on  the  Roof, 

Reign  of  Law, 

Revelry  in  India, 

Riddle,  A 

Rising  of  the  Moon,  The 

Rock  me  to  Sleep, 

Roll-Call, 

Sailor's  Wife,  The 
Saint  Patrick, 
Sally  in  our  Alley, 
School-Mistress,  The 
She  Died  in  Beauty, 
Sherman's  March  to 

Sea, 
Sidney,    Lament    for    Sir 

Philip 
Skeleton,  Lines  on  a 
Soldier,  The 
Soliloquy,  A 
Song,— Go,  forget  me, 
Song,— If  I  had  thought, 
Song,— Love  Still  has, 
Song  of  Rorek, 
Song  of  the  Western  Men, 
Soul's  Defiance,  The 
Spinning-wheel  Song, 
Splendid  Shilling,  The 
Stanzas,    .... 
Star-Spangled  Banner, Tids 
Steam,  The  Song  of 
Swallow,  To  a      . 

Tacking  Ship  off  Shore, 
Take  thy  Old  Cloak  About 

Thee, 
Tale  of  a  Tub,  The  New 
Tears  of  Scotland,  The 
The  Dule  's  'i  this  Bonnet 

o'  Mine,  .        . 


PAGE 

Coates  Kinney       .        .  244 

Francis  T.  Palgrave  324 

Bartholomew  Bowling   .  256 

Catherine  Fanshawe  .  109 

John  K.  Casey       .        .  258 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen  224 

Nathaniel  G.  Shepherd  316 

Jean  Adam   ...  76 

Henry  Bennett  .        .  113 

Henry  Carey         .         .  44 

William  Shenstone     .  56 

Charles  Doyne  Sillery   .  163 

Samuel  H.  M.  Byers     .  265 


Mathew  Roydon    . 

5 

Anonymous 

201 

William  Smyth 

95 

Walter  Harte     . 

51 

Charles  Wolfe 

278 

Charles  Wolfe    . 

277 

Sir  Charles  Sedley 

26 

John  W.  Weidemeyer 

319 

Robert  S.  Hawker 

310 

Lavinia  Stoddard 

116 

John  F.  Waller 

308 

John  Philips 

32 

Richard  Henry  Wilde 

118 

Francis  Scott  Key 

103 

George  W.  Cutter 

.     204 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle   . 

311 

Walter  Mitchell    . 

295 

Anonymous 

13 

F.  W.  N.  Bayley       . 

164 

Tobias  Smollett 

69 

Edwin  Waugh 

191 

CONTENTS. 


The  Teaks  I  Shed,    . 

Three  Sons,  The 

Three  Warnings,  The 

Time  and  Eternity,     . 

Tired  Mothers, 

Too  Late, 

Toper's  Apology,  The 

Tuloom, 

Twins,  The 

Two  Worlds,  The 


PAGE 

Helen  Cranstoun  Stewart  99 

John  Moultrie    .        .  139 

Hester  Thrale        .  .      80 

Horatius  Bonar         .  300 

May  Riley  Smith  .     272 

Fitz  Hugh  Ludlow      .  239 

Charles  Morris      .  .       78 

Erastus  W.  Ellsworth  303 

Henry  S.  Leigh     .  .     269 

Mortimer  Collins        .  243 


Vanitas  Vanitatum, 

Verses, 

Vicar  of  Bray,  The 

Visit  from  St.  Nicholas. 


Gerald  Griffin       .  .     286 

Ched iock  Ticheborne  .            9 

Anonymous           .  .       71 

Clement  C.  Moore  .        102 


Waly,  Waly,  but  Love  be 

Bonny, 
We'll  Go  to  Sea  no  More, 
We  Parted  in  Silence, 
What  Constitutes  a  State, 
What  does  it  Matter  ? 
What  is  Time  ? 
What  my  Lover  Said, 
What  the  End  shall  be, 
When    Shall    we    Three 

Meet  Again  ?     . 
Whistler,  The 
Why  thus  Longing? 
Widow  M alone,    . 
Willie  Winkie, 
Willy  Drowned  in  Yarrow, 
Wonderland,  . 

Ye  Gentlemen  of  England 
Yukon  Cradle-Song,  A  . 

Notes, 

Index  of  First  Lines, 


Anonymous 
Miss  Corbett 
Julia  Crawford 
Sir  William  Jones 
Noah  Barker 
William  Marsden 
Homer  Greene 
Frances  Browne 

Anonymous 
Robert  Story 
Harriet  Winslow  Sewall 
Charles  Lever    . 
William  Miller 
Anonymous 
Cradock  Newton    . 

Martyn  Parker 
William  H.  Ball 


68 
125 

285 
86 

335 
90 

333 

240 

84 
124 
206 
153 
246 
8 
288 

26 


359 


FAMOUS 
SINGLE   AND    FUGITIVE 

POEMS. 


M$  Mittti  to  me  a  itfngfcom  (a. 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  find 
As  far  exceeds  all  earthly  bliss 

That  God  or  nature  hath  assigned ; 
Though  much  I  want  that  most  would  haver 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live,  this  is  my  stay : 
I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice : 

I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway : 

Look !  what  I  lack,  my  mind  supplies. 

Lo  I  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 

Content  with  what  my  mind  doth  bring. 

I  see  how  plenty  surfeits  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soonest  fall ; 

I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all : 

These  get  with  toil  and  keep  with  fear ; 

Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 


SINGLE  FAMOUS  rOEMS. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave ; 

I  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more ; 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich ;  they  beg,  I  give ; 
They  lack,  I  lend ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss, 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  gain : 
No  worldly  wave  my  mind  can  toss, 

I  brook  that  is  another's  bane : 
I  fear  no  foe,  nor  fawn  on  friend ; 
I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will, 

I  wander  not  to  seek  for  more, 
I  like  the  plain,  I  climb  no  hill, 

In  greatest  storms  I  sit  on  shore, 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toil  in  vain, 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  again. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease, 
My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defense ; 

I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  please, 
Nor  by  desert  to  give  offense  ; 

Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die, 

Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  L 

William  Btrd. 


Goe,  soule,  the  bodie's  guest, 
Upon  a  thanklesse  arrant; 
Feare  not  to  touche  the  best — 
The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant ! 
G-oe,  since  I  needs  must  dye, 
And  give  the  world  the  lye. 


THE  LYE. 

Goe  tell  the  court  it  glowes 

And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 
Goe  tell  the  church  it  showes 
What 's  good,  and  doth*  no  good ; 
If  church  and  court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lye. 

Tell  potentates  they  live 

Acting  by  others'  actions — 
Not  loved  unlesse  they  give, 

Not  strong  but  by  their  factions ; 
If  potentates  reply, 
Give  potentates  the  lye. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition, 
That  rule  affairs  of  state, 
Their  purpose  is  ambition, 
Their  practice  only  hate ; 
And  if  they  once  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lye. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most 

They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who  in.  their  greatest  cost 

Seek  nothing  but  commending ; 
And  if  they  make  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lye. 

Tell  zeale  it  lacks  devotion ; 

Tell  love  it  is  but  lust ; 
Tell  time  it  is  but  motion ; 
Tell  flesh  it  is  but  dust ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply, 
For  thou  must  give  the  lye. 

Tell  age  it  daily  wasteth ; 
Tell  honour  how  it  alters ; 


SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Tell  beauty  how  she  blasteth ; 
Tell  favour  how  she  falters : 
And  as  they  then  reply, 
G-ive  each  of  them  the  lye. 

Tell  wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  tickle  points  of  nicenesse ; 
Tell  wisdome  she  entangles 
Herself e  in  over-wisenesse ; 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Straight  give  them  both  the  lye. 

Tell  physicke  of  her  boldnesse ; 

Tell  skill  it  is  pretension ; 
Tell  charity  of  coldnesse ; 
Tell  law  it  is  contention ; 
And  as  they  yield  reply, 
So  give  them  still  the  lye. 

Tell  fortune  of  her  blindnesse  ; 

Tell  nature  of  decay ; 
Tell  friendship  of  unkindnesse ; 
Tell  justice  of  delay ; 
And  if  they  dare  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lye. 

Tell  arts  they  have  no  soundnesse, 

But  vary  by  esteeming ; 
Tell  schooles  they  want  profoundness©, 
And  stand  too  much  on  seeming ; 
If  arts  and  schooles  reply, 
Give  arts  and  schooles  the  lye. 

Tell  faith  it 's  fled  the  citie; 

Tell  how  the  country  erreth; 
Tell,  manhood  shakes  off  pitie; 

Tell,  vertue  least  preferreth ; 


LAMENT  FOR  SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY. 

And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lye. 

So,  when  thou  hast,  as  I 

Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing — 
Although  to  give  the  lye 

Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing — 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will, 
No  stab  the  soule  can  kill 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 


Eament  for  j&ir  Wlip  S  ton  eg. 

You  knew — who  knew  not  Astrophel  ? 

That  I  should  live  to  say  I  knew, 
And  have  not  in  possession  still ! — 

Things  known  permit  me  to  renew. 
Of  him  you  know  his  merit  such 
I  cannot  say — you  hear — too  much. 

Within  these  woods  of  Arcady 
He  chief  delight  and  pleasure  took ; 

And  on  the  mountain  Partheny, 
Upon  the  crystal  liquid  brook, 

The  muses  met  him  every  day, — 

Taught  him  to  sing,  and  write,  and  say. 

When  he  descended  down  the  mount 
His  personage  seemed  most  divine ; 

A  thousand  graces  one  might  count 
Upon  his  lovely,  cheerful  eyne. 

To  hear  him  speak,  and  see  him  smile, 

You  were  in  Paradise  the  while. 

A  sweet,  attractive  kind  of  grace ; 
A  full  assurance  given  by  looks ; 


SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Continual  comfort  in  a  face ; 

The  lineaments  of  gospel  books : 
I  trow  that  countenance  cannot  lie 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eye. 

Above  all  others  this  is  he 

Who  erst  approved  in  his  song 
That  love  and  honor  might  agree, 

And  that  pure  love  will  do  no  wrong. 
Sweet  saints,  it  is  no  sin  or  blame 
To  love  a  man  of  virtuous  name. 

Did  never  love  so  sweetly  breathe 

In  any  mortal  breast  before ; 
Did  never  muse  inspire  beneath 

A  poet's  brain  with  finer  store. 
He  wrote  of  love  with  high  conceit, 
And  beauty  reared  above  her  height. 

Mathew  Roydon. 


jman'a  jfflottalitg. 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see, 

Or  like  the  blossoms  on  the  tree, 

Or  like  the  dainty  flower  of  May, 

Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 

Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade, 

Or  like  the  gourd  which  Jonas  had ; 

Even  such  is  man,  whose  thread  is  spun, 

Drawn  out  and  cut,  and  so  is  done. 

The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth, 

The  flower  fades,  the  morning  hasteth, 

The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies, 

The  gourd  consumes,  and  man — he  dies ! 

Like  to  the  grass  that 's  newly  sprung, 
Or  like  a  tale  that 's  new  begun, 


MAN'S  MORTALITY. 

Or  like  a  bird  that 's  here  to-day. 

Or  like  the  pearled  dew  of  May, 

Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a  span, 

Or  like  the  singing  of  a  swan  ; 

Even  such  is  man,  who  lives  by  breath, 

Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death. 

The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended, 

The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew  's  ascended, 

The  hour  is  short,  the  span  not  long, 

The  swan  near  death,— man's  life  is  done  I 

Like  to  a  bubble  in  the  brook, 
Or  in  a  glass  much  like  a  look, 
Or  like  a  shuttle  in  a  weaver's  hand, 
Or  like  the  writing  on  the  sand, 
Or  like  a  thought,  or  like  a  dream, 
Or  like  the  gliding  of  a  stream ; 
Even  such  is  man,  who  lives  by  breath, 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death. 
The  bubble  's  out,  the  look  's  forgot, 
The  shuttle  's  flung,  the  writing  's  blot, 
The  thought  is  past,  the  dream  is  gone, 
The  water  glides,— man's  life  is  done  I 

Like  to  a  blaze  of  fond  delight, 
Or  like  a  morning  clear  and  bright, 
Or  like  a  frost,  or  like  a  shower, 
Or  like  the  pride  of  Babel's  tower, 
Or  like  the  hour  that  guides  the  time, 
Or  like  to  Beauty  in  her  prime  ; 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  glory  lends 
That  life  a  blaze  or  two,  and  ends. 
The  morn  's  o'ercast,  joy  turned  to  pain, 
The  frost  is  thawed,  dried  up  the  rain, 
The  tower  falls,  the  hour  is  run, 
The  beauty  lost,— man's  life  is  done ! 


SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Like  to  an  arrow  from  the  bow, 

Or  like  swift  course  of  water-flow, 

Or  like  that  time  'twixt  flood  and  ebb, 

Or  like  the  spider's  tender  web, 

Or  like  a  race,  or  like  a  goal, 

Or  like  the  dealing  of  a  dole ; 

Even  such  is  man,  whose  brittle  state 

Is  always  subject  unto  Fate. 

The  arrow  's  shot,  the  flood  soon  spent, 

The  time  's  no  time,  the  web  soon  rent, 

The  race  soon  run,  the  goal  soon  won, 

The  dole  soon  dealt, — man's  life  is  done  1 

Like  to  the  lightning  from  the  sky, 
Or  like  a  post  that  quick  doth  hie, 
Or  like  a  quaver  in  a  short  song, 
Or  like  a  journey  three  days  long, 
Or  like  the  snow  when  summer's  come, 
Or  like  the  pear,  or  like  the  plum ; 
Even  such  is  man,  who  heaps  up  sorrow, 
Lives  but  this  day,  and  dies  to-morrow. 
The  lightning  's  past,  the  post  must  go, 
The  song  is  short,  the  journey  's  so, 
The  pear  doth  rot,  the  plum  doth  fall, 
The  snow  dissolves, — and  so  must  all  1 

Simon  Wastel. 


TOillg  Breton**  m  ¥anoto« 

"  Willy  's  rare,  and  Willy  's  fair, 
And  Willy  's  wondrous  bonny ; 
And  Willy  heght  to  marry  me, 
Gin  e'er  he  married  ony. 

"Yestreen  I  made  my  bed  fu'  braid, 
This  night  I  '11  make  it  narrow ; 
For  a'  the  livelang  winter  night 
I  ly  twined  of  my  marrow. 


VERSES. 

"  Oh  came  you  by  yon  water-side  ? 
Pou'd  you  the  rose  or  lily  ? 
Or  came  you  by  yon  meadow  green  ? 
Or  saw  you  my  sweet  Willy  ?  " 

She  sought  him  east,  she  sought  him  west, 
She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow ; 

Syne  in  the  cleaving  of  a  craig, 

She  found  him  drowned  in  Yarrow. 

Anonymous. 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  TOWER,  THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  HIS  EXECUTION 

Mr  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  cares,  " 
My  feast  of  joy  is  but  a  dish  of  pain, 

My  crop  of  corn  is  but  a  field  of  tares, 

And  all  my  goodes  is  but  vain  hope  of  gain. 

The  day  is  fled,  and  yet  I  saw  no  sun ; 

And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done ! 

My  spring  is  past,  and  yet  it  hath  not  sprung, 
The  fruit  is  dead,  and  yet  the  leaves  are  green, 

My  youth  is  past,  and  yet  I  am  but  young, 
I  saw  the  world,  and  yet  I  was  not  seen. 

My  thread  is  cut,  and  yet  it  is  not  spun  ; 

And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done ! 

I  sought  for  death  and  found  it  in  the  wombe, 
I  lookt  for  life,  and  yet  it  was  a  shade, 

I  trade  the  ground,  and  knew  it  was  my  tombe, 
And  now  I  die,  and  now  I  am  but  made. 

The  glass  is  full,  and  yet  my  glass  is  run ; 

And  now  I  live,  and  now  my  life  is  done ! 

Chediock  Tichebornk. 

1* 


10  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

&i)e  $3allati  of  Egmcourt. 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France. 
When  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry ; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seine, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 

Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort, 
Marched  toward  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour — 
.    Skirmishing  day  by  day 

With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power, 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending ; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while, 
As  from  a  nation  vile, 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile, 
Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then ; 
Though  they  be  one  to  ten. 

Be  not  amazed ; 
Yet  have  we  well  begun — 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  AOINCOURT.  j  1 

And  for  myself,  quoth  he, 
This  my  full  rest  shall  be  ; 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me, 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain, 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain : 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell, 

When  most  their  pride  did  swell, 

Under  our  swords  they  fell ; 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great, 
Claiming  the  regal  seat, 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies. 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led  ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped, 

Amongst  his  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear — 
A  braver  man  not  there : 
0  Lord!  how  hot  they  were 

On  the  false  Frenchmen ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone ; 

Armor  on  armor  shone  ; 

Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan- 
To  hear  was  wonder ; 

That  with  the  cries  they  make 

The  very  earth  did  shake; 

Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake, 
Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham  I 


SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by, 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  hor&es, 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong, 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung, 

Piercing  the  wether: 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts, 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw 
And  forth  their  bilbows  drew, 
And  on  the  French  they  flew, 

Not  one  was  tardy  : 
Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent ; 
Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 
Down  the  French  peasants  went; 

Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  lent, 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent, 
And  many  a  cruel  dent 

Bruised  his  helmet 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood, 
With  his  brave  brother— 


TAKE  THY  OLD  (JLOAKE  ABOUT  THEE.         13 

Clarence,  in  steel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight, 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 
Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade ; 
Oxford  the  foe  invade, 
And  cruel  slaughter  made, 

Still  as  they  ran  up. 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply, 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 
Bare  them  right  doughtily, 

Ferrers  and  Fanhope. 

Upon  St.  Crispin's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray, 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 

To  England  to  carry ; 
Oh,  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 
Or  England  breed  again 

Such  a  King  Harry  ? 

Michael  Drayton. 

Cafce  tljj)  <©lfc  OHoa&e  afiout  tfjee. 

This  winter  weather,  it  waxeth  cold, 

And  frost  doth  freese  on  every  hill; 
And  Boreas  blows  his  blastes  so  cold 

That  all  our  cattell  are  like  to  spill. 
Bell,  my  wife,  who  loves  no  strife, 

Shee  sayd  unto  me  quietlye, 
"  Rise  up,  and  save  cowe  Crumbocke's  life — 

Man,  put  thy  old  cloake  about  thee." 

"  0  Bell,  why  dost  thou  fly  te  and  scorne  ? 
Thou  kenst  my  cloake  is  very  thin  ■ 
2 


U  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

It  is  so  bare  and  overworne 

A  cricke  he  thereon  can  not  renn. 

Then  He  no  longer  borrowe  or  lend — 
For  once  He  new  apparelled  be ; 

To-morrow  He  to  town,  and  spend, 
For  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  me." 

"  Cow  Crumbocke  is  a  very  good  cow — 

She  has  been  alwayes  true  to  the  payle ; 
She  has  helped  us  to  butter  and  cheese,  I  trow, 

And  other  things  she  will  not  fayle  ; 
I  wold  be  loth  to  see  her  pine ; — 

Good  husbande,  counsel  take  of  me — 
It  is  not  for  us  to  go  so  fine  ; 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee." 

"My  cloake,  it  was  a  very  good  cloake — 

It  hath  been  alwayes  true  to  the  weare ; 
But  now  it  is  not  worth  a  groat, 

I  have  had  it  four-and-forty  year. 
Sometime  it  was  of  cloth  in  graine ; 

'T  is  now  but  a  sigh  clout  as  you  may  see; 
It  will  neither  hold  nor  winde  nor  raine — 

And  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  me." 

"  It  is  four-and-forty  yeares  ago 

Since  the  one  of  us  the  other  did  ken ; 
And  we  have  had  betwixt  us  towe 

Of  children  either  nine  or  ten. 
We  have  brought  them  up  to  women  and  men- 

In  the  fere  of  God  I  trowe  they  be ; 
And  why  wilt  thou  thyself  misken — 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee." 

u  0  Bell,  my  wife,  why  dost  thou  floute? 
Now  is  now,  and  then  was  then ; 


A  CONTENTED  MIND.  15 

Seeke  now  all  the  world  throughout, 

Thou  kenst  not  clownes  from  gentlemen  ; 

They  are  clad  in  blacke,  greene,  yellowe,  or  gray, 
So  far  above  their  own  degree — 

Once  in  my  life  He  do  as  they, 

For  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  me." 

"  King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peere — 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crowne ; 
lie  held  them  sixpence  all  too  deere, 

Therefore  he  called  the  tailor  lowne. 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renowne, 

And  thou'se  but  of  a  low  degree — 
It  's  pride  that  puts  this  countrye  downe ; 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee." 

Bell,  my  wife,  she  loves  not  strife, 

Yet  she  will  lead  me  if  she  can  • 
And  oft  to  live  a  quiet  life 

I  'm  forced  to  yield  though  I  be  good-man. 
It  's  not  for  a  man  with  a  woman  to  threepe, 

Unless  he  first  give  o'er  the  plea ; 
As  we  began  sae  will  we  leave, 

And  He  take  my  old  cloake  about  me. 

ANONYMOUa 

&  OTontentetr  Miriti. 

I  weigh  not  fortune's  frown  or  smile ; 

I  joy  not  much  in  earthly  joys ; 
I  seek  not  state,  I  seek  not  style ; 

I  am  not  fond  of  fancy's  toys. 
I  rest  so  pleased  with  what  I  have, 
I  wish  no  more,  no  more  I  crave. 

I  quake  not  at  the  thunder's  crack ; 
I  tremble  not  at  noise  of  war ; 


16  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

I  swound  not  at  the  news  of  wrack, 

I  shrink  not  at  a  blazing  star ; 
I  fear  not  loss,  I  hope  not  gam ; 
I  envy  none,  I  none  disdain. 

I  see  ambition  never  pleased ; 

I  see  some  Tantals  starved  in  store ; 
I  see  gold's  dropsy  seldom  eased ; 

I  see  even  Midas  gape  for  more ; 
I  neither  want,  nor  yet  abound — 
Enough  's  a  feast,  content  is  crowned. 

I  feign  not  friendship  where  I  hate ; 

I  fawn  not  on  the  great  (in  show)  ; 
I  prize,  I  praise  a  mean  estate, 

Neither  too  lofty  nor  too  low  : 
This,  this  is  all  my  choice,  my  cheer — 
A  mind  content,  a  conscience  clear. 

Joshua  Sylvester. 


ILobe  me  ILittle,  ILobe  me  Hong. 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long ! 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song : 
Love  that  is  too  hot  and  strong 

Burnetii  soon  to  waste. 
Still  I  would  not  have  thee  cold — 
Not  too  backward,  nor  too  bold; 
Love  that  lasteth  till 't  is  old 

Fadeth  not  in  haste. 
Love  me  little,  love  me  long  1 
Is  the  burden  of  my  song. 

If  thou  lovest  me  too  much, 
'T  will  not  prove  as  true  a  touch; 
Love  me  little  more  than  such, — 
For  I  fear  the  end. 


LOVE  ME  LITTLE,  LOVE  ME  LONG.  1«7 

I  'm  with  little  well  content, 
And  a  little  from  thee  sent 
Is  enough,  with  true  intent 
To  be  steadfast,  friend. 

Say  thou  lovest  me,  while  thou  live 
I  to  thee  my  love  will  give, 
Never  dreaming  to  deceive 

While  that  lif e  endures ; 
Nay,  and  after  death,  in  sooth, 
I  to  thee  will  keep  my  truth, 
As  now  when  in  my  May  of  youth : 

This  my  love  assures. 

Constant  love  is  moderate  ever, 
And  it  will  through  life  persever ; 
Give  me  that  with  true  endeavor, — 

I  will  it  restore. 
A  suit  of  durance  let  it  be, 
For  all  weathers, — that  for  me, — 
For  the  land  or  for  the  sea : 

Lasting  evermore. 

Winter's  cold  or  summer's  heat, 
Autumn's  tempests  on  it  beat; 
It  can  never  know  defeat, 

Never  can  rebel ; 
Such  the  love  that  I  would  gain, 
Such  the  love,  I  tell  thee  plain, 
Thou  must  give,  or  woo  in  vain : 

So  to  thee — farewell  1 

Anonymous. 


1 8  SIKGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

<&oo*r  me. 

I  can  not  eat  but  little  meat— 

My  stomach  is  not  good; 
But  sure,  I  think  that  I  can  drink 

With  him  that  wears  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare,  take  ye  no  care, 

I  am  nothing  a-cold— 
I  stuff  my  skin  so  full  within 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold; 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old! 

I  love  no  roast  but  a  nut-brown  toast 

And  a  crab  laid  in  the  fire ; 
A  little  bread  shall  do  me  stead- 
Much  bread  I  not  desire. 
No  frost  or  snow,  nor  wind,  I  trow 

Can  hurt  me  if  I  wold— 
I  am  so  wrapt,  and  thorowly  lapt 

Of  jolly  good  ale  and  old. 
Bach  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold; 
But  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  old! 

And  Tyb,  my  wife,  that  as  her  life 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seek 
Full  oft  drinks  she,  till  you  may  see 

The  tears  run  down  her  cheek  ■ 
Then  doth  she  trowl  to  me  the  bowl, 

Even  as  a  malt-worm  should  • 
And  saith,  "Sweetheart,  I  took  my  part 

Of  this  jolly  good  ale  and  old." 


EXEQUY.  19 

Bach  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold; 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old  ! 

Now  let  them  drink  till  they  nod  and  wink, 

Even  as  good  fellows  should  do ; 
They  shall  not  miss  to  have  the  bliss 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to  ; 
And  all  poor  souls  that  have  scoured  bowls, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trowled, 
God  save  the  lives  of  them  and  their  wives, 

Whether  they  be  young  or  old ! 
Back  and  side  go  bare,  go  bare  ; 

Both  foot  and  hand  go  cold  ; 
But,  belly,  God  send  thee  good  ale  enough, 

Whether  it  be  new  or  old  I 

John  Still. 


IEiequ;D. 

Accept,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint, 

Instead  of  dirges,  this  complaint ; 

And  for  sweet  flowers  to  crown  thy  hearse 

Receive  a  strew  of  weeping  verse 

From  thy  grieved  friend,  whom  thou  might'st 

Quite  melted  into  tears  for  thee. 

Dear  loss !  since  thy  untimely  fate, 

My  task  hath  been  to  meditate 

On  thee,  on  thee ;  thou  art  the  book, 

The  library  whereon  I  look, 

Though  almost  blind ;  for  thee  (loved  clay) 

I  languish  out,  not  live,  the  day, 

Using  no  other  exercise 

But  what  I  practice  with  mine  eyes, 


2  0  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS 

By  which  wet  glasses  I  find  out 
How  lazily  Time  creeps  about 
To  one  that  mourns ;  this,  only  this, 
My  exercise  and  business  is  : 
So  I  compute  the  weary  hours 
With  sighs  dissolved  into  showers. 

Nor  wonder  if  my  time  go  thus 
Backward  and  most  preposterous ; 
Thou  hast  benighted  me ;  thy  set 
This  eve  of  blackness  did  beget, 
Who  wast  my  day  (though  overcast 
Before  thou  hadst  thy  noontide  passed), 
And  I  remember  must  in  tears 
Thou  scarce  hadst  seen  so  many  years 
As  day  tells  hours :  by  thy  clear  sun 
My  love  and  fortune  first  did  run : 

But  thou  wilt  never  more  appear 
Folded  within  my  hemisphere, 
Since  both  thy  light  and  motion 
Like  a  fled  star  is  fallen  and  gone, 
And  'twixt  me  and  my  soul's  dear  wish 
The  earth  now  interposed  is, 
Which  such  a  strange  eclipse  doth  mako 
As  ne'er  was  read  in  almanac. 

I  could  allow  thee  for  a  time 
To  darken  me  and  my  sad  clime : 
Were  it  a  month,  or  year,  or  ten, 
I  would  thy  exile  live  till  then. 
And  all  that  space  my  mirth  adjourn, 
So  thou  wouldst  promise  to  return, 
And,  putting  off  thy  ashy  shroud, 
At  length  disperse  this  sable  cloud ! 

But  woe  is  me !  the  longest  date 
Too  narrow  is  to  calculate 


EXEQUT.  21 

Those  empty  hopes :  never  shall  I 
Be  so  much  blessed  as  to  descry 
A  glimpse  of  thee,  till  that  day  come 
Which  shall  the  earth  to  cinders  doom, 
And  a  fierce  fever  must  calcine 
The  body  of  this  world  like  thine, 
(My  little  world !)  that  fit  of  fire 
Once  off,  our  bodies  shall  aspire 
To  our  souls'  bliss :  then  we  shall  rise, 
And  view  ourselves  with  clearer  eyes 
In  that  calm  region  where  no  night 
Can  hide  us  from  each  other's  sight. 

Meantime  thou  hast  her,  Earth :  much  good 

May  my  harm  do  thee  1     Since  it  stood 

With  Heaven's  will  I  might  not  call 

Her  longer  mine,  I  give  thee  all 

My  short-lived  right  and  interest 

In  her  whom  living  I  loved  best; 

With  a  most  free  and  bounteous  grief 

I  give  thee  what  I  could  not  keep. 

Be  kind  to  her,  and,  prithee,  look 

Thou  write  into  thy  doomsday  book 

Each  parcel  of  this  Rarity 

Which  in  thy  casket  shrined  doth  lie. 

See  that  thou  make  thy  reckoning  straight, 

And  yield  her  back  again  by  weight : 

For  thou  must  audit  on  thy  trust 

Each  grain  and  atom  of  this  trust, 

As  thou  wilt  answer  Him  that  lent, 

Not  gave  thee,  my  dear  monument. 

So,  close  the  ground,  and  'bout  her  shade 

Black  curtains  draw :  my  bride  is  laid. 

Sleep  on,  my  love,  in  thy  cold  bed 
Never  to  be  disquieted  I 
2* 


2 2  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

My  last  good-night !     Thou  wilt  not  wake 

Till  I  thy  fate  shall  overtake : 

Till  age  or  grief  or  sickness  must 

Marry  my  body  to  that  dust 

It  so  much  loves,  and  fill  the  room 

My  heart  keeps  empty  in  thy  tomb. 

Stay  for  me  there :  I  will  not  fail 

To  meet  thee  in  that  hollow  vale. 

And  think  not  much  of  my  delay ; 

I  am  already  on  the  way, 

And  follow  thee  with  all  the  speed 

Desire  can  make,  or  sorrows  breed. 

Each  minute  is  a  short  degree, 

And  every  hour  a  step  toward  thee. 

At  night  when  I  betake  to  rest, 

Next  morn  I  rise  nearer  my  west 

Of  life,  almost  by  eight  hours'  sail, 

Than  when  Sleep  breathed  his  drowsy  gale. 

Thus  from  the  sun  my  bottom  steers, 

And  my  day's  compass  downward  bears ; 

Nor  labor  I  to  stem  the  tide 

Through  which  to  thee  I  swiftly  glide. 

'T  is  true,  with  shame  and  grief  I  yield  ; 

Thou,  like  the  van,  first  took'st  the  field, 

And  gotten  hast  the  victory, 

In  thus  adventuring  to  die 

Before  me,  whose  more  years  might  crave 

A  just  precedence  in  the  grave. 

But  hark !  my  pulse,  like  a  soft  drum, 

Beats  my  approach,  tells  thee  I  come  ; 

And  slow  howe'er  my  marches  be, 

I  shall  at  last  sit  down  by  thee. 

The  thought  of  this  bids  me  go  on, 
And  wait  my  dissolution 
With  hope  and  comfort.     Dear  (forgive 
The  crime)  I  am  content  to  live, 


THE  ANGLER'S  WISH.  23 


Divided,  with  but  half  a  heart, 
Till  we  shall  meet  and  never  part. 


Henry  King. 


Cije  angler'8  &2atef). 

I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be, 

These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me ; 

To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 

T,  with  my  angle,  would  rejoice, 
Sit  here,  and  see  the  turtle-dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love ; 

Or,  on  that  bank,  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty ;  please  my  mind, 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers, 
And  then  washed  off  by  April  showers ; 
Here,  hear  my  kenna  sing  a  song : 
There,  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 

Or  a  laverock  build  her  nest; 

Here,  give  my  weary  spirits  rest, 

And  raise  my  low-pitched  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love. 

Thus,  free  from  lawsuits,  and  the  noise 

Of  princes'  courts,  I  would  rejoice ; 

Or,  with  my  Bryan  and  a  book, 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawf ord  brook ; 

There  sit  by  him,  and  eat  my  meat; 

There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set ; 

There  bid  good-morning  to  next  day ; 

There  meditate  my  time  away ; 
And  angle  on ;  and  beg  to  have 
A  quiet  passage  to  a  welcome  grave. 

Izaak  Walton. 


24  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Heaths  dFtnal  atomum. 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  tilings ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate — 
Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield — 
They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 
And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow — 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar,  now, 

See  where  the  victor  victim  bleeds  I 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb — 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

James  Shirley. 


FROM  A  BALLAD  UPON  A  WEDDING. 

The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale, 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 
Could  ever  yet  produce : 


THE  BR1DK  25 

No  grape  that  'a  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 
Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 

Would  not  stay  on  which  they  did  bring— 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck ; 
And,  to  say  truth— for  out  it  must- 
It  looked  like  the  great  collar— just- 
About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  feared  the  light; 
But  0,  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Cath'rine  pear, 

The  side  that 's  next  the  sun. 

Her  lips  were  red ;  and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin. 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak, 
Thou  'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break, 

That  they  might  passage  get; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

Sir  John  Suckling. 


20  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

ge  (Gentlemen  of  <£itglanfc. 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England 

That  live  at  home  at  ease, 
Ah  !  little  do  you  think  upon 

The  dangers  of  the  seas. 
Give  ear  unto  the  mariners, 

And  they  will  plainly  show 
All  the  cares  and  the  fears 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

If  enemies  oppose  us 

When  England  is  at  war 
With  any  foreign  nation, 

We  fear  not  wound  or  scar ; 
Our  roaring  guns  shall  teach  'em 

Our  valor  for  to  know, 
Whilst  they  reel  on  the  keel, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Then  courage,  all  brave  mariners, 

And  never  be  dismay'd ; 
While  we  have  bold  adventurers, 

We  ne'er  shall  want  a  trade  : 
Our  merchants  will  employ  us 

To  fetch  them  wealth,  we  know ; 
Then  be  bold — work  for  gold, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Martyn  Parker. 


Sang. 

Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea, 
From  whence  his  mother  rose ; 

No  time  his  slaves  from  doubt  can  free, 
Nor  give  their  thoughts  repose. 


MY  DEAR  AND  ONLY  LOVE.  27 

They  are  becalmed  in  clearest  days, 

And  in  rough  weather  tossed ; 
They  wither  under  cold  delays, 

Or  are  in  tempests  lost. 

One  while  they  seem  to  touch  the  port> 

Then  straight  into  the  main 
Some  angry  wind,  in  cruel  sport. 

The  vessel  drives  again. 

At  first  disdain  and  pride  they  fear, 

Which  if  they  chance  to  'scape, 
Rivals  and  falsehood  soon  appear, 

In  a  more  cruel  shape. 

By  such  degrees  to  joy  they  come, 

And  are  so  long  withstood ; 
So  slowly  they  receive  the  sun, 

It  hardly  does  them  good. 

'T  is  cruel  to  prolong  a  pain ; 

And  to  defer  a  joy, 
Believe  me,  gentle  Celemene, 

Offends  the  winged  boy. 

An  hundred  thousand  oaths  your  fears, 

Perhaps,  would  not  remove ; 
And  if  I  gazed  a  thousand  years, 

I  could  not  deeper  love. 

Sir  Charles  Sedley. 


M$  Btat  anto  <Ehtlg  Uobe. 

PART  FIRST. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray, 

This  noble  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchic 


SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 
Which  virtuous  souls  abhore, 

And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 
I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

Like  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone, 
My  thoughts  shall  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
That  puts  it  not  unto  the  touch, 

To  win  or  lose  it  all. 

But  I  must  rule  and  govern  still 

And  always  give  the  law, 
And  have  each  subject  at  my  will, 

And  all  to  stand  in  awe. 
But  'gainst  my  battery  if  I  find 

Thou  shun'st  the  prize  so  sore 
As  that  thou  set'st  me  up  a  blind, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

If  in  the  empire  of  thy  heart, 

Where  I  should  solely  be, 
Another  do  pretend  a  part, 

And  dares  to  vie  with  me; 
Or  if  committees  thou  erect, 

And  go  on  such  a  score, 
I  '11  sing  and  laugh  at  thy  neglect^ 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

But  if  thou  wilt  be  constant  then, 

And  faithful  of  thy  word 
I  '11  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen, 

And  famous  by  my  sword. 
I  '11  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

Was  never  heard  before  • 


MY  DEAR  AND  02FLY  LOVE.  29 

I  '11  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays, 
And  love  thee  evermore. 

PART  SECOND. 

My  dear  and  only  love,  take  heed, 

Lest  thou  thyself  expose, 
And  let  all  longing  lovers  feed 

Upon  such  looks  as  those. 
A  marble  wall  then  build  about, 

Beset  without  a  door ; 
But  if  thou  let  thy  heart  fly  out, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

Let  not  their  oaths,  like  volleys  shot, 

Make  any  breach  at  all ; 
Nor  smoothness  of  their  language  plot 

Which  way  to  scale  the  wall ; 
Nor  balls  of  wild-fire  love  consume 

The  shrine  which  I  adore ; 
For  if  such  smoke  about  thee  fume, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

I  think  thy  virtues  be  too  strong 

To  suffer  by  surprise ; 
Those  victualed  by  my  love  so  long, 

The  siege  at  length  must  rise, 
And  leave  thee  ruled  in  that  health 

And  state  thou  wast  before ; 
But  if  thou  turn  a  commonwealth, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

Or  if  by  fraud,  or  by  consent, 

Thy  heart  to  ruine  come, 
I  '11  sound  no  trumpet  as  I  wont, 

Nor  march  by  tuck  of  drum ; 
But  hold  my  arms,  like  ensigns,  up, 

Thy  falsehood  to  deplore, 


30  PINOLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  bitterly  will  sigh  and  weep, 
And  never  love  thee  more. 

I  '11  do  with  thee  as  Nero  did 

When  Rome  was  set  on  fire, 
Not  only  all  relief  forbid, 

But  to  a  hill  retire, 
And  scorn  to  shed  a  tear  to  see 

Thy  spirit  grown  so  poor  ; 
But  smiling  sing,  until  I  die, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

Yet,  for  the  love  I  bare  thee  once, 

Lest  that  thy  name  should  die, 
A  monument  of  marble-stone 

The  truth  shall  testifie ; 
That  every  pilgrim  passing  by 

May  pity  and  deplore 
My  case,  and  read  the  reason  why 

I  can  love  thee  no  more. 

The  golden  laws  of  love  shall  be 

Upon  this  pillar  hung, — 
A  simple  heart,  a  single  eye, 

A  true  and  constant  tongue ; 
Let  no  man  for  more  love  pretend 

Than  he  has  hearts  in  store  • 
True  love  begun  shall  never  end; 

Love  one  and  love  no  more. 

Then  shall  thy  heart  be  set  by  mine, 

But  in  far  different  case ; 
For  mine  was  true,  so  was  not  thine, 

But  lookt  like  Janus'  face. 
For  as  the  waves  with  every  wind 

So  sail'st  thou  every  shore 
And  leav'st  my  constant  heart  behind. 

How  can  I  love  thee  more  ? 


MY  DEAR  AND  ONL Y  LOVE.  3 ] 

My  heart  shall  with  the  sun  be  fixed 

For  constancy  most  strange, 
And  thine  shall  with  the  moon  be  mixed, 

Delighting  ay  in  change. 
Thy  beauty  shined  at  first  more  bright, 

And  woe  is  me  therefore, 
That  ever  I  found  thy  love  so  light 

I  could  love  thee  no  more ! 

The  misty  mountains,  smoking  lakes, 

The  rocks'  resounding  echo, 
The  whistling  wind  that  murmur  makes, 

Shall  with  me  sing  hey  ho ! 
The  tossing  seas,  the  tumbling  boats, 

Tears  dropping  from  each  shore, 
Shall  tune  with  me  their  turtle  notes — 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

As  doth  the  turtle,  chaste  and  true, 

Her  fellow's  death  regrete, 
And  daily  mourns  for  his  adieu, 

And  ne'er  renews  her  mate ; 
So,  though  thy  faith  was  never  fast, 

Which  grieves  me  wondrous  sore, 
Yet  I  shall  live  in  love  so  chaste, 

That  I  shall  love  no  more. 

And  when  all  gallants  ride  about 

These  monuments  to  view, 
Whereon  is  written,  in  and  out, 

Thou  traitorous  and  untrue ; 
Then  in  a  passion  they  shall  pause, 

And  thus  say,  sighing  sore, 
"  Alas !  he  had  too  just  a  cause 

Never  to  love  thee  more." 

And  when  that  tracing  goddess  Fame 
From  east  to  west  shall  flee, 


32  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

She  shall  record  it,  to  thy  shame, 

How  thou  hast  loved  me  ; 
And  how  in  odds  our  love  was  such 

As  few  have  been  before ; 
Thou  loved  too  many,  and  I  too  much, 

So  I  can  love  no  more. 

James  Graham,  Marquis  of  Montrose 


&f)e  Splentnti  Stilling. 

" Sing,  heavenly  Muse! 

Things  unattempted  yet,  in  prose  or  rhyme," 
A  shilling,  breeches,  and  chimeras  dire. 

Happy  the  man,  who,  void  of  cares  and  strife, 
In  silken  or  in  leather  purse  retains 
A  Splendid  Shilling :  he  nor  hears  with  pain 
New  oysters  cried,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale ; 
But  with  his  friends,  when  nightly  mists  arise, 
To  Juniper's  Magpie,  or  Town-hall  repairs : 
Where,  mindful  of  the  nymph,  whose  wanton  eye 
Transfix'd  his  soul,  and  kindled  amorous  flames, 
Chloe,  or  Phillis,  he  each  circling  glass 
Wisheth  her  health,  and  joy,  and  equal  love. 
Meanwhile,  he  smokes,  and  laughs  at  merry  tale, 
Or  pun  ambiguous,  or  conundrum  quaint. 
But  I,  whom  griping  penury  surrounds, 
And  Hunger,  sure  attendant  upon  Want, 
With  scanty  offals,  and  small  acid  tiff, 
(Wretched  repast!)  my  meagre  corpse  sustain: 
Then  solitary  walk,  or  doze  at  home 
In  garret  vile,  and  with  a  warming  puff 
Regale  chill' d  fingers :  or  from  tube  as  black 
As  winter-chimney,  or  well-polish' d  jet, 
Exhale  mundungus,  ill-perfuming  scent : 
Not  blacker  tube,  nor  of  a  shorter  size, 
Smokes  Cambro-Briton  (vers'd  in  pedigree, 


THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING.  33 

Sprung  from  Cadwallador  and  Arthur,  kings 

Full  famous  in  romantic  tale)  when  he, 

O'er  many  a  craggy  hill  and  barren  cliff, 

Upon  a  cargo  of  fam'd  Cestrian  cheese, 

High  over-shadowing  rides,  with  a  design 

To  vend  his  wares,  or  at  th'  Avonian  mart. 

Or  Maridunum,  or  the  ancient  town 

Yclep'd  Brechinia,  or  where  Vaga's  stream 

Encircles  Ariconium,  fruitful  soil! 

Whence  flow  nectareous  wines,  that  well  may  vie 

With  Massic,  Setin,  or  renown'd  Falern. 

Thus  while  my  joyless  minutes  tedious  flow, 
With  looks  demure,  and  silent  pace,  a  Dun, 
Horrible  monster !  hated  by  gods  and  men, 
To  my  aerial  citadel  ascends, 
With  vocal  heel  thrice  thundering  at  my  gate, 
With  hideous  accent  thrice  he  calls ;  I  know 
The  voice  ill-boding,  and  the  solemn  sound. 
What  should  I  do  ?  or  whither  turn  ?     Amaz'd, 
Confounded,  to  the  dark  recess  I  fly 
Of  wood-hole;  straight  my  bristling  hairs  erect 
Through  sudden  fear;  a  chilly  sweat  bedews 
My  shuddering  limbs,  and  (wonderful  to  tell!) 
My  tongue  forgets  her  faculty  of  speech ; 
So  horrible  he  seems  1     His  faded  brow, 
Intrench'd  with  many  a  frown,  and  conic  beard, 
And  spreading  band,  admir'd  by  modern  saints, 
Disastrous  acts  f  orbode ;  in  his  right  hand 
Long  scrolls  of  paper  solemnly  he  waves, 
With  characters  and  figures  dire  inscrib'd, 
Grievous  to  mortal  eyes;  (ye  gods,  avert 
Such  plagues  from  righteous  men !)     Behind  him  states 
Another  monster,  not  unlike  himself, 
Sullen  of  aspect,  by  the  vulgar  calVd 
A  catchpole,  whose  polluted  hands  the  gods, 
With  force  incredible,  and  magic  charms, 
First  have  endued :  if  he  his  ample  palm 
3* 


3  4  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Should  haply  on  ill-fated  shoulder  lay 
Of  debtor,  straight  his  body,  to  the  touch 
Obsequious  (as  whilom  knights  were  wont,) 
To  some  enchanted  castle  is  convey'd, 
Where  gates  impregnable,  and  coercive  chains, 
In  durance  strict  detain  him,  till,  in  form 
Of  money,  Pallas  sets  the  captive  free. 

Beware,  ye  debtors !  when  ye  walk,  beware, 
Be  circumspect;  oft  with  insidious  ken 
The  caitiff  eyes  your  steps  aloof,  and  oft 
Lies  perdu  in  a  nook  or  gloomy  cave, 
Prompt  to  enchant  some  inadvertent  wretch 
With  his  unhallowed  touch.     So,  (poets  sing) 
Grimalkin,  to  domestic  vermin  sworn 
An  everlasting  foe,  with  watchful  eye 
Lies  nightly  brooding  o'er  a  chinky  gap, 
Portending  her  fell  claws,  to  thoughtless  mice 
Sure  ruin.     So  her  disembowell'd  web 
Arachne,  in  a  hall  or  kitchen,  spreads 
Obvious  to  vagrant  flies :  she  secret  stands 
Within  her  woven  cell :  the  humming  prey, 
Regardless  of  their  fate,  rush  on  the  toils 
Inextricable,  nor  will  aught  avail 
Their  arts,  or  arms,  or  shapes  of  lovely  hue ; 
The  wasp  insidious,  and  the  buzzing  drone, 
And  butterfly,  proud  of  expanded  wings 
Distinct  with  gold,  entangled  in  her  snares, 
Useless  resistance  make ;  with  eager  strides, 
She  towering  flies  to  her  expected  spoils ; 
Then,  with  envenomed  jaws,  the  vital  blood 
Drinks  of  reluctant  foes,  and  to  her  cave 
Their  bulky  carcasses  triumphant  drags. 

So  pass  my  days.     But  when  nocturnal  shades 
This  world  envelop,  and  th'  inclement  air 
Persuades  men  to  repel  benumbing  frosts 
With  pleasant  wines,  and  crackling  blaze  of  wood ; 
Me,  lonely  sitting,  nor  the  glimmering  light 


THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING.  35 

Of  make-weight  candle,  nor  the  joyous  talk 
Of  loving  friend,  delights :  distress' d,  forlorn, 
Amidst  the  horrors  of  the  tedious  night, 
Darkling  I  sigh,  and  feed  with  dismal  thoughts 
My  anxious  mind  :  or  sometimes  mournful  verse 
Indite,  and  sing  of  groves  and  myrtle  shades, 
Or  desperate  lady  near  a  purling  stream, 
Or  lover  pendent  on  a  willow  tree. 
Meanwhile  I  labor  with  eternal  drought, 
And  restless  wish,  and  rave ;  my  parched  throat 
Finds  no  relief,  nor  heavy  eyes  repose : 
But  if  a  slumber  haply  does  invade 
My  weary  limbs,  my  fancy  's  still  awake, 
Thoughtful  of  drink,  and  eager,  in  a  dream, 
Tipples  imaginary  pots  of  ale, 
In  vain ;  awake  I  find  the  settled  thirst 
Still  gnawing,  and  the  pleasant  phantom  curse. 
Thus  do  I  live,  from  pleasure  quite  debarred, 
Nor  taste  the  fruits  that  the  sun's  genial  rays 
Mature,  john-apple,  nor  the  downy  peach, 
Nor  walnut  in  rough-furrow' d  coat  secure, 
Nor  medlar,  fruit  delicious  in  decay  ; 
Afflictions  great !  yet  greater  still  remain : 
My  galligaskins,  that  have  long  withstood 
The  winter's  fury,  and  encroaching  frosts, 
By  time  subdued  (what  will  not  time  subdue !) 
An  horrid  chasm  disclos'd  with  orifice 
Wide,  discontinuous ;  at  which  the  winds 
Eurus  and  Auster,  and  the  dreadful  force 
Of  Boreas,  that  congeals  the  Cronian  waves, 
Tumultuous  enter  with  dire  chilling  blasts, 
Portending  agues.     Thus  a  well-fraught  ship, 
Long  sail'd  secure,  or  through  th'  iEgean  deep, 
Or  the  Ionian,  till  cruising  near 
The  Lilybean  shore,  with  hideous  crush 
On  Scylla,  or  Charybdis  (dangerous  rocks !) 
She  strikes  rebounding ;  whence  the  shatter'd  oak, 


36  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

So  fierce  a  shock  unable  to  withstand, 

Admits  the  sea :  in  at  the  gaping  side 

The  crowding  waves  gush  with  impetuous  rage 

Resistless,  overwhelming ;  horrors  seize 

The  mariners ;  Death  in  their  eyes  appears, 

They  stare,  they  lave,  they  pump,  they  swear,  they  pray 

(Vain  efforts!)  still  the  battering  waves  rush  in, 

Implacable,  till,  delug'd  by  the  foam, 

The  ship  sinks  foundering  in  the  vast  abyss. 

John  Pinups. 


Bonnie  (Heonje  OTampfceU. 

Hie  upon  Hielands, 

And  low  upon  Tay, 
Bonnie  George  Campbell 

Rade  out  on  a  day. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  gallant  rade  he ; 
Hame  cam  his  gude  horse, 

But  never  cam  he ! 

Out  cam  his  auld  mither, 

Greeting  f u'  sair ; 
And  out  cam  his  bonnie  bride, 

Rivin'  her  hair. 
Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he ; 
Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he ! 


"  My  meadow  lies  green, 
And  my  corn  is  unshorn ; 
My  barn  is  to  big, 

And  my  baby's  unborn/'" 


THE  HERMIT.  37 

Saddled  and  bridled 

And  booted  rade  he ; 
Toom  hame  cam  the  saddle, 

But  never  cam  he ! 

Anonymous. 

Cf)e  permit. 

Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 
From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit  grew ; 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well : 
Remote  from  men,  with  God  he  pass'd  the  days, 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 
Seem'd  Heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion  rose  ; 
That  Vice  should  triumph,  Virtue,  Vice  obey, 
This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence's  sway : 
His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect  boast, 
And  all  the  tenor  of  his  soul  is  lost : 
So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 
Calm  Nature's  image  on  its  watery  breast, 
Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow, 
And  skies  beneath  with  answering  colors  glow : 
But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  sea  divide, 
Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side, 
And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken  Sun, 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight, 
To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it  right, 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  he  knew, 
Whose  feet  came  wandering  o'er  the  nightly  dew) 
He  quits  his  cell ;  the  pilgrim-staff  he  bore, 
And  fix'd  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before ; 
Then  with  the  Sun  a  rising  journey  went, 
Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  was  wasted  in  the  pathless  grass, 

4 


38  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to  pass; 
But  when  the  southern  Sun  had  warm'd  the  day, 
A  youth  came  posting  o'er  a  crossing  way ; 
His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair, 
And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  wav'd  his  hair. 
Then  near  approaching,  "  Father,  hail !  "  he  cried, 
"And  hail,  my  son,"  the  reverend  sire  replied; 
Words  follow' d  words,  from  question  answer  flow'd, 
And  talk  of  various  kind  deceiv'd  the  road; 
Till  each  with  other  pleas'd,  and  loath  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart. 
Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound, 
Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  Sun :  the  closing  hour  of  day 
Came  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  gray ; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose ; 
When  near  the  road  a  stately  palace  rose  : 
There  by  the  Moon  through  ranks  of  trees  they  pass, 
Whose  verdure  crown' d  their  sloping  sides  of  grass. 
It  chanced  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 
Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stranger's  home : 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  from  a  thirst  of  praise, 
Prov'd  the  vain  nourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive :  the  liv'ried  servants  wait ; 
Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food, 
And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 
Then  led  to  rest,  the  day's  long  toil  they  drown, 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 
At  length  't  is  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play : 
Fresh  o'er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep, 
And  shake  the  neighboring  wood  to  banish  sleep. 
Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call : 
An  early  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall; 
Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  grac'd, 
Which  the  kind  master  forc'd  the  guests  to  taste. 


THE  HERMIT.  39 

Then,  pleas'd  and  thankful,  from  the  porch  they  go; 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe : 
His  cup  was  vanish'd ;  for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloin'd  the  glittering  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way, 
Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 
Disorder' d  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near 
Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear, 
So  seem'd  the  sire ;  when  far  upon  the  road, 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show'd. 
He  stop'd  with  silence,  walk'd  with  trembling  heart, 
And  much  he  wish'd,  but  durst  not  ask  to  part: 
Murmuring  he  lifts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard, 
That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  Sun  his  glory  shrouds, 

The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable  clouds; 

A  sound  in  air  presag'd  approaching  rain, 

And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 

Warn'd  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair  retreat, 

To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighboring  seat. 

'T  was  built  with  turrets  on  a  rising  ground, 

And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimprov'd  around; 

Its  owner's  temper,  timorous  and  severe, 

Unkind  and  griping,  caus'd  a  desert  there. 
As  near  the  miser's  heavy  doors  they  drew, 

Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew ; 

The  nimble  lightning  mix'd  with  showers  began, 

And  o'er  their  heads  loud  rolling  thunders  ran. 

Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in  vain, 

Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter'd  by  the  rain. 

At  length  some  pity  warm'd  the  master's  breast, 

C'T  was  then  his  threshold  first  received  a  guest) ; 

Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care, 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair; 

One  frugal  fagot  lights  the  naked  walls, 

And  Nature's  fervor  through  their  limbs  recalls : 

Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager  wine, 


4  o  SINGLE  FAHO  US  P  OEMS. 

(Each  hardly  granted)  serv'd  them  both  to  dine , 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appeared  to  cease, 
A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 

With  still  remark  the  pondering  hermit  view'd, 
In  one  so  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude ; 
"And  why  should  such,"  within  himself  he  cried, 
"Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  beside ? " 
But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  take  place, 
In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face ; 
When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
That  cup,  the  generous  landlord  own'd  before, 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul. 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly ! 
The  Sun  emerging  opes  an  azure  sky ; 
A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 
And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day : 
The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  retreat, 
And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

While  hence  they  walk,  the  pilgrim's  bosom  wrcught 
With  all  the  travail  of  uncertain  thought ; 
His  partner's  acts  without  their  cause  appear, 
'T  was  there  a  vice,  and  seem'd  a  madness  here : 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes, 
Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 

Now  Night's  dim  shades  again  involve  the  sky, 
Again  the  wanderers  want  a  place  to  lie, 
Again  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging  nigh, 
The  soil  improv'd  around,  the  mansion  neat, 
And  neither  poorly  low,  nor  idly  great : 
It  seem'd  to  speak  its  master's  turn  of  mind, 
Content,  and  not  to  praise,  but  virtue  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet, 
Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet : 
Their  greeting  fair,  bestow'd  with  modest  guise, 
The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies : 

"  Without  a  vain,  without  a  grudging  heart, 


THE  HERMIT.  4 1 

To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part; 

From  him  you  come,  for  him  accept  it  here, 

A.  frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer." 

He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 

Then  talk  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed, 

When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall  repair, 

Warn'd  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  prayer. 

At  length  the  world,  renew'd  by  calm  repose, 
Was  strong  for  toil,  the  dappled  Morn  arose ; 
Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Near  the  clos'd  cradle  where  an  infant  slept, 
And  writh'd  his  neck :  the  landlord's  little  pride, 
0  strange  return !  grew  black,  and  gasp'd,  and  died. 
Horror  of  horrors !  what !  his  only  son ! 
How  look'd  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was  done ; 
Not  Hell,  though  Hell's  black  jaws  in  sunder  part, 
And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault  his  heart. 

Confus'd,  and  struck  with  silence  at  the  deed, 
He  flies,  but  trembling,  fails  to  fly  with  speed. 
His  steps  the  youth  pursues ;  the  country  lay 
Perplex'd  with  roads,  a  servant  show'd  the  way : 
A  river  cross'd  the  path ;  the  passage  o'er 
Was  nice  to  find ;  the  servant  trod  before ; 
Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  supplied, ' 
And  deep  the  waves  beneath  them  bending  glide. 
The  youth,  who  seem'd  to  watch  a  time  to  sin, 
Approach'd  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust  him  in : 
Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head, 
Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 

Wild,  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father's  eyes, 
He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries, 
Detested  wretch  !  " — But  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seem'd  no  longer  man : 
His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet ; 
His  robe  turn'd  white,  and  flow'd  upon  his  feet ; 
Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair; 
Celestial  odors  breathe  through  purpled  air ; 


42  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  wings,  whose  colors  glitter'd  on  the  day, 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display. 
The  form  ethereal  burst  upon  his  sight, 
And  moved  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim's  passion  grew, 
Sudden  he  gaz'd,  and  wist  not  what  to  do; 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke 
(The  voice  of  music  ravish'd  as  he  spoke). 

"  Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice  unknown, 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne : 
These  charms  success  in  our  bright  region  find 
And  force  an  angel  down,  to  calm  thy  mind ; 
For  this,  commissioned,  I  forsook  the  sky, 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  I. 

"  Then  know  the  truth  of  government  divine, 
And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 

"  The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made, 
In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid ; 
Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends : 
'T  is  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye, 
The  power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high, 
Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will, 
And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 

11  What  strange  events  can  strike  with  more  surprise 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering  eyes  ? 
Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  th'  Almighty  just, 
And  where  you  can't  unriddle,  learn  to  trust! 

"  The  great,  vain  man,  who  far'd  on  costly  food, 
Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good ; 
Who  made  his  ivory  stands  with  goblets  shine, 
And  forc'd  his  guests  to  morning  draughts  of  wine, 
Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost, 
And  still  he  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 

"  The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted  door 


THE  HERMIT.  43 

Ne'er  mov'd  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor  ; 
With  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be  kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the  bowl, 
And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead, 
With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  his  head ; 
In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow, 
And  loose  from  dross  the  silver  runs  below. 
"  Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod, 
But  now  the  child  half -weaned  his  heart  from  God ; 
(Child  of  his  age)  for  him  he  liv'd  in  pain, 
And  measured  back  his  steps  to  Earth  again. 
To  what  excesses  had  his  dotage  run  ? 
But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 
To  all  but  thee,  in  fits  he  seem'd  to  go, 
(And  't  was  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow,) 
The  poor  fond  parent,  humbled  in  the  dust, 
Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just 

"But  now  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a  wrack, 
Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back  • 
This  night  his  treasur'd  heaps  he  meant  to  steal, 
And  what  a  fund  of  charity  would  fail ! 
Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind :  this  trial  o'er, 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more." 

On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  withdrew, 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  flew. 
Thus  look'd  Elisha  when,  to  mount  on  high, 
His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky; 
The  fiery  pomp  ascending  left  to  view  ; 
The  prophet  gazed,  and  wish'd  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  hermit  here  a  prayer  begun, 
'Lord!  as  in  Heaven,  on  Earth  thy  will  be  done." 
Then  gladly  turning  sought  his  ancient  place, 
And  passed  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 

Thomas  Parnell. 


44  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

<&n  tf)e  prospect  of  Wanting  &tt3  an*  fLeanu'ng 
Cn  America. 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme, 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 

Producing  subjects  worthy  fame ; 

In  happy  climes,  where  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue, 

The  force  of  art  by  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true ; 

In  happy  climes  the  seat  of  innocence, 
Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules, 

Where  men  shall  not  impose,  for  truth  and  sense, 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools. 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  uprising  epic  rage, 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay ; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay, 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way ; 

The  first  four  acts  already  past, 
The  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day ; 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 

George  Berkeley 


Salig  tn  our  mu$. 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart, 
There  's  none  like  Pretty  Sally ; 


SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY.  45 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  's  ne'er  a  lady  in  the  land 

That  's  half  so  sweet  as  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  them  ; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  them  : 
But  sure  such  folk  can  have  no  part 

In  such  a  girl  as  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely ; 
My  master  comes,  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely  : 
But  let  him  bang,  long  as  he  will, 

I  '11  bear  it  all  for  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  clays  are  in  the  week, 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day, 
And  that 's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday ; 
For  then  I  'm  dressed,  all  in  my  best, 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed, 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch, 

Soon  as  the  text  is  named : 
4* 


46  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

I  leave  the  church  in  sermon  time, 

And  slink  away  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 

0  then  I  shall  have  money ; 

I  '11  hoard  it  up  and,  box  and  all, 

1  '11  give  it  to  my  honey ; 

Oh  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pounds, 

I  'd  give  it  all  to  Sally  j 
For  she  's  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master,  and  the  neighbors  all, 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And  but  for  her  I  'd  better  be 

A  slave,  and  row  a  galley : 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out, 

0  then  I  '11  marry  Sally, 
And  then  how  happily  we  '11  live — 

But  not  in  our  alley. 

Henry  Carey 

(Sltortsat  Jgfll. 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye, 
Who  the  purple  evening  he 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man ; 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 
While  the  yellow  linnet  sings ; 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale  ;— 
Come,  with  all  thy  various  dues. 
Come  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse ; 
Now,  while  Phoebus  riding  high, 
Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky  I 


GRONGAB  IIILL.  4? 

Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song, 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong ; 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 

Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells; 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made, 

So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill, 

Sate  upon  a  flowery  bed, 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head ; 

While  stray'd  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 

Over  mead  and  over  wood, 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 

Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  chequer'd  sides  I  wind, 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I  lay, 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day ; 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal ; 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height, 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise : 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 
And  sinks  the  newly  risen  hill. 

Now,  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landscape  lies  below ! 
ISTo  clouds,  no  vapors  intervene; 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  Nature  show, 
In  all  the  hues  of  Heaven's  bow! 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 


48  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

Proudly  towering  in  the  skies ! 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires  1 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads ! 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks ! 

Below  me  trees  unnumber'd  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beach,  the  sable  yew, 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  bougha 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye ! 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood, 
His  sides  are  cloth' d  with  waving  wood, 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below  ; 
AVhose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps ; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
In  mutual  dependence  find. 
'T  is  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode : 
'T  is  now  the  apartment  of  the  toad ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds ; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 
Conceal'd  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  moulder'd  walls. 
Yet  Time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low, 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow, 
Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 


QRONGAB  BILL.  49 

Big  with  the  vanity  of  state ; 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate  I 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day, 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run, 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow, 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Like  human  life,  to  endless  sleep ! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought, 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay, 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  viewl 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow, 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low ; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky ! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruin'd  tower, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower  ; 
The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 
Each  gives  each  a  double  charm, 
As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide ; 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie ! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye  I 
A  step  methinks  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem ; 
So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face, 
Ey'd  through  Hope's  deluding  glass; 
As  yon  summit  soft  and  fair, 


5  0  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Clad  in  colors  of  the  air, 
"Which  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear, 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 
The  present  's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

0  may  I  with  myself  agree, 
And  never  covet  what  I  see  ; 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tam'd,  my  wishes  laid ; 
For,  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 
'T  is  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air, 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain- turf  I  lie ; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep ; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep ; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts ;  be  great  who  will, 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there ; 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care  1 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads,  and  mountain-heads, 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side  ; 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill, 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still, 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

John  Dyeb. 


A  SOLILOQUY.  5] 

&  Soittoqug. 

OCCASIONED   BY    THE    CHIRPING    OF   A   GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy  insect  I  ever  blest 
With  a  more  than  mortal  rest, 
Rosy  dews  the  leaves  among, 
Humble  joys,  and  gentle  songl 
Wretched  poet !  ever  curst 
With  a  life  of  lives  the  worst, 
Sad  despondence,  restless  fears, 
Endless  jealousies  and  tears. 

In  the  burning  summer  thou 
Warblest  on  the  verdant  bough, 
Meditating  cheerful  play, 
Mindless  of  the  piercing  -ray ; 
Scorched  in  Cupid's  fervors,  I 
Ever  weep  and  ever  die. 

Proud  to  gratify  thy  will, 
Eeady  Nature  waits  thee  still ; 
Balmy  wines  to  thee  she  pours, 
Weeping  through  the  dewy  flowers 
Rich  as  those  by  Hebe  given 
To  the  thirsty  sons  of  heaven. 

Yet  alas,  we  both  agree. 
Miserable  thou  like  me  ! 
Each,  alike,  in  youth  rehearses 
G-entle  strains  and  tender  verses  • 
Ever  wandering  far  from  home, 
Mindless  of  the  days  to  come 
(Such  as  aged  Winter  brings 
Trembling  on  his  icy  wings), 
Both  alike  at  last  we  die ; 
Thou  art  starved,  and  so  am  I ! 

Walter  Harts. 


52  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Ci)e  IStaeg  of  ¥artoto. 

"  Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bride ! 
Busk  ye,   busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  ! 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bride, 
And  think  nae  mair  of  the  braes  of  Yarrow." 

"  Where  got  ye  that  bonnie,  bonnie  bride, 
Where  got  ye  that  winsome  marrow  ?  " 

"  I  got  her  where  I  daurna  weel  be  seen, 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

"  Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bride, 
Weep  not,  weep  not,  my  winsome  marrow ! 
Nor  let  thy  heart  lament  to  leave 

Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow." 

1  Why  does  she  weep,  thy  bonnie,  bonnie  bride  ? 
Why  does  she  weep,  thy  winsome  marrow  ? 
And  why  daur  ye  nae  mair  weel  be  seen 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow  ?  " 

"Lang  maun  she  weep,  lang  maun  she,  maun  she  weep-- 
Lang  maun  she  weep  wi'  dule  and  sorrow ; 
And  lang  maun  I  nae  mair  weel  be  seen 
Pu'ing  the  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

"  For  she  has  tint  her  lover,  lover  dear — 
Her  lover  dear,  the  cause  of  sorrow  ; 
And  I  hae  slain  the  comeliest  swain 

That  e'er  pu'd  birks  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

"Why  runs  thy  stream,  0  Yarrow,  Yarrow,  red? 
Why  on  thy  braes  heard  the  voice  of  sorrow  ? 
And  why  yon  melancholious  weeds 
Hung  on  the  bonnie  birks  of  Yarrow  ? 


THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW.  53 

"  What 's  yonder  floats  on  the  rueful,  rueful  flood  ? 
What 's  yonder  floats  ? — Oh,  dule  and  sorrow ! 
'T  is  he,  the  comely  swain  I  slew 
Upon  the  dulefu'  braes  of  Yarrow. 

"Wash,  oh,  wash  his  wounds,  his  wounds  in  tears, 
His  wounds  in  tears  o'  dule  and  sorrow ; 
And  wrap  his  limbs  in  mourning  weeds, 
And  lay  him  on  the  banks  of  Yarrow. 

11  Then  build,  then  build,  ye  sisters,  sisters  sad, 
Ye  sisters  sad,  his  tomb  wi'  sorrow ; 
And  weep  around,  in  waeful  wise, 

His  hapless  fate  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow  I 

"  Curse  ye,  curse  ye,  his  useless,  useless  shield, 
The  arm  that  wrought  the  deed  of  sorrow, 
The  fatal  spear  that  pierced  his  breast, 

His  comely  breast,  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow  I 

"  Did  I  not  warn  thee  not  to,  not  to  love, 

And  warn  from  fight  ?     But,  to  my  sorrow, 
Too  rashly  bold,  a  stronger  arm  thou  met'st, 
Thou  met'st,  and  fell  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow. 

Sweet  smells  the  birk ;  green  grows,  green  grows  the  grass , 

Yellow  on  Yarrow's  braes  the  go  wan  j 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock ; 

Sweet  the  wave  of  Yarrow  flowing ! 

"  Flows  Yarrow  sweet  ?    As  sweet,  as  sweet  flows  Tweed ; 
As  green  its  grass ;  its  gowan  as  yellow ; 
As  sweet  smells  on  its  braes  the  birk; 
The  apple  from  its  rocks  as  mellow  1 

u  Fair  was  thy  love !  fair,  fair  indeed  thy  love ! 
In  flowery  bands  thou  didst  him  fetter ; 


5  4  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Though  he  was  fair,  and  well-beloved  again, 
Than  I  he  never  loved  thee  better. 

11  Busk  ye,  then,  busk,  my  bonnie,  bonnie  bride  I 
Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  marrow  I 
Busk  ye,  and  lo'e  me  on  the  banks  of  Tweed 
And  think  nae  mair  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow." 

"  How  can  I  busk  a  bonnie,  bonnie  bride  ? 
How  can  I  busk  a  winsome  marrow  ? 
How  can  I  lo'e  him  on  the  banks  of  Tweed, 
That  slew  my  love  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow  ? 

"  Oh  Yarrow  fields,  may  never,  never  rain, 
Nor  dew,  thy  tender  blossoms  cover  1 
For  there  was  basely  slain  my  love, 
My  love,  as  he  had  not  been  a  lover. 

"  The  boy  put  on  his  robes,  his  robes  of  green, 
His  purple  vest — 't  was  my  ain  sewing; 
Ah,  wretched  me !  I  little,  little  kenned 
He  was,  in  these,  to  meet  his  ruin. 

"  The  boy  took  out  his  milk-white,  milk-white  steed, 
Unmindful  of  my  dule  and  sorrow ; 
But  ere  the  too  fa'  of  the  night, 

He  lay  a  corpse  on  the  banks  of  Yarrow  I 

u  Much  I  rejoiced  that  waef u',  waefu'  day ; 
I  sang,  my  voice  the  woods  returning ; 
But  lang  ere  night  the  spear  was  flown 
That  slew  my  love,  and  left  me  mourning. 

"  What  can  my  barbarous,  barbarous  father  do, 
But  with  his  cruel  rage  pursue  me  ? 
My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear — 

How  canst  thou,  barbarous  man,  then  woo  me? 


THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW.  55 

"  My  happy  sisters  may  be,  may  be  proud ; 
With  cruel  and  ungentle  scoffing 
May  bid  me  seek,  on  Yarrow  braes, 
My  lover  nailed  in  his  coffin. 

"My  brother  Douglas  may  upbraid, 

And  strive,  with  threatening  words,  to  move  me ; 
My  lover's  blood  is  on  thy  spear — 

How  canst  thou  ever  bid  me  love  thee  ? 

"  Yes,  yes,  prepare  the  bed,  the  bed  of  love  1 
With  bridal-sheets  my  body  cover ! 
Unbar,  ye  bridal-maids,  the  door ! 
Let  in  the  expected  husband-lover ! 

11  But  who  the  expected  husband,  husband  is  ? 
His  hands,  methinks,  are  bathed  in  slaughter  I 
Ah  me !  what  ghastly  spectre  's  yon 

Comes  in  his  pale  shroud,  bleeding  after  ? 

"  Pale  as  he  is,  here  lay  him,  lay  him  down ; 
Oh  lay  his  cold  head  on  my  pillow  1 
Take  off,  take  off  these  bridal  weeds, 

And  crown  my  careful  head  with  willow. 

"  Pale  though  thou  art,  yet  best,  yet  best  beloved, 
Oh  could  my  warmth  to  life  restore  thee  1 
Yet  lie  all  night  within  my  arms — 
No  youth  lay  ever  there  before  thee  I 

"  Pale,  pale  indeed,  0  lovely,  lovely  youth! 
Forgive,  forgive  so  foul  a  slaughter, 
And  lie  all  night  within  my  arms, 
No  youth  shall  ever  lie  there  after !  " 

"  Return,  return,  0  mournful,  mournful  bride  1 
Return,  and  dry  thy  useless  sorrow  I 


56  SIXGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Thy  lover  heeds  nought  of  thy  sighs ; 

He  lies  a  corpse  on  the  braes  of  Yarrow." 

William  Hamilton. 


Cfje  ScfiooUiHfetregs. 

Ah  me !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn, 
To  think  how  modest  Worth  neglected  lies, 
While  partial  Fame  doth  with  her  blast  adorn 
Such  deeds  alone,  as  pride  and  pomp  disguise ; 
Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprise : 
Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess !  let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  Merit,  ere  it  dies, 
Such  as  I  oft  have  chaunced  to  espy, 
Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  Obscurity. 

In  every  village  mark'd  with  little  spire, 
Embower' d  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to  Fame, 
There  dwells  in  lowly  shed,  and  mean  attire, 
A  matron  old,  whom  we  School-mistress  name, 
Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame ; 
They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Aw'd  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame 
And  oft-times,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconn'd,  are  sorely  shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree 
Which  Learning  near  her  little  dome  did  stowe 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 
Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe ; 
For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that  blew, 
But  their  limbs  shudder' d,  and  their  pulse  beat  low ; 
And  as  they  look'd  they  found  their  horror  grew, 
And  shap'd  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view. 

So  have  I  seen  (who  has  not,  may  conceive) 
A  lifeless  phantom  near  a  garden  plac'd ; 


TEE  80HO OL-Mm THE-  X  57 

So  doth  it  "wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave, 
Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast  ; 
They  start,  they  stare,  they  wheel,  they  look  aghast ; 
Sad  servitude  !  such  comfortless  annoy 
May  no  bold  Britons  riper  age  e'er  taste ! 
Ne  superstition  clog  his  dance  of  joy, 
No  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss  destroy. 

Xear  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch  so  green, 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display, 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning-board  is  seen, 
Lest  -weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should  stray ; 
Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day ! 
The  noises  intermix'd,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  Learning's  little  tenement  betray  ; 
Where  sits  the  dame,  disguis'd  in  look  profound, 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield : 
Her  apron  dy'd  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trow, 
As  is  the  hare-bell  that  adorns  the  field  : 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays;  with  anxious  fear  entwin'd, 
With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  fill'd : 
And  stedfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  join'd, 
And  fury  uncontroll'd,  and  chastisement  unkind. 

Few  but  have  kenn'd,  in  semblance  meet  portray  d, 
The  childish  faces  of  old  Eol's  train ; 
Libs,  Xotus.  Auster:  these  in  frowns  array' J, 
How  then  would  fare  or  Earth,  or  Sky,  or  Main, 
Were  the  stern  god  to  give  his  slaves  the  rein  ? 
And  were  not  she  rebellious  breasts  to  quell, 
And  were  not  she  her  statutes  to  maintain, 
The  cot  no  more,  I  ween,  were  deem'd  the  cell, 
Where  comely  peace  of  mind,  and  decent  order  dwell. 


58  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown ; 
A  russet  kirtle  fenc'd  the  nipping  air ; 
'T  was  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own ; 
'T  was  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair  I 
'T  was  her  own  labor  did  the  fleece  prepare ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  rang'd  around, 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing  rare ; 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight  on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear; 
Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n'aunt,  forsooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear ; 
Yet  these  she  challeng'd,  these  she  held  right  dear : 
Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove, 
Who  should  not  honor'd  eld  with  these  revere : 
For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame ; 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  impell'd  by  need, 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came ! 
Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment  claim : 
And,  if  Neglect  had  lavish'd  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same, 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she  found. 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could  speak 
That  in  her  garden  sipp'd  the  silvery  dew ; 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclos'd  a  gaudy  streak ; 
But  herbs  for  use,  and  physic,  not  a  few, 
Of  gray  renown,  within  those  borders  grew: 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 
Fresh  baum,  and  marigold  of  cheerful  hue : 


THE  SCHOOL- MISTBESS.  59 

The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb ; 
And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung, 
That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues  around ; 
And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant's  tongue ; 
And  plantain  ribb'd,  that  heals  the  reaper's  wound, 
And  marjoram  sweet,  in  shepherd's  posie  found ; 
And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  be,  erewhile,  in  arid  bundles  bound, 
To  lurk  amidst  the  labors  of  her  loom, 
And  crown  her  kerchiefs  clean,  with  mickle  rare  perfume. 

And  here  trim  rosemarine,  that  whilom  crown'd 
The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest  peer ; 
Ere,  driven  from  its  envied  site,  it  found 
A  sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here  ; 
Where  edg'd  with  gold  its  glittering  skirts  appear. 
Oh  wassal  days !  Oh  customs  meet  and  well ! 
Ere  this  was  banish' d  from  his  lofty  sphere: 
Simplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell, 
Nor  ever  would  she  more  with  thane  and  lordling  dwell. 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath's  decent  eve, 
Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did  mete. 
If  winter  't  were,  she  to  her  hearth  did  cleave, 
But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer-seat ; 
Sweet  melody !  to  hear  her  then  repete 
How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king, 
While  taunting  foemen  did  a  song  entreat, 
All,  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every  string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had  they  to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore, 
And  pass'd  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed ; 
And  in  those  elfins'  ears  would  oft  deplore 
The  times  when  Truth  by  Popish  rage  did  bleed, 


60  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  tortious  death  was  true  Devotion's  meed ; 
And  simple  Faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 
That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed ; 
And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did  burn : 
Ah!  dearest  Lord,  forefend,  thilk  days  should  e'er  return 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem 
By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  defac'd, 
In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem, 
Our  soverign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is  plac'd, 
The  matron  sate;  and  some  with  rank  she  grac'd 
(The  source  of  children's  and  of  courtiers'  pride !  ) 
Eedress'd  affronts,  for  vile  affronts  there  pass'd; 
And  warn'd  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride, 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  betide. 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry ; 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to  raise ; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of  praise, 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  'frays : 
E'en  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold, 
While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she  sways: 
Forewarn'd,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 
'T  will  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene  unfold. 

Lo  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command ! 
Ef tsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair  ; 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in  hand, 
Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are, 
To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair : 
The  work  so  gay  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  G-eorge's  high  achievements  does  declare ; 
On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 
Kens  the  forthcoming  rod,  unpleasing  sight,  I  ween  I 

Ah  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star !  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write : 


THE  SCHOOL-MISTRESS.  61 

As  erst  the  bard  *  by  Mulla's  silver  stream, 
Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sigh'd  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 
For  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling's  late  delight  1 
And  down  they  drop  ;  appears  his  dainty  skin, 
Fair  as  the  furry-coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

0  ruthful  scene !  when  from  a  nook  obscure, 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see : 
All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure ; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee : 
She  meditates  a  prayer  to  set  him  free : 
Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree) 
To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could  die. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command ; 
And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful  fear, 
To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous  hand, 
To  stay  harsh  Justice  in  its  mid  career. 
On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  parent  dear ! 
(Ah !  too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow !) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 
And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow ; 
And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe. 

But  ah!  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may  trace? 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain  ? 

The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  ? 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain  ? 

The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek  distain  ? 

When  he,  in  abject  wise,  implores  the  dame, 

Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain ; 

*  Spenser. 


62  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim, 
And,  through  the  thatch,  his  cries  each  falling  stroke  pro- 
claim. 

The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay, 
Attend,  and  con  their  tasks  with  mickle  care : 
By  turns,  astonied,  every  twig  survey, 
And,  from  their  fellow's  hateful  wounds,  beware, 
Knowing,  I  wist,  how  each  the  same  may  share, 
Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance  meet, 
And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  repair  ; 
Whence  oft  with  sugar' d  cates  she  doth  them  greet, 
And  ginger-bread  y-rare ;  now  certes,  doubly  sweet. 

See  to  their  seats  they  hie  with  merry  glee, 
And  in  beseemly  order  sitten  there ; 
All  but  the  wight  of  bum  y-galled,  he 
Abhorreth  bench,  and  stool,  and  form,  and  chair ; 
(This  hand  in  mouth  y-fix'd,  that  rends  his  hair ;) 
And  eke  with  snubs  profound,  and  heaving  breast, 
Convulsions  intermitting !  does  declare 
His  grievous  wrong;  his  dame's  unjust  behest; 
And  scorns  her  offer'd  love,  and  shuns  to  be  caress'd. 

His  face  besprent  with  liquid  crystal  shines, 
His  blooming  face  that  seems  a  purple  flower, 
Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  declines, 
All  smear'd  and  sullied  by  a  vernal  shower. 
0  the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  power ! 
All,  all,  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 
All,  all,  but  she,  regret  this  mournful  hour  ; 
Yet  hence  the  youth  and  hence  the  flower  shall  claim, 
If  so  I  deem  aright,  transcending  worth  and  fame. 

Behind  some  door,  in  melancholy  thought, 
Mindless  of  food,  he,  dreary  caitiff!  pines, 
Ne  for  his  fellows'  joyaunce  careth  aught, 
But  to  the  wind  all  merriment  resigns; 


THE  SCHOOLMISTRESS.  63 

And  deems  it  shame,  if  he  to  peace  inclines : 
And  many  a  sullen  look  askance  is  sent, 
Which  for  his  dame's  annoyance  he  designs ; 
And  still  the  more  to  pleasure  him  she  's  bent, 
The  more  doth  he,  perverse,  her  havior  past  resent. 


Ah  me !  how  much  I  fear  lest  pride  it  be ! 
But  if  that  pride  it  be,  which  thus  inspires, 
Beware,  ye  dames,  with  nice  discernment  see 
Ye  quench  not  too  the  sparks  of  nobler  fires : 
Ah !  better  far  than  all  the  Muses'  lyres, 
All  coward  arts,  is  Valor's  generous  heat; 
The  firm  fixt  breast  which  fit  and  right  requires, 
Like  Vernon's  patriot  soul !  more  justly  great 
Than  Craft  that  pimps  for  ill,  or  flowery  false  Deceit. 

Yet  nurs'd  with  skill,  what  dazzling  fruits  appear ! 
E'en  now  sagacious  Foresight  points  to  show 
A  little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here, 
And  there  a  chancellor  in  embryo, 
Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  may  e'er  be  so, 
As  Milton,  Shakespeare,  names  that  ne'er  shall  die ! 
Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground  so  low, 
Nor  weeting  how  the  Muse  should  soar  on  high, 
Wisheth,  poor  starveling  elf  1  his  paper  kite  may  fly. 

And  this  perhaps,  who,  censuring  the  design, 
Low  lays  the  house  which  that  of  cards  doth  build, 
Shall  Dennis  be !  if  rigid  Fate  incline, 
And  many  an  epic  to  his  rage  shall  yield ; 
And  many  a  poet  quit  th'  Aonian  field; 
And,  sour'd  by  age,  profound  he  shall  appear, 
As  he  who  now  with  'sdainful  fury  thrilled 
Surveys  mine  work;  and  levels  many  a  sneer, 
A.nd  furls  his  wrinkly  front,   and  cries,  "What  stuff  is 
here  ?  " 


64  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

But  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  skie, 
And  Liberty  unbars  her  prison-door ; 
And  like  a  rushing  torrent  out  they  fly, 
And  now  the  grassy  cirque  had  covered  o'er, 
With  boi  sterous  revel-rout  and  wild  uproar  ; 
A  thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run, 
Heaven  shield  their  short-liv'd  pastime,  I  implore! 
For  well  may  Freedom  erst  so  dearly  won, 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than  the  Sun. 

Enjoy,  poor  imps !  enjoy  your  sportive  trade, 
And  chase  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest  flowers ; 
For  when  my  bones  in  grass-green  sods  are  laid, 
0  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles,  or  in  ladies'  bowers. 
0  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing ! 
But  most  in  courts  where  proud  Ambition  towers ; 
Deluded  wight !  who  weens  fair  Peace  can  spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of  king. 

See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear  1 
These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay ; 
Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund  leer 
Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way ; 
Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay  ; 
Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses  bend, 
With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck  and  drake  to  play ; 
Thilk  to  the  huxter's  savory  cottage  tend, 
In  pastry  kings  and  queens  th'  allotted  mite  to  spend. 

Here,  as  each  season  yields  a  different  store, 
Each  season's  stores  in  order  ranged  been ; 
Apples  with  cabbage-net  y-covered  o'er, 
Galling  full  sore  th'  unmoney'd  wight,  are  seen ; 
And  goose- b'rie  clad  in  livery  red  or  green; 
And  here  cf  lovely  dye,  the  Catharine  pear, 
Fine  pear !  as  lovely  for  thy  juice,  I  ween : 


THE  CHAMELEON.  65 

0  may  no  wight  e'er  penniless  come  there, 
Lest  smit  with  ardent  love  he  pine  with  hopeless  care  ! 

See  I  cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 
With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies  tied, 
Scattering  like  blooming  maid  their  glances  round, 
With  pamper'd  look  draw  little  eyes  aside; 
And  must  be  bought,  though  penury  betide. 
The  plume  all  azure,  and  the  nut  all  brown, 
And  here  each  season  do  those  cakes  abide, 
Whose  honored  names*  th'  inventive  city  own, 
Rendering  through  Britain's  isle  Salopia's  praises  known; 

Admir'd  Salopia!  that  with  venial  pride 
Eyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn's  ambient  wave, 
Famed  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  tried, 
Her  daughters  lovely,  and  her  striplings  brave : 
Ah !  'midst  the  rest,  may  flowers  adorn  his  grave 
Whose  heart  did  first  these  dulcet  cates  display ! 
A  motive  fair  to  Learning's  imps  he  gave, 
Who  cheerless  o'er  her  darkling  region  stray ; 
Till  Reason's  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on  their  way. 

William  Shenstone. 


Cf)e  (ftfjameleon. 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark 
A  proud,  conceited,  talking  spark, 
With  eyes,  that  hardly  served  at  most 
To  guard  their  master  'gainst  a  post, 
Yet  round  the  world  the  blade  has  been 
To  see  whatever  could  be  seen, 
Returning  from  his  finished  tour, 
Grown  ten  times  perter  than  before ; 
Whatever  word  you  chance  to  drop, 
The  traveled  fool  your  mouth  will  stop ; 

*  Shrewsbury  cakes. 


66  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P OEMS. 

"  Sir,  if  my  judgment  you  '11  allow, 
I  've  seen — and  sure  I  ought  to  know," 
So  begs  you  'd  pay  a  due  submission, 
And  acquiesce  in  his  decision. 

Two  travelers  of  such  a  cast, 
As  o'er  Arabia's  wilds  they  passed, 
And  on  their  way  in  friendly  chat, 
Now  talked  of  this,  and  then  of  that, 
Discoursed  awhile,  'mongst  other  matter, 
Of  the  chameleon's  form  and  nature. 
"A  stranger  animal,"  cries  one, 
"  Sure  never  lived  beneath  the  sun. 
A  lizard's  body,  lean  and  long, 
A  fish's  head,  a  serpent's  tongue, 
Its  foot  with  triple  claw  disjoined  ; 
And  what  a  length  of  tail  behind! 
How  slow  its  pace ;  and  then  its  hue — 
Who  ever  saw  so  fine  a  blue  ?  " 

"  Hold,  there,"  the  other  quick  replies, 
"  'T  is  green,  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes, 
As  late  with  open  mouth  it  lay, 
And  warmed  it  in  the  sunny  ray : 
Stretched  at  its  ease,  the  beast  I  viewed 
And  saw  it  eat  the  air  for  food." 
"  I  've  seen  it,  sir,  as  well  as  you, 
And  must  again  affirm  it  blue ; 
At  leisure  I  the  beast  surveyed, 
Extended  in  the  cooling  shade." 
"  'T  is  green,  't  is  green,  sir,  I  assure  ye  I  " 
"  Green !  "  cries  the  other  in  a  fury — 
"Why,  sir!— d'  ye  think  I  've  lost  my  eyes? 
11  'T  were  no  great  loss,"  the  friend  replies, 
"  For,  if  they  always  serve  you  thus, 
You  '11  find  them  of  but  little  use." 


THE  CHAMELEON.  67 

So  high  at  last  the  contest  rose, 
From  words  they  almost  came  to  blows ; 
When  luckily  came  by  a  third — 
To  him  the  question  they  referred, 
Ani  begged  he  'd  tell  'em,  if  he  knew, 
Whether  the  thing  was  green  or  blue. 
"Sirs,"  cries  the  umpire,  "cease  your  pother! 
The  creature  's  neither  one  or  t'  other. 
I  caught  the  animal  last  night, 
And  viewed  it  o'er  by  candlelight : 
I  marked  it  well — 't  was  black  as  jet — 
You  stare — but,  sirs,  I  've  got  it  yet, 
And  can  produce  it."     "  Pray,  sir,  do : 
I  '11  lay  my  life  the  thing  is  blue." 
11  And  I  '11  be  sworn,  that  when  you  've  seen 
The  reptile,  you  '11  pronounce  him  green." 

"  Well,  then,  at  once  to  ease  the  doubt," 
Replies  the  man,  "  I  '11  turn  him  out : 
And  when  before  your  eyes  I've  set  him, 
If  you  don't  find  him  black,  I  '11  eat  him." 
He  said :  then  full  before  their  sight 
Produced  the  beast,  and  lo ! — 't  was  white. 

Both  stared,  the  man  looked  wondrous  wise — 
"My  children,"  the  chameleon  cries, 

(Then  first  the  creature  found  a  tongue), 
"  You  all  are  right,  and  all  are  wrong : 

When  next  you  talk  of  what  you  view, 

Think  others  see  as  well  as  you : 

Nor  wonder,  if  you  find  that  none 

Prefers  your  eyesight  to  his  own." 

James  Merrick. 


68  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

TOalg,  TOialg,  tut  Uobe  tie  ISonng. 

0  waly,  waly  up  the  bank, 

And  waly,  waly  down  the  brae, 
And  waly,  waly  yon  burn-side, 
Where  I  and  my  love  wont  to  gae. 

1  lean'd  my  back  unto  an  aik, 
And  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree, 

But  first  it  bow'd,  and  syne  it  brak', 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lightly  me. 

0  waly,  waly  but  love  be  bonny, 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new, 
But  when  't  is  auld  it  waxeth  cauld 

And  fades  away  like  morning  dew. 
Oh !  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  head  ? 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair  ? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he  '11  never  love  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-Seat  shall  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  fyled  by  me, 
Saint  Anton's  well  shall  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  love  's  forsaken  me. 
Martinmas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  off  the  tree  ? 
Oh,  gentle  death !  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  weary. 

'T  is  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blowing  snaw's  inclemency : 
'T  is  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 

But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town, 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see; 
My  love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

And  I  mysel'  in  cramasie. 


THE  TEARS  OF  SCOTLAND.  69 

But  had  I  wist  before  I  kiss'd 

That  love  had  been  so  ill  to  win, 
I  'd  lock'd  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gold, 

And  pinn'd  it  with  a  silver  pin. 
And  oh !  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 
And  I  mysel'  were  dead  and  gane, 

Wi'  the  green  grass  growing  over  me  I 

Anonymous. 

Cj&e  Ceaus  of  Scotland 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banish'd  peace,  thy  laurels  torn ! 
Thy  sons,  for  valor  long  renown'd, 
Lie  slaughter'd  on  their  native  ground ; 
Thy  hospitable  roofs  no  more 
Invite  the  stranger  to  the  door ; 
In  smoky  ruins  sunk  they  lie, 
The  monuments  of  cruelty. 

The  wretched  owner  sees  afar 
His  all  become  the  prey  of  war ; 
Bethinks  him  of  his  babes  and  wife 
Then  smites  his  breast,  and  curses  life. 
Thy  swains  are  famish'd  on  the  rocks, 
Where  once  they  fed  their  wanton  flocks: 
Thy  ravish'd  virgins  shriek  in  vain; 
Thy  infants  perish  on  the  plain. 

What  boots  it  then,  in  every  clime, 
Through  the  wide-spreading  waste  of  time, 
Thy  martial  glory,  crown'd  with  praise, 
Still  shone  with  undiminish'd  blaze  ? 
Thy  tow'ring  spirit  now  is  broke, 
Thy  neck  is  bended  to  the  yoke. 
What  foreign  arms  could  never  quell, 
By  civil  rage  and  rancor  fell 
6* 


70  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

The   rural  pipe  and  merry  lay- 
No  more  shall  cheer  the  happy  day : 
No  social  scenes  of  gay  delight 
Beguile  the  dreary  winter  night: 
No  strains  but  those  of  sorrow  flow, 
And  nought  be  heard  but  sounds  of  woe, 
While  the  pale  phantoms  of  the  slain 
Grlide  nightly  o'er  the  silent  plain. 

0  baneful  cause,    0  fatal  morn, 
Accurs'd  to  ages  yet  unborn ! 
The  sons  against  their  fathers  stood, 
The  parent  shed  his  children's  blood. 
Yet,  when  the  rage  of  battle  ceas'd, 
The  victor's  soul  was  not  appeas'd : 
The  naked  and  forlorn  must  feel 
Devouring  flames,  and  murd'ring  steel  I 

The  pious  mother  doom'd  to  death, 
Forsaken  wanders  o'er  the  heath, 
The  bleak  wind  whistles  round  her  head, 
Her  helpless  orphans  cry  for  bread ; 
Bereft  of  shelter,  food,  and  friend, 
She  views  the  shades  of  night  descend, 
And,  stretch'd  beneath  th'  inclement  skies, 
Weeps  o'er  her  tender  babes,  and  dies. 

While  the  warm  blood  bedews  my  veins, 
And  unimpair'd  remembrance  reigns, 
Resentment  of  my  country's  fate 
Within  my  filial  breast  shall  beat ; 
And,  spite  of  her  insulting  foe, 
My  sympathizing  verse  shall  flow : 
"Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia  mourn 
Thy  banish'd  peace  thy  laurels  torn !  " 

Tobias  Smollett. 


TEE  VICAR  OF  BRAY.  ^ 

Cje  Vicax  of  iStag. 

In  good  King  Charles's  golden  days, 

When  loyalty  no  harm  meant, 
A  zealous  high-churchman  was  I, 

And  so  I  got  preferment. 
To  teach  my  flock  I  never  missed : 

Kings  were  by  God  appointed, 
And  lost  are  those  that  dare  resist 
Or  touch  the  Lord's  anointed. 
And  this  is  law  that  Til  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 
That  whatsoever  King  shall  reign, 
SUM  I'll  he  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

When  royal  James  possessed  the  crown, 

And  popery  grew  in  fashion, 
The  penal  laws  I  hooted  down, 

And  read  the  declaration  ; 
The  church  of  Eome  I  found  would  fit 

Full  well  my  constitution ; 
And  I  had  been  a  Jesuit 

But  for  the  revolution. 

When  William  was  our  king  declared, 

To  ease  the  nation's  grievance ; 
With  this  new  wind  about  I  steered, 

And  swore  to  him  allegiance ; 
Old  principles  I  did  revoke, 

Set  conscience  at  a  distance ; 
Passive  obedience  was  a  joke, 

A  jest  was  non-resistance. 

When  royal  Anne  became  our  queen, 

The  church  of  England's  glory, 
Another  face  of  things  was  seen, 

And  I  became  a  Tory ; 


7  2  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Occasional  conformists  base, 

I  blamed  their  moderation ; 
And  thought  the  church  in  danger  was, 

By  such  prevarication. 

When  George  in  pudding-time  came  o  er, 

And  moderate  men  looked  big,  sir, 
My  principles  I  changed  once  more, 

And  so  became  a  Whig,  sir ; 
And  thus  preferment  I  procured 

From  our  new  faith's  defender ; 
And  almost  every  day  abjured 

The  pope  and  the  pretender. 

The  illustrious  house  of  Hanover, 

And  Protestant  succession, 
To  these  I  do  allegiance  swear — 

While  they  can  keep  possession : 
For  in  my  faith  and  loyalty 

I  nevermore  will  falter, 
And  George  my  lawful  king  shall  be — 
Until  the  times  do  alter. 

And  this  is  law  that  Fll  maintain 

Until  my  dying  day,  sir, 
That  whatsoever  king  shall  reign, 
Still  I'll  be  Vicar  of  Bray,  sir. 

Anonymous. 

CTumncu;  Jgall. 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall ; 

The  moon,  sweet  regent  of  the  sky, 
Silvered  the  Avails  of  Cumnor  Hall, 

And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Now  naught  was  heard  beneath  the  skiej», 
The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still, 


CUMNOR  HALL.  73 

Save  an  unhappy  lady's  sighs, 
That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

"  Leicester,"  she  cried,  "  is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  to  me, 
To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove, 
Immured  in  shameful  privity  ? 

"  No  more  thou  com'st  with  lover's  speed, 
Thy  once  beloved  bride  to  see  ; 
But  be  she  alive,  or  be  she  dead, 

I  fear,  stern  Earl,  's  the  same  to  thee. 

"  Not  so  the  usage  I  received 

When  happy  in  my  father's  hall ; 
No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved, 
No  chilling  fears  did  me  appal. 

"  I  rose  up  with  the  cheerful  morn, 

No  lark  more  blithe,  no  flower  more  gaj 
And  like  the  bird  that  haunts  the  thorn, 
So  merrily  sung  the  livelong  day. 

"  If  that  my  beauty  is  but  small, 
Among  court  ladies  all  despised, 
Why  didst  thou  rend  it  from  that  hall, 
Where,  scornful  Earl,  it  well  was  prized  ? 

"  And  when  you  first  to  me  made  suit, 
How  fair  I  was,  you  oft  would  say ! 
And  proud  of  conquest,  plucked  the  fruit, 
Then  left  the  blossom  to  decay. 

"Yes I  now  neglected  and  despised, 

The  rose  is  pale,  the  lily's  dead ; 
But  he  that  once  their  charms  so  prized, 

Is  sure  the  cause  those  charms  are  fled. 
7 


74  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

"  For  know,  when  sick'ning  grief  doth  prey, 
And  tender  love  's  repaid  with  scorn, 
The  sweetest  beauty  will  decay, — 
What  floweret  can  endure  the  storm? 

"  At  court,  I'm  told,  is  beauty's  throne, 
Where  every  lady  's  passing  rare, 
That  Eastern  flowers,  that  shame  the  sun, 
Are  not  so  glowing,  not  so  fair. 

11  Then,  Earl,  why  didst  thou  leave  the  beds 
Where  roses  and  where  lilies  vie, 
To  seek  a  primrose,  whose  pale  shades 
Must  sicken  when  those  gauds  are  by? 


"  'Mong  rural  beauties  I  was  one 


Among  the  fields  wild  flowers  are  fair ; 
Some  country  swain  might  me  have  won, 
And  thought  my  beauty  passing  rare. 

"  But,  Leicester,  (or  I  much  am  wrong,) 
Or  't  is  not  beauty  lures  thy  vows ; 
Rather  ambition's  gilded  crown 

Makes  thee  forget  thy  humble  spouse. 

"  Then,  Leicester,  why,  again  I  plead, 
(The  injured  surely  may  repine,) — 
Why  didst  thou  wed  a  country  maid, 
When  some  fair  princess  might  be  thine  ? 

"  Why  didst  thou  praise  my  humble  charms. 
And,  oh  1  then  leave  them  to  decay  ? 
Why  didst  thou  win  me  to  thy  arms, 
Then  leave  to  mourn  the  livelong  day  ? 

"  The  village  maidens  of  the  plain 
Salute  me  lowly  as  they  go ; 


CUMNOR  HALL.  75 

Envious  they  mark  my  silken  train, 
Nor  think  a  Countess  can  have  woe. 

u  The  simple  nymphs !  they  little  know 
How  far  more  happy  *g  their  estate ; 
To  smile  for  joy  than  sigh  for  woe — 
To  be  content — than  to  be  great. 

"  How  far  less  blest  am  I  than  them  ? 
Daily  to  pine  and  waste  with  care ! 
Like  the  poor  plant,  that,  from  its  stem 
Divided,  feels  the  chilling  air. 

"  Nor,  cruel  Earl !  can  I  enjoy 

The  humble  charms  of  solitude ; 
Your  minions  proud  my  peace  destroy, 
By  sullen  frowns  or  pratings  rude. 

"  Last  night,  as  sad  I  chanced  to  stray, 
The  village  death-bell  smote  my  ear; 
They  winked  aside,  and  seemed  to  say, 
1  Countess,  prepare,  thy  end  is  near.' 

"  And  now,  while  happy  peasants  sleep, 
Here  I  sit  lonely  and  forlorn ; 
No  one  to  soothe  me  as  I  weep, 
Save  Philomel  on  yonder  thorn. 

"My  spirits  flag — my  hopes  decay — 

Still  that  dread  death-bell  smites  my  ear, 
And  many  a  boding  seems  to  say, 
1  Countess,  prepare,  thy  end  is  near ! '  " 

Thus  sore  and  sad  that  lady  grieved, 

In  Cumnor  Hall  so  lone  and  drear, 
And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved, 

And  let  fall  many  a  bitter  tear. 


76  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared, 
In  Curanor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear, 

Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard. 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring, 
An  aerial  vo;ce  was  heard  to  call, 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapped  its  wing 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  HalL 

The  mastiff  howled  at  village  door, 
The  oaks  were  shattered  on  the  green  ; 

Woe  was  the  hour,  for  nevermore 
That  hapless  Countess  e'er  was  seen. 

And  in  that  manor  now  no  more 
Is  cheerful  feast  and  sprightly  ball ; 

For  ever  since  that  dreary  hour 
Have  spirits  haunted  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  village  maids,  with  fearful  glance, 
Avoid  the  ancient  moss-grown  wall, 

Nor  ever  lead  the  merry  dance, 
Among  the  groves  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

Full  many  a  traveler  oft  hath  sighed, 
And  pensive  wept  the  Countess'  fall, 

As  wandering  onward  they  've  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

William  Julius  Mickle. 


€i)e  Sailor's  WliU. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he  's  weel  ? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 

Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel. 


THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE.  77 

Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin 's  at  the  door  ? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I  '11  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there  's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There  's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There  's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman  's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop's  satin  gown ; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife 

That  Colin  's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockins  pearly  blue  ; 
It 's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he  's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw  ; 
It 's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he  's  been  lang  awa'. 

There  's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair ; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

G-ar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa'  ? 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 
His  breath  like  caller  air; 


7  8  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

His  very  foot  has  music  in  't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought— 

In  troth  I  'm  like  to  greet ! 

If  Colin  's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave ; 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I  'm  blest  aboon  the  lave. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I  'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought — 

In  troth  I  'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there  's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There  's  nae  luck  at  a' ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman  's  awa'. 


Jean  Ad*m. 


Cfte  Coper's  &poiogg. 

I  'm  often  ask'd  by  plodding  souls 

And  men  of  crafty  tongue, 
What  joy  I  take  in  draining  bowls, 

And  tippling  all  night  long. 
Now,  though  these  cautious  knaves  I  scorn, 

For  once  I  '11  not  disdain 
To  tell  them  why  I  sit  till  morn 

And  fill  my  glass  again. 

'T  is  by  the  glow  my  bumper  gives 

Life's  picture  's  mellow  made ; 
The  fading  light  then  brightly  lives, 

And  softly  sinks  the  shade ; 


THE  TOPER'S  APOLOGY.  79 

Some  happier  tint  still  rises  there 

With  every  drop  I  drain — 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

My  Muse,  too,  when  her  wings  are  dry, 

No  frolic  flight  will  take ; 
But  round  a  bowl  she  '11  dip  and  fly, 

Like  swallows  round  a  lake. 
Then  if  the  nymph  will  have  her  share 

Before  she  '11  bless  her  swain — 
Why  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

In  life  I  Ve  rung  all  changes  too, — 

Run  every  pleasure  down, — 
Tried  all  extremes  of  fancy  through, 

And  lived  with  half  the  town ; 
For  me  there  's  nothing  new  or  rare 

Till  wine  deceives  my  brain — 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

There  's  many  a  lad  I  knew  is  dead, 

And  many  a  lass  grown  old ; 
And  as  the  lesson  strikes  my  head, 

My  weary  heart  grows  cold. 
But  wine  awhile  drives  off  despair, 

Nay,  bids  a  hope  remain — 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

Then,  hipp'd  and  vex'd  at  England's  state 

In  these  convulsive  days, 
I  can't  endure  the  ruin'd  fate 

My  sober  eye  surveys ; 
But,  'mivlst  the  bottle's  dazzling  glare, 

I  see  the  gloom  less  plain — 


80  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 
To  fill  my  glass  again. 

I  find  too  when  I  stint  my  glass, 

And  sit  with  sober  air, 
I  'm  prosed  by  some  dull  reasoning  ass, 

Who  treads  the  path  of  care ; 
Or,  harder  tax'd,  I  'm  forced  to  bear 

Some  coxcomb's  fribbling  strain — 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

Nay,  do  n't  we  see  Love's  fetters,  too, 

With  different  holds  entwine  ? 
While  nought  but  death  can  some  undo, 

There  's  some  give  way  to  wine. 
With  me  the  lighter  head  I  wear 

The  lighter  hangs  the  chain — 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

And  now  I  '11  tell,  to  end  my  song, 

At  what  I  most  repine ; 
This  cursed  war,  or  right  or  wrong, 

Is  war  against  all  wine; 
Nay,  Port,  they  say,  will  soon  be  rare 

As  juice  of  France  or  Spain — 
And  that  I  think  's  a  reason  fair 

To  fill  my  glass  again. 

Charles  Morris, 

Cje  €f)tee  fflH  anting*. 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 
Least  willing  still  to  quit  the  ground : 
'T  was  therefore  said  by  ancient  sages, 
That  love  of  life  increased  with  years 
So  much,  that  in  our  later  stages, 


THE  THREE  WARNINGS.  81 

When  pains  grow  sharp,  and  sickness  rages, 

The  greatest  love  of  life  appears. 
This  great  affection  to  believe, 
Which  all  confess,  but  few  perceive, — 
If  old  assertions  can't  prevail, — 
Be  pleased  to  hear  a  modern  tale. 

When  sports  went  round,  and  all  were  gay, 
On  neighbor  Dodson's  wedding-day, 
Death  called  aside  the  jocund  groom 
With  him  into  another  room, 
And  looking  grave — "  You  must,"  says  he, 
"  Quit  your  sweet  bride,  and  come  with  me." 
"  With  you  !  and  quit  my  Susan's  side ! 

With  you !  "  the  hapless  husband  cried ; 
u  Young  as  I  am  't  is  monstrous  hard  I 
Besides,  in  truth,  I  'm  not  prepared : 
My  thoughts  on  other  matters  go ; 
This  is  my  wedding-day  you  know." 
What  more  he  urged,  I  have  not  heard, 

His  reasons  could  not  well  be  stronger ; 
So  Death  the  poor  delinquent  spared, 
And  left  to  live  a  little  longer. 
Yet  calling  up  a  serious  look — 
His  hour-glass  trembled  while  he  spoke — 
"  Neighbor,"  he  said,  u  Farewell !     No  more 
Shall  Death  disturb  your  mirthful  hour; 
And  farther,  to  avoid  all  blame 
Of  cruelty  upon  my  name, 
To  give  you  time  for  preparation, 
And  fit  you  for  your  future  station, 
Three  several  warnings  you  shall  have, 
Before  you  're  summoned  to  the  grave. 
Willing  for  once  I  '11  quit  my  prey, 

And  grant  a  kind  reprieve, 
In  hopes  you  '11  have  no  more  to  say, 
But,  when  I  call  again  this  way, 
Well  pleased  the  world  will  leave." 


SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

To  these  conditions  both  consented, 
And  parted  perfectly  contented. 

What  next  the  hero  of  our  tale  befell, 
How  long  he  lived,  how  wise,  how  well, 
How  roundly  he  pursued  his  course, 
And  smoked  his  pipe,  and  stroked  his  horse, 

The  willing  muse  shall  telL 
He  chaffered  then,  he  bought,  he  sold, 
Nor  once  perceived  his  growing  old, 

Nor  thought  of  death  as  near ; 
His  friends  not  false,  his  wife  no  shrew, 
Many  his  gains,  his  children  few, 

He  passed  his  hours  in  peace. 
But  while  he  viewed  his  wealth  increase, 
While  thus  along  life's  dusty  road 
The  beaten  track  content  he  trod, 
Old  Time,  whose  haste  no  mortal  spares, 
Uncalled,  unheeded,  unawares, 

Brought  on  his  eightieth  year. 
And  now,  one  night,  in  musing  mood 

As  all  alone  he  sat, 
Th'  unwelcome  messenger  of  fate 

Once  more  before  him  stood. 
Half  killed  with  anger  and  surprise, 
"  So  soon  returned !  "  old  Dodson  cries. 

"  So  soon,  d'  ye  call  it?  "  Death  replies. 
"Surely,  my  friend,  you  're  but  in  jest  I 

Since  I  was  here  before 
'T  is  six-and-thirty  years  at  least, 

And  you  are  now  fourscore." 
"  So  much  the  worse,"  the  clown  rejoined; 
"  To  spare  the  aged  would  be  kind : 
However,  see  your  search  be  legal ; 
And  your  authority — is  't  regal  ? 
Else  you  are  come  on  a  fool's  errand, 
With  but  a  secretary's  warrant. 
Besides,  you  promised  me  Three  Warnings, 


LIFE.  83 

Which  I  have  looked  for  nights  and  mornings; 
But  for  that  loss  of  time  and  ease, 
[  can  recover  damages." 

"  I  know,"  cries  Death,  that  at  the  best 
I  seldom  am  a  welcome  guest ; 
But  do  n't  be  captious,  friend,  at  least : 
I  little  thought  you  'd  still  be  able 
To  stump  about  your  farm  and  stable ; 
Your  years  have  run  to  a  great  length; 
I  wish  you  joy,  though,  of  your  strength !  " 

"  Hold,"  says  the  farmer,  "  not  so  fast ! 
I  have  been  lame  these  four  years  past." 

"And  no  great  wonder,"  Death  replies: 
"  However,  you  still  keep  your  eyes  ; 
And  sure,  to  see  one's  loves  and  friends, 
For  legs  and  arms  would  make  amends." 

"  Perhaps,"  says  Dodson,  "so  it  might, 
But  latterly  I  've  lost  my  sight." 

"  This  is  a  shocking  tale,  't  is  true, 
But  still  there  's  comfort  left  for  you : 
Each  strives  your  sadness  to  amuse  ; 
I  warrant  you  hear  all  the  news." 

" There  's  none,"  cries  he;  " and  if  there  were, 
I  'm  grown  so  deaf  I  could  not  hear." 
"Nay,  then,"  the  spectre  stern  rejoined, 
"  These  are  unwarrantable  yearnings  ; 
If  you  are  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind, 

You  've  had  your  three  sufficient  warnings. 
So,  come  along,  no  more  we  '11  part," 
He  said,  and  touched  him  with  his  dart. 
And  now  old  Dodson,  turning  pale, 
Yields  to  his  fate — so  ends  my  tale. 

Hester  Thrale. 

Irftfc. 

Life,  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 


84  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 

Life,  we  have  been  long  together, 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather; 
'T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear, 
Perhaps  't  will  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  L^etitia  Barbauld. 

OTtfjett  Sjjall  toe  Cfjree  Jffleet  again? 

When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 
When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 
Oft  shall  glowing  hope  expire, 
Oft  shall  wearied  love  retire, 
Oft  shall  death  and  sorrow  reign, 
Ere  we  three  shall  meet  again. 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Parched  beneath  a  burning  sky ; 
Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls, 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls ; 
Oft  in  Fancy's  rich  domain ; 
Oft  shall  we  three  meet  again. 

When  our  burnished  locks  are  gray, 
Thinned  by  many  a  toil-spent  day ; 
When  around  this  youthful  pine 
Moss  shall  creep  and  ivy  twine, — 
Long  may  this  loved  bower  remain — 
Here  may  we  three  meet  again. 

When  the  dreams  of  lif e  are  fled ; 
When  its  wasted  lamps  are  dead ; 


GAFFER  GRAY.  85 

When  in  cold  oblivion's  shade 
Beauty,  wealth,  and  fame  are  laid, — 
Where  immortal  spirits  reign, 
There  may  we  three  meet  again. 

Anonymous. 


flUaff ex  (ferag. 

"He  !  why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake, 
Gaffer  Gray, 
And  why  doth  thy  nose  look  so  blue  ?  " 
"  'T  is  the  weather  that 's  cold, 
'T  is  I  'm  grown  very  old, 
And  my  doublet  is  not  very  new, 
Well-a-day !  " 

"  Then  line  that  warm  doublet  with  ale, 
G-affer  Gray, 
And  warm  thy  old  heart  with  a  glass." 
"  Nay,  but  credit  I  've  none, 
And  my  money  's  all  gone ; 
Then  say  how  may  that  come  to  pass  ? 
Well-a-day ! " 

"  Hie  away  to  the  house  on  the  brow, 
Gaffer  Gray, 
And  knock  at  the  jolly  priest's  door." 
"  The  priest  often  preaches 
Against  worldly  riches, 
But  ne'er  gives  a  mite  to  the  poor, 
Well-a-day!" 

u  The  lawyer  lives  under  the  hill, 
Gaffer  Gray, 
Warmly  fenced  both  in  back  and  in  front," 
"  He  will  fasten  his  locks, 
And  will  threaten  the  stocks, 
8 


86  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Should  he  evermore  find  me  in  want, 
Well-aday!" 

1  The  squire  has  fat  beeves  and  brown  ale, 

Gaffer  Gray, 

And  the  season  will  welcome  you  there." 

"  His  fat  beeves  and  his  beer, 

And  his  merry  new  year, 

Are  all  for  the  flush  and  the  fair, 

Well-a-day!" 

"  My  keg  is  but  low,  I  confess, 
G-affer  Gray, 
What  then  ?     While  it  lasts,  man,  we  '11  live." 
"  The  poor  man  alone, 
When  he  hears  the  poor  moan, 
Of  his  morsel  a  morsel  will  give, 
Well-a-day." 

Thomas  Holcroft. 

TOfjat  oronstitute*  a  &tate. 

What  constitutes  a  state  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labored  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crowned ; 

Not  bays  and  broad-armed  ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride ; 

Not  starred  and  spangled  courts, 
Where  low-browed  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No : — men,  high-minded  men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude, — 

Men  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and,  knowing,  dare  maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aimed  blow, 


TO  THE  CUCKOO.  8? 

And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain ; 

These  constitute  a  state ; 
And  sovereign  law,  that  state's  collected  will, 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill. 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown, 
The  fiend,  Dissension,  like  a  vapor  sinks ; 

And  e'en  the  all-dazzling  crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks ; 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle, 
Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore  I 

No  more  shall  freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign, 
Those  sweet  rewards  which  decorate  the  brave 

'Tis  folly  to  decline, 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

Sir  William  Jones. 

Co  tfje  (Eucfcoo. 

Hail,  beauteous'stranger  of  the  grovel 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring ! 
Now  heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

Soon  as  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 

Thy  certain  voice  we  hear. 
Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 

Or  mark  the  rolling  year  ? 

Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  school-boy,  wandering  through  the  wood 
To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 


88  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Starts,  thy  most  curious  voice  to  hear, 
And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 
Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale, 

An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 
Another  spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear  ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

No  winter  in  thy  year ! 

Oh,  could  I  fly,  I  'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We  'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe, 

Attendants  on  the  Spring. 


John  Logan. 


When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  a'  the  kye  at  hame, 
And  a'  the  weary  warld  to  sleep  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fall  in  showers  from  my  e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  sleeps  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride, 
But  saving  a  crown  he  had  naithing  else  beside : 
To  mak'  the  crown  a  pound,  my  Jamie  went  to  sea, 
And  the  crown  and  the  pound  were  baith  for  me. 

He  had  nae  been  gane  a  year  and  a  day, 

When  my  faither  brake  his  arm,  and  our  cow  was  stole 

away; 
My  mither  she  fell  sick,  and  Jamie  at  the  sea, 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  cam'  a  courting  to  me. 


MART'S  DREAM.  89 

My  faither  could  na  wark,  my  mitlier  could  na  spin, 
I  tcll'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  could  na  win ; 
Auld  Rob  maintain'd  'em  baith,  and  wi'  tears  in  his  e'e, 
Said,  "  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,  oh  marry  me." 

My  heart  it  said  nay,  for  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back, 
But  the  wind  it  blew  hard,  and  the  ship  was  a  wrack — 
The  ship  was  a  wrack,  why  did  na  Jamie  dee  ? 
Or  why  was  I  spared  to  cry,  Wae's  me ! 

My  faither  urged  me  sair,  my  mither  did  na  speak, 
But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break : 
They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart  was  at  sea, — 
So  auld  Robin  Gray  is  gudeman  to  me  1 

I  had  na  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When,  sitting  sae  mournfully  out  at  my  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  could  na  think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,  "  I  'm  come  hame,  love,  to  marry  thee." 

Sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  mickle  did  we  say, — 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  tare  oursels  away : 
I  wish  I  were  dead,  but  I  am  na  lik'  to  dee, — 
Oh,  why  was  I  born  to  say,  Wae's  me ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  but  I  care  not  to  spin ; 

I  dare  not  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  would  be  a  sin ; 

So  I  will  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  to  be, 

For  auld  Robin  Gray  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  Anne  Barnard. 

jffilaq)'*  Uteam. 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 
Which  rises  o'er  the  source  of  Dee, 

And  from  the  eastern  summit  shed 
Her  silver  light  on  tower  and  tree, 


90  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

When  Mary  laid  her  down  to  sleep, 
Her  thoughts  on  Sandy  far  at  sea, 

When,  soft  and  slow,  a  voice  was  heard, 
Saying,  " Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me!" 

She  from  her  pillow  gently  raised 

Her  head,  to  ask  who  there  might  be, 
And  saw  young  Sandy  shivering  stand, 

With  visage  pale,  and  hollow  e'e. 
"  0  Mary  dear,  cold  is  my  clay ; 

It  lies  beneath  a  stormy  sea. 
Far,  far  from  thee  I  sleep  in  death ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me  ! 

"  Three  stormy  nights  and  stormy  days 

We  tossed  upon  the  raging  main ; 
And  long  we  strove  our  bark  to  save, 

But  all  our  striving  was  in  vain. 
Even  then,  when  horror  chilled  my  blood, 

My  heart  was  filled  with  love  for  thee : 
The  storm  is  past,  and  I  at  rest ; 

So,  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me ! 

"  0  maiden  dear,  thyself  prepare ; 

We  soon  shall  meet  upon  that  shore, 
Where  love  is  free  from  doubt  and  care, 
And  thou  and  I  shall  part  no  more!  " 
Loud  crowed  the  cock,  the  shadow  fled, 

No  more  of  Sandy  could  she  see ; 
But  soft  the  passing  spirit  said, 
"  Sweet  Mary,  weep  no  more  for  me !  '• 

John  Lowe. 

Mlfiat  feCfme? 

I  asked  an  aged  man,  with  hoary  hairs, 
Wrinkled  and  curved  with  worldly  cares : 


WHAT  IS  TIME?  9] 

'  Time  is  the  warp  of  life,"  said  he ;  "  0,  tell 
The  young,  the  fair,  the  gay,  to  weave  it  well !  " 
I  asked  the  ancient,  venerable  dead, 
Sages  who  wrote,  and  warriors  who  bled : 
From  the  cold  grave  a  hollow  murmur  flowed, 

"  Time  sowed  the  seed  we  reap  in  this  abode  1  " 
I  asked  a  dying  sinner,  ere  the  tide 
Of  life  had  left  his  veins :     "  Time !  "  he  replied ; 

"I  've  lost  it!  ah,  the  treasure !  " — and  he  died. 
I  asked  the  golden  sun  and  silver  spheres, 
Those  bright  chronometers  of  days  and  years : 
They  answered,  "  Time  is  but  a  meteor  glare," 
And  bade  me  for  eternity  prepare. 
I  asked  the  Seasons,  in  their  annual  round, 
Which  beautify  or  desolate  the  ground ; 
And  they  replied  (no  oracle  more  wise), 

"'T.is  Folly's  blank,  and  Wisdom's  highest  prize!  " 
I  asked  a  spirit  lost, — but  0  the  shriek 
That  pierced  my  soul !  I  shudder  while  I  speak. 
It  cried,  "  A  particle !  a  speck !  a  mite 
Of  endless  years,  duration  infinite !  " 
Of  things  inanimate,  my  dial  I 
Consulted,  and  it  made  me  this  reply,— 

"  Time  is  the  season  fair  of  living  well, 
The  path  of  glory  or  the  path  of  hell." 
I  asked  my  Bible,  and  methinks  it  said, 

"  Time  is  the  present  hour,  the  past  has  fled ; 
Live !  live  to-day !  to-morrow  never  yet 
On  any  human  being  rose  or  set." 
I  asked  old  Father  Time  himself  at  last  ; 
But  in  a  moment  he  flew  swiftly  past, 
His  chariot  was  a  cloud,  the  viewless  wind 
His  noiseless  steeds,  which  left  no  trace  behind. 
I  asked  the  mighty  angel  who  shall  stand 
One  foot  on  sea  and  one  on  solid  land : 

"Mortal!"  he  cried,  "the  mystery  now  is  o'er; 
Time  was,  Time  is,  but  Time  shall  be  no  more !  ' 

William  Marsden. 


'CO 


92  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

Ci)e  <£tobes  of  Blarney. 

The  groves  of  Blarney,  they  look  so  charming 

Down  by  the  purlings  of  sweet  silent  brooks, 
All  decked  with  posies,  that  spontaneous  grow  there. 

Planted  in  order  in  the  rocky  nooks. 
'T  is  there  the  daisy,  and  the  sweet  carnation, 

The  blooming  pink,  and  the  rose  so  fair  ; 
Likewise  the  lily,  and  the  daffodilly — 

All  flowers  that  scent  the  sweet,  open  air. 

'T  is  Lady  Jaffers  owns  this  plantation, 

Like  Alexander,  or  like  Helen  fair ; 
There  's  no  commander  in  all  the  nation 

For  regulation  can  with  her  compare. 
Such  walls  surround  her,  that  no  nine-pounder 

Could  ever  plunder  her  place  of  strength ; 
But  Oliver  Cromwell,  he  did  her  pommel, 

And  made  a  breach  in  her  battlement. 

There  's  gravel  walks  there  for  speculation, 

And  conversation  in  sweet  solitude ; 
'T  is  there  the  lover  may  hear  the  dove,  or 

The  gentle  plover,  in  the  afternoon. 
And  if  a  young  lady  should  be  so  engaging 

As  to  walk  alone  in  those  shady  bowers, 
'T  is  there  her  courtier,  he  may  transport  her 

In  some  dark  port,  or  under  ground. 

For  't  is  there  's  the  cave  where  no  daylight  enters, 

But  bats  and  badgers  are  forever  bred ; 
Being  mossed  by  natur'  which  makes  it  sweeter 

Than  a  coach  and  six,  or  a  feather  bed. 
'T  is  there  's  the  lake  that  is  stored  with  perches, 

And  comely  eels  in  the  verdant  mud ; 
Besides  the  leeches,  and  the  groves  of  beeches, 

All  standing  in  order  for  to  guard  the  flood. 


HELEN  OF  KIBKCONNEL.  93 

'T  is  there  's  the  kitchen  hangs  many  a  flitch  in. 

With  the  maids  a-stitching  upon  the  stair; 
The  bread  and  biske',  the  beer  and  whiskey, 

Would  make  you  frisky  if  you  were  there, 
'T  is  there  you  'd  see  Peg  Murphy's  daughter 

A  washing  praties  forenent  the  door, 
With  Eoger  Cleary,  and  Father  Healy, 

All  blood  relations  to  my  Lord  Donoughmore. 

There  's  statues  gracing  this  noble  place  in, 

All  heathen  goddesses  so  fair — 
Bold  Neptune,  Plutarch,  and  Nicodemus, 

All  standing  naked  in  the  open  air. 
So  now  to  finish  this  brave  narration, 

Which  my  poor  geni'  could  not  entwine ; 
But  were  I  Homer,  or  Nebuchadnezzar, 

'T  is  in  every  feature  I  would  make  it  shine. 

Richard  Alfred  Millikin. 

?$elen  of  Ittrftconnel. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
For  night  and  day  on  me  she  cries, 
And,  like  an  angel,  to  the  skies 

Still  seems  to  beckon  me ! 
For  me  she  lived,  for  me  she  sigh'd, 
For  me  she  wish'd  to  be  a  bride, 
For  me  in  life's  sweet  morn  she  died 

On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee ! 

Where  Kirtle  waters  gently  wind. 
As  Helen  on  my  arm  reclined, 
A  rival  with  a  ruthless  mind 

Took  deadly  aim  at  me. 
My  love,  to  disappoint  the  foe, 
Bush'd  in  between  me  and  the  blow ; 
And  now  her  corse  is  lying  low, 

On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee  I 
8* 


94  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Though  Heaven  forbids  my  wrath  to  swell, 
I  curse  the  hand  by  which  she  fell, 
The  fiend  who  made  my  heaven  a  hell, 

And  tore  my  love  from  me ! 
For  if,  when  all  the  graces  shine, 
0,  if  on  earth  there  's  aught  divine, 
My  Helen,  all  these  charms  were  thine, 

They  centred  all  in  thee ! 

Ah !  what  avails  it  that,  amain, 

I  clove  the  assassin's  head  in  twain  ? 

No  peace  of  mind,  my  Helen  slain, 

No  resting-place  for  me. 
I  see  her  spirit  in  the  air — 
I  hear  the  shriek  of  wild  despair, 
When  murder  laid  her  bosom  bare, 

On  fair  Kirkconnel-Lee  1 

0,  when  I  'm  sleeping  in  my  grave, 
And  o'er  my  head  the  rank  weeds  wave, 
May  He  who  life  and  spirit  gave 

Unite  my  love  and  me ! 
Then  from  this  world  of  doubts  and  sighs, 
My  soul  on  wings  of  peace  shall  rise, 
And,  joining  Helen  in  the  skies, 

Forget  Kirkconnel-Lee. 

John  Mayne 

Otomtel  an*  JUota. 

Dark  lowers  the  night  o'er  the  wide  stormy  main, 
Till  mild  rosy  morning  rise  cheerful  again ; 
Alas!  morn  returns  to  revisit  the  shore; 
But  Connel  returns  to  his  Flora  no  more. 

For  see,  on  yon  mountain  the  dark  cloud  of  death 
O'er  Connel's  lone  cottage,  lies  low  on  the  heath ; 
While  bloody  and  pale  on  a  far  distant  shore 
He  lies,  to  return  to  his  Flora  no  more. 


THE  SOLDIER.  95 

Ye  light  fleeting  spirits  that  glide  o'er  the  steep, 
0,  would  you  but  waft  me  across  the  wild  deep, 
There  fearless  I  'd  mix  in  the  battle's  loud  roar, 
I  'd  die  with  my  Connel,  and  leave  him  no  more. 

Alexander  Wilson. 

What  dreaming  drone  was  ever  blest, 

By  thinking  of  the  morrow  ? 
To-day  be  mine — I  leave  the  rest 

To  all  the  fools  of  sorrow ; 
Give  me  the  mind  that  mocks  at  care, 

The  heart  its  own  defender ; 
The  spirits  that  are  light  as  air, 

And  never  beat  surrender. 

On  comes  the  foe — to  arms — to  arms — 

We  meet — 't  is  death  or  glory ; 
'T  is  victory  in  all  her  charms, 

Or  fame  in  Britain's  story ; 
Dear  native  land !  thy  fortunes  frown, 

And  ruffians  would  enslave  thee ; 
Thou  land  of  honor  and  renown, 

Who  would  not  die  to  save  thee  ? 

'T  is  you,  't  is  I,  that  meets  the  ball ; 

And  me  it  better  pleases 
In  battle  with  the  brave  to  fall, 

Than  die  of  cold  diseases ; 
Than  drivel  on  in  elbow-chair 

With  saws  and  tales  unheeded, 
A  tottering  thing  of  aches  and  care, 

Nor  longer  loved  nor  needed. 

But  thou — dark  is  thy  flowing  hair, 

Thy  eye  with  fire  is  streaming, 
And  o'er  thy  cheek,  thy  looks,  thine  airr 

Health  sits  in  triumph  beaming ; 


9G  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Then,  brothei  soldier,  fill  the  wine 


Fill  high  the  wine  to  beauty  ; 
Love,  friendship,  honor,  all  are  thine, 
Thy  country  and  thy  duty. 

William  Smyth. 


Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  door 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span, 

0,  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 

These  tattered  clothes  my  poverty  bespeak, 

These  hoary  locks  proclaim  my  lengthened  years ; 

And  many  a  furrow  in  my  grief-worn  cheek 
Has  been  the  channel  of  a  stream  of  tears. 

Yon  house,  erected  on  the  rising  ground, 

With  tempting  aspect  drew  me  from  my  road, 

For  plenty  there  a  residence  has  found, 
And  grandeur  a  magnificent  abode. 

Hard  is  the  fate  of  the  infirm  and  poor ! 

Here  craving  for  a  morsel  of  their  bread, 
A  pampered  menial  forced  me  from  the  door, 

To  seek  a  shelter  in  a  humbler  shed. 

0,  take  me  to  your  hospitable  dome, 

Keen  blows  the  wind,  and  piercing  is  the  cold ; 

Short  is  my  passage  to  the  friendly  tomb, 
For  I  am  poor  and  miserably  old. 

Should  I  reveal  the  source  of  every  grief, 
If  soft  humanity  e'er  touched  your  breast, 

Four  hands  would  not  withhold  the  kind  relief, 
And  tears  of  pity  could  not  be  repressed- 


THE  ORPHAN  BOY.  97 

Heaven  sends  misfortunes — why  should  we  repme '( 
'T  is  heaven  has  brought  me  to  the  state  you  see : 

And  your  condition  may  be  soon  like  mine, 
The  child  of  sorrow  and  of  misery. 

A  little  farm  was  my  paternal  lot, 

Then  like  the  lark  I  sprightly  hailed  the  morn ; 
But  ah !  oppression  forced  me  from  my  cot ; 

My  cattle  died,  and  blighted  was  my  corn. 

My  daughter,  once  the  comfort  of  my  age, 
Lured  by  a  villain  from  her  native  home, 

Is  cast,  abandoned,  on  the  world's  wild  stage, 
And  doomed  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam. 

My  tender  wife,  sweet  soother  of  my  care, 
Struck  with  sad  anguish  at  the  stern  decree, 

Fell,  lingering  fell,  a  victim  of  despair, 

And  left  the  world  to  wretchedness  and  me. 

Then  pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man, 

Whose  trembling  limbs  have  borne  him  to  your  door, 
Whose  days  are  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span, 

0,  give  relief,  and  Heaven  will  bless  your  store. 

Thomas  Moss. 


Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake, 

And  hear  a  helpless  orphan's  tale ; 
Ah,  sure  my  looks  must  pity  wake, — 

'T  is  want  that  makes  my  cheek  so  pale; 
Yet  I  was  once  a  mother's  pride, 

And  my  brave  father's  hope  and  joy ; 
But  in  the  Nile's  proud  fight  he  died, 

And  I  am  now  an  orphan  boy. 


98  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Poor,  foolish  child !  how  pleased  was  I, 

When  news  of  Nelson's  victory  came, 
Along  the  crowded  streets  to  fly, 

To  see  the  lighted  windows  flame  I 
To  force  me  home  my  mother  sought, — 

She  could  not  bear  to  hear  my  joy ; 
For  with  my  father's  life  't  was  bought, — 

And  made  me  a  poor  orphan  boy. 

The  people's  shouts  were  long  and  loud ; 
My  mother,  shuddering,  closed  her  ears ; 
"  Rejoice !  rejoice !  "  still  cried  the  crowd, — 

My  mother  answered  with  her  tears  1 
"  0,  why  do  tears  steal  down  your  cheek," 
Cried  I,  "  while  others  shout  for  joy  ?  " 
She  kissed  me,  and  in  accents  weak, 
She  called  me  her  poor  orphan  boy. 

"  What  is  an  orphan  boy  ?  "  I  said ; 

When  suddenly  she  gasped  for  breath, 
And  her  eyes  closed !  I  shrieked  for  aid, 

But  ah  !  her  eyes  were  closed  in  death. 
My  hardships  since  I  will  not  tell  ; 

But  now,  no  more  a  parent's  joy, 
Ah  1  lady,  I  have  learned  too  well 

What 't  is  to  be  an  orphan  boy. 

0,  were  I  by  your  bounty  fed — 

Nay,  gentle  lady,  do  not  chide ; 
Trust  me,  I  mean  to  earn  my  bread, — 

The  sailor's  orphan  boy  has  pride. 
Lady,  you  weep  ;  what  is  't  you  say  ? 

You  '11  give  me  clothing,  food,  employ  ? 
Look  down,  dear  parents,  look  and  see 

Your  happy,  happy  orphan  boy ! 

Amelia  Ophb. 


THE  TEARS  I  SHED.  99 

Ntfli)t 

Mysterious  Night,  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee,  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 

Yet  'neath  a  curtain  of  translucent  dew 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 
Hesperus  with  the  host  of  heaven  came, 

And  lo !  Creation  widened  on  Man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun !  or  who  could  find, 

While  flower,  and  leaf,  and  insect  stood  revealed, 
That  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind ! 

Why  do  we  then  shun  death  with  anxious  strife  ? 

If  light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  life  ? 

Joseph  Blanco  White. 

The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall : 

I  mourn  not  for  an  absent  swain ; 
For  thoughts  may  past  delights  recall, 

And  parted  lovers  meet  again. 
I  weep  not  for  the  silent  dead ; 

Their  toils  are  past,  their  sorrows  o'er ; 
And  those  they  loved  their  steps  shall  tread, 

And  death  shall  join  to  part  no  more. 

Though  boundless  oceans  roll  between, 

If  certain  that  his  heart  is  near, 
A  conscious  transport  glads  each  scene, 

Soft  is  the  sigh,  and  sweet  the  tear. 
E'en  when  by  death's  cold  hand  removed, 

We  mourn  the  tenant  of  the  tomb, 
To  think  that  e'en  in  death  he  loved, 

Can  gild  the  horrors  of  the  gloom. 


1 00  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

But  bitter,  bitter  are  the  tears 

Of  her  who  slighted  love  bewails; 
No  hope  her  dreary  prospect  cheers, 

No  pleasing  melancholy  hails. 
Hers  are  the  pangs  of  wounded  pride, 

Of  blasted  hope,  of  wither'd  joy ; 
The  flatt'ring  veil  is  rent  aside, 

The  flame  of  love  burns  to  destroy. 

In  vain  does  memory  renew 

The  hours  once  tinged  in  transport's  dye ; 
The  sad  reverse  soon  starts  to  view, 

And  turns  the  past  to  agony. 
E'en  time  itself  despairs  to  cure 

Those  pangs  to  ev'ry  feeling  due: 
Ungenerous  youth !  thy  boast  how  poor, 

To  win  a  heart — and  break  it  too ! 

[No  cold  approach,  no  alter'd  mien, 

Just  what  would  make  suspicion  start ; 
No  pause  the  dire  extremes  between, 

He  made  me  blest — and  broke  my  heart.] 
From  hope,  the  wretched's  anchor,  torn ; 

Neglected  and  neglecting  all ; 
Friendless,  forsaken,  and  forlorn ; 

The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall. 

Helen  Cranstoun  Stewart. 

Co  an  faxbian  <&ott*  Qtoin. 

Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine, 

What  vanity  has  brought  thee  here  ? 
How  can  I  love  to  see  thee  shine 

So  bright,  whom  I  have  bought  so  dear  ? 

The  tent-ropes  flapping  lone  I  hear 
For  twilight  converse,  arm  in  arm  ; 

The  jackal's  shriek  bursts  on  mine  ear 
When  mirth  and  music  wont  to  charm. 


TO  AN  INDIAN  GOLD  COIN.  \q\ 

By  Oherical's  dark  wandering  streams, 

Where  cane-tufts  shadow  all  the  wild, 
Sweet  visions  haunt  my  waking  dreams 

Of  Teviot  loved  while  still  a  child, 

Of  castled  rocks  stupendous  piled 
By  Esk  or  Eden's  classic  wave, 

Where  loves  of  youth  and  friendship  smiled, 
Uncursed  by  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  ! 

Fade,  day-dreams  sweet,  from  memory  fade ! 

The  perished  bliss  of  youth's  first  prime, 
That  once  so  bright  on  fancy  played, 

Kevives  no  more  in  after-time. 

Far  from  my  sacred  natal  clime, 
I  haste  to  an  untimely  grave ; 

The  daring  thoughts  that  soared  sublime 
Are  sunk  in  ocean's  southern  wave. 

Slave  of  the  mine,  thy  yellow  light 

Gleams  baleful  as  the  tomb-fire  drear. 
A  gentle  vision  comes  by  night 

My  lonely  widowed  heart  to  cheer : 

Her  eyes  are  dim  with  many  a  tear, 
That  once  were  guiding  stars  to  mine : 

Her  fond  heart  throbs  with  many  a  fear ! 
I  cannot  bear  to  see  thee  shine. 

For  thee,  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave, 

I  left  a  heart  that  loved  me  true  1 
I  crossed  the  tedious  ocean-wave, 

To  roam  in  climes  unkind  and  new. 

The  cold  wind  of  the  stranger  blew 
Chill  on  my  withered  heart ;  the  grave 

Dark  and  untimely  met  my  view, — 
And  all  for  thee,  vile  yellow  slave  I 

Ha!  com'st  thou  now  so  late  to  mock 
A  wanderer's  banished  heart  forlorn, 


102  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Now  that  his  frame  the  lightning  shock 
Of  sun-rays  tipped  with  death  has  borne  ? 
From  love,  from  friendship,  country,  torn, 

To  memory's  fond  regrets  the  prey, 
Vile  slave,  thy  yellow  dross  I  scorn  1 

Go  mix  thee  with  thy  kindred  clay ! 

John  Leyden. 

&  Uixit  from  St-  Ntcfjoia*. 

'T  was  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through  the 

house 
Not  a  creature  was  stirring,  not  even  a  mouse; 
The  stockings  were  hung  by  the  chimney  with  care, 
In  hopes  that  St.  Nicholas  soon  would  be  there ; 
The  children  were  nestled  all  snug  in  their  beds, 
While  visions  of  sugar-plums  danced  in  their  heads ; 
And  Mamma  in  her  kerchief,  and  I  in  my  cap, 
Had  just  settled  our  brains  for  a  long  winter  nap, — 
When  out  on  the  lawn  there  arose  such  a  clatter, 
I  sprang  from  my  bed  to  see  what  was  the  matter. 
Away  to  the  window  I  flew  like  a  flash, 
Tore  open  the  shutters  and  threw  up  the.  sash. 
The  moon,  on  the  breast  of  the  new-fallen  snow, 
Gave  a  lustre  of  midday  to  objects  below  ; 
When,  what  to  my  wondering  eyes  should  appear, 
But  a  miniature  sleigh  and  eight  tiny  reindeer, 
With  a  little  old  driver,  so  lively  and  quick, 
I  knew  in  a  moment  it  must  be  St.  Nick. 
More  rapid  than  eagles  his  coursers  they  came, 
And  he  whistled,  and  shouted,  and  called  them  by  name : 
'  Now,  Dasher !  now,  Dancer !  now,  Prancer  and  Yixen 
On  I  Comet,  on !  Cupid,  on !  Dunder  and  Blixen — 
To  the  top  of  the  porch,  to  the  top  of  the  wall ! 
Now,  dash  away,  dash  away,  dash  away  all !  " 
As  dry  leaves  that  before  the  wild  hurricane  fly, 
When  they  meet  with  an  obstacle,  mount  to  the  sky, 


THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER.  103 

So,  up  to  the  house-top  the  coursers  they  flew, 
With  the  sleigh  full  of  toys — and  St.  Nicholas  too. 
And  then  in  a  twinkling  I  heard  on  the  roof 
The  prancing  and  pawing  of  each  little  hoof. 
As  I  drew  in  my  head,  and  was  turning  around, 
Down  the  chimney  St.  Nicholas  came  with  a  bound. 
He  was  dressed  all  in  fur  from  his  head  to  his  foot, 
And  his  clothes  were  all  tarnished  with  ashes  and  soot; 
A  bundle  of  toys  he  had  flung  on  his  back, 
And  he  looked  like  a  peddler  just  opening  his  pack. 
His  eyes  how  they  twinkle  !  his  dimples  how  merry ! 
His  cheeks  were  like  roses,  his  nose  like  a  cherry ; 
His  droll  little  mouth  was  drawn  up  like  a  bow, 
And  the  beard  on  his  chin  was  as  white  as  the  snow. 
The  stump  of  a  pipe  he  held  tight  in  his  teeth. 
And  the  smoke,  it  encircled  his  head  like  a  wreath. 
He  had  a  broad  face  and  a  little  round  belly 
That  shook,  when  he  laughed,  like  a  bowl  full  of  jelly. 
He  was  chubby  and  plump — a  right  jolly  old  elf; 
And  I  laughed  when  I  saw  him,  in  spite  of  myself. 
A  wink  of  his  eye,  and  a  twist  of  his  head, 
Soon  gave  me  to  know  I  had  nothing  to  dread. 
He  spoke  not  a  word,  but  went  straight  to  his  work, 
And  filled  all  the  stockings ;  then  turned  with  a  jerk, 
And  laying  his  finger  aside  of  his  nose, 
And  giving  a  nod,  up  the  chimney  he  rose. 
He  sprang  to  his  sleigh,  to  his  team  gave  a  whistle, 
And  away  they  all  flew  like  the  down  of  a  thistle ; 
But  I  heard  him  exclaim,  ere  he  drove  out  of  sight, 
"  Happy  Christmas  to  all,  and  to  all  a  good-night !  " 

Clement  C.  Moore. 

Cfje  Star^Sp  angle*  banner. 

O,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleam- 
ing? 


104  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS, 

Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the  perilous 
fight, 
O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched  were  so  gallantly  stream- 
ing; 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof  tlirough  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there. 
0,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses  ? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 

In  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream. 

'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner !     0,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  1 

And  where  is  that  band  who  so  vauntingly  swore 
That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 

A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollutioa 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave, 

From  the  terror  of  death  and  the  gloom  of  the  grave. 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave ! 

0,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation ; 

Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 
Praise  the  power  that  has  made  and  preserved  us  a  na- 
tion. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust." 

And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  I 

Francis  Scott  Key. 


LUCY'S  FLITTIN'.  105 

Hucj),$  JFUttin'. 

'T  was  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk  tree  was  fa'in', 

And  Martinmas  dowie  had  wound  up  the  year, 
That  Lucy  row'd  up  her  wee  kist  wi'  her  a'  in  't 

And  left  her  auld  maister  and  neebours  sae  dear. 
For  Lucy  had  served  in  "  The  Glen  "  a'  the  simmer  ; 

She  cam'  there  afore  the  flower  bloom'd  on  the  pea ; 
An  orphan  was  she,  and  they  had  been  gude  till  her, 

Sure  that  was  the  thing  brocht  the  tear  to  her  ee. 

She  gaed  by  the  stable  where  Jamie  was  stannin', 

Richt  sair  was  his  kind  heart  the  flittin'  to  see  : 
Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy  !  quo  Jamie,  and  ran  in; 

The  gatherin'  tears  trickled  fast  frae  his  ee. 
As  down  the  burn-side  she  gaed  slow  wi'  the  flittin', 

Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy !  was  ilka  bird's  sang ; 
She  heard  the  craw  sayin'  't,  high  on  the  tree  sittin', 

And  robin  was  chirpin'  't  the  brown  leaves  amang. 

Oh,  what  is  't  that  pits  my  puir  heart  in  a  flutter  ? 

And  what  gars  the  tears  come  sae  fast  to  my  ee  ? 
If  I  wasna  ettled  to  be  ony  better, 

Then  what  gars  me  wish  ony  better  to  be  ? 
I  'm  just  like  a  lammie  that  loses  its  mither ; 

Nae  mither  or  friend  the  puir  lammie  can  see ; 
I  fear  I  ha'e  tint  my  puir  heart  a'thegither, 

Nae  wonder  the  tear  fa's  sae  fast  frae  my  ee. 

Wi'  the  rest  o'  my  claes  I  hae  row'd  up  the  ribbon, 

The  bonnie  blue  ribbon  that  Jamie  ga'e  me; 
Yestreen,  when  he  ga'e  me  't,  and  saw  I  was  sabbin', 

I  '11  never  forget  the  wae  blink  o'  his  ee. 
Though  now  he  said  naething  but  Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy  I 

It  made  me  I  neither  could  speak,  hear,  nor  see ; 
He  cudna  say  mair  but  just,  Fare-ye-weel,  Lucy ! 

Yet  that  I  will  mind  till  the  day  that  I  dee. 
9* 


106  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

[The  lamb  likes  the  gowan  wi'  dew  when  its  droukit; 

The  hare  likes  the  brake,  and  the  braird  on  the  lea ; 
But  Lucy  likes  Jamie ; — she  turned  and  she  lookit, 

She  thocht  the  dear  place  she  wad  never  mair  see. 
Ah,  weel  may  young  Jamie  gang  dowie  and  cheerless, 

And  weel  may  he  greet  on  the  bank  o'  the  burn ; 
For  bonnie  sweet  Lucy,  sae  gentle  and  peerless, 

Lies  cauld  in  her  grave,  and  will  never  return.] 

William  Laidlaw 

a  Et'tang  for  BonnaiU. 

Alas  !  how  dismal  is  my  tale ! — 
I  lost  my  watch  in  Doneraile ; 
My  Dublin  watch,  my  chain  and  seal, 
Pilfered  at  once  in  Doneraile. 

May  fire  and  brimstone  never  fail 
To  fall  in  showers  on  Doneraile  ; 
May  all  the  leading  fiends  assail 
The  thieving  town  of  Doneraile. 

As  lightnings  flash  across  the  vale, 
So  down  to  hell  with  Doneraile ; 
The  fate  of  Pompey  at  Pharsale, 
Be  that  the  curse  of  Doneraile. 

May  beef  or  mutton,  lamb  or  veal, 
Be  never  found  in  Doneraile ; 
But  garlic  soup,  and  scurvy  kail, 
Be  still  the  food  for  Doneraile. 

And  forward  as  the  creeping  snail 
Th'  industry  be  of  Doneraile ; 
May  Heaven  a  chosen  curse  entail 
On  rigid,  rotten  Doneraile. 

May  sun  and  moon  forever  fail 
To  beam  their  lights  in  Doneraile  ; 


A  LITANY  FOR  DONERAILE.  107 

May  every  pestilential  gale 

Blast  that  cursed  spot  called  Doneraile. 

May  no  sweet  cuckoo,  thrush,  or  quail, 
Be  ever  heard  in  Doneraile ; 
May  patriots,  kings,  and  commonweal, 
Despise  and  harass  Doneraile. 

May  every  Post,  Gazette,  and  Mail 
Sad  tidings  bring  of  Doneraile  ; 
May  loudest  thunders  ring  a  peal, 
To  blind  and  deafen  Doneraile. 

May  vengence  fall  at  head  and  tail, 
From  north  to  south,  at  Doneraile ; 
May  profit  light,  and  tardy  sale, 
Still  damp  the  trade  of  Doneraile. 

May  Fame  resound  a  dismal  tale, 
Whene'er  she  lights  on  Doneraile ; 
May  Egypt's  plagues  at  once  prevail, 
To  thin  the  knaves  of  Doneraile. 

May  frost  and  snow,  and  sleet  and  hail, 
Benumb  each  joint  in  Doneraile  ; 
May  wolves  and  bloodhounds  trace  and  trail 
The  cursed  crew  of  Doneraile. 

May  Oscar,  with  his  fiery  flail, 
To  atoms  thresh  all  Doneraile  ; 
May  every  mischief,  fresh  and  stale, 
Abide,  henceforth,  in  Doneraile. 

May  all,  from  Belfast  to  Kinsale, 
Scoff,  curse,  and  damn  you,  Doneraile ; 
May  neither  flour  nor  oatenmeal 
Be  found  or  known  in  Doneraile. 


]  08  SINGLE  FA310  US  P  OEMS. 

May  want  and  wo  each  joy  curtail 
That  e'er  was  known  in  Doneraile ; 
May  no  one  coffin  want  a  nail, 
That  wraps  a  rogue  in  Doneraile. 

May  all  the  thieves  that  rob  and  steal, 
The  gallows  meet  in  Doneraile ; 
May  all  the  sons  of  Granaweal 
Blush  at  the  thieves  of  Doneraile. 

May  mischief  big  as  Norway  whale 
O'erwhelm  the  knaves  of  Doneraile; 
May  curses,  wholesale  and  retail, 
Pour  with  full  force  on  Doneraile. 

May  every  transport  wont  to  sail, 
A  convict  bring  from  Doneraile ; 
May  every  churn  and  milking-pa;l 
Fall  dry  to  staves  in  Doneraile. 

May  cold  and  hunger  still  congeal 
The  stagnant  blood  of  Doneraile  ; 
May  every  hour  new  woes  reveal, 
That  hell  reserves  for  Doneraile. 

May  every  chosen  ill  prevail 
O'er  all  the  imps  of  Doneraile ; 
May  no  one  wish  or  prayer  avail 
To  soothe  the  woes  of  Doneraile. 

May  th'  Inquisition  straight  impale 
The  rapparees  of  Doneraile ; 
May  Charon's  boat  triumphant  sail, 
Completely  manned  from  Doneraile. 

Oh !  may  my  couplets  never  fail 
To  find  a  curse  for  Doneraile ; 
And  may  grim  Pluto's  inner  jail 
For  ever  groan  with  Doneraile. 

Patrick  O'Kelly. 


THE  PHILOSOPHERS  SCALES.  i09 

T  was  in  heaven  pronounced,  and  't  was  muttered  in  hell. 
And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  as  it  fell; 
On  the  confines  of  earth  't  was  permitted  to  rest, 
And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confessed. 
'T  will  be  found  in  the  sphere  when  't  is  riven  asunder, 
Be  seen  in  the  lightning  and  heard  in  the  thunder. 
'T  was  allotted  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath, 
Attends  him  at  birth,  and  awaits  him  in  death, 
Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honor,  and  health, 
Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth. 
In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  't  is  hoarded  with  care, 
But  is  sure  to  be  lost  on  his  prodigal  heir. 
It  begins  every  hope,  every  wish  it  must  bound, 
With  the  husbandman  toils,  and  with  monarchs  is  crowned. 
Without  it  the  soldier,  the  seaman,  may  roam ; 
But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home ! 
In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be  found, 
Nor  e'en  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion  be  drowned. 
'T  will  not  soften  the  heart ;  but,  though  deaf  be  the  ear, 
It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 
Yet  in  shade  let  it  rest,  like  a  delicate  flower, 
Ah !  breathe  on  it  softly — it  dies  in  an  hour. 

Catherine  Fanshawe. 

Cf)e  ^afjtlcisopfjer^  Scaler 

A  monk,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o'er, 

In  the  depths  of  his  cell  with  its  stone-covered  floor, 

Resigning  to  thought  his  chimerical  brain, 

Once  formed  the  contrivance  we  now  shall  explain ; 

But  whether  by  magic's  or  alchemy's  powers 

We  know  not ;  indeed,  't  is  no  business  of  ours. 

Perhaps  it  was  only  by  patience  and  care, 
At  last,  that  he  brought  his  invention  to  bear. 
10 


HO  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

In  youth  't  was  projected,  but  years  stole  away, 
And  ere  't  was  complete  he  was  wrinkled  and  gray ; 
But  success  is  secure,  unless  energy  fails ; 
And  at  length  he  produced  the  Philosopher's  Scales. 

:<  What  were  they  ?  "  you  ask.     You  shall  presently  see ; 
These  scales  were  not  made  to  weigh  sugar  and  tea. 
0  no ;  for  such  properties  wondrous  had  they, 
That  qualities,  feelings,  and  thoughts  they  could  weigh, 
Together  with  articles  small  or  immense, 
From  mountains  or  planets  to  atoms  of  sense. 

Naught  was  there  so  bulky  but  there  it  would  lay, 
And  naught  so  ethereal  but  there  it  would  stay, 
And  naught  so  reluctant  but  in  it  must  go : 
All  which  some  examples  more  clearly  will  show. 

The  first  thing  he  weighed  was  the  head  of  Voltaire, 
Which  retained  all  the  wit  that  had  ever  been  there. 
As  a  weight,  he  threw  in  a  torn  scrap  of  a  leaf, 
Containing  the  prayer  of  the  penitent  thief ; 
When  the  skull  rose  aloft  with  so  sudden  a  spell 
That  it  bounced  like  a  ball  on  the  roof  of  the  cell. 

One  time  he  put  in  Alexander  the  Great, 
With  a  garment  that  Dorcas  had  made  for  a  weight; 
And  though  clad  in  armor  from  sandals  to  crown, 
The  hero  rose  up,  and  the  garment  went  down. 

A  long  row  of  alms-houses,  amply  endowed 

By  a  well-esteemed  Pharisee,  busy  and  proud, 

Next  loaded  one  scale ;  while  the  other  was  pressed 

By  those  mites  the  poor  widow  dropped  into  the  chest ; 

Up  flew  the  endowment,  not  weighing  an  ounce, 

And  down,  down  the  farthing-worth  came  with  a  bounce 

By  further  experiments  (no  matter  how) 

He  found  that  ten  chariots  weighed  less  than  one  plough ; 


A  MODEST  WIT  ni 

A  sword  with  gilt  trapping  rose  up  in  the  scale, 
Though  balanced  by  only  a  ten-penny  nail; 
A  shield  and  a  helmet,  a  buckler  and  spear, 
Weighed  less  than  a  widow's  uncrystallized  tear. 

A  lord  and  a  lady  went  up  at  full  sail, 

When  a  bee  chanced  to  light  on  the  opposite  scale ; 

Ten  doctors,  ten  lawyers,  two  courtiers,  one  earl, 

Ten  counselors'  wigs,  full  of  powder  and  curl, 

All  heaped  in  one  balance  and  swinging  from  thence, 

Weighed  less  than  a  few  grains  of  candor  and  sense  ; 

A  first-water  diamond,  with  brilliants  begirt, 

Than  one  good  potato  just  washed  from  the  dirt; 

Yet  not  mountains  of  silver  and  gold  could  suffice 

One  pearl  to  outweigh,— 't  was  the  Pearl  of  Great  Price. 

Last  of  all,  the  whole  world  was  bowled  in  at  the  grate, 
With  the  soul  of  a  beggar  to  serve  for  a  weight, 
When  the  former  sprang  up  with  so  strong  a  rebuff 
That  it  made  a  vast  rent  and  escaped  at  the  roof ! 
When  balanced  in  air,  it  ascended  on  high, 
And  sailed  up  aloft,  a  balloon  in  the  sky ; 
While  the  scale  with  the  soul  in  't  so  mightily  fell 
That  it  jerked  the  philosopher  out  of  his  cell. 

Jane  Taylor. 


A  supercilious  nabob  of  the  East — 

Haughty,  being  great — purse-proud,  being  rich— 
A  governor,  or  general,  at  the  least, 

I  have  forgotten  which — 
Had  in  his  family  a  humble  youth, 

Who  went  from  England  in  his  patron's  suite, 
An  unassuming  boy,  in  truth 

A  lad  of  decent  parts,  and  good  repute. 


112  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

This  youth  had  sense  and  spirit; 

But  yet  with  all  his  sense, 

Excessive  diffidence 
Obscured  his  merit. 

One  day,  at  table,  flushed  with  pride  and  wine, 
His  honor,  proudly  free,  severely  merry  ^ 

Conceived  it  would  be  vastly  fine 
To  crack  a  joke  upon  his  secretary. 

"Young  man,"  he  said,  "by  what  art,  craft,  or  trade, 

Did  your  good  father  gain  a  livelihood  ?  " — 
"  He  was  a  saddler,  sir,"  Modestus  said, 
"  And  in  his  time  was  reckon'd  good." 

"  A  saddler,  eh !  and  taught  you  Greek, 
Instead  of  teaching  you  to  sew! 
Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 
A  saddler,  sir,  of  you  ?  " 

Each  parasite,  then,  as  in  duty  bound, 

The  joke  applauded,  and  the  laugh  went  round. 

At  length  Modestus,  bowing  low, 
Said  (craving  pardon,  if  too  free  he  made), 
"  Sir,  by  your  leave,  I  fain  would  know 
Your  father's  trade  1 " 

"  My  father's  trade !  by  heaven,  that 's  too  bad ! 
My  father's  trade?     Why,  blockhead,  are  you  mad  ? 
My  father,  sir,  did  never  stoop  so  low — 
He  was  a  gentleman,  I  'd  have  you  know." 

"  Excuse  the  liberty  I  take," 

Modestus  said,  with  archness  on  his  brow, 
"  Pray,  why  did  not  your  father  make 

A  gentleman  of  you  ?  " 

Selleck  Osborn. 


SAINT  PATRICK  133 

Saint  latrtcfc. 

St.  Patrick  was  a  gentleman, 

Who  came  of  decent  people ; 
He  built  a  church  in  Dublin  town, 

And  on  it  put  a  steeple. 
His  father  was  a  Gallagher  ; 

His  mother  was  a  Brady ; 
His  aunt  was  an  O'Shaughnessy, 

His  uncle  an  O'Grady. 
So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick's  fist, 

For  he  's  a  saint  so  clever ; 
Oh !  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a  twist, 

And  bothered  them  forever  I 

The  Wicklow  hills  are  very  high, 

And  so  's  the  hill  of  Howth,  sir ; 
But  there  's  a  hill,  much  bigger  still, 

Much  higher  nor  them  both,  sir : 
'T  was  on  the  top  of  this  high  hill 

St.  Patrick  preached  his  sarmint 
That  drove  the  frogs  into  the  bogs, 

And  banished  all  the  varmint. 

There  's  not  a  mile  in  Ireland's  isle 

Where  dirty  varmin  musters, 
But  where  he  put  his  dear  fore-foot, 

And  murdered  them  in  clusters. 
The  toads  went  pop,  the  frogs  went  hop, 

Slap-dash  into  the  water; 
And  the  snakes  committed  suicide 

To  save  themselves  from  slaughter. 

Nine  hundred  thousand  reptiles  blue 

He  charmed  with  sweet  discourses, 
And  dined  on  them  at  Killaloe 

In  soups  and  second  courses. 


1 1 4  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Where  blind-worms  crawling  in  the  grass 

Disgusted  all  the  nation, 
He  gave  them  a  rise,  which  opened  their  eyes 

To  a  sense  of  their  situation. 

No  wonder  that  those  Irish  lads 

Should  be  so  gay  and  frisky, 
For  sure  St.  Pat  he  taught  them  that, 

As  well  as  making  whiskey  ; 
No  wonder  that  the  saint  himself 

Should  understand  distilling, 
Since  his  mother  kept  a  shebeen-shop 

In  the  town  of  Enniskillen. 

0,  was  I  but  so  fortunate 

As  to  be  back  in  Munster, 
'T  is  I  'd  be  bound  that  from  that  ground 

I  never  more  would  once  stir. 
For  there  St.  Patrick  planted  turf, 

And  plenty  of  the  praties, 
With  pigs  galore,  ma  gra,  ma  'store, 

And  cabbages — and  ladies. 
So,  success  attend  St.  Patrick's  fist, 

For  he  's  a  saint  so  clever ; 
0,  he  gave  the  snakes  and  toads  a  twist 

And  bothered  them  forever ! 

Henry  Bennett. 


w$z  <moutr. 

A  oloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun, 
A  gleam  of  crimson  tinged  its  braided  snow ; 

Long  had  I  watched  the  glory  moving  on, 
O'er  the  still  radiance  of  the  lake  below: 

Tranquil  its  spirit  seemed,  and  floated  slow, 
E'en  in  its  very  motion  there  was  rest, 

While  every  breath  of  eve  that  chanced  to  blow, 


THE  BUCKET.  115 

Wafted  the  traveler  to  the  beauteous  west. 
Emblem,  methought,  of  the  departed  soul, 

To  whose  white  robe  the  gleam  of  bliss  is  given, 
And  by  the  breath  of  mercy  made  to  roll 

Right  onward  to  the  golden  gates  of  heaven, 
While  to  the  eye  of  faith  it  peaceful  lies, 
And  tells  to  man  his  glorious  destinies. 

John  Wilson. 


Cf)e  ISucfcet. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 
When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ! — 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wildwood, 
And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew  ! 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  that  stood  by  it; 
The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell  ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it ; 
And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  that  hung  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hailed  as  a  treasure ; 
For  often  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure — 
The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 
And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ! 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 
And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

How  sweet  from  the  green,  moss^  brim  to  receive  it, 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 
Not  a  full,  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it> 
The  brightest  that  beauty  or  revelry  sips. 


116  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  habitation, 
The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 
And  sighs  for  the  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well — 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 
The  moss-covered  bucket  that  hangs  in  the  well ! 

Samuel  Wood  worth. 

Cf)e  Sours  ©euance. 

I  said  to  sorrow's  awful  storm, 

That  beat  against  my  breast, 
Rage  on  I — thou  may'st  destroy  this  form, 

And  lay  it  low  at  rest ; 
But  still  the  spirit  that  now  brooks 

Thy  tempest,  raging  high, 
Undaunted  on  its  fury  looks, 

With  steadfast  eye. 

I  said  to  penury's  meagre  train, 

Come  on !  your  threats  I  brave ; 
My  last  poor  life-drop  you  may  drain, 

And  crush  me  to  the  grave ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  endures 

Shall  mock  your  force  the  while, 
And  meet  each  cold,  cold  grasp  of  yourti 

With  bitter  smile. 

I  said  to  cold  neglect  and  scorn, 

Pass  on !  I  heed  you  not ; 
Ye  may  pursue  me  till  my  form 

And  being  are  forgot ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  which  you  see 

Undaunted  by  your  wiles, 
Draws  from  its  own  nobility 

Its  high-born  smiles. 


THE  MITHERLESS  BAIRN.  117 

I  said  to  friendship's  menaced  blow, 

Strike  deep !  my  heart  shall  bear ; 
Thou  canst  but  add  one  bitter  woe 

To  those  already  there ; 
Yet  still  the  spirit  that  sustains 

This  last  severe  distress, 
Shall  smile  upon  its  keenest  pains, 

And  scorn  redress. 

I  said  to  death's  uplifted  dart, 

Aim  sure !  oh,  why  delay  ? 
Thou  wilt  not  find  a  fearful  heart — 

A  weak,  reluctant  prey  ; 
For  still  the  spirit,  firm  and  free, 

Unruffled  by  this  last  dismay, 
Wrapt  in  its  own  eternity, 

Shall  pass  away. 

Lavinia  Stoddard. 

When  a'  ither  bairnies  are  hushed  to  their  hame 
By  aunty,  or  cousin,  or  frecky  grand-dame, 
Wha  stands  last  and  lanely,  an'  naebody  carin'  ? 
'T  is  the  puir  doited  loonie, — the  mitherless  bairn. 

The  mitherless  bairn  gangs  to  his  lane  bed ; 
Nane  covers  his  cauld  back,  or  haps  his  bare  head ; 
His  wee  hackit  heelies  are  hard  as  the  aim, 
And  litheless  the  lair  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

Aneath  his  cauld  brow  siccan  dreams  hover  there, 
0'  hands  that  wont  kindly  to  kame  his  dark  hair ; 
But  mornin'  brings  clutches,  a'  reckless  an'  stern, 
That  lo'e  nae  the  locks  o'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

Yon  sister  that  seng  o'er  his  saf  tly  rocked  bed 
Now  rests  in  the  mools  where  her  mami  de  is  laid , 
10* 


1 1 8  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

The  father  toils  sair  their  wee  bannock  to  earn, 
An'  kens  na  the  wrangs  o'  his  mitherless  bairn. 

Her  spirit,  that  passed  in  yon  hour  o'  his  birth, 
Still  watches  his  wearisome  wanderings  on  earth ; 
Recording  in  heaven  the  blessings  they  earn 
Wha  couthilie  deal  wi'  the  mitherless  bairn. 

0,  speak  him  na  harshly, — he  trembles  the  while, 
He  bends  to  your  bidding,  and  blesses  your  smile ; 
In  their  dark  hour  o'  anguish  the  heartless  shall  learn. 
That  G-od  deals  the  blow  for  the  mitherless  bairn. 

William  Thom. 

Stanzas. 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

That  opens  to  the  morning  sky, 
But,  ere  the  shades  of  evening  close, 

Is  scattered  on  the  ground — to  die ! 
Yet  on  the  rose's  humble  bed 
The  sweetest  dews  of  night  are  shed, 
As  if  she  wept  the  waste  to  see, — 
But  none  shall  weep  a  tear  for  me ! 

My  life  is  like  the  autumn  leaf 

That  trembles  in  the  moon's  pale  ray ; 
Its  hold  is  frail — its  date  is  brief, 

Restless — and  soon  to  pass  away ! 
Yet,  ere  that  leaf  shall  fall  and  fade, 
The  parent  tree  will  mourn  its  shade, 
The  winds  bewail  the  leafless  tree, — 
But  none  shall  breathe  a  sigh  for  me  I 

My  life  is  like  the  prints  which  feet 
Have  left  on  Tampa's  desert  strand; 

Soon  as  the  rising  tide  shall  beat, 
All  trace  will  vanish  from  the  sand ; 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT.  119 

Yet,  as  if  grieving  to  efface 

All  vestige  of  the  human  race, 

On  that  lone  shore  loud  moans  the  sea,— 

But  none,  alas !  shall  mourn  for  me ! 

Richard  Henry  Wilde. 


&fat  m  tje  IBesert. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 

When  the  sorrows  of  life  the  soul  o'ercast, 

And,  sick  of  the  present,  I  cling  to  the  past; 

When  the  eye  is  suffused  with  regretful  tears, 

From  the  fond  recollections  of  former  years ; 

And  shadows  of  things  that  have  long  since  fled 

Flit  over  the  brain,  like  the  ghosts  of  the  dead : 

Bright  visions  of  glory  that  vanished  too  soon ; 

Day-dreams,  that  departed  ere  manhood's  noon ; 

Attachments  by  fate  or  falsehood  reft ; 

Companions  of  early  days  lost  or  left — 

And  my  native  land — whose  magical  name 

Thrills  to  the  heart  like  electric  flame ; 

The  home  of  my  childhood  ;  the  haunts  of  my  prime ; 

All  the  passions  and  scenes  of  that  rapturous  time 

When  the  feelings  were  young,  and  the  world  was  new, 

Like  the  fresh  bowers  of  Eden  unfolding  to  view ; 

All — all  now  forsaken — forgotten — foregone ! 

And  I — a  lone  exile  remembered  of  none — 

My  high  aims  abandoned, — my  good  acts  undone — 

Aweary  of  all  that  is  under  the  sun — 

With  that  sadness  of  heart  which  no  stranger  may  scan, 

I  fly  to  the  desert  afar  from  man. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side. 

When  the  wild  turmoil  of  this  wearisome  life, 

With  its  scenes  of  oppression,  corruption,  and  strife — 


120  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

The  proud  man's  frown,  and  the  base  man's  fear, 
The  scorner's  laugh,  and  the  sufferer's  tear, 
And  malice,  and  meanness,  and  falsehood,  and  folly, 
Dispose  me  to  musing  and  dark  melancholy  ; 
When  my  bosom  is  full,  and  my  thoughts  are  high, 
And  my  soul  is  sick  with  the  bondman's  sigh, — 
0,  then  there  is  freedom,  and  joy,  and  pride, 
Afar  in  the  desert  alone  to  ride ! 
There  is  rapture  to  vault  on  the  champing  steed, 
And  to  bound  away  with  the  eagle's  speed, 
With  the  death-fraught  firelock  in  my  hand, — 
The  only  law  of  the  Desert  Land ! 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to   ride, 

With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 

Away,  away  from  the  dwellings  of  men, 

By  the  wild  deer's  haunt,  by  the  buffalo's  glen ; 

By  valleys  remote  where  the  oribi  plays, 

Where  the  gnu,  the  gazelle,  and  the  hartebeest  graze, 

And  the  kudu  and  eland  unhunted  recline 

By  the  skirts  of  gray  forest  o'erhung  with  wild  vine ; 

Where  the  elephant  browses  at  peace  in  his  wood, 

And  the  river-horse  gambols  unscared  in  the  flood, 

And  the  mighty  rhinoceros  wallows  at  will 

In  the  fen  where  the  wild  ass  is  drinking  his  fill. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 
O'er  the  brown  karroo,  where  the  bleating  cry 
Of  the  springbok's  fawn  sounds  plaintively ; 
And  the  timorous  quagga's  shrill  whistling  neigh 
Is  heard  by  the  fountain  at  twilight  gray ; 
Where  the  zebra  wantonly  tosses  his  mane, 
With  wild  hoof  scouring  the  desolate  plain ; 
And  the  fleet-footed  ostrich  over  the  waste 
Speeds  like  a  horseman  who  travels  in  haste, 
Hieing  away  to  the  home  of  her  rest, 
Where  she  and  her  mate  have  scooped  their  nest, 


AFAR  IN  THE  DESERT.  121 

Far  hid  from  the  pitiless  plunderer's  view 
In  the  pathless  depths  of  the  parched  karroo. 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride, 
With  the  silent  Bush-boy  alone  by  my  side, 
Away,  away,  in  the  wilderness  vast 
Where  the  white  man's  foot  hath  never  passed, 
And  the  quivered  Coranna  or  Bechuan 
Hath  rarely  crossed  with  his  roving  clan, — 
A  region  of  emptiness,  howling  and  drear, 
Which  man  hath  abandoned  from  famine  and  fear  ; 
Which  the  snake  and  the  lizard  inhabit  alone, 
With  the  twilight  bat  from  the  yawning  stone ; 
Where  grass,  nor  herb,  nor  shrub  takes  root, 
Save  poisonous  thorns  that  pierce  the  foot ; 
And  the  bitter-melon,  for  food  and  drink, 
Is  the  pilgrim's  fare  by  the  salt  lake's  brink ; 
A  region  of  drought,  where  no  river  glides, 
Nor  rippling  brook  with  osiered  sides ; 
Where  sedgy  pool,  nor  bubbling  fount, 
Nor  tree,  nor  cloud,  nor  misty  mount, 
Appears,  to  refresh  the  aching  eye ; 
But  the  barren  earth  and  the  burning  sky, 
And  the  blank  horizon,  round  and  round, 
Spread, — void  of  living  sight  or  sound. 
And  here,  while  the  night- winds  round  me  sigh, 
And  the  stars  burn  bright  in  the  midnight  sky, 
As  I  sit  apart  by  the  desert  stone, 
Like  Elijah  at  Horeb's  cave,  alone, 
"  A  still  small  voice  "  comes  through  the  wild 
(Like  a  father  consoling  his  fretful  child), 
Which  banishes  bitterness,  wrath,  and  fear, 
Saying, — Man  is  distant,  but  God  is  near ! 

Thomas  Pringle. 
11 


122  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

&i)c  ISeacon. 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  the  eye, 

Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it: 
The  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  azure-arched  sky 

Looked  pure  as  the  spirit  that  made  it : 
The  murmur  rose  soft,  as  I  silently  gazed 

On  the  shadowy  waves'  playful  motion, 
From  the  dim  distant  hill,  till  the  light-house  fire  blazed 

Like  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy's  breast 

Was  heard  in  his  wildly-breathed  numbers ; 
The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest, 

The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers : 
One  moment  I  looked  from  the  hill's  gentle  slope, 

All  hushed  was  the  billows'  commotion, 
And  o'er  them  the  light-house  looked  lovely  as  hope, — 

That  star  of  life's  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar, 

Yet  when  my  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 
Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star 

That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow : 
In  life's  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul  flies, 

And  death  stills  the  heart's  last  emotion  ; 
0,  then  may  the  seraph  of  mercy  arise, 

Like  a  star  on  eternity's  ocean  ! 

Paul  Moon  Jamesl 


Jfflortaittp. 

O  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 
Like  a  fast-flitting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
He  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 


MORTALITY.  123 

The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid ; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall  he. 

The  child  that  a  mother  attended  and  loved, 
The  mother  that  infant's  affection  that  proved, 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  that  blessed, 
Each,  all,  are  away  to  their  dwelling  of  rest. 

The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure,— her  triumphs  are  by ; 
And  the  memory  of  those  that  beloved  her  and  praised 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne, 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath  worn, 
The  eye  of  the  sage,  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depths  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap, 
The  herdsman  who  climbed  with  his  goats  to  the  steep, 
The  beggar  that  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint  that  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner  that  dared  to  remain  unforgiven, 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just, 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 

So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower  and  the  weed 
That  wither  away  to  let  others  succeed ; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold, 
Tc  repeat  every  tale  that  hath  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  that  our  fathers  have  been; 
We  see  the  same  sights  that  our  fathers  have  seen,— 
We  drink  the  same  stream,  and  we  feel  the  same  sun. 
And  we  run  the  same  course  that  our  fathers  have  run. 


1 2  4  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking,  our  fathers  would  think; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  from,  they  too  would 

shrink ; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  to,  they  too  would  cling ; 
But  it  speeds  from  the  earth  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved,  but  their  story  we  cannot  unfold ; 
They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold ; 
They  grieved,  but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers  may  come  ; 
They  joyed,  but  the  voice  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 

They  died,  ay !  they  died !  and  we  things  that  are  now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow, 
Who  make  in  their  dwellings  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  changes  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage  road. 

Yea!  hope  and  despondence,  and  pleasure  and  pain, 
Are  mingled  together  like  sunshine  and  rain ; 
And  the  smile  and  the  tear,  and  the  song  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'T  is  the  wink  of  an  eye,  't  is  the  draught  of  a  breath, 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud, — 
0  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 

Wjlliam  Knox. 


Cfje  &2Rf)tetler. 

"You  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  to  his  sweetheart,  whc 
stood 

While  he  sat  on  a  corn-sheaf,  a?t  daylight's  decline, — 
"  You  have  heard  of  the  Danish  boy's  whistle  of  wood  : 

I  wish  that  the  Danish  boy's  whistle  were  mine." 

1  And  what  would  you  do  with  it?     Tell  me,"  she  said, 
While  an  arch  smile  played  over  her  beautiful  face. 


WE'LL  GO  TO  SEA  NO  MORE.  125 

"  I  would  blow  it,"  he  answered,  "  and  then  my  fair  maid^ 
Would  fly  to  my  side  and  would  there  take  her  place." 

"  Is  that  all  you  wish  for  ?     Why,  that  may  be  yours 
Without  any  magic !  "  the  fair  maiden  cried : 

"  A  favor  so  slight  one's  good-nature  secures;  " 
And  she  playfully  seated  herself  by  his  side. 

«  I  would  blow  it  again,"  said  the  youth ;  "  and  the  charm 
Would  work  so  that  not  even  modesty's  check 
Would  be  able  to  keep  from  my  neck  your  white  arm." 
She  smiled  and  she  laid  her  white  arm  round  his  neck. 

«  Yet  once  more  I  would  blow ;  and  the  music  divine 
Would  bring  me  a  third  time  an  exquisite  bliss  — 
You  would  lay  your  fair  cheek  to  this  brown  one  of  mine 
And  your  lips  stealing  past  it  would  give  me  a  kiss." 

The  maiden  laughed  out  in  her  innocent  glee,— 
«  What  a  fool  of  yourself  with  the  whistle  you  'd  make ! 
For  only  consider  how  silly  't  would  be 

To  sit  there  and  whistle  for  what  you  might  take." 

Robert  Story. 


WAz  'U  <&o  to  Sea  no  Jtf  ore- 

O,  blithely  shines  the  bonny  sun 

Upon  the  Isle  of  May, 
And  blithely  comes  the  morning  tide 

Into  St.  Andrew's  Bay. 
Then  up,  gudeman,  the  breeze  is  fair, 

And  up,  my  braw  bairns  three ; 
There  's  goud  in  yonder  bonny  boat 

That  sails  sae  weel  the  sea ! 

When  haddocks  leave  the  Firth  o'  Forth, 
An'  mussels  leave  the  shore, 


126  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

When  oysters  climb  up  Berwick  Law, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more, — 

ISTo  more, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more. 

I  've  seen  the  waves  as  blue  as  air, 

I  Ve  seen  them  green  as  grass; 
But  I  never  feared  their  heaving  yet, 

From  Grangemouth  to  the  Bass. 
I  've  seen  the  sea  as  black  as  pitch, 

I  've  seen  it  white  as  snow  ; 
But  I  never  feared  its  foaming  yet, 
Though  the  winds  blew  high  or  low. 
When  squalls  capsize  our  wooden  walls, 

When  the  French  ride  at  the  Nore, 
When  Leith  meets  Aberdour  half  way, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more, — 

No  more, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more. 

I  never  liked  the  landsman's  life, 

The  earth  is  aye  the  same  ; 
G-ie  me  the  ocean  for  my  dower 

My  vessel  for  my  hame. 
Gie  me  the  fields  that  no  man  plows, 

The  farm  that  pays  no  fee ; 
Gie  me  the  bonny  fish  that  glance 
So  gladly  through  the  sea. 

When  sails  hang  flapping  on  the  masts 
While  through  the  waves  we  snore, 
When  in  a  calm  we  're  tempest-tossed, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more, — 

No  more, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more. 

The  sun  is  up,  and  round  Inchkeith 
The  breezes  softly  blaw ; 


OEEEALK  127 

The  gudeman  has  the  lines  on  board, — 

Awa,  my  bairns,  awa ! 
An'  ye  be  back  by  gloamin'  gray, 

An'  bright  the  fire  will  low, 
An'  in  your  tales  and  sangs  we  '11  tell 
How  weel  the  boat  ye  row. 

When  life's  last  sun  gaes  feebly  down, 

An'  death  comes  to  our  door, 
When  a'  the  world  's  a  dream  to  us, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more, — 

No  more, 
We  '11  go  to  sea  no  more. 

Miss  Corbett. 


The  blackbird  is  singing  on  Michigan's  shore, 

As  sweetly  and  gayly  as  ever  before ; 

For  he  knows  to  his  mate  he  at  pleasure  can  hie, 

And  the  dear  little  brood  she  is  teaching  to  fly. 

The  sun  looks  as  ruddy,  and  rises  as  bright, 

And  reflects  o'er  the  mountains  as  beamy  a  light 

As  it  ever  reflected,  or  ever  expressed, 

When  my  skies  were  the  bluest,  my  dreams  were  the  best 

The  fox  and  the  panther,  both  beasts  of  the  night, 

Retire  to  their  dens  on  the  gleaming  of  light, 

And  they  spring  with  a  free  and  a  sorrowless  track, 

For  they  know  that  their  mates  are  expecting  them  back 

Each  bird  and  each  beast,  it  is  blessed  in  degree ; 

All  nature  is  cheerful,  all  happy,  but  me. 

I  will  go  to  my  tent,  and  lie  down  in  despair ; 

I  will  paint  me  with  black,  and  will  sever  my  hair ; 

I  will  sit  on  the  shore  where  the  hurricane  blows, 

And  reveal  to  the  god  of  the  tempest  my  woes ; 

I  will  weep  for  a  season,  on  bitterness  fed, 

For  my  kin  dred  are  gone  to  the  hills  of  the  dead ; 


1 2  8  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

But  they  died  not  b\  hunger,  or  lingering  decay — 
The  steel  of  the  white  man  hath  swept  them  away. 

This  snake-skin,  that  once  I  so  sacredly  wore, 

I  will  toss  with  disdain  to  the  storm-beaten  shore ; 

Its  charms  I  no  longer  obey  or  invoke, 

Its  spirit  hath  left  me,  its  spell  is  now  broke. 

I  will  raise  up  my  voice  to  the  source  of  the  light ; 

I  will  dream  on  the  wings  of  the  blue-bird  at  night ; 

I  will  speak  to  the  spirits  that  whisper  in  leaves, 

And  that  minister  balm  to  the  bosom  that  grieves; 

And  will  take  a  new  Manito,  such  as  shall  seem 

To  be  kind  and  propitious  in  every  dream. 

0,  then  I  shall  banish  these  cankering  sighs, 

And  tears  shall  no  longer  gush  salt  from  my  eyes ; 

I  shall  wash  from  my  face  every  cloud-colored  stain ; 

Red,  red  shall  alone  on  my  visage  remain ! 

I  will  dig  up  my  hatchet,  and  bend  my  oak  bow ; 

By  night  and  by  day  I  will  follow  the  foe  j 

Nor  lakes  shall  impede  me,  nor  mountains,  nor  snows ; 

His  blood  can  alone  give  my  spirit  repose. 

They  came  to  my  cabin  when  heaven  was  black ; 
I  heard  not  their  coming,  I  knew  not  their  track ; 
But  I  saw,  by  the  light  of  their  blazing  fusees, 
They  were  people  engendered  beyond  the  big  seas. 
My  wife  and  my  children — 0,  spare  me  the  tale ! 
For  who  is  there  left  that  is  kin  to  Geehale  ? 

Henry  Rowe  Schoolcraft 


$  Mioul*  not  ILibe  Hltoat). 

I  would  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to  stay 
Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er  the  way ; 
Where,  seeking  for  rest,  I  but  hover  around 
Like  the  patriarch's  bird,  and  no  resting  is  found ; 


I  WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAT.  129 

Where  Hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay  bow  in  the  air, 
Leaves  her  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night  of  despair, 
And  Joy's  fleeting  angel  ne'er  sheds  a  glad  ray, 
Save  the  gleam  of  the  plumage  that  bears  him  away. 

I  would  not  live  alway,  thus  fettered  by  sin, 
Temptation  without,  and  corruption  within; 
In  a  moment  of  strength  if  I  sever  the  chain, 
Scarce  the  victory  's  mine  ere  I  'm  captive  again. 
E'en  the  rapture  of  pardon  is  mingled  with  fears, 
And  the  cup  of  thanksgiving  with  penitent  tears. 
The  festival  trump  calls  for  jubilant  songs, 
But  my  spirit  her  own  miserere  prolongs. 

I  would  not  live  alway :  no,  welcome  the  tomb ; 

Immortality's  lamp  burns  there  bright  'mid  the  gloom. 

There  too  is  the  pillow  where  Christ  bowed  his  head— 

0,  soft  be  my  slumbers  on  that  holy  bed ! 

And  then  the  glad  morn  soon  to  follow  that  night, 

When  the  sunrise  of  glory  shall  burst  on  my  sight, 

And  the  full  matin-song,  as  the  sleepers  arise 

To  shout  in  the  morning,  shall  peal  through  the  skies. 

Who,  who  would  live  alway,  away  from  his  Grod, 
Away  from  yon  heaven,  that  blissful  abode, 
Where  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  o'er  the  bright  plains, 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns  ; 
Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony  meet, 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to  greet, 
While  the  anthems  of  rapture  unceasingly  roll, 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of  the  soul  ? 

That  neavenly  music !  what  is  it  I  hear  ? 
The  notes  of  the  harpers  ring  sweet  on  my  ear. 
And  see  soft  unfolding  those  portals  of  gold, 
The  King  all  arrayed  in  his  beauty  behold  I 
11* 


1 30  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

0  give  me,  0  give  me  the  wings  of  a  dove ! 

Let  me  hasten  my  flight  to  those  mansions  above. 

Ay,  't  is  now  that  my  soul  on  swift  pinions  would  soar, 

And  in  ecstasy  bid  earth  adieu  evermore. 

William  Augustus  Muhlenberg. 


Hint*  W&xitttn  in  a  (ftftutcj^gattu 

"It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here.    If  thou  wilt,  let  us  make  here  three 
tabernacles ;  one  for  thee,  one  for  Moses,  and  one  for  Elias." 

Methinks  it  is  good  to  be  here ; 
If  thou  wilt,  let  us  build — but  for  whom  ? 

Nor  Elias  nor  Moses  appear ; 
But  the  shadows  of  eve  that  encompass  with  gloom 
The  abode  of  the  dead  and  the  place  of  the  tomb. 

Shall  we  build  to  Ambition  ?     Ah  no  1 
Affrighted  he  shrinketh  away ; 

For  see,  they  would  pen  him  below 
In  a  small  narrow  cave  and  begirt  with  cold  clay, 
To  the  meanest  of  reptiles  a  peer  and  a  prey. 

To  Beauty  ?     Ah  no !  she  forgets 
The  charms  which  she  wielded  before ; 

Nor  knows  the  foul  worm  that  he  frets 
The  skin  which  but  yesterday  fools  could  adore, 
For  the  smoothness  it  held,  or  the  tint  which  it  wore. 

Shall  we  build  to  the  purple  of  pride  ? 
To  the  trappings  which  dizen  the  proud  ? 

Alas  I  they  are  all  laid  aside, 
And  here  's  neither  dress  nor  adornment  allowed, 
But  the  long  winding-sheet,  and  the  fringe  of  the  sliroud 


To  Riches  ?     Alas,  't  is  in  vain  1 
Who  hid,  in  their  turns  have  been  hid : 
The  treasures  are  squandered  again ; 


TEE  MARINER'S  DREAM.  131 

And  here  in  the  grave  are  all  metals  forbid, 
But  the  tinsel  that  shines  on  the  dark  coffin-lid. 

To  the  pleasures  which  Mirth  can  afford, 
The  revel,  the  laugh,  and  the  jeer  ? 

Ah !  here  is  a  plentiful  board ! 
Bit  the  guests  are  all  mute  as  their  pitiful  cheer, 
And  none  but  the  worm  is  a  reveler  here. 

Shall  we  build  to  Affection  and  Love  ? 
Ah  no !  they  have  withered  and  died, 

Or  fled  with  the  spirit  above. 
Friends,  brothers,  and  sisters  are  laid  side  by  side, 
Yet  none  have  saluted,  and  none  have  replied. 

Unto  Sorrow  ? — the  dead  cannot  grieve ; 
Not  a  sob,  not  a  sigh  meets  mine  ear, 

Which  compassion  itself  could  relieve. 
Ah,  sweetly  they  slumber,  nor  love,  hope,  or  fear; 
Peace,  peace  is  the  watchword,  the  only  one  here. 

Unto  Death,  to  whom  monarchs  must  bow  ? 
Ah  no  !  for  his  empire  is  known, 

And  here  there  are  trophies  enow  ! 
Beneath,  the  cold  dead,  and  around,  the  dark  stone, 
Ars  the  signs  of  a  sceptre  that  none  may  disown. 

The  first  tabernacle  to  Hope  we  will  build, 
And  look  for  the  sleepers  around  us  to  rise ; 

The  second  to  Faith,  that  insures  it  fulfilled ; 
And  the  third  to  the  Lamb  of  the  great  sacrifice, 
Who  bequeathed  us  them  both  when  he  rose  to  the  skiest 

Herbert  Knowles. 

Ct)e  J^larmec'si  Bream. 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  lay  ; 
His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind ; 


1 3  2  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

But  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away, 
And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dreamt  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  bowers, 
And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's  merry  morn ; 

While  memory  stood  sideways  half  covered  with  flowers, 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise  ; 

Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters  glide, 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flower  o'er  the  thatch, 

And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her  nest  in  the  wall  ; 

All  trembling  with  transport  he  raises  the  latch, 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight ; 

His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a  mother's  warm  tear; 
And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom  holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast ; 

Joy  quickens  his  pulses, — his  hardships  seem  o'er ; 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his  rest, — 
"  0  God  !  thou  hast  blest  me, — I  ask  for  no  more." 

Ah !  whence  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts  on  his  eye  ? 

Ah !  what  is  that  sound  which  now  'larms  on  his  ear  ? 
'T  is  the  lightning's  red  gleam,  painting  hell  on  the  sky  I 

'T  is  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of  the  sphere' 

He  springs  from  his  hammock,  he  flies  to  the  deck ; 

Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire ; 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel  a-wreck; 

The  masts  fly  in  splinters ;  the  shrouds  are  on  fire. 


OLD  GRIMES.  133 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously  swell; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  mercy  to  save ; 
Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell, 

And  the  death- angel  flaps  his  broad  wings  o'er  the  wave  I 

0  sailor-boy,  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost-work  of  bliss. 
Where  now  is  the  picture  that  fancy  touched  bright, — 

Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honeyed  kiss  ? 

0  sailor-boy !  sailor-boy !  never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes  repay ; 

Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep  in  the  main, 
Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee, 
Or  redeem  form  or  fame  from  the  merciless  surge, 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding-sheet  be, 
And  winds  in  the  midnight  of  winter  thy  dirge ! 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs  shall  be  laid, — 
Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow ; 

Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made, 
And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages  shall  circle  away, 
And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll ; 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  forever  and  aye, — 
0  sailor-boy  I  sailor-boy  I  peace  to  thy  soul ! 

William  Dimond. 

<©tti  ©rimes. 

Old  Grimes  is  dead ;  that  good  old  man 

We  never  shall  see  more ; 
He  used  to  wear  a  long,  black  coat, 

All  buttoned  down  before. 


12 


134  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

His  heart  was  open  as  the  day, 
His  feelings  all  were  true ; 

His  hair  was  some  inclined  to  gray, 
He  wore  it  in  a  queue. 

Whene'er  he  heard  the  voice  of  pain, 
His  breast  with  pity  burned  ; 

The  large,  round  head  upon  his  cane 
From  ivory  was  turned. 

Kind  words  he  ever  had  for  all, 
He  knew  no  base  design ; 

His  eyes  were  dark  and  rather  small, 
His  nose  was  aquiline. 

He  lived  at  peace  with  all  mankind, 
In  friendship  he  was  true ; 

His  coat  had  pocket-holes  behind, 
His  pantaloons  were  blue. 

Unharmed,  the  sin  which  earth  pollutes 

He  passed  securely  o'er, 
And  never  wore  a  pair  of  boots 

For  thirty  years  or  more. 

But  good  old  Grimes  is  now  at  rest, 
Nor  fears  misfortune's  frown; 

He  wore  a  double-breasted  vest — 
The  stripes  ran  up  and  down. 

He  modest  merit  sought  to  find, 

And  pay  it  its  desert ; 
He  had  no  malice  in  his  mind, 

No  ruffles  on  his  shirt. 

His  neighbors  he  did  not  abuse, 

Was  sociable  and  gay ; 
He  wore  large  buckles  on  his  shoes, 

And  changed  them  every  day. 


TEE  CLOSING  YEAR.  135 

His  knowledge,  hid  from  public  gaze, 

He  did  not  bring  to  view, 
Nor  make  a  noise  town-meeting  days, 

As  many  people  do. 

His  worldly  goods  lie  never  threw 

Ir.  trust  to  fortune's  chances, 
But  lived  (as  all  his  brothers  do) 

In  easy  circumstances. 

Thus  undisturbed  by  anxious  cares 

His  peaceful  moments  ran ; 
And  everybody  said  he  was 

A  fine  old  gentleman. 

Albert  Gordon  Greene. 

€f)e  Closing  ¥ear, 

'T  is  midnight's  holy  hour, — and  silence  now 

Is  brooding  like  a  gentle  spirit  o'er 

The  still  and  pulseless  world.     Hark !  on  the  winds 

The  bell's  deep  tones  are  swelling, — 't  is  the  knell 

Of  the  departed  year.     No  funeral  train 

Is  sweeping  past ;  yet,  on  the  stream  and  wood, 

With  melancholy  light,  the  moon-beams  rest 

Like  a  pale,  spotless  shroud ;  the  air  is  stirred 

As  by  a  mourner's  sigh ;  and  on  yon  cloud 

That  floats  so  still  and  placidly  through  heaven, 

The  spirits  of  the  seasons  seem  to  stand, — 

Young  Spring,  bright  Summer,  Autumn's  solemn  form, 

And  Winter  with  its  aged  locks, — and  breathe, 

In  mournful  cadences  that  come  abroad 

Like  the  far  wind-harp's  wild  and  touching  wail, 

A  melancholy  dirge  o'er  the  dead  year, 

Gone  from  the  Earth  forever. 

'T  is  a  time 
For  memory  and  for  tears.     Within  the  deep, 


136  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Still  chambers  of  the  heart,  a  spectre  dim, 

Whose  tones  are  like  the  wizard  voice  of  Time 

Heard  from  the  tomb  of  ages,  points  its  cold 

And  solemn  finger  to  the  beautiful 

And  holy  visions  that  have  passed  away, 

And  left  no  shadow  of  their  loveliness 

On  the  dead  waste  of  life.     That  spectre  lifts 

The  coffin-lid  of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Love, 

And,  bending  mournfully  above  the  pale, 

Sweet  forms,  that  slumber  there,  scatters  dead  flowers 

O'er  what  has  passed  to  nothingness. 

The  year 
Has  gone,  and,  with  it,  many  a  glorious  throng 
Of  happy  dreams.     Its  mark  is  on  each  brow, 
Its  shadow  in  each  heart.     In  its  swift  course, 
It  waved  its  sceptre  o'er  the  beautiful, — 
And  they  are  not.     It  laid  its  pallid  hand 
Upon  the  strong  man, — and  the  haughty  form 
Is  fallen,  and  the  flashing  eye  is  dim. 
It  trod  the  hall  of  revelry,  where  thronged 
The  bright  and  joyous, — and  the  tearful  wail 
Of  stricken  ones  is  heard  where  erst  the  song 
And  reckless  shout  resounded. 

It  passed  o'er 
The  battle-plain,  where  sword,  and  spear,  and  shield, 
Flashed  in  the  light  of  midday, — and  the  strength 
Of  serried  hosts  is  shivered,  and  the  grass, 
Green  from  the  soil  of  carnage,  waves  above 
The  crushed  and  mouldering  skeleton.     It  came, 
And  faded  like  a  wreath  of  mist  at  eve ; 
Yet,  ere  it  melted  in  the  viewless  air, 
It  heralded  its  millions  to  their  home 
In  the  dim  land  of  dreams. 

Remorseless  Time ! 
Fierce  spirit  of  the  glass  and  scythe ! — what  power 


THE  CLOSING  YEAR.  13f 

Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity  ?     On,  still  on, 
He  presses,  and  forever.     The  proud  bird, 
The  condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven's  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane, 
And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder's  home, 
Furls  his  broad  wings  at  nightfall,  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag, — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 
And  night's  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinions. 

Revolutions  sweep 
O'er  earth,  like  troubled  visions  o'er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  sorrow, — cities  rise  and  sink 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water, — fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns, — mountains  rear 
To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plain, — new  empires  rise, 
Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 
And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 
Startling  the  nations, — and  the  very  stars, 
Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 
Glitter  a  while  in  their  eternal  depths, 
And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 
Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres,  and  pass  away 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void.     Yet,  Time, 
Time,  the  tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career, 
Dark,  stern,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not 
Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path, 
To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 
Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 

George  Denison  Prentice 


138  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 

Affections  are  as  thoughts  to  her, 

The  measures  of  her  hours; 
Her  feelings  have  the  fragrancy, 

The  freshness  of  young  flowers ; 
And  lovely  passions,  changing  oft, 

So  fill  her,  she  appears 
The  image  of  themselves  by  turns, — 

The  idol  of  past  years ! 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 


THE  THREE  SONS.  139 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman,  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon, — 
Her  health  I  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  be  all  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

Edward  Coate  Pinkney. 


Cje  Cf)tee  Sons. 

I  have  a  son,  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five  years  old, 

With  eyes  of  thoughtful  earnestness,  and  mind  of  gentle 

mould. 
They  tell  me  that  unusual  grace  in  all  his  ways  appears, 
That  my  child  is  grave  and  wise  of  heart  beyond  his  child- 
ish years. 
I  cannot  say  how  this  may  be ;  I  know  his  face  is  fair — 
And  yet  his  chiefest  comeliness  is  his  sweet  and  serious 

air: 
I  know  his  heart  is  fond  and  kind ;  I  know  he  loveth  me : 
But  loveth  yet  his  mother  more  with  grateful  fervency. 
But  that  which  others  most  admire,  is  the  thought  which 

fills  Ins  mind, 
The  food  for  grave  inquiring  speech  he  everywhere  doth 

find. 
Strange  questions  doth  he  ask  of  me,  when  we  together 

walk; 
He  scarcely  thinks  as  children  think,  or  talks  as  children 

talk. 
Nor  cares  he  much  for  childish  sports,  dotes  not  on  bat  or 

ball, 
But  looks  on  manhood's  ways  and  works,  and  aptly  mimics 

all. 
His  little  heart  is  busy  still,  and  oftentimes  perplexed 


1 40  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P OEMS. 

With  thoughts  about  this  world  of  ours,  and  thoughts  about 

the  next. 
He  kneels  at  his  dear  mother's  knee;  she  Uacheth  him  tc 

pray; 
And  strange,  and  sweet,  and  solemn  then  are  the  words 

which  he  will  say. 
0,  should  my  gentle  child  be  spared  to  manhood's  years 

like  me, 
A  holier  and  a  wiser  man  I  trust  that  he  will  be; 
And  when  I  look  into  his  eyes,  and  stroke  his  thoughtful 

brow, 
I  dare  not  think  what  I  should  feel,  were  I  to  lose  him  now. 

I  have  a  son,  a  second  son,  a  simple  child  of  three ; 

I'll  not  declare  how  bright  and  fair  his  little  features  be, 

How  silver  sweet  those  tones  of  his  when  he  prattles  on 
my  knee ; 

I  do  not  think  his  light-blue  eye  is,  like  his  brother's,  keen, 

Nor  his  brow  so  full  of  childish  thought  as  his  hath  ever 
been; 

But  his  little  heart 's  a  fountain  pure  of  kind  and  tender  feel- 
ing; 

And  his  every  look  's  a  gleam  of  light,  rich  depths  of  love 

revealing. 
When  he  walks  with  me,  the  country  folk,  who  pass  us  in 

the  street, 
Will  shout  for  joy  and  bless  my  boy,  he  looks  so  mild  and 

sweet. 
A  playfellow  is  he  to  all ;  and  yet,  with  cheerful  tone, 
Will  sing  his  little  song  of  love,  when  left  to  sport  alone. 
His  presence  is  like  sunshine  sent  to  gladden  home  and 

hearth, 
To  comfort  us  in  all  our  griefs,  and  sweeten  all  our  mirth. 
Should  he  grow  up  to  riper  years,  God  grant  his  heart  may 

prove 
As  sweet  a  home  for  heavenly  grace  as  now  for  earthly 

love; 


THE  THREE  SONS.  141 

And  if.  beside  his  grave,  the  tears  our  aching  eyes  must 

dim, 
God  comfort  us  for  all  the  love  which  we  shall  lose  in  him ! 

I  have  a  son,  a  third  sweet  son ;  his  age  I  cannot  tell, 

For  they  reckon  not  by  years  and  months  where  he  is  gone 

to  dwell. 
To  us,  for  fourteen  anxious  months,  his  infant  smiles  were 

given ; 
And  then  he  bade  farewell  to  earth,  and  went  to  live  in 

heaven. 
I  cannot  tell  what  form  is  his,  what  looks  he  weareth  now, 
Nor  guess  how  bright  a  glory  crowns  his  shining  seraph 

brow. 
The  thoughts  that  fill  his  sinless  soul,  the  bliss  which  he 

doth  feel, 
Are  numbered  with  the  secret  things  which  God  will  not 

reveal. 
But  I  know  (for  God  hath  told  me  this)  that  he  is  now  at 

rest, 
Where  other  blessed  infants  be,  on  their  Saviour's  loving 

breast. 
I  know  his  spirit  feels  no  more  this  weary  load  of  flesh, 
But  his  sleep  is  blessed  with  endless  dreams  of  joy  forever 

fresh. 
I  know  the  angels  fold  him  close  beneath  their  glittering 

wings, 
And  soothe  him  with  a  song  that  breathes  of  heaven's  di- 

vinest  things. 
I  know  that  we  shall  meet  our  babe  (his  mother  dear  and  I) 
Where  God  for  aye  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  every 

eye. 
Whate'er  befalls  his  brethren  twain,  his  bliss  can  never 

cease; 
Their  lot  may  here  be  grief  and  fear,  but  his  is  certain 

peace. 
It  may  be  that  the  tempter's  wiles  their  souls  from  bliss 

may  sever ; 


142  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

But,  if  our  own  poor  faith  fail  not,  he  must  be  ours  forever. 
When  we  think  of  what  our  darling  is,  and  what  we  still 

must  be — 
When  we   muse   on   that  world's  perfect  bliss,  and  this 

world's  misery — 
When  we  groan  beneath  this  load  of  sin,  and  feel  this  grief 

and  pain — 
01  we  'd  rather  lose  our  other  two,  than  have  him  here 

again. 

John  Moultrie. 


I  oaed  to  spend  a  week  in  Fife — 
An  unco  week  it  proved  to  be — 

For  there  I  met  a  waesome  wife 
Lamentin'  her  viduity. 

Her  grief  brak  out  sae  fierce  and  fell, 

I  thought  her  heart  wad  burst  the  shell ; 

And, — I  was  sae  left  to  mysel, — 
I  sell't  her  an  annuity. 

The  bargain  lookit  fair  eneugh — 

She  just  was  turned  o'  saxty-three — 
I  couldna  guessed  she'd  prove  sae  teugh, 

By  human  ingenuity. 
But  years  have  come,  and  years  have  gane, 
And  there  she  's  yet  as  stieve  as  stane — 
The  limmer  's  growin'  young  again, 
Since  she  got  her  annuity. 

She  's  crined'  awa'  to  bane  and  skin, 
But  that,  it  seems,  is  nought  to  me ; 

She  's  like  to  live — although  she  's  in 
The  last  stage  o'  tenuity. 

She  munches  wi'  her  wizen'd  gums, 

An'  stumps  about  on  legs  o'  thrums ; 


THE  ANNUITY.  143 

But  comes,  as  sure  as  Christmas  comes, 
To  ca'  for  her  annuity. 

I  read  the  tables  drawn  wi'  care 

For  an  insurance  company ; 
Her  chance  o'  life  was  stated  there, 

Wi'  perfect  perspicuity. 
But  tables  here  or  tables  there, 
She  's  lived  ten  years  beyond  her  share, 
An'  's  like  to  live  a  dozen  mair, 

To  ca'  for  her  annuity. 

Last  Yule  she  had  a  fearfu'  host, 

I  thought  a  kink  might  set  me  free — 

I  led  her  out,  'mang  snaw  and  frost, 
Wi'  constant  assiduity. 

But  deil  ma'  care — the  blast  gaed  by, 

And  miss'd  the  auld  anatomy — 

It  just  cost  me  a  tooth,  for  bye 
Discharging  her  annuity. 

If  there  's  a  sough  0'  cholera, 

Or  typhus, — wha  sae  gleg  as  she  ? 
She  buys  up  baths,  an'  drugs,  an'  a', 

In  siccan  superfluity ! 
She  doesna  need — she  's  fever  proof — 
The  pest  walked  o'er  her  very  roof — 
She  tauld  me  sae — an'  then  her  loof 

Held  out  for  her  annuity. 

Ae  day  she  fell,  her  arm  she  brak — 

A  compound  fracture  as  could  be — 
Nae  leech  the  cure  wad  undertake, 

Whate'er  was  the  gratuity. 
It 's  cured !     She  handles  't  like  a  flail- 
It  does  as  weel  in  bits  as  hale — 
But  I  'm  a  broken  man  mysel' 

Wi'  her  and  her  annuity. 


144  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Her  broozled  flesh  and  broken  banes 

Are  weel  as  flesh  and  banes  can  be ; 
She  beats  the  toads  that  live  in  stanes, 

An'  fatten  in  vacuity ! 
They  die  when  they  're  exposed  to  air, 
They  canna  thole  the  atmosphere — 
But  her !    expose  her  ony  where, 
She  lives  for  her  annuity. 

If  mortal  means  could  nick  her  thread, 

Sma'  crime  it  wad  appear  to  me — 
Ca't  murder — or  ca't  homicide — 

I  'd  justify  't — an'  do  it  tae. 
But  how  to  fell  a  withered  wife 
That  's  carved  out  o'  the  tree  of  life — 
The  timmer  limmer  dares  the  knife 
To  settle  her  annuity. 

I  'd  try  a  shot — but  whar's  the  mark  ? 

Her  vital  parts  are  hid  f rae  me ; 
Her  backbone  wanders  through  her  sark 

In  an  unkenn'd  corkscrewity. 
She  's  palsified,  an'  shakes  her  head 
Sae  fast  about,  ye  scarce  can  see  't, 
[t  's  past  the  power  o'  steel  or  lead 

To  settle  her  annuity. 

ttlie  might  be  drowned ;  but  go  she  '11  not 
Within  a  mile  o'  loch  or  sea ; 

Or  hanged — if  cord  could  grip  a  throat 
0'  siccan  exiguity. 

It 's  fitter  far  to  hang  the  rope — 

It  draws  out  like  a  telescope ; 

'T  wad  tak'  a  dreadfu'  length  o'  drop 
To  settle  her  annuity. 

Will  poison  do  it?     It  has  been  tried, 
But  be  't  in  hash  or  fricassee, 


THE  ANNUITY.  145 

That 's  just  the  dish  she  can't  abide, 

Whatever  kind  o'  gout  it  hae. 
It 's  needless  to  assail  her  doubts, 
She  gangs  by  instinct,  like  the  brutes, 
An'  only  eats  an'  drinks  what  suits 

Hersel'  and  her  annuity. 

The  Bible  says  the  age  o'  man 

Threescore  and  ten,  perchance,  may  be; 

She  's  ninety-four.     Let  them  who  can, 
Explain  the  incongruity. 

She  should  hae  lived  afore  the  flood — 

She  's  come  o'  patriarchal  blood, 

She  's  some  auld  Pagan  mummified 
Alive  for  her  annuity. 

She  's  been  embalmed  inside  and  oot — 

She  's  sauted  to  the  last  degree — 
There  's  pickle  in  her  very  snoot 

Sae  caper-like  an'  cruety. 
Lot's  wife  was  fresh  compared  to  her — 
They  've  kyanized  the  useless  knir, 
She  canna  decompose — nae  mair 

Than  her  accursed  annuity. 

The  water-drop  wears  out  the  rock, 

As  this  eternal  jaud  wears  me ; 
I  could  withstand  the  single  shock, 

But  not  the  continuity. 
It 's  pay  me  here,  an'  pay  me  there, 
An'  pay  me,  pay  me,  evermair — 
I  '11  gang  demented  wi'  despair — 

I  'm  charged  for  her  annuity. 

George  Outram. 
13 


146  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

2H)e  dForgtng  of  tje  ^ncftor. 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged ;  't  is  at  a  white  heat 

now: 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased;    though  on  the 

forge's  brow 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable  mound ; 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see   the  grim   smiths  ranking 

round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only  bare ; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,  some  work  the  windlass 

there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle-chains,  the  black  mound 
heaves  below, 

And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every  throe ; 

It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright, — 0  Vulcan,  what  a  glow ! 

'T  is  blinding  white,  't  is  blasting  bright,  the  high  sun  shines 
not  so ! 

The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery  fearful 
show, — 

The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy,  lurid 
row 

Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before  the 
foe; 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing  mon- 
ster slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil, — all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow, — 

"Hurrah!"  they  shout,  "leap  out,  leap  out:"  bang,  bang, 
the  sledges  go ; 

Hurrah !  the  jetted  lightnings  are  hissing  high  and  low  ; 

A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing  blow ; 

The  leathern  mail  rebounds  the  hail;  the  rattling  cinders 
strew 

The  ground  around;  at  every  bound  the  sweltering  fount- 
ains flow ; 

And  thick  and  loud  the  swinking  crowd,  at  every  stroke, 
pant  "Ho!" 


THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR.  147 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters;  leap  out  and  lay  on  load! 
Let 's  forge  a  goodly  anchor,  a  bower,  thick  and  broad ; 
For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I  bode, 
And  I  see  the  good  ship  riding,  all  in  a  perilous  road ; 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee,  the  roll  of  ocean  poured 
From  stem  to  stern,  sea  after  sea,   the  mainmast  by  the 

board ; 
The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove  at  the 

chains, 
But  courage  still,  brave  mariners,  the  bower  still  remains, 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns  save  when  ye  pitch  sky- 
high, 
Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  "  Fear  nothing, 

here  ami!" 
Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,  let  foot  and  hand  keep  time, 
Your  blows   make  music  sweeter  far   than  any  steeple's 

chime ! 
But  while  you  sling  your  sledges,  sing ;  and  let  the  burden 

be, 
The  Anchor  is  the  Anvil  King,  and  royal  craftsmen  we ; 
Strike  in,  strike  in,  the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their  rustling 

redl 
Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will  soon  be 

sped  ; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich  array 
For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch  of 

clay; 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  craftsmen 

here, 
For  the  Yeo-heave-o,  and  the  Heave-away,  and  the  sighing 

seaman's  cheer ; 
When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go  far,  far  from  love  and 

home, 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,  in  a  row,  wail  o'er  the  ocean  foam. 

In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom,  he  darkens  down  at  last. 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong  as  e'er  from  cat  was  cast. 


1 4  8  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

0  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life  like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward  beneath  the  deep 

green  sea! 
0  deep  sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights  as 

thou  ? 
The  hoary  monsters'  palaces!    methinks  what  joy  't  were 

now 
To   go   plumb  plunging  down  amid   the  assembly  of  the 

whales, 
And  feel   the  churned  sea  round   me   boil   beneath   their 

scourging  tails  1 
Then  deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea  unicorn, 
And  send  him  foiled  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his  ivory 

horn ; 
To  leave  the  subtle  sworder-fish  of  bony  blade  forlorn ; 
And  for  the  ghastly-grinning  shark,  to  laugh  his  jaws  to 

scorn ; 
To  leap  down  on  the  kraken's  back,  where  'mid  Norwegian 

isles 
He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallowed  miles, 
Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls ; 
Meanwhile  to  swing,  a-buffeting  the  far  astonished  shoals 
Of  his  black-browsing  ocean-calves,  or  haply  in  a  cove 
Shell-strown,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine's  love, 
To  find  the  long-haired  mermaidens ;  or,  hard  by  icy  lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 


0  broad-armed  fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can  equal 

thine  ? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons,  that  tugs  thy  cable 

line  ; 
And  night  by  night 't  is  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by  day, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game  to  play. 
But,  shamer  of  our  little  sports,  forgive  the  name  I  gave ! 
A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 
0  lodger  in  the  sea-kings'  halls,  couldst  thou  but  understand 


THE  BELLS  OF  SHANDON.  149 

Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that  drip- 
ping band, 

Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  abt  ut   thee 
bend, 

With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream,  blessing  their  ancient 
friend — 

Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger  steps 
round  thee, 

Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride;  thou  'dst  leap  with- 
in the  sea ! 

Give  honor  to  their  memories  who  left  the  pleasant  strand, 

To  shed  their  blood  so  freely  for  the  love  of  Fatherland ; 

Who  left  their  chance  of  quiet  age  and  grassy  church-yard 
grave, 

So  freely,  for  a  restless  bed  amid  the  tossing  wave. 

Oh,  though  our  anchor  may  not  be  all  I  have  fondly  sung, 

Honor  him  for  their  memory  whose  bones  he  goes  among ! 

Samuel  Ferguson. 


Cf)e  ^elte  of  £fjatttion> 

With  deep  affection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 

On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee, — 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 


150  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

The  plesant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like-  thine. 

For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, — 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame  ; 

But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly. 
Oh  I  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


THE  DEATH  OF  NAPOLEON.  151 

There  's  a  bell  in  Moscow ; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  0 
In  St.  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them  ; 
But  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me, — 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

Francis  Mahony. 


Ei)e  Heatf)  of  Napoleon. 

Wild  was  the  night,  yet  a  wilder  night 

Hung  round  the  soldier's  pillow ; 
In  his  bosom  there  waged  a  fiercer  fight 

Than  the  fight  on  the  wrathful  billow. 

A  few  fond  mourners  were  kneeling  by, 
The  few  that  his  stern  heart  cherished ; 

They  knew,  by  his  glazed  and  unearthly  eye, 
That  life  had  nearly  perished. 

They  knew  by  his  awful  and  kingly  look, 

By  the  order  hastily  spoken, 
That  he  dreamed  of  days  when  the  nations  shook, 

And  the  nations'  hosts  were  broken. 


152  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

He  dreamed  that  the  Frenchman's  sword  still  slew, 
And  triumphed  the  Frenchman's  eagle, 

And  the  struggling  Austrian  fled  anew, 
Like  the  hare  before  the  beagle. 

The  bearded  Russian  he  scourged  again, 

The  Prussian's  camp  was  routed, 
And  again  on  the  hills  of  haughty  Spain 

His  mighty  armies  shouted. 

Over  Egypt's  sands,  over  Alpine  snows, 

At  the  pyramids,  at  the  mountain, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  lordly  Danube  flows, 

And  by  the  Italian  fountain, 

On  the  snowy  cliffs  where  mountain  streams 

Dash  by  the  Switzer's  dwelling, 
He  led  again,  in  his  dying  dreams, 

His  hosts,  the  broad  earth  quelling. 

Again  Marengo's  field  was  won, 

And  Jena's  bloody  battle ; 
Again  the  world  was  overrun, 

Made  pale  at  his  cannon's  rattle. 

He  died  at  the  close  of  that  darksome  day, 

A  day  that  shall  live  in  story ; 
In  the  rocky  land  they  placed  his  clay, 
"  And  left  him  alone  with  his  glory." 

Isaac  MoLellan. 


Ct)e  <£tabe  of  Bonaparte. 

On  a  lone  barren  isle,  Avhere  the  wild  roaring  billows 
Assail  the  stern  rock,  and  the  loud  tempests  rave, 

The  hero  lies  still,  while  the  dew-drooping  willows, 
Like  fond  weeping  mourners,  lean  over  the  grave. 


WIDOW  MALONE.  153 

The  lightnings  may  flash,  and  the  loud  thunders  rattle : 
He  heeds  not,  he  hears  not,  he  's  free  from  all  pain ; — 

He  sleeps  his  last  sleep — he  has  fought  his  last  battle ! 
No  sound  can  awake  him  to  glory  again ! 

0  shade  of  the  mighty,  where  now  are  the  legions 

That  rush'd  but  to  conquer  when  thou  led'st  them  on  ? 
Alas !  they  have  perish'd  in  far  hilly  regions, 

And  all  save  the  fame  of  their  triumph  is  gone ! 
The  trumpet  may  sound,  and  the  loud  cannon  rattle ! 

They  heed  not,  they  hear  not,  they  're  free  from  all  pain : 
They  sleep  their  last  sleep,  they  have  fought  their  last  battle  I 

No  sound  can  awake  them  to  glory  again ! 

Yet,  spirit  immortal,  the  tomb  cannot  bind  thee, 

For,  like  thine  own  eagle  that  soar'd  to  the  sun, 
Thou  springest  from  bondage  and  leavest  behind  thee 

A  name  which  before  thee  no  mortal  had  won. 
Though  nations  may  combat,  and  war's  thunders  rattle, 

No  more  on  the  steed  wilt  thou  sweep  o'er  the  plain : 
Thou  sleep'st  thy  last  sleep,  thou  hast  fought  thy  last  battle ! 

No  sound  can  awake  thee  to  glory  again ! 

H.  S.  Washburn  (?) 

TOIitJoto  Jfflalone. 

Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone 1 
Who  lived  in  the  town  of  Athlone, 
Alone  1 
0,  she  melted  the  hearts 
Of  the  swains  in  them  parts, — 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone  I 
So  lovely  the  Widow  Malone. 

Of  lovers  she  had  a  full  score, 
Or  more, 
13* 


15 i  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

And  fortunes  they  all  had  galore, 
In  store ; 
From  the  minister  down 
To  the  clerk  of  the  Crown, 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone  1 
All  were  courting  the  Widow  Malone. 

But  so  modest  was  Mistress  Malone, 

'T  was  known 
That  no  one  could  see  her  alone, 
Ohone ! 
Let  them  ogle  and  sigh, 
They  could  ne'er  catch  her  eye, 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
So  bashful  the  Widow  Malone. 

Till  one  Misther  O'Brien,  from  Clare, 

(How  quare! 
It 's  little  for  blushing  they  care 
Down  there) 
Put  his  arm  round  her  waist, — 
Grave  ten  kisses  at  laste, — 
"0,"  says  he,  "you  're  my  Molly  Malone, 

My  own  1 " 
"  0,"  says  he,  "  you  're  my  Molly  Malone." 

And  the  widow  they  all  thought  so  shy, 

My  eye ! 
Ne'er  thought  of  a  simper  or  sigh, — 
For  why  ? 
But,  "  Lucius,"  says  she, 
11  Since  you've  now  made  so  free, 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone, 

Ohone  I 
You  may  marry  your  Mary  Malone." 


LAMENT  OF  THE  UUS1I  EMIGRANT  155 

There  's  a  moral  contained  in  my  song, 

Not  wrong ; 
And  one  comfort,  it 's  not  very  long, 
But  strong : 
If  for  widows  you  die, 
Learn  to  kiss,  not  to  si^fh ; 
For  they  're  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone, 

Ohone ! 
0,  they  rre  all  like  sweet  Mistress  Malone. 

Charles  Lever. 


Eament  of  tf)e  Ettef)  Emigrant. 

I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary, 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
On  a  bright  May  morn  in'  long  ago, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride-; 
The  com  was  springin'  fresh  and  green, 

And  the  lark  sang  loud  and  high ; 
And  the  red  was  on  your  lip,  Mary, 

And  the  love-light  in  your  eye. 

The  place  is  little  changed,  Mary  ; 

The  day  is  bright  as  then  ; 
The  lark's  loud  song  is  in  my  ear, 

And  the  corn  is  green  again  ; 
But  I  miss  the  soft  clasp  of  your  hand, 

And  your  breath,  warm  on  my  cheek , 
And  I  still  keep  list'nin'  for  the  words 

You  never  more  will  speak. 

'T  is  but  a  step  down  yonder  lane, 
And  the  little  church  stands  near, 

The  church  where  we  were  wed,  Mary ; 
I  see  the  spire  from  here. 

But  the  grave-yard  lies  between,  Mary, 
And  my  step  might  break  your  rest, 


1 5  6  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

For  I  've  laid  you,  darling,  down  to  sleep, 
With  your  baby  on  your  breast. 

I  'm  very  lonely  now,  Mary — 

For  the  poor  make  no  new  friends ; 
But,  0,  they  love  the  better  still 

The  few  our  Father  sends ! 
And  you  were  all  I  had,  Mary, 

My  blessin'  and  my  pride : 
There  's  nothing  left  to  care  for  now, 

Since  my  poor  Mary  died. 

Yours  was  the  good,  brave  heart,  Mary, 

That  still  kept  hoping  on, 
When  the  trust  in  God  had  left  my  soul, 

And  my  arm's  young  strength  was  gone; 
There  was  comfort  ever  on  your  lip, 

And  the  kind  look  on  your  brow, 
I  bless  you,  Mary,  for  that  same, 

Though  you  cannot  hear  me  now. 

I  thank  you  for  the  patient  smile 

When  your  heart  was  fit  to  break, 
When  the  hunger-pain  was  gnawin'  there, 

And  you  hid  it  for  my  sake  ; 
I  bless  you  for  the  pleasant  word, 

When  your  heart  was  sad  and  sore, 
Oh !  I  'm  thankful  you  are  gone,  Mary, 

Where  grief  can't  reach  you  more  I 

I  'm  biddin'  you  a  long  farewell, 

My  Mary,  kind  and  true ! 
But  I  '11  not  forget  you,  darling, 

In  the  land  I  'm  goin'  to ; 
They  say  there  's  bread  and  work  for  all, 

And  the  sun  shines  always  tl:  ere, 
But  I  '11  not  forget  old  Ireland 

Were  it  fifty  times  as  fair  I 


THE  HAPP  T  LAND.  { 5  7 

And  often  in  those  grand  old  woods 

I  '11  sit,  and  shut  my  eyes, 
And  my  heart  will  travel  back  again 

To  the  place  where  Mary  lies ; 
And  I  '11  think  I  see  the  little  stile 

Where  we  sat  side  by  side, 
And  the  springin'  corn,  and  the  bright  May  morn, 

When  first  you  were  my  bride. 

Lady  Dufferin. 

There  is  a  happy  land, 

Far,  far  away, 
Where  saints  in  glory  stand, 

Bright,  bright  as  day. 
Oh,  how  they  sweetly  sing, 
Worthy  is  our  Saviour  King; 
Loud  let  his  praises  ring — 

Praise,  praise  for  aye. 

Come  to  this  happy  land — 

Come,  come  away  ; 
Why  will  ye  doubting  stand — 

Why  still  delay  ? 
Oh,  we  shall  happy  be, 
When,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
Lord,  we  shall  live  with  thee — 

Blest,  blest  for  aye. 

Bright  in  that  happy  land 

Beams  every  eye : 
Kept  by  a  Father's  hand, 

Love  cannot  die. 
On  then  to  glory  run  ; 
Be  a  crown  and  kingdom  won ; 
And  bright  above  the  sun, 

Reign,  reign  for  aye. 

Andrew  Young. 


158  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

©luggt'tg  <£lufi. 

A  jolly  fat  friar  loved  liquor  good  store, 

And  he  had  drunk  stoutly  at  supper ; 
He  mounted  his  horse  in  the  night  at  the  door, 
And  sat  with  his  face  to  the  crupper. 
u  Some  rogue,"  quoth  the  friar,  "  quite  dead  to  remorse, 
Some  thief,  whom  a  halter  will  throttle, 
Some  scoundrel  has  cut  off  the  head  of  my  horse, 
While  I  was  engaged  at  the  bottle, 

Which  went  gluggity,  gluggity— glug— glug— glug.' 

The  tail  of  the  steed  pointed  south  on  the  dale, 

'T  was  the  friar's  road  home,  straight  and  level  ; 
But,  when  spurred,  a  horse  follows  his  nose,  not  his  tail, 
So  he  scampered  due  north  like  a  devil. 
"This  new  mode  of  docking,"  the  friar  then  said, 

"I  perceive  does  n't  make  a  horse  trot  ill; 
u  And  't  is  cheap,  for  he  never  can  eat  off  Ins  head 
While  I  am  engaged  at  the  bottle, 

Which  goes  gluggity,  gluggity— glug— glug— glug." 

The  steed  made  a  stop — in  a  pond  he  had  got, 

He  was  rather  for  drinking  than  grazing; 
Quoth  the  friar,  "  'T  is  strange  headless  horses  should  trot, 

But  to  drink  with  their  tails  is  amazing !  " 
Turning  round  to  see  whence  this  phenomenon  rose, 

In  the  pond  fell  this  son  of  a  pottle ; 
Quoth  he,  "  The  head  's  found,  for  I  'm  under  his  nose,— 

I  wish  I  were  over  a  bottle, 

Which  goes  gluggity,  gluggity— glug— glug— glug." 

GrEORGE  COLMAN. 

Two  Yankee  wags,  one  summer  day, 
Stopped  at  a  tavern  on  their  way ; 


HERE  SHE  GOES— AND  THERE  SHE  GOES.     159 

Supped,  frolicked,  late  retired  to  rest, 
And  woke  to  breakfast  on  the  best. 

The  breakfast  over,  Tom  and  Will 
Sent  for  the  landlord  and  the  bill ; 
Will  looked  it  over ;  "  Very  right- 
But  hold !  what  wonder  meets  my  sight  ? 
Tom !  the  surprise  is  quite  a  shock !  " 
"  What  wonder ?  where ?  "     "The  clock !  the  clock !  ' 

Tom  and  the  landlord  in  amaze 
Stared  at  the  clock  with  stupid  gaze, 
And  for  a  moment  neither  spoke ; 
At  last  the  landlord  silence  broke : 

"You  mean  the  clock  that 's  ticking  there? 
I  see  no  wonder,  I  declare ; 
Though  may  be,  if  the  truth  were  told, 
'T  is  rather  ugly — somewhat  old; 
Yet  time  it  keeps  to  half  a  minute, 
But,  if  you  please,  what  wonder  's  in  it  ?  " 

11  Tom,  do  n't  you  recollect,"  said  Will, 

"  The  clock  in  Jersey  near  the  mill, 
The  very  image  of  this  present, 
With  which  I  won  the  wager  pleasant?" 
Will  ended  with  a  knowing  wink- 
Tom  scratched  his  head,  and  tried  to  think. 

11  Sir,  begging  pardon  for  inquiring," 
The  landlord  said,  with  grin  admiring, 

"  What  wager  was  it?  " 

"  You  remember, 
It  happened,  Tom,  in  last  December. 
In  sport  I  bet  a  Jersey  Blue 
That  it  was  more  than  he  could  do, 
To  make  his  finger  go  and  come 


1 6  0  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

In  keeping  with  the  pendulum, 
Repeating,  till  one  hour  should  close, 
Still  '  Here  she  goes — and  there  she  goes ' — 
He  lost  the  bet  in  half  a  minute." 

"Well,  if  I  would,  the  deuce  is  in  it!  " 
Exclaimed  the  landlord ;  "  try  me  yet, 
And  fifty  dollars  be  the  bet." 

"  Agreed,  but  we  will  play  some  trick 
To  make  you  of  the  bargain  sick !  " 

"I'm  up  to  that  I" 

"  Do  n't  make  us  wait; 
Begin,  the  clock  is  striking  eight." 
He  seats  himself,  and  left  and  right 
His  finger  wags  with  all  his  might, 
And  hoarse  his  voice,  and  hoarser  grows, 
With  "  Here  she  goes— and  there  she  goes  I " 

"  Hold,"  said  the  Yankee,  "  plank  the  ready  I  " 
The  landlord  wagged  his  fingers  steady 
While  his  left  hand,  as  well  as  able, 
Conveyed  a  purse  upon  the  table. 

"  Tom,  with  the  money  let 's  be  off!  " 
This  made  the  landlord  only  scoff. 

He  heard  them  running  down  the  stair, 
But  was  not  tempted  from  his  chair. 
Thought  he,  "The  fools!  I  '11  bite  them  yet! 
So  poor  a  trick  sha'  n't  win  the  bet." 
And  loud  and  loud  the  chorus  rose 
Of  "  Here  she  goes— and  there  she  goes  !  " 
While  right  and  left  his  finger  swung, 
In  keeping  to  his  clock  and  tongue. 

His  mother  happened  in,  to  see 
Her  daughter.     «  Where  is  Mrs.  B— 
When  will  she  come,  as  you  suppose  ? 

Son!" 


HERE  SHE  GOES- AND  THERE  SHE  GOES.     161 

"  Here  she  goes — and  there  she  goes  I " 
"  Here !  where  ?  " — the  lady  in  surprise 

His  finger  followed  with  her  eyes ; 
u  Son,  why  that  steady  gaze  and  sad  ? 
Those  words — that  motion — are  you  mad  ? 
But  here  's  your  wife — perhaps  she  knows, 
And—" 

"  Here  she  goes — and  there  she  goes  I " 

His  wife  surveyed  him  with  alarm, 

And  rushed  to  him  and  seized  his  arm ; 

He  shook  her  off,  and  to  and  fro 

His  finger  persevered  to  go, 

While  curled  his  very  nose  with  ire, 

That  she  against  him  should  conspire, 

And  with  more  furious  tone  arose 

The  "  Here  she  goes — and  there  she  goes  I ' 

"Lawks I  "  screamed  the  wife,  "I  'm  in  a  whirl! 
Run  down  and  bring  the  little  girl ; 
She  is  his  darling,  and  who  knows 
But—" 

"  Here  she  goes — and  there  she  goes  I  " 

"  Lawks  I  he  is  mad !     What  made  him  thus  ? 
Good  Lord !  what  will  become  of  us  ? 
Run  for  a  doctor — run — run — run  — 
For  Doctor  Brown,  and  Doctor  Dun, 
And  Doctor  Black,  and  Doctor  White, 
And  Doctor  Grey,  with  all  your  might." 

The  doctors  came,  and  looked  and  wondered, 
And  shook  their  heads,  and  paused  and  pondered, 
Till  one  proposed  he  should  be  bled, 

"No — leeched,  you  mean,"  the  other  said — 

"  Clap  on  a  blister,"  roared  another. 

"  No — cup  him  " — "  No — trepan  him,  brother!  " 


162  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

A  sixth  would  recommend  a  purge, 
The  next  would  an  emetic  urge, 
The  eighth,  just  come  from  a  dissection, 
His  verdict  gave  for  an  injection ; 
The  last  produced  a  box  of  pills, 
A  certain  cure  for  earthly  ills ; 
c:I  had  a  patient  yesternight," 
Quoth  he,  "  and  wretched  was  her  plight^ 
And  as  the  only  means  to  save  her, 
Three  dozen  patent  pills  I  gave  her, 
And  by  to-morrow,  I  suppose 
That—" 

" Here  she  goes — and  there  she  goes/" 

"You  all  are  fools,"  the  lady  said, 
"  The  way  is,  just  to  shave  his  head, 

Run,  bid  the  barber  come  anon — " 
"  Thanks,  mother,"  thought  her  clever  son, 
"  You  help  the  knaves  that  would  have  bit  me, 

But  all  creation  sha'  n't  outwit  me!  " 

Thus  to  himself,  while  to  and  fro 

His  finger  perseveres  to  go, 

And  from  his  lips  no  accent  flows 

But  "  Here  she  goes — and  there  she  goes  !  " 

The  barber  came — "  Lord  help  him !  what 

A  queer  customer  I  've  got; 

But  we  must  do  our  best  to  save  him — 

So  hold  him,  gemmen,  while  I  shave  him !  " 

But  here  the  doctors  interpose— 
"A  woman  never — " 

"  There  she  goes  !  " 

"  A  woman  is  no  judge  of  physic, 

Not  even  when  her  baby  is  sick. 

He  must  be  bled  " — "  No — no — a  blister  " — 
"A  purge  you  mean" — "I  say  a  clyster" — 
11  No— cup  him  "— « leech  him  "— "  pills !  pills !  pills  1 

And  all  the  house  the  uproar  fills. 


SHE  LIED  IN  BEAUTY.  163 

What  means  that  smile  ?     What  means  that  shiver  ? 
The  landlord's  limbs  with  rapture  quiver, 
And  triumph  brightens  up  his  face — 
His  finger  yet  shall  win  the  race  1 
The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  nine — 
And  up  he  starts — "  'T  is  mine  1  't  is  minel  " 
"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  the  fifty  1 
I  never  spent  an  hour  so  thrifty ; 
But  you,  who  tried  to  make  me  lose, 
Go,  burst  with  envy,  if  you  choose  I 
But  how  is  this !     Where  are  they  ?  " 

"Who?" 
"  The  gentlemen — I  mean  the  two 

Came  yesterday — are  they  below  ?  " 
"  They  galloped  off  an  hour  ago." 
M  Oh,  purge  me !  blister !  shave  and  bleed ! 
For,  hang  the  knaves,  I  'm  mad  indeed ! " 

James  Nack. 

£>i>t  Bt'efc  in  iSeautg, 

She  died  in  beauty, — like  a  rose 

Blown  from  its  parent  stem ; 
She  died  in  beauty, — like  a  pearl 

Dropped  from  some  diadem. 

She  died  in  beauty, — like  a  lay 

Along  a  moonlit  lake ; 
She  died  in  beauty, — like  the  song 

Of  birds  amid  the  brake. 

She  died  in  beauty, — like  the  snow 

On  flowers  dissolved  away ; 
She  died  in  beauty, — like  a  star 

Lost  on  the  brow  of  day. 


104  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

She  lives  in  glory, — like  night's  gems 

Set  round  the  silver  moon  ; 
She  lives  in  glory, — like  the  sun 

Amid  the  blue  of  June. 

Charles  Doyne  Sillert. 


Cf)e  Neto  Cale  of  a  Cufr. 

The  Orient  day  was  fresh  and  fair, 
A  breeze  sang  soft  in  the  ambient  air, 
Men  almost  wondered  to  find  it  there, 

Blowing  so  near  Bengal, 
Where  waters  bubble  as  boiled  in  a  pot, 
And  the  gold  of  the  sun  spread  melting  hot, 
And  there  's  hardly  a  breath  of  wind  to  be  got 

At  any  price  at  all. 
Unless,  indeed,  when  the  great  Simoom 
Gets  up  from  its  bed  with  the  voice  of  doom, 

And  deserts  no  rains  e'er  drench 
Rise  up  and  roar  with  a  dreadful  gust, 
Pillars  of  sand  and  clouds  of  dust 
Rushing  on  drifted,  and  rapid  to  burst, 
And  filling  all  India's  throat  with  thirst 

That  its  Ganges  could  n't  quench. 

No  great  Simoom  rose  up  to-day, 

But  only  a  gentle  breeze, 
And  that  of  such  silent  and  voiceless  play 
That  a  lady's  bustle 
Had  made  more  rustle 

Than  it  did  among  the  trees. 
'T  was  not  like  the  breath  of  a  British  vale, 
Where  each  Green  acre  is  blessed  with  a  Gale 

Whenever  the  natives  please ; 
But  it  was  of  that  soft  inviting  sort 
That  it  tempted  to  revel  in  picnic  sport 

A  couple  of  Bengalese. 


THE  NEW  TALE  OF  A  TUB.  165 

Two  Bengalese 
Resolved  to  seize 
The  balmy  chance  of  that  cool-winged  weather, 
To  revel  in  Bengal  ease  together. 

One  was  tall,  the  other  was  stout, 
They  were  natives  both  of  the  glorious  East, 
And  both  so  fond  of  a  rural  feast 
That  off  they  roamed  to  a  country  plain, 

Where  the  breeze  roved  free  about, 
That  during  its  visits  brief,  at  least, 
If  it  never  were  able  to  blow  again, 

It  might  blow  upon  their  blow-out. 

The  country  plain  gave  a  view  as  small 

As  ever  man  clapped  his  eyes  on, 
Where  the  sense  of  sight  did  easily  pall, 
For  it  kept  on  seeing  nothing  at  all, 

As  far  as  the  far  horizon. 
Nothing  at  all !— Oh !  what  do  I  say  ? — 
Something  certainly  stood  in  the  way 
(Though  it  had  neither  cloth  nor  tray, 

With  its  "  tiffin  "  I  would  n't  quarrel)— 
It  was  a  sort  of  hermaphrodite  thing, 
(It  might  have  been  filled  with  sugar  or  ling 
But  is  very  unfit  for  a  muse  to  sing), 

Betwixt  a  tub  and  a  barrel. 

It  stood  in  the  midst  of  that  Indian  plain, 

Burning  with  sunshine,  pining  for  rain, 

A  parenthesis  balanced  'twixt  pleasure  and  pain, 

And  as  stiff  as  if  it  were  starching, — 
When  up  to  it,  over  the  brown  and  green 
Of  that  Indian  soil,  were  suddenly  seen 

Two  gentlemen  anxiously  marching. 
Those  two  gentlemen  were,  if  you  please, 
The  aforesaid  couple  of  Bengalese ; 

And  the  tub  or  barrel  that  stood  beyond— 

14* 


166  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS 

For  short  we  will  call  it  Tub — 

Contained  with  pride, 

In  its  jolly  inside, 
The  prize  of  which  they  were  dotingly  fond, 
The  aforesaid  gentlemen's  grub. 

i  Leave  us  alone — come  man  or  come  beast," 
Said  the  eldest,  "  We  '11  soon  have  a  shy  at  the  feast." 

They  are  now  at  their  picnic  with  might  arid  with  main. 
But  what  do  we  see  in  the  front  of  the  plain  ? 
A  jungle,  a  thicket  of  bush,  weed,  and  grass, 
And  in  it  reposing — eh  ? — no,  not  an  ass — 
Not  an  ass,  not  an  ass, — that  could  not  come  to  pass ; 
No  donkey,  no  donkey,  no  donkey  at  all, 
But,  superb  in  his  slumber,  a  Royal  Bengal. 
Though  Royal,  he  was  n't  a  king — 
No  such  thing ! 
He  did  n't  rule  lands  from  the  Thames  to  the  Niger, 
But  he  did  hold  a  reign 
O'er  that  jungle  and  plain, 
And  besides  was  a  very  magnificent  Tiger. 

There  he  lay,  in  his  skin  so  gay, 
His  passions  at  rest,  and  his  appetites  curbed; 
A  Minister  Prime, 
In  his  proudest  time, 
Asleep,  was  never  more  undisturbed ; 

For  who  would  come  to  shake  him  ? 
0,  it 's  certain  sure,  in  his  dream  demure, 

That  none  would  dare  to  wake  him. 
Only  the  Royal  snore  may  creep 
Over  the  dreams  of  a  Tiger's  sleep. 

The  Bengalese,  in  cool  apparel, 

Meanwhile  have  reached  their  picnic  barrel ; 

In  other  words,  they  have  tossed  the  grub 


THE  NEW  TALE  OF  A  TUB.  167 

Out  of  their  great  provision  Tub, 
And,  standing  it  up  for  shelter, 
Sit  guzzling  underneath  its  shade, 
With  a  glorious  dinner  ready-made, 

Which  they're  eating  helter-skelter. 
Ham  and  chicken,  and  bread  and  cheese. 

They  make  a  pass  to  spread  on  the  grass. 
They  sit  at  ease,  with  their  plates  on  their  knees, 
And  now  their  hungry  jaws  they  appease, 
And  now  they  turn  to  the  glass; 
For  Hodgson's  ale 
Is  genuine  pale, 
And  the  bright  champagne 
Flows  not  in  vain, 
The  most  convivial  souls  to  please 
Of  these  very  thirsty  Bengalese. 

Ha !  one  of  the  two  has  relinquished  his  fork, 
And  wakes  up  the  Tiger  by  drawing  a  cork. 

Blurting  and  spurting  I 

List!  Olist! 

Perhaps  the  Tiger  thinks  he  is  hissed. 
Effervescing  and  whizzed  and  phizzed ! 
Perhaps  his  Majesty  thinks  he  is  quizzed, 

Or  haply  deems, 

As  he  's  roused  from  his  dreams, 
That  his  visions  have  come  to  a  thirsty  stop, 
And  resolves  to  moisten  his  throat  with  a  drop. 

At  all  events,  with  body  and  soul, 

He  gives  in  his  jungle  a  stretch  and  a  roll, 

Then  regally  rises  to  go  for  a  stroll, 

With  a  temperate  mind, 

For  a  beast  of  his  kind, 

And  a  tail  uncommonly  long  behind. 


1 6  8  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

He  knows  of  no  water, 
By  field  or  by  flood  ; 
He  does  not  seek  slaughter, 
He  does  not  scent  blood. 
No !  the  utmost  scope 
Of  his  limited  hope 
Is,  that  these 
Bengalese, 
When  they  find  he  arrives, 

May  not  rise  from  their  picnic  and  run  for  their  live 
But  simply  bow  on  that  beautiful  plain, 
And  offer  Sir  Tiger  a  glass  of  champagne. 
"  From  my  jungle  it  true  is 
They  woke  me,  I  think, 
So  the  least  they  can  do  is 
To  give  me  some  drink." 

Gently  Tiger  crouches  along, 
Humming  a  kind  of  animal  song, 

A  sweet  subdued  familiar  lay 

As  ever  was  warbled  by  beast  of  prey  ; 
And  all  so  softly,  tunefully  done, 

That  it  made  no  more  sound 

Than  his  shade  on  the  ground ; 
So  the  Bengalese  heard  it,  never  a  one  1 

Gently  Tiger  steals  along, 
"  Mild  as  a  moonbeam,"  meek  as  a  lamb, — 
What  so  suddenly  changes  his  song 
From  a  tune  to  a  growl  ? 
"Och!  by  my  sowl, 
Nothing  on  earth  but  the  smell  of  the  ham !  " 
He  quickens  his  pace, 

The  illigant  baste, 
And  he  's  running  a  race 
With  himself  for  a  taste. 
And  he  's  taken  to  roaring,  and  given  up  humming, 
Just  to  let  the  two  Bengalese  know  he  is  coming. 


THE  NEW  TALE  OF  A  TUB.  169 

What  terrors  sieze 
The  Bengalese 
As  the  roar  of  the  Tiger  reaches  the  ear, 
Their  hair  is  standing  on  end  with  fear. 

Short-and-stout,  with  his  hair  all  gray, 

Has  a  rattling  note  in  his  jolly  old  throat ; 

If  choking  his  laugh  with  a  truss  of  hay, 

He  could  n't  more  surely  have  stifled  the  gay. 
While  Tall-and-thin  with  Ms  hair  all  carroty, 

Looks  thrice  as  red  with  fright  as  his  head, 

And  his  face  bounds  plump,  at  a  single  jump, 
Into  horror,  and  out  of  hilarity. 

All  they  can  hear,  in  their  terrible  fear, 

Behind  and  before,  is  the  Tiger's  roar ; 

Again  and  again,  o'er  the  plain, 

Clearer  and  clearer,  nearer  and  nearer, 
Into  the  Tub  now  its  way  it  has  found, 
Where  its  echoes  keep  rolling  round  and  round, 
Till  out  of  the  bung-hole  they  bursting  come, 
Like  a  regiment  of  thunders  escaped  from  a  drum. 

If  an  earthquake  had  shattered  a  thousand  kegs, 
The  terrified  Bengalese  could  n't,  i'  fegs, 
Have  leapt  more  rapidly  on  to  their  legs. 

He  's  at  'em,  he  's  on  'em,  the  jungle  guest ! 

When  a  man's  life  by  peril  is  prest, 

His  wits  will  sometimes  be  at  their  best. 
So  the  presence  of  Tiger,  I  find, 
Inspires  our  heroes  with  presence  of  mind. 

There  's  no  time  to  be  lost — 

Down  the  glasses  are  tossed; 
The  Bengalese  have  abandoned  their  grub, 
And  they  're  dodging  their  gentleman  round  the  Tub. 
Active  and  earnest  they  nowhere  lodge, 
And  he  can't  get  at  them,  because  of  their  dodge. 
Short-and-stout  and  Tall-and-thin 
Never  before  such  a  scrape  were  in, 
15 


i  7  o  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Nor  ever  yet  used — can  you  well  have  a  doubt  of  it  ?- 
So  uncommonly  artful  a  dodge  to  get  out  of  it. 
Tiger  keeps  prowling, 
Howling,  and  growling ; 
He  feels  himself  that  their  dodge  is  clever ; 
But  the  quick  fresh  blood  of  the  Bengalese 
Nicer  and  nicer  he  snuffs  on  the  breeze. 
The  more  they  practice  their  dodge  recitals, 
The  more  he  longs  to  dine  on  their  vitals. 
His  passion  is  up,  his  hunger  is  keen, 
His  jaws  are  ready,  his  teeth  are  clean, 
And  sharpened  their  limbs  to  sever. 
The  fire  is  flashing  in  light  from  his  eyes ; 
In  his  own  peculiar  manner  he  cries, 
The  while  they  shine, 
"HI  mean  to  dine, 
I  had  better  begin," 
And  then,  with  a  grin, 
And  a  voice  the  loudest  that  ever  was  heard, 
He  roars,  "  Never  trust  to  a  tiger's  word, 
If  this  dodge  shall  last  much  longer ! 
No,  no,  no,  no, — it  shall  be  no  go ! 
There  's  a  way  of  disturbing  this  Tub's  repose ; 
So  down  on  your  knees, 
You  Bengalese, 

And  prepare  to  be  eaten  up,  if  you  please. 
Here  goes ! 
Here  goes!  here  goes!  "  and  he  gave  a  spring. 
The  gentlemen,  looking  for  no  such  thing, 
Might  have  fallen  a  prey  to  the  Tiger's  fling ; 

But  a  certain  interference, 
Which  bursts  from  their  most  intelligent  Tub, 
May  enable  them  to  return  to  their  grub, 
On  the  selfsame  plain  a  year  hence. 
The  Tub,  though  empty  of  roll  and  ration, 
Is  full  of  a  certain  preservation, 

Of  which — though  it  does  not  follow 


THE  NEW  TALE  OF  A  TUB.  171 

In  every  case  of  argumentation 
It  is  full  because  it  is  hollow. 
For,  not  having  a  top,  and  no  inside  things, 
It  turns  top-heavy  when  Tiger  springs, 
And,  making  a  kind  of  balancing  pause, 
Keeps  holding  the  animal  up  by  his  claws, 

In  a  manner  that  seems  to  fret  it  ; 
While  Short-and-stout,  in  a  state  of  doubt, 
Keeps  on  his  belly  a  sharp  lookout  ; 
And  Tall-and-thin,  with  an  impudent  grin, 

Exults  in  his  way, 

As  much  as  to  say, 
"  I  only  wish  you  may  get  it ! 
But  much  as  I  may  respect  your  ability, 
I  don't  see  at  present  the  great  probability." 

The  Tiger  has  leapt  up,  heart  and  soul. 
It 's  clear  he  meant  to  go  the  whole 
Hog,  in  his  hungry  efforts  to  seize 
The  two  defianceful  Bengalese. 

But  the  Tub !  the  Tub ! 

Ay,  there  's  the  rub ! 

At  present  he  's  balanced  atop  of  the  Tub, 

His  fore  legs  inside, 

And  the  rest  of  his  hide, 
Not  weighing  so  much  as  his  head  and  his  legs, 

And  having  no  hand  in 

A  pure  understandin' 
Of  the  just  equilibrium  of  casks  and  of  kegs, 

Not  bred  up  in  attics, 

Nor  taught  mathematics, 
To  work  out  the  problems  of  Euclid  with  pegs, — 
He  has  plunged  with  the  impetus  wild  of  a  lover, 
And  the  Tub  has  loomed  large,  balanced,  paused,  and 
turned  over. 

The  Tiger  at  first  had  a  hobby-horse  ride, 
But  now  he  is  decently  quartered  inside ; 


172  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  the  question  is  next,  long  as  fortune  may  frown  on 

him, 
How  the  two  Bengalese  are  to  keep  the  Tub  down  on 
him. 

'Bout  this  there  's  no  blunder, 
The  Tiger  is  under 

The  Tub ! 
My  verse  need  not  run 

To  the  length  of  a  sonnet, 
To  tell  how  the  Bengalese 

Both  jumped  upon  it, 
While  the  beautiful  barrel 
Keeps  acting  as  bonnet 
To  the  Tiger  inside, 
Who  no  more  in  his  pride 
Can  roam  over  jungle  and  plain, 
But  sheltered  alike  from  the  sun  and  the  rain, 
Around  its  interior  his  sides  deigns  to  rub 
With  a  fearful  hub-bub, 
And  longs  for  his  freedom  again. 

The  two  Bengalese, 

Not  at  all  at  their  ease, 

Hear  him  roar, 

And  deplore 

Their  prospects  as  sore, 
Forgetting  both  picnic  and  flask ; 

Each,  wondering,  dumb, 

What  of  both  will  become, 
Helps  the  other  to  press  on  the  cask ; 

Resigned  to  their  fate, 

But  increasing  their  weight 
By  action  of  muscle  and  sinew, 

In  order  that  forcibly  you,  Mr.  Tub, 
Whom  their  niggers  this  morning 
Rolled  here  with  their  grub, 
May  still  keep  the  Tiger  within  you. 


THE  NEW  TALE  OF  A  TUB.  173 

On  the  top  of  the  Tub, 
In  the  warmest  of  shirts, 

The  thin  man  stands, 
While  the  fat  by  his  skirts 
Holds,  anxiously  puffing  and  blowing ; 

And  the  thin  peers  over  the  top  of  the  cask, 
"  Is  there  any  hope  for  us  ?  " 

As  much  as  to  ask, 
With  a  countenance  cunning  and  knowing ; 
And  just  as  he  mournfully  'gins  to  bewail, 

In  a  grief-song  that  ought  to  be  sung  whole, 
He  twigs  the  long  end  of  the  old  Tiger's  tail 
As  it  twists  itself  out  of  the  bung-hole. 
Then,  sharp  on  the  watch, 
He  gives  it  a  catch, 
And  shouts  to  the  Tiger, 
11  You  've  now  got  your  match  ; 
You  may  rush  and  may  riot,  may  wriggle  and  roar, 
But  I  'm  blest  if  I  '11  let  your  tail  gc  any  more !  " 
It 's  as  safe  as  a  young  roasted  pig  in.  a  larder, 
And  no  two  Bengalese  could  hold  on  by  it  harder. 
With  the  Tiger's  tail  clenched  fast  in  his  fist, 
And  his  own  coat-tail  grasped  fast  to  assist, 
Stands  Tall-and-thin  with  Short-and-stout, 
Both  on  the  top  of  the  Tub  to  scout, 
Tiger  within  and  they  without, 

And  both  in  a  pretty  pickle. 
The  Tiger  begins  by  giving  a  bound ; 
The  Tub  's  half  turned,  but  the  men  are  found 
To  have  very  carefully  jumped  to  the  ground — 

At  trifles  they  must  not  stickle. 
It 's  no  use  quaking  and  turning  pale, 
Pluck  and  patience  must  now  prevail, 
They  must  keep  a  hold  on  the  Tiger's  tail, 

And  neither  one  be  fickle. 
There  they  must  pull,  if  they  pull  for  weeks, 
Straining  their  stomachs  and  bursting  tlieii  cheeks, 


174  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

While  Tiger  alternately  roars  and  squeaks, 

Trying  to  break  away  from  'em ; 
They  must  keep  the  Tub  turned  over  his  back, 
And  never  let  his  long  tail  get  slack, 

For  fear  he  should  win  the  day  from  'em. 
Yes,  yes,  they  must  hold  him  tight, 
From  night  till  morning,  from  morn  till  night, — 
Must  n't  stop  to  eat,  must  n't  stop  to  weep, 
Must  n't  stop  to  drink,  must  n't  stop  to  sleep, — 
No  cry,  no  laugh,  no  rest,  no  grub, 
Till  they  starve  the  Tiger  under  the  Tub, 
Till  the  animal  dies, 
To  his  own  surprise, 
With  two  Bengalese  in  a  deadly  quarrel, 
And  his  tail  thrust  through  the  hole  of  a  barreL 

Oh  dear !  oh  dear !  it 's  very  clear 

They  can't  live  so;  but  they  dare  n't  let  go — 

Fate  for  a  pitying  world  to  wail, 

Starving  behind  a  Tiger's  tail. 

If  Invention  be  Necessity's  son, 

Now  let  him  tell  them  what  's  to  be  done. 

What 's  to  be  done !  ha !  I  see  a  grin 

Of  joy  on  the  face  of  Tall-and-thin, 

Some  new  device  he  has  hit  in  a  trice, 

The  which  he  is  telling  all  about 

To  the  gratified  gentleman,  Short- and -stout. 

What 's  to  be  done !  what  precious  fun  ! 

Have  rit  they  found  out  what 's  to  be  done  I 

See!  see!  what  glorious  glee ! 

Note  1  mark !  what  a  capital  lark ! 

Tiger  and  Tub,  and  bung-hole  and  all, 

Baffled  by  what  is  about  to  befall. 

Excellent !  marvelous !  beautiful !  0 ! 

Is  n't  it  now  an  original  go ! 

What,  stop !  I  'in  ready  to  drop. 

Hold !  stay  !  I  'm  fainting  away. 


THE  OLD  SEXTON.  175 

Laughter  I  'm  certain  will  kill  me  to-day ; 
And  Short-and-stout  is  bursting  his  skin, 
And  almost  in  fits  is  Tall-and-thin, 
And  Tiger  is  free,  yet  they  do  not  quail, 

Though  temper  has  all  gone  wrcng  with  him 
No !  they  've  tied  a  knot  in  the  Tiger's  tail, 

And  he  carried  the  Tub  along  with  him ; 
lie  's  a  freehold  for  life,  with  a  tail  out  of  joint, 
And  has  made  his  last  climax  a  true  knotty  point. 

Frederick  W.  N.  Bayley 


€f)e  4M*  Sexton. 

Nigh  to  a  grave  that  was  newly  made, 
Leaned  a  sexton  old  on  his  earth-worn  spade ; 
His  work  was  done,  and  he  paused  to  wait 
The  funeral-train  at  the  open  gate. 
A  relic  of  by-gone  days  was  he, 
And  his  locks  were  gray  as  the  foamy  sea; 
And  these  words  came  from  his  lips  so  thin : 
11 1  gather  them  in — I  gather  them  in — 
Gather — gather — I  gather  them  in. 

"  I  gather  them  in ;  for  man  and  boy, 
Year  after  year  of  grief  and  joy, 
I  've  builded  the  houses  that  lie  around 
In  every  nook  of  this  burial  ground. 
Mother  and  daughter,  father  and  son, 
Come  to  my  solitude  one  by  one; 
But  come  they  stranger,  or  come  they  kin, 
I  gather  them  in — I  gather  them  in. 

"  Many  are  with  me,  yet  I  'm  alone ; 
I  'm  King  of  the  Dead,  and  I  make  my  throne 
On  a  monument  slab  of  marble  cold — 
My  sceptre  of  rule  is  the  spade  I  hold. 


1 76  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

Come  they  from  cottage,  or  come  they  from  hall, 
Mankind  are  my  subjects,  all,  all,  all ! 
May  they  loiter  in  pleasure,  or  toilfully  spin, 
I  gather  them  in — I  gather  them  in. 

"  I  gather  them  in,  and  their  final  rest 
Is  here,  down  here,  in  the  earth's  dark  breast !  " 
And  the  sexton  ceased  as  the  funeral-train 
Wound  mutely  over  that  solemn  plain ; 
And  I  said  to  myself :  When  time  is  told, 
A  mightier  voice  than  that  sexton's  old, 
Will  be  heard  o'er  the  last  trump's  dreadful  din  ; 

"  I  gather  them  in — I  gather  them  in — 
(rather — gather — gather  them  in." 

Park  Benjamin 

Efte  Iribate  of  tf)e  Buffs. 

Last  night  among  his  fellow-roughs, 

He  jested,  quaffed,  and  swore ; 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  looked  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewildered,  and  alone, 
A  heart  with  English  instinct  fraught 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay,  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb, 

Bring  cord  or  axe  or  flame, 
He  only  knows  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hop-fields  round  him  seemed, 
Like  dreams,  to  come  and  go; 


LIGHT.  ITT 

Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleamed, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow ; 
The  smoke  above  his  father's  door 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung ; 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doomed  by  himself  so  young? 

Yes,  honor  calls!— with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by ; 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel, 

An  English  lad  must  die. 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink, 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

Vain  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed, 

Vain  those  all-shattering  guns, 
Unless  proud  England  keep  untamed 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons ; 
So  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring,— 

A  man  of  mean  estate, 
Who  died  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great 

Sir  Francis  Hastings  Doylk. 


From  the  quickened  womb  of  the  primal  gloom 

The  sun  rolled  black  and  bare, 
Till  I  wove  him  a  vest  for  his  Ethiop  breast 

Of  the  threads  of  my  golden  hair ; 
And  when  the  broad  tent  of  the  firmament 

Arose  on  its  airy  spars, 
I  penciled  the  hue  of  its  matchless  blue, 

And  spangled  it  round  with  stars. 
15* 


178  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

I  painted  the  flowers  of  the  Eden  bowers, 

And  their  leaves  of  living  green, 
And  mine  were  the  dyes  in  the  sinless  eyes 

Of  Eden's  virgin  queen  ; 
And  when  the  fiend's  art  on  the  trustful  heart 

Had  fastened  its  mortal  spell, 
In  the  silvery  sphere  of  the  first-born  tear 

To  the  trembling  earth  I  fell. 

When  the  waves  that  burst  o'er  the  world  accurs'd 

Their  work  of  wrath  had  sped, 
And  the  Ark's  lone  few,  the  tried  and  true, 

Came  forth  among  the  dead , 
With  the  wond'rous  gleams  of  my  bridal  beams, 

I  bade  their  terrors  cease, 
As  I  wrote,  on  the  roll  of  the  storm's  dark  scroll, 

God's  covenant  of  peace  ! 

Like  a  pall  at  rest  on  a  senseless  breast, 

Night's  funeral  shadow  slept; — 
Where  shepherd  swains  on  the  Bethlehem  plains 

Their  lonely  vigils  kept — 
When  I  flashed  on  their  sight  the  heralds  bright 

Of  Heaven's  redeeming  plan, 
As  they  chanted  the  morn  of  a  Saviour  born — 

Joy,  joy  to  the  outcast  man ! 

Equal  favor  I  show  to  the  lofty  and  low, 

On  the  just  and  unjust  I  descend ; 
E'en  the  blind,  whose  vain  spheres  roll  in  darkness  and  tear^ 

Feel  my  smile,  the  blest  smile  of  a  friend. 
Nay,  the  flower  of  the  waste  by  my  love  is  embraced, 

As  the  rose  in  the  garden  of  Kings ; 
At  the  chrysalis  bier  of  the  worm  I  appear, 

And  lo !  the  gay  butterfly  wings. 

The  desolate  Morn,  like  a  mourner  forlorn, 
Conceals  all  the  pride  of  her  charms, 


A  DEATH- BED.  179 

Till  I  bid  the  bright  hours  chase  night  from  her  bowers, 

And  lead  the  young  day  to  her  arms ; 
And  when  the  gay  Rover  seeks  Eve  for  his  lover, 

And  sinks  to  her  balmy  repose, 
I  wrap  their  soft  rest  by  the  zephyr-fanned  west, 

In  curtains  of  amber  and  rose. 

From  my  sentinel  steep,  by  the  night-brooded  deep, 

I  gaze  with  unslumbering  eye, 
When  the  cynosure  star  of  the  mariner 

Is  blotted  from  out  of  the  sky  ; 
And  guided  by  me  through  the  merciless  sea, 

Though  sped  by  the  hurricane's  wings, 
His  compassless  bark,  lone,  weltering,  dark, 

To  the  haven-home  safely  he  brings. 

I  waken  the  flowers  in  their  dew-spangled  bowers, 

The  birds  in  their  chambers  of  green, 
And  mountain  and  plain  glow  with  beauty  again, 

As  they  bask  in  my  matinal  sheen. 
Oh,  if  such  the  glad  worth  of  my  presence  to  earth, 

Though  fitful  and  fleeting  the  while, 
What  glories  must  rest  on  the  home  of  the  blest, 

Ever  bright  with  the  Deity's  smile  1 

William  Pitt  Palmer 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day ; 

Yet  lived  she  at  its  close, 
And  breathed  the  long,  long  night  away 

In  statue-like  repose. 

But  when  the  sun,  in  all  his  state, 

Illumed  the  eastern  skies, 
She  passed  through  glory's  morning-gate, 

And  walked  in  Paradise. 

James  Aldrich. 


1 8  0  SIN  OLE  FAM  0  US  P  OEMS. 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  queen  of  land  and  sea. 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars, — 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hushed  domain : 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove,  and  Mars 

Held  undisturbed  their  ancient  reign, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago. 

'T  was  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome, 
Impatient,  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home ; 
Triumphal  arches,  gleaming,  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway ; 
What  recked  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  ? 

Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor ; 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fallen  through  a  half -shut  stable-door, 
Across  his  path.     He  passed,  for  naught 

Told  what  was  going  on  within ; 
How  keen  the  stars,  his  only  thought — 

The  air,  how  calm,  and  cold,  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 

Oh,  strange  indifference !  low  and  high 
Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares; 


THE  IVY  GREEN.  181 

The  earth  was  still,  but  knew  not  why ; 

The  world  was  listening,  unawares. 
How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  forever 
To  that  still  moment,  none  would  heed, 
Man's  doom  was  linked  no  more  to  sever, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  charmed  and  holy  now ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay,  new-born, 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  earth  and  heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight, 
Centuries  ago  1 

Alfred  Domett. 


O,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  I 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  walls  must  be  crumbled,  the  stones  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a  stanch  old  heart  has  he  I 
16 


182  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak-tree ! 
And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 
The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  have  scattered  been ; 
But  the  stout  old  ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past ; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 
Is  the  ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  ivy  green. 

Charles  Dickens 

Whence  come  those  shrieks  so  wild  and  shrill, 
That  cut,  like  blades  of  steel,  the  air, 

Causing  the  creeping  blood  to  chill 
With  the  sharp  cadence  of  despair  ? 

Again  they  come,  as  if  a  heart 

Were  cleft  in  twain  by  one  quick  blow, 

And  every  string  had  voice  apart 
To  utter  its  peculiar  woe. 

Whence  come  they  ?     From  yon  temple,  where 
An  altar,  raised  for  private  prayer, 
Now  forms  the  warrior's  marble  bed 
Who  Warsaw's  gallant  armies  led. 


THE  P OMSK  BOY.  \ 83 

The  dim  funereal  tapers  throw 
A  holy  lustre  o'er  his  brow, 
And  burnish  with  their  rays  of  light 
The  mass  of  curls  that  gather  bright 
Above  the  haughty  brow  and  eye 
Of  a  young  boy  that 's  kneeling  by. 

What  hand  is  that,  whose  icy  press 

Clings  to  the  dead  with  death's  own  grasp, 
But  meets  no  answering  caress  ? 

No  thrilling  fingers  seek  its  clasp. 
It  is  the  hand  of  her  whose  cry 

Rang  wildly,  late,  upon  the  air, 
When  the  dead  warrior  met  her  eye 

Outstretched  upon  the  altar  there. 

With  pallid  Up  and  stony  brow 
She  murmurs  forth  her  anguish  now. 
But  hark !  the  tramp  of  heavy  feet 
Is  heard  along  the  bloody  street  ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  they  come, 
With  clanking  arms  and  noiseless  drum. 
Now  whispered  curses,  low  and  deep, 
Around  the  holy  temple  creep ; 
The  gate  is  burst ;  a  ruffian  band 
Rush  in,  and  savagely  demand, 
With  brutal  voice  and  oath  profane, 
The  startled  boy  for  exile's  chain. 

The  mother  sprang  with  gesture  wild, 
And  to  her  bosom  clasped  her  child ; 
Then,  with  pale  cheek  and  flashing  eye, 
Shouted  with  fearful  energy, 
u  Back,  ruffians,  back  !  nor  dare  to  tread 
Too  near  the  body  of  my  dead ; 
Nor  touch  the  living  boy ;  I  stand 
Between  him  and  your  lawless  band. 


1 84  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

Take  me,  and  bind  these  arms,  these  hands, 

With  Russia's  heaviest  iron  bands, 

And  drag  me  to  Siberia's  wild 

To  perish,  if  't  will  save  my  child !  " 

"  Peace,  woman,  peace !  "  the  leader  cried, 
Tearing  the  pale  boy  from  her  side, 
And  in  his  ruffian  grasp  he  bore 
His  victim  to  the  temple  door. 

"  One  moment!  "  shrieked  the  mother;  "  one  ! 
Will  land  or  gold  redeem  my  son  ? 
Take  heritage,  take  name,  take  all, 
But  leave  him  free  from  Russia's  thrall ! 
Take  these !  "  and  her  white  arms  and  hands 
She  stripped  of  rings  and  diamond  bands, 
And  tore  from  braids  of  long  black  hair 
The  gems  that  gleamed  like  starlight  there  ; 
Her  cross  of  blazing  rubies,  last, 
Down  at  the  Russian's  feet  she  cast. 
He  stooped  to  seize  the  glittering  store ; — 
Up  springing  from  the  marble  floor, 
The  mother,  with  a  cry  of  joy, 
Snatched  to  her  leaping  heart  the  boy. 
But  no  !     The  Russian's  iron  grasp 
Again  undid  the  mother's  clasp. 
Forward  she  fell,  with  one  long  cry 
Of  more  than  mortal  agony. 

But  the  brave  child  is  roused  at  length, 

And,  breaking  from  the  Russian's  hold, 
He  stands,  a  giant  in  the  strength 

Of  his  young  spirit,  fierce  and  bold. 
Proudly  he  towers ;  his  flashing  eye, 

So  blue,  and  yet  so  bright, 
Seems  kindled  from  the  eternal  sky, 

So  brilliant  is  its  light. 
His  curling  lips  and  crimson  cheeks 
Foretell  the  thought  before  he  speaks ; 


THE  TOLISH  BOY.  185 

With  a  full  voice  of  proud  command 

He  turned  upon  the  wondering  band : 
"  Ye  hold  me  not !  no  !  no,  nor  can ; 

This  hour  has  made  the  boy  a  man. 

I  knelt  before  my  slaughtered  sire, 

Nor  felt  one  throb  of  vengeful  ire. 

I  wept  upon  his  marble  brow, 

Yes,  wept !     I  was  a  child ;  but  now 

My  noble  mother,  on  her  knee, 

Hath  done  the  work  of  years  for  me  !  " 

He  drew  aside  his  broidered  vest, 

And  there,  like  slumbering  serpent's  crest, 

The  jeweled  haft  of  poniard  bright 

Glittered  a  moment  on  the  sight. 
11  Ha  !  start  ye  back  ?     Fool !  coward !  knave ! 

Think  ye  my  noble  father's  glaive 

Would  drink  the  life-blood  of  a  slave  ? 

The  pearls  that  on  the  handle  flame, 

Would  blush  to  rubies  in  their  shame ; 

The  blade  would  quiver  in  thy  breast 

Ashamed  of  such  ignoble  rest. 

No !  thus  I  rend  the  tyrant's  chain, 

And  fling  him  back  a  boy's  disdain !  " 

A  moment,  and  the  funeral  light 
Flashed  on  the  jeweled  weapon  bright ; 
Another,  and  his  young  heart's  blood 
Leaped  to  the  floor,  a  crimson  flood. 
Quick  to  his  mother's  side  he  sprang, 
And  on  the  air  his  clear  voice  rang  : 
1  Up,  mother,  up !     I  'm  free !  I  'm  free  I 
The  choice  was  death  or  slavery. 
Up,  mother,  up !     Look  on  thy  son ! 
His  freedom  is  forever  won ; 
And  now  he  waits  one  holy  kiss 
To  bear  his  father  home  in  bliss, 
One  last  embrace,  one  blessing, — one  ! 
To  prove  thou  know'st,  appro v'st  thy  son. 


186  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

What !  silent  yet  ?  Canst  thou  not  feel 
My  warm  blood  o'er  thy  heart  congeal  ? 
Speak,  mother,  speak !  lift  up  thy  head  1 
What !  silent  still  ?     Then  art  thou  dead ! 

Great  God,  I  thank  thee !     Mother,  I 

Rejoice  with  thee, — and  thus — to  die." 
One  long,  deep  breath,  and  his  pale  head 
Lay  on  his  mother's  bosom, — dead. 

Ann  S.  Stephens. 

9Saiafciaba. 

0  the  charge  at  Balaklava ! 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge  I 
Never  was  a  fiercer,  braver, 
Than  that  charge  at  Balaklava, 

On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  1 
All  the  day  the  Russian  columns, 

Fortress  huge,  and  blazing  banks, 
Poured  their  dread  destructive  volumes 

On  the  French  and  English  ranks, — 

On  the  gallant  allied  ranks ! 
Earth  and  sky  seemed  rent  asunder 
By  the  loud  incessant  thunder  1 
When  a  strange  but  stern  command — 
Needless,  heedless,  rash  command — 
Came  to  Lucan's  httle  band, — 
Scarce  six  hundred  men  and  horses 
Of  those  vast  contending  forces : — 
"  England  's  lost  unless  you  save  her ! 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava  1  " 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  1 

Far  away  the  Russian  Eagles 

Soar  o'er  smoking  hill  and  dell, 

And  their  hordes,  like  howling  beagles, 
Dense  and  countless,  round  them  yell  I 


BALAKLAVA.  187 

Thundering  cannon,  deadly  mortar, 
Sweep  the  field  in  every  quarter ! 
Never,  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Trembled  so  the  Chersonesus  ! 

Here  behold  the  Gallic  Lilies — 

Stout  St.  Louis'  golden  Lilies — 

Float  as  erst  at  old  Ramillies  ! 

And  beside  them,  lo !  the  Lion ! 

With  her  trophied  Cross,  is  flying ! 
Glorious  standards ! — shall  they  waver 
On  the  field  of  Balaklava  ? 
No,  by  Heavens !  at  that  command — 
Sudden,  rash,  but  stern  command — 
Charges  Lucan's  little  band ! 

Brave  Six  Hundred !  lo  !  they  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge  ! 

Down  yon  deep  and  skirted  valley, 

Where  the  crowded  cannon  play, — 
Where  the  Czar's  fierce  cohorts  rally, 
Cossack,  Calmuck,  savage  Kalli, — 

Down  that  gorge  they  swept  away ! 
Down  the  new  Thermopylae, 
Flashing  swords  and  helmets  see ! 
Underneath  the  iron  shower, 

To  the  brazen  cannon's  jaws, 
Heedless  of  their  deadly  power, 

Press  they  without  fear  or  pause, — 

To  the  very  cannon's  jaws  I 
Gallant  Nolan,  brave  as  Roland 

At  the  field  of  Roucesvalles, 

Dashes  down  the  fatal  valley, 
Dashes  on  the  bolt  of  death, 
Shouting  with  his  latest  breath, 
"  Charge,  then,  gallants !  do  not  waver 
Charge  the  pass  at  Balaklava!  " 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge ! 


1 8  8  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Now  the  bolts  of  volleyed  thunder 
Rend  the  little  band  asunder, 
Steed  and  rider  wildly  screaming, 
Screaming  wildly,  sink  away  ; 
Late  so  proudly,  proudly  gleaming, 
Now  but  lifeless  clods  of  clay, — 
Now  but  bleeding  clods  of  clay ! 
Never  since  the  days  of  Jesus, 
Saw  such  sight  the  Chersonesus  ! 
Yet  your  remnant,  brave  Six  Hundred, 
Presses  onward,  onward,  onward, 

Till  they  storm  the  bloody  pass, — 
Till,  like  brave  Leonid  as, 
They  storm  the  deadly  pass ! 
Sabring  Cossack,  Calmuck,  Kalli, 
In  that  wild  shot-rended  valley, — 
Drenched  with  fire  and  blood,  like  lava, 
Awful  pass  at  Balaklava ! 

0  that  rash  and  fatal  charge, 
On  that  battle's  bloody  marge ! 

For  now  Russia's  rallied  forces, 
Swarming  hordes  of  Cossack  horses, 
Trampling  o'er  the  reeking  corses, 
Drive  the  thinned  assailants  back, 
Drive  the  feeble  remnant  back, 
O'er  their  late  heroic  track ! 
Vain,  alas !  now  rent  and  sundered, 
Vain  your  struggles,  brave  Two  Hundred ! 
Thrice  your  number  lie  asleep, 
In  that  valley  dark  and  deep. 
Weak  and  wounded  you  retire 
From  that  hurricane  of  fire, — 
That  tempestuous  storm  of  fire, — 
But  no  soldiers  firmer,  braver, 

Ever  trod  the  field  of  fame, 
Then  the  Knights  of  Balaklava, — 
Honor  to  each  hero's  name ! 


THE  PA  UPER'S  DRIVE.  1 80 

Yet  their  country  long  shall  mourn 

For  her  ranks  so  rashly  shorn, — 

So  gallantly,  but  madly  shorn 

In  that  fierce  and  fatal  charge, 
On  the  battle's  bloody  marge. 

Alexander  B.  Meek. 

Ci)e  ^aupei's  Bribe. 

There  6  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round  trot — 
To  the  church-yard  a  pauper  is  going,  I  wot ; 
The  road  it  is  rough,  and  the  hearse  has  no  springs ; 
And  hark  to  the  dirge  which  the  mad  driver  sings : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He  's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  1 

Oh,  where  are  the  mourners  ?     Alas !  there  are  none — 
He  has  left  not  a  gap  in  the  world,  now  he  's  gone — 
Not  a  tear  in  the  eye  of  child,  woman,  or  man ; 
To  the  grave  with  his  carcass  as  fast  as  you  can : 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He  's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  I 

What  a  jolting,  and  creaking,  and  splashing,  and  din  ! 

The  whip,  how  it  cracks !  and  the  wheels,  how  they  spin 

How  the  dirt,  right  and  left,  o'er  the  hedges  is  hurled ! 

The  pauper  at  length  makes  a  noise  in  the  world ! 
Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones  / 
He  's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns! 

Poor  pauper  defunct !  he  has  made  some  approach 
To  gentility,  now  that  he  's  stretched  in  a  coach ! 
He  's  taking  a  drive  in  his  carriage  at  last ; 
But  it  will  not  be  long,  if  he  goes  on  so  fast. 

Rattle  his  bones  over  the  stones ! 

He  's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  ! 

You  bumpkins,  who  stare  at  your  brother  conveyed, 
Behold  what  respect  to  a  cloddy  is  paid ! 
16* 


190  SWGLE  FAMO  US  P OEMS. 

And  be  joyful  to  think,  when  by  death  you  're  laid  low, 
You  've  a  chance  to  the  grave  like  a  gemman  to  go  I 

Battle  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

He  's  only  a  pauper,  whom  nobody  owns  ! 

But  a  truce  to  this  strain ;  for  my  soul  it  is  sad, 
To  think  that  a  heart  in  humanity  clad 
Should  make,  like  the  brutes,  such  a  desolate  end, 
And  depart  from  the  light  without  leaving  a  friend. 

Bear  soft  his  bones  over  the  stones  ! 

Though  a  pauper,  he  Js  one  whom  his  Maker  yet  owns  ! 

Thomas  Noel. 

^Florence  Van*. 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Yane ; 
My  life's  bright  dream  and  early 

Hath  come  again  ; 
I  renew  in  my  fond  vision 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hopes  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane  I 

The  ruin,  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told, 
That  spot,  the  hues  elysian 

Of  sky  and  plain 
I  treasure  in  my  vision, 

Florence  Vane ! 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 


THE  DULE  'S  P  THIS  BONNET  0'  MINE      191 

Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main, 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane. 

But  fairest,  coldest  wonder ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under ; 

Alas  the  day! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain, 
To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 

Florence  Vane ! 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  daisies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep, 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane. 

Philip  Pendleton  Cooke. 


W$z  Bnlt  '*  V  tjfe  ISomtet  o'  Mint. 

The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine : 

My  ribbins  '11  never  be  reet ; 
Here,  Mally,  aw  'm  like  to  be  fine, 

For  Jamie  '11  be  comin'  to-neet ; 
He  met  me  i'  th'  lone  t'  other  day 

(Aw  wur  gooin'  for  wayter  to  th'  well), 
An'  he  begged  that  aw  'd  wed  him  i'  May, 

Bi  th'  mass,  if  he'll  let  me,  aw  will  I 

When  he  took  my  two  honds  into  his, 
G-ood  Lord,  heaw  they  trembled  between  I 


1 92  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

An'  aw  durst  n't  look  up  in  his  face, 

Becose  on  him  seein'  my  e'en. 
My  cheek  went  as  red  as  a  rose ; 

There  's  never  a  mortal  con  tell 
Heaw  happy  aw  felt, — for,  thae  knows, 

One  could  n't  ha'  axed  him  theirsel'. 

But  th'  tale  wur  at  th'  end  o'  my  tung : 

To  let  it  eawt  would  n't  be  reet, 
For  aw  thought  to  seem  forrud  wur  wrong ; 

So  aw  towd  him  aw  'd  tell  him  to-neet. 
But,  Mally,  thae  knows  very  weel 

Though  it  is  n't  a  thing  one  should  own, 
Iv  aw  'd  th'  pikein'  o'  th'  world  to  mysel', 

Aw  'd  oather  ha'  Jamie  or  noan. 

Neaw,  Mally,  aw  've  towd  thae  my  mind ; 

What  would  to  do  iv  '  t  wur  thee  ? 
"  Aw  'd  tak  him  just  while  he  's  inclined, 

An'  a  f  arrantly  bargain  he  '11  be ; 
For  Jamie  's  as  greadly  a  lad 

As  ever  stept  eawt  into  th'  sun. 
Go,  jump  at  thy  chance,  an'  get  wed ; 

An'  mak  th'  best  o'  th'  job  when  it  's  done !  " 

Eh,  dear !  but  it 's  time  to  be  gwon : 
Aw  should  n't  like  Jamie  to  wait; 
Aw  connut  for  shame  be  too  soon, 

An'  aw  would  n't  for  th'  wuld  be  too  late. 
Aw  'm  o'  ov  a  tremble  to  th'  heel : 
Dost  think  'at  my  bonnet  '11  do  ? 
"  Be  off,  lass, — thae  looks  very  weel ; 

He  wants  noan  o'  th'  bonnet,  thae  foo !  " 

Edwin  WAUoa 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  193 

Eficafjam  Hmcoln. 

FIRST  PUBLISHED  IN  PUNCH. 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier, 
You,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 

Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British  sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bristling  hair 

His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 
His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please ; 

You,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil's  laugh, 
Judging  each  step  as  though  the  way  were  plain; 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chief's  perplexity  or  people's  pain, — 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding-sheet 
The  Stars  and  Stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room  for  you  P 

Yes :  he  had  lived  to  shame  me  from  my  sneer, 

To  lame  my  pencil  and  confute  my  pen ; 
To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 

This  rail-splitter,  a  true-born  king  of  men. 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learned  to  rue, 

Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose ; 
How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem  more  true  ■ 

How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by  blows ; 

How  humble  yet  how  hopeful  he  could  be  ; 

How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same ; 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 

Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 
17 


1 9  4  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

He  went  about  his  work,  such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and  hand, 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there  's  a  task  to  do, 

Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good  grace  command ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden  grow, 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  his  will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 

Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good  and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 

That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and  Right's, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 

His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwarting  mights — 

The  uncleared  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 

The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberer's  axe, 

The  rapid  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's  toil, 

The  prairie  hiding  the  mazed  wanderer's  tracks, 

The  ambushed  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear, — 
Such  were  the  deeds  that  helped  his  youth  to  train : 

Rough  culture,  but  such  trees  large  fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destined  work  to  do, 

And  lived  to  do  it ;  four  long-suffering  years' 

111  fate,  ill  feeling,  ill  report  lived  through, 

And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to  cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering  mood, — 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light,  from  darkling  days, 

And  seemed  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him, 

Reached  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger  prest, 

And  those  perplexed  and  patient  eyes  were  dim, 
Those  gaunt,  long -laboring  limbs  were  laid  to  rest; 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  VEjW.  ]  95 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 

Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 
When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 

To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to  sea, 

Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame. 
Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat  high ! 

Sad  lif  e,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came ! 

A  deed  accursed !     Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore ; 

But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands  darkly  out, 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 
Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven, 

And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a  life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 

Tom  Taylor. 

Cf)e  JHemotg  oi  tfje  Beab. 

Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 

Who  blushes  at  the  name  ? 
When  cowards  mock  the  patriot's  fate, 

Who  hangs  his  head  for  shame  ? 
He  's  all  a  knave,  or  half  a  slave, 

Who  slights  his  country  thus ; 
But  a  true  man,  like  you,  man, 

Will  fill  your  glass  with  us. 

We  drink  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

The  faithful  and  the  few — 
Some  lie  far  off  beyond  the  wave — 

Some  sleep  in  Ireland,  too ; 
All,  all  are  gone — but  still  lives  on 

The  fame  of  those  who  died — 


1 9  6  SIKG  L  E  FA  MO  US  P  OEMS. 

All  true  men,  like  you,  men, 
Remember  them  with  pride. 

Some  on  the  shores  of  distant  lands 

Their  weary  hearts  have  laid, 
And  by  the  stranger's  heedless  hands 

Their  lonely  graves  were  made ; 
But,  though  their  clay  be  far  away 

Beyond  the  Atlantic  foam — 
In  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Their  spirit 's  still  at  home. 

The  dust  of  some  is  Irish  earth ; 

Among  their  own  they  rest ; 
And  the  same  land  that  gave  them  birth 

Has  caught  them  to  her  breast ; 
And  we  will  pray  that  from  their  clay 

Full  many  a  race  may  start 
Of  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

To  act  as  brave  a  part. 

They  rose  in  dark  and  evil  days 

To  right  their  native  land; 
They  kindled  here  a  living  blaze 

That  nothing  shall  withstand. 
Alas !  that  might  can  vanquish  right — 

They  fell  and  passed  away ; 
But  true  men,  like  you,  men, 

Are  plenty  here  to-day. 

Then  here  's  their  memory — may  it  be 

For  us  a  guiding  light, 
To  cheer  our  strife  for  liberty, 

And  teach  us  to  unite. 
Through  good  and  ill,  be  Ireland's  still, 

Though  sad  as  theirs  your  fate  ; 
And  true  men,  be  you,  men, 

Like  those  of  Ninety-Eight  I 

John  Kells  Ingram. 


THE  BIVO XI AG  OF  THE  DEAD  \ 9 f 

CJe  Wbouac  of  tfte  2Bea*L 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  soldier's  last  tattoo  ; 
No  more  on  life's  parade  shall  meet 

That  brave  and  fallen  few. 
On  fame's  eternal  camping  ground 

Their  silent  tents  are  spread, 
And  glory  guards,  with  solemn  round, 

The  bivouac  of  the  dead. 

No  rumor  of  the  foe's  advance 

Now  swells  upon  the  wind  ; 
No  troubled  thought  at  midnight  haunts 

Of  loved  ones  left  behind  ; 
No  vision  of  the  morrow's  strife 

The  warrior's  dream  alarms ; 
No  braying  horn  nor  screaming  fife 

At  dawn  shall  call  to  arms. 

Their  shivered  swords  are  red  with  rust, 

Their  plumed  heads  are  bowed ; 
Their  haughty  banner,  trailed  in  dust, 

Is  now  their  martial  shroud. 
And  plenteous  funeral  tears  have  washed 

The  red  stains  from  each  brow, 
And  the  proud  forms,  by  battle  gashed, 

Are  free  from  anguish  now. 

The  neighing  troop,  the  flashing  blade, 

The  bugle's  stirring  blast, 
The  charge,  the  dreadful  cannonade, 

The  din  and  shout  are  past; 
Nor  war's  wild  note  nor  glory's  peal 

Shall  thrill  with  fierce  delight 
Those  breasts  that  never  more  may  feel 

The  rapture  of  the  fight. 


1 98  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P OEMS. 

Like  the  fierce  northern  hurricane 

That  sweeps  his  great  plateau, 
Flushed  with  the  triumph  yet  to  gain, 

Came  down  the  serried  foe. 
Who  heard  the  thunder  of  the  fray 

Break  o'er  the  field  beneath, 
Knew  well  the  watchword  of  that  day 

Was  "  Victory  or  death." 

Long  had  the  doubtful  conflict  raged 
O'er  all  that  stricken  plain, 

For  never  fiercer  fight  had  waged 
The  vengeful  blood  of  Spain  ; 

And  still  the  storm  of  battle  blew, 
Still  swelled  the  gory  tide ; 

Not  long,  our  stout  old  chieftain  knew, 
Such  odds  his  strength  could  bide. 

'T  was  in  that  hour  his  stern  command 

Called  to  a  martyr's  grave 
The  flower  of  his  beloved  land, 

The  nation's  flag  to  save. 
By  rivers  of  their  fathers'  gore 

His  first-born  laurels  grew, 
And  well  he  deemed  the  sons  would  pour 

Their  lives  for  glory  too. 

Full  many  a  norther's  breath  has  swept 

O'er  Angostura's  plain — 
And  long  the  pitying  sky  has  wept 

Above  the  mouldering  slain. 
The  raven's  scream,  or  eagle's  flight, 

Or  shepherd's  pensive  lay, 
Alone  awakes  each  sullen  height 

That  frowned  o'er  that  dread  fray. 

Sons  of  the  Dark  and  Bloody  Ground, 
Ye  must  not  slumber  there, 


NEARER,  MY  GOD,  TO  THEE.  199 

Where  stranger  steps  and  tongues  resound 

Along  the  heedless  air; 
Tour  own  proud  land's  heroic  soil 

Shall  be  your  fitter  grave ; 
She  claims  from  war  his  richest  spoil — 

The  ashes  of  her  brave. 

So,  'neath  their  parent  turf  they  rest, 

Far  from  the  gory  field, 
Borne  to  a  Spartan  mother's  breast, 

On  many  a  bloody  shield ; 
The  sunshine  of  their  native  sky 

Smiles  sadly  on  them  here, 
And  kindred  eyes  and  hearts  watch  by 

The  heroes'  sepulchre. 

Rest  on,  embalmed  and  sainted  dead, 

Dear  as  the  blood  ye  gave ; 
No  impious  footstep  here  shall  tread 

The  herbage  of  your  grave ; 
Nor  shall  your  glory  be  forgot 

While  Fame  her  record  keeps, 
Or  Honor  points  the  hallowed  spot 

Where  Valor  proudly  sleeps. 

Yon  marble  minstrel's  voiceless  stone, 

In  deathless  song  shall  tell, 
When  many  a  vanished  age  hath  flown, 

The  story  how  ye  fell ; 
Nor  wreck,  nor  change,  nor  winter's  blight, 

Nor  Time's  remorseless  doom, 
Shall  dim  one  ray  of  glory's  light 

That  gilds  your  deathless  tomb. 

Theodore  O'Hara* 

J£eam,  mg  <&<rtJ,  to  Cijee. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee  I 


200  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Though,  like  the  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven ; 
All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given  ; 
Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Then  with  my  waking  thougnts 

Bright  with  thy  praise, 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Bethel  I  '11  raise; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee  1 

Or  if  on  jo}rful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be,— 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee. 

Sarah  Flower  Adams. 


LINES  ON  A  SKELETON.  2()1 

Ernes  on  a  j&fteleton. 

Behold  this  ruin !     'T  was  a  skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 
This  narrow  cell  was  Life's  retreat, 
This  space  was  Thought's  mysterious  seat. 
What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 
What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot ! 
Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love,  nor  fear, 
Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 

Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy 

Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye, 

But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void, — 

If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 

If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 

But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed, 

That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 

When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 

The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue ; 

If  Falsehood's  honey  it  disdained, 

And  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chaiued ; 

If  bold  in  Virtue's  cause  it  spoke, 

Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, — 

This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 

When  Time  unveils  Eternity  I 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine  ? 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine  ? 
To  hew  the  rock,  or  wear  a  gem, 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them.  . 
But  if  the  page  of  Truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  the  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  Wealth  and  Fame. 
17* 


202  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  Ease  they  fled, 
To  seek  Affliction's  humble  shed ; 
If  Grandeur's  guilty  bribe  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  Virtue's  cot  returned, — 
These  feet  with  angel-wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky. 

Anonymous. 

2TJ)e  $iace  toftete  JHan  sfjouUj  Bit, 

How  little  recks  it  where  men  lie, 

When  once  the  moment 's  past 
In  which  the  dim  and  glazing  eye 

Has  looked  on  earth  its  last, — 
Whether  beneath  the  sculptured  urn 

The  coffined  form  shall  rest, 
Or  in  its  nakedness  return 

Back  to  its  mother's  breast ! 

Death  is  a  common  friend  or  foe, 

As  different  men  may  hold, 
And  at  his  summons  each  must  go, 

The  timid  and  the  bold ; 
But  when  the  spirit,  free  and  warm, 

Deserts  it,  as  it  must, 
What  matter  where  the  lifeless  form 

Dissolves  again  to  dust  ? 

The  soldier  falls  'mid  corses  piled 

Upon  the  battle-plain, 
Where  reinless  war-steeds  gallop  wild 

Above  the  mangled  slain  ; 
But  though  his  corse  be  grim  to  see, 

Hoof-trampled  on  the  sod, 
What  recks  it,  when  the  spirit  free 

Has  soared  aloft  to  God  ? 


A  HUNDRED  YEARS  TO  COME.  203 

The  coward's  dying  eyes  may  close 

Upon  his  downy  bed, 
And  softest  hands  his  limbs  compose, 

Or  garments  o'er  them  spread. 
But  ye  who  shun  the  bloody  fray, 

When  fall  the  mangled  brave, 
Go — strip  his  coffin-lid  away, 

And  see  him  in  his  grave  I 

'T  were  sweet,  indeed,  to  close  our  eyes, 

With  those  we  cherish  near, 
And,  wafted  upwards  by  their  sighs, 

Soar  to  some  calmer  sphere. 
But  whether  on  the  scaffold  high, 

Or  in  the  battle's  van, 
The  fittest  place  where  man  can  die 

Is  where  he  dies  for  man  ! 

Michael  Joseph  Barry. 


&  Jguntorefc  $ean3  to  GTome. 

Where,  where  will  be  the  birds  that  sing, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
The  flowers  that  now  in  beauty  spring, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
The  rosy  lips,  the  lofty  brow, 
The  heart  that  beats  so  gayly  now, 
Oh,  where  will  be  love's  beaming  eye, 
Joy's  pleasant  smile,  and  sorrow's  sigh, 

A  hundred  years  to  ccme  ? 

Who  '11  press  for  gold  this  crowded  street, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
Who  '11  tread  yon  church  with  willing  feet, 

A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 
Pale  trembling  age,  and  fiery  youth, 
And  childhood  with  its  brow  of  truth : 


204  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

The  rich  and  poor,  on  land  and  sea, — 
Where  will  the  mighty  millions  be 
A  hundred  years  to  come  ? 

We  all  within  our  graves  shall  sleep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come ; 
No  living  soul  for  us  will  weep, 

A  hundred  years  to  come. 
But  other  men  our  lands  shall  till, 
And  others,  then,  our  streets  will  fill, 
While  other  birds  will  sing  as  gay, 
As  bright  the  sunshine  as  to-day, 

A  hundred  years  to  come. 

William  Goldsmith  Brown. 


€fte  Song  of  Steam. 

Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein, 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 
How  I  laughed  as  I  lay  concealed  from  sight, 

For  many  a  countless  hour, 
At  the  childish  boast  of  human  might, 

And  the  pride  of  human  power. 

When  I  saw  an  army  upon  the  land, 

A  navy  upon  the  seas, 
Creeping  along,  a  snail-like  band, 

Or  waiting  the  wayward  breeze, — 
When  I  marked  the  peasant  faintly  reel 

With  the  toil  which  he  daily  bore, 
As  he  feebly  turned  the  tardy  wheel. 

Or  tugged  at  the  weary  oar, — 

When  I  measured  the  panting  courser's  speed, 
The  flight  of  the  carrier  dove, 


THE  SONG  OF  STEAM.  205 

As  they  bore  the  law  a  king  decreed, 


Or  the  lines  of  impatient  iov 


I  could  but  think  how  the  world  would  feel, 

As  these  were  outstripped  afar, 
When  I  should  be  bound  to  the  rushing  keel, 

Or  chained  to  the  flying  car. 

Ha,  ha,  ha !     They  found  me  at  last, 

They  invited  me  forth  at  length, 
And  I  rushed  to  my  tin-one  with  a  thunder  blast, 

And  laughed  in  my  iron  strength ! 
Oh !  then  ye  saw  a  wondrous  change 

On  the  earth  and  the  ocean  wide, 
Where  now  my  fiery  armies  range, 

Nor  wait  for  wind  or  tide. 

The  ocean  pales  where'er  I  sweep, 

To  hear  my  strength  rejoice, 
And  monsters  of  the  briny  deep 

Cower  trembling  at  my  voice. 
I  carry  the  wealth  and  the  lord  of  earth, 

The  thoughts  of  his  godlike  mind  ; 
The  wind  lags  after  my  going  forth, 

The  lightning  is  left  behind. 

In  the  darksome  depths  of  the  fathomless  mine, 

My  tireless  arm  doth  play  ; 
Where  the  rocks  never  saw  the  sun  decline, 

Or  the  dawn  of  a  glorious  day ; 
I  bring  earth's  glittering  jewels  up 

From  the  hidden  caves  below, 
And  I  make  the  fountain's  granite  cup 

With  a  crystal  gush  o'erflow. 

I  blow  the  bellows,  I  forge  the  steel, 

In  all  the  shops  of  trade ; 
I  hammer  the  ore  and  turn  the  wheel 

Where  my  arms  of  strength  are  made. 
18 


206  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

I  manage  the  furnace,  the  mill,  the  mint, — 

I  carry,  I  spin,  I  weave ; 
And  all  my  doings  I  put  into  print 

On  every  Saturday  eve. 

I  've  no  muscle  to  weary,  no  brains  to  decay, 

No  bones  to  be  "  laid  on  the  shelf," 
And  soon  I  intend  you  may  "  go  and  play,'' 

While  I  manage  the  world  myself. 
But  harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands, 

Be  sure  of  your  curb  and  rein, 
For  I  scorn  the  strength  of  your  puny  hands 

As  the  tempest  scorns  a  chain. 

G-eokgk  W.  Cutter 


S2Rf)g  tfiujst  llonfitng? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing, 
For  the  far-off,  un attained  and  dim, 

While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw — 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten — 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own ; 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten, 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 


NOTHING  TO  WEAK.  207 

Not  by  deeds  that  win  the  crowd's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  give  thee  world-renown, 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 

Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give ; 
Thou  wilt  find,  by  hearty  striving  only, 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning, 

When  all  nature  hails  the  lord  of  light, 
And  his  smile,  the  mountain-tops  adorning, 

Robes  yon  fragrant  fields  in  radiance  bright  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest, 

Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine ; 
But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest, 

Thou  art  wealthier — all  the  world  is  thine. 

Yet  if  through  earth's  wide  domains  thou  rovest, 

Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 
Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou  lovest, 

And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are  gone. 

Nature  wears  the  color  of  the  spirit; 

Sweetly  to  her  worshiper  she  sings ; 
All  the  glow,  the  grace  she  doth  inherit, 

Round  her  trusting  child  she  fondly  flings. 

Harriet  Winslow  Sew  all. 


j£otf)tng  to  ftHear. 

Miss  Flora  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
Has  made  three  separate  journeys  to  Paris, 
And  her  father  assures  me,  each  time  she  was  there, 
That  she  and  her  friend  Mrs.  Harris 


208  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

(Not  the  lady  whose  name  is  so  famous  in  history, 

But  plain  Mrs.  H.,  without  romance  or  mystery) 

Spent  six  consecutive  weeks,  without  stopping, 

In  one  continuous  round  of  shopping, — 

Shopping  alone,  and  shopping  together, 

At  all  hours  of  the  day,  and  in  all  sorts  of  weather, 

For  all  manner  of  things  that  a  woman  can  put 

On  the  crown  of  her  head,  or  the  soul  of  her  foot, 

Or  wrap  round  her  shoulders,  or  fit  round  her  waist, 

Or  that  can  be  sewed  on,  or  pinned  on,  or  laced, 

Or  tied  with  a  string,  or  stitched  with  a  bow, 

In  front  or  behind,  above  or  below ; 

For  bonnets,  mantillas,  capes,  collars,  and  shawls; 

Dresses  for  breakfast,  and  dinners,  and  balls ; 

Dresses  to  sit  in,  and  stand  in,  and  walk  in ; 

Dresses  to  dance  in,  and  flirt  in,  and  talk  in ; 

Dresses  in  which  to  do  nothing  at  all ; 

Dresses  for  Winter,  Spring,  Summer,  and  Fall ; — 

All  of  them  different  in  color  and  shape, 

Silk,  muslin,  and  lace,  velvet,  satin,  and  crape, 

Brocade  and  broadcloth,  and  other  material, 

Quite  as  expensive  and  much  more  ethereal ; 

In  short,  for  all  things  that  could  ever  be  thought  of, 

Or  milliner,  modiste,  or  tradesman  be  bought  of, 

From  ten-thousand-franc  robes  to  twenty-sous  frills ; 
In  all  quarters  of  Paris,  and  to  every  store, 
While  M'Flimsey  in  vain  stormed,  scolded,  and  swore, 

They  footed  the  streets,  and  he  footed  the  bills ! 

The  last  trip,  their  goods  shipped  by  the  steamer  Argo, 
Formed,  M'Flimsey  declares,  the  bulk  of  her  cargo, 
Not  to  mention  a  quantity  kept  from  the  rest, 
Sufficient  to  fill  the  largest  sized  chest, 
Which  did  not  appear  on  the  ship's  manifest, 
But  for  which  the  ladies  themselves  manifested 
Such  particular  interest,  that  they  invested 
Their  own  proper  persons  in  layers  and  rows 


NOTHING  TO  WEAK  208 

Of  muslins,  embroideries,  worked  under-clothes, 
Gloves,  handkerchiefs,  scarfs,  and  such  trifles  as  those ; 
Then,  wrapped  in  great  shawls,  like  Circassian  beauties, 
Gave  good  by  to  the  ship,  and  go  by  to  the  duties. 
Her  relations  at  home  all  marveled,  no  doubt, 
Miss  Flora  had  grown  so  enormously  stout 

For  an  actual  belle  and  a  possible  bride ; 
But  the  miracle  ceased  when  she  turned  inside  out, 

And  the  truth  came  to  light,  and  the  dry-goods  beside ; 
Which,  in  spite  of  Collector  and  Custom-House  sentry, 
Had  entered  the  port  without  any  entry. 
And  yet,  though  scarce  three  months  have  passed  since 

the  day 
This  merchandise  went,  on  twelve  carts,  up  Broadway, 
This  same  Miss  M'Flimsey,  of  Madison  Square, 
The  last  time  we  met  was  in  utter  despair, 
Because  she  had  nothing  whatever  to  wear ! 

Nothing  to  wear  !     Now,  as  this  is  a  true  ditty, 
I  do  not  assert — this,  you  know,  is  between  us — 

That  she  's  in  a  state  of  absolute  nudity, 

Like  Powers'  Greek  Slave,  or  the  Medici  Venus ; 

But  I  do  mean  to  say,  I  have  heard  her  declare, 
When  at  the  same  moment  she  had  on  a  dress 
Which  cost  five  hundred  dollars,  and  not  a  cent  less, 
And  jewelry  worth  ten  times  more,  I  should  guess, 

That  she  had  not  a  thing  in  the  wide  world  to  wear ! 

I  should  mention  just  here,  that  out  of  Miss  Flora's 

Two  hundred  and  fifty  or  sixty  adorers, 

I  had  just  been  selected  as  he  who  should  throw  all 

The  rest  in  the  shade,  by  the  gracious  bestowal 

On  myself,  after  twenty  or  thirty  rejections, 

Of  those  fossil  remains  which  she  called  her  "  affections,*' 

And  that  rather  decayed,  but  well-known  work  of  art, 

Which  Miss  Flora  persisted  in  styling  her  "  heart." 

So  we  were  engaged.     Our  troth  had  been  plighted, 


210  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Not  by  moonbeam  or  starbeam,  by  fountain  or  grove, 
But  in  a  front  parlor,  most  brilliantly  lighted, 
Beneath  the  gas-fixtures,  we  whispered  our  love. 
Without  any  romance,  or  raptures,  or  sighs, 
Without  any  tears  in  Miss  Flora's  blue  eyes, 
Or  blushes,  or  transports,  or  such  silly  actions, 
It  was  one  of  the  quietest  business  transactions, 
With  a  very  small  sprinkling  of  sentiment,  if  any, 
And  a  very  large  diamond  imported  by  Tiffany. 
On  her  virginal  lips  while  I  printed  a  kiss, 
She  exclaimed,  as  a  sort  of  parenthesis, 
And  by  way  of  putting  me  quite  at  my  ease, 
"  You  know  I  'm  to  polka  as  much  as  I  please, 
And  flirt  when  I  like — now,  stop,  do  n't  you  speak — 
And  you  must  not  come  here  more  than  twice  in  the 

week, 
Or  talk  to  me  either  at  party  or  ball, 
But  always  be  ready  to  come  when  I  call ; 
So  do  n't  prose  to  me  about  duty  and  stuff, 
If  we  do  n't  break  this  off,  there  will  be  time  enough 
For  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  the  bargain  must  be 
That,  as  long  as  I  choose,  I  am  perfectly  free, — 
For  this  is  a  kind  of  engagement,  you  see, 
Which  is  binding  on  you,  but  not  binding  on  me." 

Well,  having  thus  wooed  Miss  M'Flimsey  and  gained  her, 

With  the  silks,  crinolines,  and  hoops  that  contained  her, 

I  had,  as  I  thought,  a  contingent  remainder 

At  least  in  the  property,  and  the  best  right 

To  appear  as  its  escort  by  day  and  by  night ; 

And  it  being  the  week  of  the  Stuckup's  grand  ball, — 

Their  cards  had  been  out  a  fortnight  or  so, 

And  set  all  the  Avenue  on  the  tiptoe, — 
I  considered  it  only  my  duty  to  call, 

And  see  if  Miss  Flora  intended  to  go. 
I  found  her — as  ladies  are  apt  to  be  found, 
When  the  time  intervening  between  the  first  sound 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR.  211 

Of  the  bell  and  the  visitor's  entry  is  shorter 
Than  usual — I  found;  I  won't  say — I  caught  her, 
Intent  on  the  pier-glass,  undoubtedly  meaning 
To  see  if  perhaps  it  did  n't  need  cleaning. 
She  turned  as  I  entered, — "  Why,  Harry,  you  sinner, 
I  thought  that  you  went  to  the  Flashers'  to  dinner  1  " 
"  So  I  did,"  I  replied,  "  but  the  dinner  is  swallowed, 

And  digested,  I  trust,  for  't  is  now  nine  and  more, 
So  being  relieved  from  that  duty,  I  followed 

Inclination,  which  led  me,  you  see,  to  your  door ; 
And  now  will  your  ladyship  so  condescend 
As  just  to  inform  me  if  you  intend 
Your  beauty,  and  graces,  and  presence  to  lend 
(All  of  which,  when  I  own,  I  hope  no  one  will  borrow) 
To  the  Stuckups,  whose  party,  you  know,  is  to-morrow  ?  " 
The  fair  Flora  looked  up,  with  a  pitiful  air, 
And  answered  quite  promptly,  "  Why,  Harry,  mon  cher, 
I  should  like  above  all  things  to  go  with  you  there, 
But  really  and  truly — I  've  nothing  to  wear." 
'*  Nothing  to  wear !  go  just  as  you  are; 
Wear  the  dress  you  have  on,  and  you  '11  be  by  far, 
I  engage,  the  most  bright  and  particular  star 

On  the  Stuckup  horizon — "  I  stopped,  for  her  eye, 
Notwithstanding  this  delicate  onset  of  flattery, 
Opened  on  me  at  once  a  most  terrible  battery 

Of  scorn  and  amazement.     She  made  no  reply, 
But  gave  a  slight  turn  to  the  end  of  her  nose, 

(That  pure  Grecian  feature,)  as  much  to  say, 
"  How  absurd  that  any  sane  man  should  suppose 
That  a  lady  would  go  to  a  ball  in  the  clothes, 

No  matter  how  fine,  that  she  wears  every  day !  " 

So  I  ventured  again :  "  Wear  your  crimson  brocade ;  " 
(Second  turn  up  of  nose) — "  That 's  too  dark  by  a  shade." 

'Your  blue  silk "— " That  's  too  heavy."     "Your  pink"— 
"  That's  too  light" 

"  Wear  tulle  over  satin  " — "  I  can't  endure  white." 


2 1 2  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

"  Your  rose-colored,  then,  the  best  of  the  batch.  * 
"I  have  n't  a  thread  of  point-lace  to  match." 
"Your  brown  moire  antique" — "Yes,  and  look  like  a  Qua- 
ker;" 
"  The  pearl-colored  " — "  I  would,  but   that   plaguy   dress- 
maker 
Has  had  it  a  week." — "  Then  that  exquisite  lilac, 
In  which  you  would  melt  the  heart  of  a  Shylock ;  " 
(Here  the  nose  took  again  the  same  elevation) — 
"  I  would  n't  wear  that  for  the  whole  of  creation." 

"  Why  not  ?    It 's  my  fancy,  there  'a  nothing  could  strike  i  t 
As  more  comme  ilfaut" — "Yes,  but,  dear  me.  that  lean 

Sophronia  Stuckup  has  got  one  just  like  it, 
And  I  won't  appear  dressed  like  a  chit  of  sixteen." 
"  Then  that  splendid  purple,  that  sweet  Mazarine ; 
That  superb  point  d?  aiguille,  that  imperial  green, 
That  zephyr-like  tarletan,  that  rich  grenadine" — 
"  Not  one  of  all  which  is  fit  to  be  seen," 

Said  the  lady,  becoming  excited  and  flushed. 
"  Then  wear,"  I  exclaimed  in  a  tone  which  quite  crushed 
Opposition,  "  that  gorgeous  toilette  which  you  sported 
In  Paris  last  spring,  at  the  grand  presentation, 
When  you  quite  turned  the  head  of  the  head  of  the  nation, 
And  by  all  the  grand  court  were  so  very  much  courted.'' 
The  end  of  the  nose  was  portentously  tipped  up, 
And  both  the  bright  eyes  shot  forth  indignation, 
As  she  burst  upon  me  with  the  fierce  exclamation, 
"  I  have  worn  it  three  times,  at  the  least  calculation, 
And  that  and  most  of  my  dresses  are  ripped  up !  " 
Here  I  ripped  out  something,  perhaps  rather  rash, 

Quite  innocent,  though ;  but,  to  use  an  expression 
More  striking  than  classic,  it  "settled  my  hash," 
And  proved  very  soon  the  last  of  our  session. 
"  Fiddlesticks,  is  it,  sir  ?     I  wonder  the  ceiling 
Does  n't  fall  down  and  crush  you, — you  men  have  no  feel 


NOTHING  TO  WEAR.  213 

You  selfish,  unnatural,  illiberal  creatures, 

Who  set  yourselves  up  as  patterns  and  preachers, 

Your  silly  pretense,— why,  what  a  mere  guess  it  is! 

Pray,  what  do  you  know  of  a  woman's  necessities  ? 

I  have  told  you  and  shown  you  I  've  nothing  to  wear, 

And  it 's  perfectly  plain  you  not  only  do  n't  care, 

But  you  do  not  believe  me,"  (here  the  nose  went  still 

higher.) 
'  I  suppose,  if  you  dared,  you  would  call  me  a  liar. 
Our  engagement  is  ended,  sir, — yes,  on  the  spot; 
You  're  a  brute,  and  a  monster,  and — I  do  n't  know  what.' 
I  mildly  suggested  the  words  Hottentot, 
Pickpocket,  and  cannibal,  Tartar,  and  thief, 
As  gentle  expletives  which  might  give  relief; 
But  this  only  proved  as  a  spark  to  the  powder, 
And  the  storm  I  had  raised  came  faster  and  louder  ; 
It  blew  and  it  rained,  thundered,  lightened,  and  hailed 
Interjections,  verbs,  pronouns,  till  language  quite  failed 
To  express  the  abusive,  and  then  its  arrears 
Were  brought  up  all  at  once  by  a  torrent  of  tears, 
And  my  last  faint,  despairing  attempt  at  an  obs- 
Ervation  was  lost  in  a  tempest  of  sobs. 
Well,  I  felt  for  the  lady,  and  felt  for  my  hat,  too, 
Improvised  on  the  crown  of  the  latter  a  tattoo, 
In  lieu  of  expressing  the  feelings  which  lay 
Quite  too  deep  for  words,  as  Wordsworth  would  say ; 
Then,  without  going  through  the  form  of  a  bow, 
Found  myself  in  the  entry,  I  hardly  knew  how, 
On  door-step  and  side-walk,  past  lamp-post  and  square, 
At  home  and  up-stairs,  in  my  own  easy-chair ; 

Poked  my  feet  into  slippers,  my  fire  into  blaze, 
And  said  to  myself,  as  I  lit  my  cigar, 
1  Supposing  a  man  had  the  wealth  of  the  Czar 

Of  the  Russias  to  boot,  for  the  rest  of  his  days, 
On  the  whole  do  you  think  he  would  have  much  to  spare, 
If  he  married  a  woman  with  nothing  to  wear  ?  " 
Since  that  night,  taking  pains  that  it  should  not  be  bruited 
18* 


2 1 4  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Abroad  in  society,  I  've  instituted 

A  course  of  inquiry,  extensive  and  thorough, 

On  this  vital  subject,  and  find,  to  my  horror, 

That  the  fair  Flora's  case  is  by  no  means  surprising. 

But  that  there  exists  the  greatest  distress 
In  our  female  community,  solely  arising 

From  this  unsupplied  destitution  of  dress, 
Whose  unfortunate  victims  are  filling  the  air 
With  the  pitiful  wail  of  "  Nothing  to  wear." 

Researches  in  some  of  the  "  Upper  Ten  "  districts 

Reveal  the  most  painful  and  startling  statistics, 

Of  which  let  me  mention  only  a  few : 

In  one  single  house,  on  the  Fifth  Avenue, 

Three  young  ladies  were  found,  all  below  twenty-two, 

Who  have  been  three  whole  weeks  without  anything  new 

In  the  way  of  flounced  silks,  and  thus  left  in  the  lurch, 

Are  unable  to  go  to  ball,  concert,  or  church. 

In  another  large  mansion,  near  the  same  place, 

Was  found  a  deplorable,  heart-rending  case 

Of  entire  destitution  of  Brussels  point-lace. 

In  a  neighboring  block  there  was  found,  in  three  calls, 

Total  want,  long  continued,  of  camel's-hair  shawls ; 

And  a  suffering  family,  whose  case  exhibits 

The  most  pressing  need  of  real  ermine  tippets ; 

One  deserving  young  lady  almost  unable 

To  survive  for  the  want  of  a  new  Russian  sable ; 

Still  another,  whose  tortures  have  been  most  terrific 

Ever  since  the  sad  loss  of  the  steamer  Pacific, 

In  which  were  ingulfed,  not  friend  or  relation, 

(For  whose  fate  she  perhaps  might  have  found  consolation, 

Or  borne  it,  at  least,  with  serene  resignation,) 

But  the  choicest  assortment  of  French  sleeves  and  collars 

Ever  sent  out  from  Paris,  worth  thousands  of  dollars, 

And  all  as  to  style  most  recherche  and  rare, 

The  want  of  which  leaves  her  with  nothing  to  wear, 

And  renders  her  life  so  drear  and  dyspeptic 


NOTHING  TO  WEAK  215 

That  she  's  quite  a  recluse,  and  almost  a  skeptic, 

For  she  touchingly  says,  that  this  sort  of  grief 

Cannot  find  in  Religion  the  slightest  relief, 

And  Philosophy  has  not  a  maxim  to  spare 

For  the  victims  of  such  overwhelming  despair. 

But  the  saddest,  by  far,  of  all  these  sad  features, 

Is  the  cruelty  practiced  upon  the  poor  creatures 

By  husbands  and  fathers,  real  Bluebeards  and  Timons, 

Who  resist  the  most  touching  appeals  made  for  diamonds 

By  their  wives  and  their  daughters,  and  leave  them  for  days 

Unsupplied  with  new  jewelry,  fans,  or  bouquets, 

Even  laugh  at  their  miseries  whenever  they  have  a  chance, 

And  deride  their  demands  as  useless  extravagance ; 

One  case  of  a  bride  was  brought  to  my  view, 

Too  sad  for  belief,  but,  alas !  't  was  too  true, 

Whose  husband  refused,  as  savage  as  Charon, 

To  permit  her  to  take  more  than  ten  trunks  to  Sharon. 

The  consequence  was,  that  when  she  got  there, 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  had  nothing  to  wear, 

And  when  she  proposed  to  finish  the  season 

At  Newport,  the  monster  refused,  out  and  out, 

For  his  infamous  conduct  alleging  no  reason, 

Except  that  the  waters  were  good  for  his  gout ; 

Such  treatment  as  this  was  too  shocking,  of  course, 

And  proceedings  are  now  going  on  for  divorce. 

But  why  harrow  the  feelings  by  lifting  the  curtain 

From  these  scenes  of  woe  ?     Enough,  it  is  certain. 

Has  here  been  disclosed  to  stir  up  the  pity 

Of  every  benevolent  heart  in  the  city, 

And  spur  up  Humanity  into  a  canter 

To  rush  and  relieve  these  sad  cases  instanter. 

Won't  somebody,  moved  by  this  touching  description, 

Come  forward  to-morrow  and  head  a  subscription  ? 

Won't  some  kind  philanthropist,  seeing  that  aid  is 

So  needed  at  once  by  these  indigent  ladies, 

Take  charge  of  the  matter  ?     Or  won't  Peter  Cooper 


216  SINGLE  FAMO  US  T  OEMS. 

The  corner-stone  lay  of  some  new  splendid  super- 
Structure,  like  that  which  to-day  links  his  name 
In  the  Union  unending  of  Honor  and  Fame, 
And  found  a  new  charity  just  for  the  care 
Of  these  unhappy  women  with  nothing  to  wear, 
Which,  in  view  of  the  cash  which  would  daily  be  claimed, 
The  Laying-out  Hospital  well  might  be  named  ? 
Won't  Stewart,  or  some  of  our  dry-goods  importers, 
Take  a  contract  for  clothing  our  wives  and  our  daughters  ? 
Or,  to  furnish  the  cash  to  supply  these  distresses, 
And  life's  pathway  strew  with  shawls,  collars,  and  dresses, 
Ere  the  want  of  them  makes  it  much  rougher  and  thornier, 
Won't  some  one  discover  a  new  California  ? 

0  ladies,  dear  ladies,  the  next  sunny  day 
Please  trundle  your  hoops  just  out  of  Broadway, 
From  its  whirl  and  its  bustle,  its  fashion  and  pride, 
And  the  temples  of  Trade  which  tower  on  each  side, 
To  the  alleys  and  lanes,  where  Misfortune  and  Guilt 
Their  children  have  gathered,  their  city  have  built ; 
Where  Hunger  and  Vice,  like  twin  beasts  of  prey, 

Have  hunted  their  victims  to  gloom  and  despair ; 
Raise  the  rich,  dainty  dress,  and  the  fine  broidered  skirt, 
Pick  your  delicate  way  through  the  dampness  and  dirt, 

Grope  through  the  dark  dens,  climb  the  rickety  stair 
To  the  garret,  where  wretches,  the  young  and  the  old, 
Half  starved  and  half  naked,  lie  crouched  from  the  cold  ; 
See  those  skeleton  limbs,  those  frost-bitten  feet, 
All  bleeding  and  bruised  by  the  stones  of  the  street ; 
Hear  the  sharp  cry  of  childhood,  the  deep  groans  that  swell 

From  the  poor  dying  creature  who  writhes  on  the  floor ; 
Hear  the  curses  that  sound  like  the  echoes  of  Hell, 

As  you  sicken  and  shudder  and  fly  from  the  door  ; 
Then  home  to  your  wardrobes,  and  say,  if  you  dare, — 
Spoiled  children  of  fashion, — you  've  nothing  to  wear ! 

And  0,  if  perchance  there  should  be  a  sphere 
Where  all  is  made  right  which  so  puzzles  us  here, 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.  2\1 

Where  the  glare  and  the  glitter  and  tinsel  of  Time 
Fade  and  die  in  the  light  of  that  region  sublime, 
Where  the  soul,  disenchanted  of  flesh  and  of  sense, 
Unscreened  by  its  trappings  and  shows  and  pretense, 
Must  be  clothed  for  the  life  and  the  service  above, 
With  purity,  truth,  faith,  meekness,  and  love, 
O  daughters  of  Earth !  foolish  virgins,  beware ! 
Lest  in  that  upper  realm  you  have  nothing  to  wear ! 

William  Allen  Butler 

Entong  an*  OTleopatta. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying, 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast  ; 
Let  thine  arms,  0  Queen,  infold  me ; 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear  ; 
Listen  to  the  great  heart-secrets, 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore  ; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me; 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman, 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  Hon  thus  laid  low  • 
T  was  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him — 

'T  was  his  own  that  struck  the  blow,— 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 
19 


218  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Eome, 
Where  my  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her ;  say  the  gods  bear  witness — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 

As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian ! 

G-lorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile, 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  the  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine ; 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Hark !  the  insulting  foeman's  cry. 
They  are  coming !  quick,  my  falchion  I 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah !  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell — 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee ! 

Cleopatra,  Rome,  farewell ! 

William  Haines  Lytle. 


Cf)e  Nautilus  auto  tf)e  Ammonite. 

The  nautilus  and  the  ammonite 
Were  launched  in  friendly  strife, 

Each  sent  to  float  in  its  tiny  boat 
On  the  wild,  wide  sea  of  life. 

For  each  could  swim  on  the  ocean's  brim, 
And,  when  wearied,  its  sail  could  furl, 


THE  NA  UT1L  US  AND  THE  AMMONITE.       219 

And  sink  to  sleep  in  the  great  sea-deep, 
In  its  palace  all  of  pearl. 

And  theirs  was  a  bliss  more  fair  than  this 

Which  we  taste  in  our  colder  time ; 
For  they  were  rife  in  a  tropic  life — 

A  brighter  and  better  clime. 

They  swam  'mid  isles  whose  summer  smiles 

Were  dimmed  by  no  alloy ; 
Whose  groves  were  palm,  whose  air  was  balm, 

Where  life  was  only  joy. 

They  sailed  all  day  through  creek  and  bay, 

And  traversed  the  ocean  deep ; 
And  at  night  they  sank  on  a  coral  bank, 

In  its  fairy  bowers  to  sleep. 

And  the  monsters  vast  of  ages  past 

They  beheld  in  their  ocean  caves  ; 
They  saw  them  ride  in  their  power  and  pride, 

And  sink  in  their  deep-sea  graves. 

And  hand  in  hand,  from  strand  to  strand, 

They  sailed  in  mirth  and  glee ; 
These  fairy  shells,  with  their  crystal  cells, 

Twin  sisters  of  the  sea. 

But  they  came  at  last  to  a  sea  long  past, 

And  as  they  reached  its  shore, 
The  Almighty's  breath  spoke  out  in  death, 

And  the  ammonite  was  no  more. 

So  the  nautilus  now  in  its  shelly  prow, 

As  over  the  deep  it  strays, 
Still  seems  to  seek,  in  bay  and  creek, 

Its  companion  of  other  days. 


220  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P OEMS. 

And  alike  do  we,  on  life's  stormy  sea, 

As  we  roam  from  shore  to  shore,  . 
Thus  tempest-tossed,  seek  the  loved,  the  lost, 

And  find  them  on  earth  no  more. 

Yet  the  hope  how  sweet,  again  to  meet, 

As  we  look  to  a  distant  strand, 
Where  heart  meets  heart,  and  no  more  they  part 

Who  meet  in  that  better  land. 

Gr.  F.  Richardson. 

barmen  3SeUico0um. 

In  their  ragged  regimentals 
Stood  the  old  Continentals, 

Yielding  not, 
When  the  grenadiers  were  lunging, 
And  like  hail  fell  the  plunging 

Cannon-shot  ; 

When  the  files 

Of  the  isles,  [rampant 

From  ine  smoicy  night  encampment,  bore  the  banner  of  the 

Unicorn,  [drummer, 

And  grummer,  grummer,  grummer  rolled  the  roll  of  the 

Through  the  morn  I 

Then  with  eyes  to  the  front  all, 
And  with  guns  horizontal, 

Stood  our  sires  ; 
And  the  balls  whistled  deadly, 
And  in  streams  flashing  redly 

Blazed  the  fires; 

As  the  roar 

On  the  shore, 
Swept  the  strong  battle-breakers  o'er  the  green-sodded  acres 

Of  the  plain ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  cracked  the  black  gunpowder, 

Cracking  amain  1 


DOBlS.  221 

Now  like  smiths  at  their  forges 
Wprked  the  red  St.  George's 

Cannoneers ; 
And  the  "  villainous  saltpetre  " 
Rung  a  fierce,  discordant  metre 

Round  their  ears ; 

As  the  swift 

Storm-drift, 
With  hot  sweeping  anger,  came  the  horse-guard's  clangor 

On  our  flanks. 
Then  higher,  higher,  higher  burned  the  old-fashioned  fire 

Through  the  ranks ! 

Then  the  old-fashioned  colonel 
Galloped  through  the  white  infernal 

Powder-cloud ; 
And  his  broadsword  was  swinging, 
And  his  brazen  throat  was  ringing 
Trumpet  loud. 
Then  the  blue 
Bullets  flew, 
And  the  trooper-jackets  redden  at  the  touch  of  the  leaden 

Rifle-breath ; 
And  rounder,  rounder,  rounder  roared  the  iron  six-pounder 
Hurling  death  1 

Guy  Humphrey  McMaster. 

I  sat  with  Doris,  the  shepherd  maiden ; 

Her  crook  was  laden  with  wreathed  flowers. 
I  sat  and  wooed  her  through  sunlight  wheeling, 

And  shadows  stealing  for  hours  and  hours. 

And  she  my  Doris,  whose  lap  incloses 

Wild  summer  roses  of  faint  perfume, 
The  while  I  sued  her,  kept  hushed  and  hearkened 

Till  shades  had  darkened  from  gloss  to  gloom. 


222  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

She  touched  my  shoulder  with  fearful  finger  j 
Sae  said,  "  We  linger,  we  must  not  stay ; 

My  flock  's  in  danger,  my  sheep  will  wander ; 
Behold  them  yonder,  how  far  they  stray  I " 

I  answered  bolder,  "  Nay,  let  me  hear  you, 
And  still  be  near  you,  and  still  adore ! 

No  wolf  nor  stranger  will  touch  one  yearling — 
Ah  !  stay  my  darling  a  moment  more  1 " 

She  whispered  sighing,  "  There  will  be  sorrow 
Beyond  to-morrow,  if  I  lose  to-day  ; 

My  fold  unguarded,  my  flock  unfolded — 
I  shall  be  scolded  and  sent  away !  " 

Said  I  replying,  "  If  they  do  miss  you, 

They  ought  to  kiss  you  when  you  get  home ; 

And  well  rewarded  by  friend  and  neighbor 
Should  be  the  labor  from  which  you  come." 

"  They  might  remember,"  she  answered  meekly, 
"  That  lambs  are  weakly  and  sheep  are  wild ; 
But  if  they  love  me  it 's  none  so  fervent — 
I  am  a  servant  and  not  a  child." 

Then  each  hot  ember  glowed  quick  within  me, 
And  love  did  win  me  to  swift  reply  : 
"  Ah  1  do  but  prove  me,  and  none  shall  bind  you, 
Nor  fray  nor  find  you  until  I  die !  " 

She  blushed  and  started,  and  stood  awaiting, 

As  if  debating  in  dreams  divine ; 
But  I  did  brave  them  —I  told  her  plainly, 

She  doubted  vainly,  she  must  be  mine. 

So  we  twin-hearted,  from  all  the  valley 
Did  rouse  and  rally  her  nibbling  ewes ; 

And  homeward  drove  them,  we  two  together, 
Through  blooming  heather  and  gleaming  dews. 


THE  EXILE  TO  HIS  WIFE.  223 

That  simple  duty  such  grace  did  lend  her, 

My  Doris  tender,  my  Doris  true, 
That  I  her  warder  did  always  bless  her, 

And  often  press  her  to  take  her  due. 

And  now  in  beauty  she  fills  my  dwelling 

With  love  excelling,  and  undefiled ; 
And  love  doth  guard  her,  both  fast  and  fervent, 

No  more  a  servant,  nor  yet  a  child. 

Arthur  Munby. 

€f)e  (Etttle  to  i)te  m&iU. 

Come  to  me,  darling,  I  'm  lonely  without  thee  ; 
Day-time  and  night-time  I  'm  dreaming  about  thee ; 
Night-time  and  day-time  in  dreams  I  behold  thee, 
Unwelcome  the  waking  that  ceases  to  fold  thee. 
Come  to  me,  darling,  my  sorrows  to  lighten ; 
Come  in  thy  beauty,  to  bless  and  to  brighten ; 
Come  in  thy  womanhood,  meekly  and  lowly ; 
Come  in  thy  loveliness,  queenly  and  holy. 

Swallows  shall  flit  round  the  desolate  ruin, 
Telling  of  Spring  and  its  joyous  renewing ; 
As  thoughts  of  thy  love  and  its  manifest  treasure 
Are  circling  my  heart  with  a  promise  of  pleasure. 
0  Spring  of  my  heart !  0  May  of  my  bosom ! 
Shine  out  on  my  soul  till  it  bourgeon  and  blossom. 
The  waste  of  my  life  has  a  rose-root  within  it, 
And  thy  fondness  alone  to  the  sunshine  can  win  it. 

Figure  which  moves  like  a  song  through  the  even, 
Features  lit  up  with  a  reflex  of  heaven, 
Eyes  like  the  skies  of  poor  Erin,  our  mother, 
Where  sunshine  and  shadow  are  chasing  each  other ; 
Smiles  coming  seldom,  but  childlike  and  simple ; 
And  opening  their  eyes  from  the  heart  of  a  dimple ; 
0,  thanks  to  the  Saviour  that  even  the  seeming 
Is  left  to  the  exile,  to  brighten  his  dreaming. 


224  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

You  have  been  glad  when  you  knew  I  was  gladdened ; 
Dear,  are  you  sad  now  to  hear  I  am  saddened  ? 
Our  hearts  ever  answer  in  tune  and  in  time,  love, 
As  octave  to  octave,  and  rhyme  unto  rhyme,  love ; 
I  cannot  smile  but  your  cheeks  will  be  glowing ; 
You  cannot  weep  but  my  tears  will  be  flowing ; 
You  will  not  linger  when  I  shall  have  died,  love ; 
I  could  not  live  without  you  at  my  side,  love. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  ere  I  die  of  my  sorrow ; 
Rise  on  my  gloom  like  the  sun  of  to-morrow ; 
Come  swift  and  strong  as  the  words  which  I  speak,  love, 
With  a  song  on  your  lip  and  a  smile  on  your  cheek,  love 
Come,  for  my  heart  in  your  absence  is  dreary  ; 
Haste,  for  my  spirit  is  sickened  and  weary ; 
Come  to  the  arms  which  alone  shall  caress  thee ; 
Come  to  the  heart  that  is  throbbing  to  press  thee. 

Joseph  Brexan. 


l&ocfc  me  to  Sleep. 

Backward,  turn  backward,  0  Time,  in  your  flight, 
Make  me  a  child  again  just  for  to-night  I 
Mother,  come  back  from  the  echoless  shore, 
Take  me  again  to  your  heart  as  of  yore ; 
Kiss  from  my  forhead  the  furrows  of  care, 
Smooth  the  few  silver  threads  out  of  my  hair  ; 
Over  my  slumbers  your  loving  watch  keep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Backward,  flow  backward,  0  tide  of  the  years! 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil  and  of  tears, — 
Toil  without  recompense,  tears  all  in  vain, — 
Take  them,  and  give  me  my  childhood  again ! 
I  have  grown  weary  of  dust  and  decay, — 
Weary  of  flinging  my  soul-wealth  away ; 
Weary  of  sowing  for  others  to  reap  ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  1 


ROCK  ME  TO  SLEEP.  225 

Tired  of  the  hollow,  the  base,  the  untrue, 
Mother,  0  mother,  my  heart  calls  for  you ! 
Many  a  summer  the  grass  has  grown  green, 
Blossomed  and  faded,  our  faces  between ; 
Yet,  with  strong  yearning  and  passionate  pain, 
Long  I  to-night  for  your  presence  again  ; 
Come  from  the  silence  so  long  and  so  deep  ;- 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  I 

Over  my  heart,  in  the  days  that  are  flown, 
No  love  like  mother-love  ever  has  shone ; 
No  other  worship  abides  and  endures, 
Faithful,  unselfish,  and  patient  like  yours ; 
None  like  a  mother  can  charm  away  pain 
From  the  sick  soul  and  the  world-weary  brain : 
Slumber's  soft  calms  o'er  my  heavy  lids  creep  ;— 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Come,  let  your  brown  hair,  just  lighted  with  gold, 
Fall  on  your  shoulders  again  as  of  old ; 
Let  it  drop  over  my  forehead  to-night, 
Shading  my  faint  eyes  away  from  the  light ; 
For  with  its  sunny-edged  shadoAvs  once  more 
Haply  will  throng  the  sweet  visions  of  yore ; 
Lovingly,  softly,  its  bright  billows  sweep  ;— 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep  I 

Mother,  dear  mother,  the  years  have  been  long 
Since  I  last  listened  your  lullaby  song ; 
Sing,  then,  and  unto  my  soul  it  shall  seem 
Womanhood's  years  have  been  only  a  dream ; 
Clasped  to  your  heart  in  a  loving  embrace, 
With  your  light  lashes  just  sweeping  my  face, 
Never  hereafter  to  wake  or  to  weep ; — 
Rock  me  to  sleep,  mother, — rock  me  to  sleep ! 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


19* 


226  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

<Bnl))  a  ISafcg  Small. 

Only  a  baby  small, 

Dropt  from  the  skies , 
Only  a  laughing  face, 

Two  sunny  eyes; 
Only  two  cherry  lips, 

One  chubby  nose; 
Only  two  little  hands, 

Ten  little  toes. 

Only  a  golden  head, 

Curly  and  soft ; 
Only  a  tongue  that  wags 

Loudly  and  oft  ; 
Only  a  little  brain, 

Empty  of  thought ; 
Only  a  little  heart, 

Troubled  with  nought. 

Only  a  tender  flower 

Sent  us  to  rear  ; 
Only  a  life  to  love 

While  we  are  here ; 
Only  a  baby  small, 

Never  at  rest  ; 
Small,  but  how  dear  to  us, 

G-od  knoweth  best 

Matthias  Barr 

rc$e3Foll8<©infle*agoflue. 

'T  was  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago, 

Tall  and  slender,  and  sallow,  and  dry  • 
His  form  was  bent,  and  his  gait  was  slow 
His  long,  thin  hair  was  as  white  as  snow ; 
But  a  wonderful  twinkle  shone  in  his  eye, 


THE  JOLLY  OLD  PEDAGOGUE.  227 

And  he  sang  every  night  as  he  went  to  bed, 
"  Let  us  be  happy  down  here  below ; 
The  living  should  live,  though  the  dead  be  dead," 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  taught  his  scholars  the  rule  of  three, 

Writing,  and  reading,  and  history  too, 
Taking  the  little  ones  on  his  knee, 
For  a  kind  old  heart  in  his  breast  had  he, 

And  the  wants  of  the  smallest  child  he  knew  : 
"  Learn  while  you  're  young,"  he  often  said, 
"  There  is  much  to  enjoy  down  here  below ; 
Life  for  the  living,  and  rest  for  the  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

With  stupidest  boys,  he  was  kind  and  cool, 

Speaking  only  in  gentlest  tones ; 
The  rod  was  scarcely  known  in  his  school ; 
Whipping  to  him  was  a  barbarous  rule, 

And  too  hard  work  for  his  poor  old  bones ; 
"Besides,  it  was  painful," — he  sometimes  said, 
"  We  should  make  life  pleasant  here  below, 
The  living  need  charity  more  than  the  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  lived  in  the  house  by  the  hawthorn  lane, 
With  roses  and  woodbine  over  the  door  ; 

His  rooms  were  quiet  and  neat  and  plain, 

But  a  spirit  of  comfort  there  held  reign, 
And  made  him  forget  he  was  old  and  poor. 
"  I  need  so  little,"  he  often  said, 

"  And  my  friends  and  relatives  here  below 

Won't  litigate  over  me  when  I  am  dead," 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

But  th3  most  pleasant  times  that  he  had,  of  all, 
Were  the  sociable  hours  he  used  to  pass, 


228  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

With  his  chair  tipped  back  to  a  neighbor's  wail, 
Making  an  unceremonious  call, 

Over  a  pipe  and  a  friendly  glass; — 
u  This  was  the  sweetest  pleasure,"  he  said, 
"  Of  the  many  I  share  in  here  below ; 
Who  has  no  cronies,  had  better  be  dead," 

Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

The  jolly  old  pedagogue's  wrinkled  face 
Melted  all  over  in  sunshiny  smiles ; — 
He  stirred  his  glass  with  an  old-school  grace, 
Chuckled,  and  sipped,  and  prattled  apace, 

Till  the  house  grew  merry  from  cellar  to  tiles;— 
"  I  'm  a  pretty  old  man,"  he  gently  said, 
"  I  've  lingered  a  long  while  here  below, 
But  my  heart  is  fresh,  if  my  youth  be  fled !  " 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  smoked  his  pipe  in  the  balmy  air, 
Every  night  when  the  sun  went  down, 

While  the  soft  wind  played  in  his  silvery  hair, 

Leaving  its  tenderest  kisses  there 

On  the  jolly  old  pedagogue's  jolly  old  crown  ; 

And  feeling  the  kisses,  he  smiled  and  said, 

"  'T  is  a  glorious  world  down  here  below ; 

Why  wait  for  happiness  till  we  are  dead  ?  " 
Said  the  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

He  sat  at  his  door  one  midsummer  night, 

After  the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  west, 
And  the  lingering  beams  of  golden  light 
Made  his  kindly  old  face  look  warm  and  bright, 

While  the  odorous  night-wind  whispered  "  Rest! 
Gently,  gently  he  bowed  his  head, — 

There  were  angels  waiting  for  him,  I  know ; 
He  was  sure  of  happiness,  living  or  dead, 

This  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago. 

GrEORGE    ARNOLD. 


ODE  ON  THE  CENTENARY  OF  BURNS.        229 

<©tie  on  tf)e  armiwarg  of  iSutms. 

We  hail  this  morn 
A  century's  noblest  birth; 

A  Poet  peasant-born, 
Who  more  of  Fame's  immortal  dower 

Unto  his  country  brings 

Than  all  her  kings ! 

As  lamps  high  set 
Upon  some  earthly  eminence ; 
And  to  the  gazer  brighter  thence 
Than  the  sphere  lights  they  flout — 

Dwindle  in  distance  and  die  out, 

While  no  star  waneth  yet; 
So  through  the  past's  far-reaching  night 

Only  the  star-souls  keep  their  light. 

A  gentle  boy, 
With  moods  of  sadness  and  of  mirth, 

Quick  tears  and  sudden  joy, 
Grew  up  beside  the  peasant's  hearth. 

His  father's  toil  he  shares; 

But  half  his  mother's  cares 

From  his  dark,  searching  eyes, 
Too  swift  to  sympathize, 

Hid  in  her  heart  she  bears. 

At  early  morn 
His  father  calls  him  to  the  field; 
Through  the  stiff  soil  that  clogs  his  feet, 

Chill  rain,  and  harvest  heat, 
He  plods  all  day ;  returns  at  eve  outworn, 

To  the  rude  fare  a  peasant's  lot  doth  yield- 
To  what  else  was  he  born  ? 

The  G-od-made  king 
Of  every  living  thing; 
20 


230  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

(For  his  great  heart  in  love  could  hold  them  all) ; 
The  dumb  eyes  meeting  his  by  hearth  and  stall— 

G-ifted  to  understand ! — 

Knew  it  and  sought  his  hand ; 
And  the  most  timorous  cretaure  had  not  fled 

Could  she  his  heart  have  read, 
Which  fain  all  feeble  things  had  blessed  and  sheltered 

To  Nature's  feast, 
Who  knew  her  noblest  guest 
And  entertained  him  best, 
Kingly  he  came.     Her  chambers  of  the  east 
She  draped  with  crimson  and  with  gold, 
And  poured  her  pure  joy  wines 
For  him  the  poet-souled ; 
For  him  her  anthem  rolled 
From  the  storm-wind  among  the  winter  pines, 

Down  to  the  slenderest  note 
Of  a  love-warble  from  the  linnet's  throat. 

But  when  begins 
The  array  for  battle,  and  the  trumpet  blows, 
A  king  must  leave  the  feast  and  lead  the  fight ; 

And  with  its  mortal  foes, 
Grim  gathering  hosts  of  sorrows  and  of  sins, 

Each  human  soul  must  close  ; 

And  Fame  her  trumpet  blew 
Before  him,  wrapped  him  in  her  purple  state, 
And  made  him  mark  for  all  the  shafts  of  Fate 

That  henceforth  round  him  flew. 

Though  he  may  yield, 
Hard-pressed,  and  wounded  fall 
Forsaken  on  the  field ; 
His  regal  vestments  soiled ; 
His  crown  of  half  its  jewels  spoiled ; 
He  is  a  king-  for  all. 


ODE  ON  THE  CENTENARY  OF  BURNS.        231 

Had  he  but  stood  aloof ! 
Had  he  arrayed  himself  in  armor  proof 

Against  temptation's  darts ! 
So  yearn  the  good — so  those  the  world  calls  wise, 

With  vain,  presumptuous  hearts, 
Triumphant  moralize. 

Of  martyr-woe 
A  sacred  shadow  on  his  memory  rests — 

Tears  have  not  ceased  to  flow — 
Indignant  grief  yet  stirs  impetuous  breasts, 

To  think — above  that  noble  soul  brought  low, 
That  wise  and  soaring  spirit  fooled,  enslaved — 

Thus,  thus  he  had  been  saved  1 

It  might  not  be  I 

That  heart  of  harmony 

Had  been  too  rudely  rent; 
Its  silver  chords,  which  any  hand  could  wound, 

By  no  hand  could  be  tuned, 
Save  by  the  Maker  of  the  instrument, 

Its  every  string  who  knew, 
And  from  profaning  touch  his  heavenly  gift  withdrew. 

Eegretful  love 

His  country  fain  would  prove, 
By  grateful  honors  lavished  on  his  grave ; 

Would  fain  redeem  her  blame 
That  he  so  little  at  her  hands  can  claim, 

Who  unrewarded  gave 
To  her  his  life-bought  gift  of  song  and  fame. 

The  land  he  trod 
Hath  now  become  a  place  of  pilgrimage ; 

Where  dearer  are  the  daisies  of  the  sod 

That  could  his  song  engage. 

The  hoary  hawthorn,  wreathed 
Above  the  bank  on  which  his  limbs  he  flung 


232  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

While  some  sweet  plaint  he  breathed ; 
The  streams  he  wandered  near ; 
The  maidens  whom  he  loved ;  the  songs  he  sung — 
All,  all  are  dearl 

The  arch  blue  eyes — 

Arch  but  for  love's  disguise — 
Of  Scotland's  daughters,  soften  at  his  strain ; 
Her  hardy  sons,  sent  forth  across  the  main 
To  drive  the  plowshare  through  earth's  virgin  soils, 

Lighten  with  it  their  toils  : 
And  sister-lands  have  learned  to  love  the  tongue 

In  which  such  songs  are  sung. 

For  doth  not  song 

To  the  whole  world  belong  ? 
Is  it  not  given  wherever  tears  can  fall, 
Wherever  hearts  can  melt,  or  blushes  glow, 
Or  mirth  and  sadness  mingle  as  they  flow, 

A  heritage  to  all  ? 

Isa  Craig  Knox. 


<©bet  tfje  Ifttber. 

Over  the  river  they  beckon  to  me — 

Loved  ones  who  've  passed  to  the  further  side 
The  gleam  of  their  snowy  robes  I  see, 

But  their  voices  are  lost  in  the  dashing  tide. 
There  's  one  with  ringlets  of  sunny  gold, 

And  eyes  the  reflection  of  heaven's  own  blue ; 
He  crossed  in  the  twilight  gray  and  cold, 

And  the  pale  mist  hid  him  from  mortal  view ; 
We  saw  not  the  angels  who  met  him  there, 

The  gates  of  the  city  we  could  not  see — 
Over  the  river,  over  the  river, 

My  brother  stands  waiting  to  welcome  me ! 


OVER  THE  RIVER.  233 

Over  the  river  the  boatman  pale 

Carried  another,  the  household  pet ; 
Her  brown  curls  waved  in  the  gentle  gale — 

Darling  Minnie  !  I  see  her  yet. 
She  crossed  on  her  bosom  her  dimpled  hands, 

And  fearlessly  entered  the  phantom  bark, 
We  felt  it  glide  from  the  silver  sands, 

And  all  our  sunshine  grew  strangely  dark ; 
We  know  she  is  safe  dn  the  further  side, 

Where  all  the  ransomed  and  angels  be- 
Over  the  river,  the  mystic  river, 

My  childhood's  idol  is  waiting  for  me. 

For  none  return  from  those  quiet  shores, 

Who  cross  with  the  boatman  cold  and  pale  ; 
We  hear  the  dip  of  the  golden  oars, 

And  catch  a  gleam  of  the  snowy  sail ; 
And  lo !  they  have  passed  from  our  yearning  heart, 

They  cross  the  stream  and  are  gone  for  aye, 
We  may  not  sunder  the  vail  apart 

That  hides  from  our  vision  the  gates  of  day  ; 
We  only  know  that  their  barks  no  more 

May  sail  with  us  o'er  life's  stormy  sea — 
Yet,  somewhere,  I  know,  on  the  unseen  shore, 

They  watch,  and  beckon,  and  wait  for  me. 

And  I  sit  and  think,  when  the  sunset's  gold 

Is  flushing  river  and  hill  and  shore, 
I  shall  one  day  stand  by  the  water  cold 

And  list  for  the  sound  of  the  boatman's  oar ; 
I  shall  watch  for  a  gleam  of  the  flapping  sail, 

I  shall  hear  the  boat  as  it  gains  the  strand ; 
I  shall  pass  from  sight  with  the  boatman  pale, 

To  the  better  shore  of  the  spirit  land. 
I  shall  know  the  loved  who  have  gone  before, 

And  joyfully  sweet  will  the  meeting  be, 
When  over  the  river,  the  peaceful  river, 

The  Angel  of  Death  shall  carry  me. 

Nancy  Priest  Wakefield. 


234  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

Cfje  <5HtJ  Sergeant. 

"  Come  a  little  nearer,  Doctor, — thank  you  ! — let  me  take 

the  cup : 
Draw  your  chair  up, — draw  it  closer, — just  another  little 

sup! 
May  be  you  may  think  I  'm  better ;  but  I  'm  pretty  well 

used  up, — 
Doctor,  you  've  done  all  you  could  do,  but  I  'm  just  a 

going  up  1 

"  Feel  my  pulse,  sir,  if  you  want  to,  but  it  ain't  much  use  to 

try"- 
"  Never  say  that,"  said  the  Surgeon,  as  he  smothered  down 

a  sigh ; 
"  It  will  never  do,  old  comrade,  for  a  soldier  to  say  die !  " 
"  What  you  say  will  make  no  difference,  Doctor,  when  you 

come  to  die. 

"  Doctor,  what  has  been  the  matter  ?  "     "  You  were  very 
faint,  they  say ; 
You  must  try  to  get  to  sleep  now."     "  Doctor,  have  I  been 
away  ?  " 
"Not  that  anybody  knows  of!"     "Doctor — Doctor,  please 
to  stay ! 
There  is  something  I  must  tell  you,  and  you  won't  have 
long  to  stay ! 

u  I  have  got  my  marching  orders,  and  I  'm  ready  now  to  go ; 
Doctor,  did  you  say  I  fainted  ? — but  it  could  n't  ha'  been 

so,— 
For  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  Sergeant,  and  was  wounded  at  Shi- 

loh, 
I  've  this  very  night  been  back  there,  on  the  old  field  of  Shi 

loh! 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT.  235 

"  Tliis  is  all  that  I  remember :     The  last  time  the  Lighter 
came, 
And  the  lights  had  all  been  lowered,  and  the  noises  much 

the  same, 
He  had  not  been  gone  five  minutes  before  something  called 

my  name: 
'  Orderly  Sergeant — Robert  Burton  ! ' — -just  that  way  it 
called  my  name. 

"  And  I  wondered  who  could  call  me  so  distinctly  and  so 

slow, 
Knew  it  could  n't  be  the  Lighter, — he  could  not  have 

spoken  so  ; 
And  I  tried  to  answer,  '  Here,  sir ! '  but  I  could  n't  make 

it  go; 
For  I  could  n't  move  a  muscle,  and  I  could  n't  make  it  go ! 

"  Then  I  thought :  It 's  all  a  nightmare,  all  a  humbug  and  a 
bore; 
Just  another  foolish  grape-vine* — and  it  won't  come  any 

more; 
But  it  came,  sir,  notwithstanding,  just  the  same  way  as  be- 
fore: 
1  Orderly  Sergeant — Robert  Burton  ! '  even  plainer  than 
before. 

"  That  is  all  that  I  remember,  till  a  sudden  burst  of  light, 
And  I  stood  beside  the  River,  where  we  stood  that  Sunday 

night, 
Waiting  to  be  ferried  over  to  the  dark  bluffs  opposite, 
When  the  river  was  perdition  and  all  hell  was  opposite ! 

'•'  And  the  same  old  palpitation  came  again  in  all  its  power, 
And  I  heard  a  Bugle  sounding,  as  from  some  celestial 
Tower; 

•Canard. 


236  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

A  nd  the  same  mysterious  voice  said :  '  It  is  the  eleventh 

hour! 
Orderly  Sergeant — Robert  Burton — It  is  the  eleventh 

hour ! ' 

'Doctor  Austin! — what  day  is  this?"   "It  is  Wednesday 

night,  you  know." 
''Yes, — to-morrow  will  be  New  Year's,  and  a  right  good 
time  below ! 
What  time  is  it,  Doctor  Austin  ?  "  "  Nearly  Twelve."  "  Then 

do  n't  you  go ! 
Can  it  be  that  all  this  happened — all  this — not  an  hour  ago ! 

"  There  was  where  the  gun-boats  opened  on  the  dark,  re- 
bellious host ; 

And  where  Webster  semicircled  his  last  guns  upon  the 
coast ; 

There  were  still  the  two  log-houses,  just  the  same,  or  else 
their  ghost, — 

And  the  same  old  transport  came  and  took  me  over — or  its 
ghost ! 

"  And  the  old  field  lay  before  me  all  deserted  far  and  wide ; 
There  was  where  they  fell  on  Prentiss, — there  McClernand 

met  the  tide  ; 
There  was  where  stern  Sherman  rallied,  and  where  Hurl- 

but's  heroes  died, — 
Lower  down,  where   Wallace   charged   them,  and   kept 

charging  till  he  died. 

"  There  was  where  Lew  Wallace  showed  them  he  was  of 
the  canny  kin, 

There  was  where  old  Nelson  thundered,  and  where  Rous- 
seau waded  in  ; 

There  McCook  sent  'em  to  breakfast,  and  we  all  began  tc 
win — 

There  was  where  the  grape-shot  took  me,  just  as  we  be- 
gan to  win. 


THE  OLD  SERGEANT.  237 

M  Now,  a  shroud  of  snow  and  silence  over  everything  was 

spread ; 
And  but  for  this  old  blue  mantle  and  the  old  hat  on  my 

head, 
I  should  not  have  even  doubted,  to  this  moment,  I  waa 

dead, — 
For  my  footsteps  were  as  silent  as  the  snow  upon  the  dead ! 

u  Death  and  silence ! — Death  and  silence  1  all  around  me  as 

I  sped ! 
And  behold,  a  mighty  Tower,  as  if  builded  to  the  dead, — 
To  the  Heaven  of  the  heavens,  lifted  up  its  mighty  head, 
Till  the  Stars  and  Stripes  of  Heaven  all  seemed  waving 

from  its  head ! 

11  Round  and  mighty-based  it  towered — up  into  the  infinite — 
And  I  knew  no  mortal  mason  could  have  built  a  shaft  so 

bright ; 
For  it  shone  like  solid  sunshine;  and  a  winding  stair  of 

Wound  around  it  and  around  it  till  it  wound  clear  out  of 
sight ! 

"  And,  behold,  as  I  approached  it — with  a  rapt  and  dazzled 
stare, — 
Thinking  that  I  saw  old  comrades  just  ascending  the  great 

Stair, — 
Suddenly  the  solemn  challenge  broke  of — l  Halt,  and  who 

goes  there ! ' 
'  I  'm  a  friend,'  I  said,  l  if  you  are.' — '  Then  advance,  sir,  to 
the  Stair ! ' 


'I   advanced! — That  sentry,  Doctor,   was  Elijah  Ballan- 
tyne ! — 

First  of  all  to  fall  on  Monday,  after  we  had  formed  the 
line: 
20* 


238  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

1  Welcome,  my  old  Sergeant,  welcome !     Welcome  by  that 

countersign ! ' 
And  he  pointed  to  the  scar  there,  under  this  old  cloak  of 
mine! 

*  As  he  grasped  my  hand,  I  shuddered,  thinking  only  of  the 
grave  ; 
But  he  smiled  and  pointed  upward  with  a  bright  and 
bloodless  glaive : 

'  That 's  the  way,  sir,  to  Head-quarters.' — '  What  Head- 
quarters? ' — '  Of  the  Brave.' 

'  But  the  great  Tower  ? ' — '  That,'  he  answered,  'Is  the  way, 
sir,  of  the  Brave  ! ' 

*'  Then  a  sudden  shame  came  o'er  me  at  his  uniform  of  light ; 
At  my  own  so  old  and  tattered,  and  at  his  so  new  and 

bright ; 
1  Ah  I '  said  he,  '  you  have  forgotten  the  New  Uniform  to- 
night,— 
Hurry  back,  for  you  must  be  here  at  just  twelve  o'clock 
to-night ! ' 

1  And  the  next  thing  I  remember,  you  were  sitting  there, 

and  I — 
Doctor — did  you  hear  a  footstep  ?     Hark ! — G-od  bless  you 

all !     Good-by ! 
Doctor,  please  to  give  my  musket  and  my  knapsack,  when 

I  die, 
To  my  Son — my  Son  that 's  coming, — he  won't  get  here 

till  I  die ! 

"  Tell  him  his  old  father  blessed  him  as  he  never  did  before, — 
And  to  carry  that  old  musket " — Hark !  a  knock  is  at  the 
door ! — 

"  Till  the  Union  "—See !  it  opens !— "  Father !  Father !  speak 
once  more !  " 
Bless  you!" — gasped  the  old  gray  Sergeant,  and  he  lay 
and  said  no  more. 

FORCEYTHE  WlLLSON. 


TOO  LATE.  239 

Coo  Hate. 

"  All  I  si  la  jeunesse  savait,— si  la  vieillesse  pouvait!  " 

There  sat  an  old  man  on  a  rock, 

ADd  unceasing  bewailed  him  of  Fate, — 
That  concern  where  we  all  must  take  stock, 
Though  our  vote  has  no  hearing  or  weight; 
And  the  old  man  sang  him  an  old,  old  song, — 
Never  sang  voice  so  clear  and  strong 
That  it  could  drown  the  old  man's  for  long, 
For  he  sang  the  song  "  Too  late !  too  late  I  " 

•  When  we  want,  we  have  for  our  pains 

The  promise  that  if  we  but  wait 
Till  the  want  has  burned  out  of  our  brains, 
Every  means  shall  be  present  to  state ; 

While  we  send  for  the  napkin  the  soup  gets  cold, 
While  the  bonnet  is  trimming  the  face  grows  old, 
When  we  've  matched  our  buttons  the  pattern  is  sold 
And  everything  comes  too  late, — too  late  I 

"  When  strawberries  seemed  like  red  heavens, — 
Terrapin  stew  a  wild  dream, — 
When  my  brain  was  at  sixes  and  sevens, 
If  my  mother  had  '  folks '  and  ice  cream, 
Then  I  gazed  with  a  lickerish  hunger 
At  the  restaurant  man  and  fruit-monger, — 
But  oh !  how  I  wished  I  were  younger 

When  the  goodies  all  came  in  a  stream  !  in  a  stream  » 

"  I  've  a  splendid  blood  horse,  and — a  liver 
That  it  jars  into  torture  to  trot; 
My  row-boat  's  the  gem  of  the  river, — 
Gout  makes  every  knuckle  a  knot! 
I  can  buy  boundless  credits  on  Paris  and  Rome, 
But  no  palate  for  menus,— no  eyes  for  a  dome, — 
Those  belonged  to  the  youth  who  must  tarry  at  home, 
When  no  home  but  an  attic  he  'd  got,—  he  'd  got  I 


240  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

"  How  I  longed,  in  that  lonest  of  garrets, 
Where  the  tiles  baked  my  brains  all  July, 
For  ground  to  grow  two  pecks  of  carrots, 
Two  pigs  of  my  own  in  a  sty, 

A  rosebush, — a  little  thatched  cottage, — 
Two  spoons — love — a  basin  of  pottage  I — 
Now  in  freestone  I  sit, — and  my  dotage, — 

With  a  woman's  chair  empty  close  by,  close  by ! 

"  Ah !  now,  though  I  sit  on  a  rock, 

I  have  shared  one  seat  with  the  great; 
I  have  sat — knowing  naught  of  the  clock — 
On  love's  high  throne  of  state ; 
But  the  lips  that  kissed,  and  the  arms  that  caressed, 
To  a  mouth  grown  stern  with  delay  were  pressed, 
And  circled  a  breast  that  their  clasp  had  blessed, 
Had  they  only  not  come  too  late, — too  late !  " 

Fitz  Hugh  Ludlow. 

OHijat  tfje  <&nn  sijall  fce. 

When  another  life  is  added 

To  the  heaving,  turbid  mass ; 
When  another  breath  of  being 

Stains  creation's  tarnished  glass ; 
When  the  first  cry,  weak  and  piteous, 

Heralds  long-enduring  pain, 
And  a  soul  from  non-existence 

Springs,  that  ne'er  can  die  again  ; 
When  the  mother's  passionate  welcome, 

Sorrow-like,  bursts  forth  in  tears, 
And  a  sire's  self-gratulation 

Prophesies  of  future  years. — 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

When  across  the  infant  features 
Trembles  the  faint  dawn  of  mind, 


21 


WHAT  THE  END  SHALL  BE.  241 

And  the  heart  looks  from  the  windows 

Of  the  eyes  that  were  so  blind; 
When  the  inarticulate  murmurs 

Syllable  each  swaddled  thought, 
To  the  fond  ear  of  affection 

With  a  boundless  promise  fraught ; 
Kindling  great  hopes  for  to-morrow 

From  that  dull,  uncertain  ray, 
As  by  glimmering  of  the  twilight 

Is  foreshown  the  perfect  day, — 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

When  the  boy,  upon  the  threshold 

Of  his  all-comprising  home, 
Puts  aside  the  arm  maternal 

That  enlocks  him  ere  he  roam ; 
When  the  canvas  of  his  vessel 

Flutters  to  the  favoring  gale, 
Years  of  solitary  exile 

Hid  behind  the  sunny  sail : 
When  his  pulses  beat  with  ardor, 

And  his  sinews  stretch  for  toil, 
And  a  hundred  bold  emprises 

Lure  him  to  that  eastern  soil, — 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

When  the  youth  beside  the  maiden 

Looks  into  her  credulous  eyes, 
And  the  heart  upon  the  surface 

Shines  too  happy  to  be  wise ; 
He  by  speeches  less  than  gestures 

Hinteth  what  her  hopes  expound, 
Laying  out  the  waste  hereafter 

Like  enchanted  garden-ground ; 
He  may  falter — so  do  many ; 

She  may  suffer    so  must  all : 


242  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Both  may  yet,  world-disappointed, 
This  lost  hour  of  love  recall, — 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

When  the  altar  of  religion 

Greets  the  expectant  bridal  pair, 
And  the  vow  that  lasts  till  dying 

Vibrates  on  the  sacred  air ; 
When  man's  lavish  protestations 

Doubts  of  after-change  defy, 
Comforting  the  frailer  spirit 

Bound  his  servitor  for  aye ; 
When  beneath  love's  silver  moonbeams 

Many  rocks  in  shadow  sleep, 
Undiscovered,  till  possession 

Shows  the  danger  of  the  deep, — 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

Whatsoever  is  beginning, 

That  is  wrought  by  human  skill  j 
Every  daring  emanation 

Of  the  mind's  ambitious  will ; 
Every  first  impulse  of  passion, 

Gush  of  love  or  twinge  of  hate  j 
Every  launch  upon  the  waters 

Wide-horizoned  by  our  fate ; 
Every  venture  in  the  chances 

Of  life's  sad,  oft  desperate  game, 
Whatsoever  be  our  motive, 

Whatsoever  be  our  aim, — 

It  is  well  we  cannot  see 
What  the  end  shall  be. 

Frances  Browne.  (?) 


THE  TWO  WORLDS.  243 

Two  worlds  there  are.     To  one  our  eyes  we  strain, 
Whose  magic  joys  we  shall  not  see  again ; 

Bright  haze  of  morning  veils  its  glimmering  shore. 
Ah,  truly  breathed  we  there 
Intoxicating  air — 
Glad  were  our  hearts  in  that  sweet  realm  of 
Nevermore. 

The  lover  there  drank  her  delicious  breath 
Whose  love  has  yielded  since  to  change  or  death ; 
The  mother  kissed  her  child,  whose  days  are  o'er. 
Alas !  too  soon  have  fled 
The  irreclaimable  dead : 
We  see  them — visions  strange — amid  the 
Nevermore. 

The  merrysome  maiden  used  to  sing — 
The  brown,  brown  hair  that  once  was  wont  to  cling 
To  temples  long  clay-cold :  to  the  very  core 
They  strike  our  weary  hearts, 
As  some  vexed  memory  starts 
From  that  long  faded  land — the  realm  of 
Nevermore. 

It  is  perpetual  summer  there.     But  here 
Sadly  may  we  remember  rivers  clear, 

And  harebells  quivering  on  the  meadow-floor. 
For  brighter  bells  and  bluer, 
For  tenderer  hearts  and  truer 
People  that  happy  land — the  realm  of 
Nevermore. 

Upon  the  frontier  of  this  shadowy  land 
We  pilgrims  of  eternal  sorrow  stand: 

What  realm  lies  forward,  with  its  happier  store 


244  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

Of  forests  green  and  deep, 
Of  valleys  hushed  in  sleep, 
And  lakes  most  peaceful  ?     'T  is  the  land  of 
Evermore. 

Very  far  off  its  marble  cities  seem — 
Very  far  off — beyond  our  sensual  dream — 

Its  woods,  unruffled  by  the  wild  wind's  roar ; 
Yet  does  the  turbulent  surge 
Howl  on  its  very  verge. 
One  moment — and  we  breathe  within  the 
Evermore. 

they  whom  we  loved  and  lost  so  long  ago 
Dwell  in  those  cities,  far  from  mortal  wo — 

Haunt  those  fresh  woodlands,  whence  sweet  caroling.' 
soar. 
Eternal  peace  have  they ; 
God  wipes  their  tears  away  : 
They  drink  that  river  of  life  which  flows  from 
Evermore. 

Thither  we  hasten  through  these  regions  dim, 
But,  lo,  the  wide  wings  of  the  Seraphim 

Shine  in  the  sunset !     On  that  joyous  shore 
Our  lightened  hearts  shall  know 
The  life  of  long  ago : 
The  sorrow-burdened  past  shall  fade  for 
Evermore. 

Mortimer  Collins. 

Iftam  on  tfje  Iftoof. 

When  the  humid  shadows  hover 

Over  all  the  starry  spheres, 
And  the  melancholy  darkness 

Gently  weeps  in  rainy  tears, 


RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF.  245 

What  a  bliss  to  press  the  pillow 

Of  a  cottage-chamber  bed 
And  to  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  soft  rain  overhead ! 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles 

Has  an  echo  in  the  heart ; 
And  a  thousand  dreamy  fancies 

Into  busy  being  start, 
And  a  thousand  recollections 

Weave  their  air-threads  into  woof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

Now  in  memory  comes  my  mother, 

As  she  used  long  years  agone, 
To  regard  the  darling  dreamers 

Ere  she  left  them  till  the  dawn : 
0 !  I  see  her  leaning  o'er  me, 

As  I  list  to  this  refrain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Then  my  little  seraph  sister, 

With  her  wings  and  waving  hair, 
And  her  star-eyed  cherub  brother — 

A  serene  angelic  pair ! — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow, 

With  their  praise  or  mild  reproof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmur 

Of  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

And  another  comes,  to  thrill  me 

With  her  eyes'  delicious  blue ; 
And  I  mind  not,  musing  on  her, 

That  her  heart  was  all  untrue : 
I  remember  but  to  love  her 

With  a  passion  kin  to  pain, 


246  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate 
To  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Art  hath  naught  of  tone  or  cadence 

That  can  work  with  such  a  spell 
In  the  soul's  mysterious  fountains, 

Whence  the  tears  of  rapture  well, 
As  that  melody  of  nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Coates  Kinney. 

SlfflliUie  ramfcfe. 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town, 
Up-stairs  and  doon-stairs,  in  his  nicht-gown, 
Tirlin'  at  the  window,  cryin'  at  the  lock, 
"  Are  the  weans  in  their  bed  ? — for  it 's  now  ten  o'clock." 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie !  are  ye  comin'  ben  ? 

The  cat  's  singin'  gay  thrums  to  the  sleepin'  hen, 

The  doug's  speldered  on  the  floor,  and  disna  gie  a  cheep ; 

But  here  's  a  waukrife  laddie,  that  winna  fa'  asleep. 

Ony  thing  but  sleep,  ye  rogue !  glow'rin'  like  the  moon, 
Rattlin'  in  an  aim  jug  wi'  an  airn  spoon, 
Rumblin'  tumblin'  roun'  about,  crowin'  like  a  cock, 
Skirlin'  like  a  kenna-what — wauknin'  sleepin'  folk. 

Hey,  Willie  Winkie !  the  wean  's  in  a  creel  I 
Waumblin'  aff  a  body's  knee  like  a  vera  eel, 
Ruggin'  at  the  cat's  lug,  and  ravellin'  a'  her  thrums, — 
Hey,  Willie  Winkie  ! — See,  there  he  comes ! 

Wearie  is  the  mither  that  has  a  storie  wean, 
A  wee  stumpie  stoussie,  that  canna  rin  his  lane, 
That  has  a  battle  aye  wi'  sleep,  before  he  '11  close  an  ee , 
But  a  kiss  frae  aff  his  rosy  lips  gies  strength  anew  to  me. 

William  Miller. 


THE  OLD  CANOE.  %tf 

W$z  <©Uj  Gtanot. 

Where  the  rocks  are  gray  and  the  shore  is  steep, 
And  the  waters  below  look  dark  and  deep, 
Where  the  rugged  pine,  in  its  lonely  pride, 
Leans  gloomily  over  the  murky  tide, 
Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  are  long  and  rank, 
And  the  weeds  grow  thick  on  the  winding  bank, 
Where  the  shadow  is  heavy  the  whole  day  through,  — 
There  lies  at  its  moorings  the  old  canoe. 

The  useless  paddles  are  idly  dropped, 

Like  a  sea-bird's  wings  that  the  storm  had  lopped, 

And  crossed  on  the  railing  one  o'er  one, 

Like  the  folded  hands  when  the  work  is  done ; 

While  busily  back  and  forth  between 

The  spider  stretches  his  silvery  screen, 

And  the  solemn  owl,  with  his  dull  "  too-hoo," 

Settles  down  on  the  side  of  the  old  canoe. 

The  stern,  half  sunk  in  the  slimy  wave, 

Rots  slowly  away  in  its  living  grave, 

And  the  green  moss  creeps  o'er  its  dull  decay, 

Hiding  its  mouldering  dust  away, 

Like  the  hand  that  plants  o'er  the  tomb  a  flower 

Or  the  ivy  that  mantles  the  falling  tower  ; 

While  many  a  blossom  of  loveliest  hue 

Springs  up  o'er  the  stern  of  the  old  canoe. 

The  currentless  waters  are  dead  and  still, 
But  the  light  wind  plays  with  the  boat  at  will, 
And  lazily  in  and  out  again 
It  floats  the  length  of  the  rusty  chain, 
Like  the  weary  march  of  the  hands  of  time, 
That  meet  and  part  at  the  noontide  chime : 
And  the  shore  is  kissed  at  each  turning  anew, 
By  the  drippling  bow  of  the  old  canoe. 


248  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

Oh,  many  a  time,  with  a  careless  hand, 
I  have  pushed  it  away  from  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  paddled  it  down  where  the  stream  runs  quick, 
Where  the  whirls  are  wild  and  the  eddies  are  thick, 
And  laughed  as  I  leaned  o'er  the  rocking  side, 
And  looked  below  in  the  broken  tide, 
To  see  that  the  faces  and  boats  were  two, 
That  were  mirrored  back  from  the  old  canoe. 

But  now,  as  I  lean  o'er  the  crumbling  side, 

And  look  below  in  the  sluggish  tide, 

The  face  that  I  see  there  is  graver  grown, 

And  the  laugh  that  I  hear  has  a  soberer  tone, 

And  the  hands  that  lent  to  the  light  skiff  wings 

Have  grown  familiar  with  sterner  things. 

But  I  love  to  think  of  the  hours  that  sped 

As  I  rocked  where  the  whirls  their  white  spray  shed, 

Ere  the  blossoms  waved,  or  the  green  grass  grew 

O'er  the  mouldering  stern  of  the  old  canoe. 

Emily  Rebecca  Page. 


A  very  old  man  in  an  alms-house  was  asked  what  he  was  doing  now 
He  replied,  "  Only  waiting.11 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown ; 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown ; 
Till  the  night  of  earth  is  faded 

From  the  heart  once  full  of  day  ; 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven  are  breaking 

Through  the  twilight  soft  and  gray. 

Only  waiting  till  the  reapers 

Have  the  last  sheaf  gathered  home ; 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES.  249 

For  the  summer-time  is  faded, 
And  the  autumn  winds  have  come. 

Quickly,  reapers,  gather  quickly 
The  last  ripe  hours  of  my  heart, 

For  the  bloom  of  life  is  withered, 
And  I  hasten  to  depart. 

Only  waiting  till  the  angels 

Open  wide  the  mystic  gate, 
At  whose  feet  I  long  have  lingered, 

Weary,  poor,  and  desolate. 
Even  now  I  hear  the  footsteps, 

And  their  voices  far  away ; 
If  they  call  me,  I  am  waiting, 

Only  waiting  to  obey. 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

Are  a  little  longer  grown ; 
Only  waiting  till  the  glimmer 

Of  the  day's  last  beam  is  flown ; 
Then  from  out  the  gathered  darkness, 

Holy,  deathless  stars  shall  rise, 
By  whose  light  my  soul  shall  gladly 

Tread  its  pathway  to  the  skies. 

Frances  Laughton  Mack. 


€f)e  ISurial  of  ittogetf. 

*  And  be  buried  him  In  a  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab,  over  again* 
Beth-peor ;  ant  no  man  knoweth  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day."  Deut 
xxxH :  6. 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 
On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 

In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 
There  lies  a  lonely  grave ; 

But  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 
And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 

21* 


250  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

For  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod, 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth  ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  tramping, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth ; 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun, — 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves, — 
So,  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie, 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight. 
Perchance  the  lion,  stalking, 

Still  shuns  the  hallowed  spot  ; 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

Lo  !  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed,  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  the  funeral  car. 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute  gun. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  MOSES.  251 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 

With  costly  marble  dressed, 
In  the  great  minster  transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword ; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word  ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced,  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor  ? 

The  hill-side  for  his  pall, 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall  ; 
And  the  dark  rock  pines,  like  tossing  plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave ; 
And  G-od's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave, — 

In  that  deep  grave,  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again, — 0  wondrous  thought  1  — 

Before  the  judgment  day  ; 
And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around, 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life, 

With  the  incarnate  Son  of  Ood. 

0  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land  1 
0  dark  Beth-peor's  hill ! 


552  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace, — 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 

Cecil  Frances  Alexander, 

J$tlton'8  Stager  of  lattence. 

I  am  old  and  blind ! 
Men  point  at  me  as  smitten  by  G-od's  frown ; 
Afflicted  and  deserted  of  my  kind, 

Yet  am  I  not  cast  down. 

I  am  weak,  yet  strong : 
I  murmur  not  that  I  no  longer  see ; 
Poor,  old,  and  helpless,  I  the  more  belong, 

Father  Supreme,  to  Thee. 

0  merciful  One ! 

When  men  are  farthest,  then  art  Thou  most  near ; 
When  friends  pass  by,  my  weaknesses  to  shun, 
Thy  chariot  I  hear. 

Thy  glorious  face 
Is  leaning  towards  me,  and  its  holy  light 
Shines  in  upon  my  lonely  dwelling-place, — 

And  there  is  no  more  night. 

On  my  bended  knee, 
I  recognize  Thy  purpose,  clearly  shown ; 
My  vision  thou  hast  dimmed,  that  I  may  see 

Thyself— Thyself  alone. 

1  have  naught  to  fear ; 

This  darkness  is  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing ; 
Beneath  it  I  am  almost  sacred, — here 
Can  come  no  evil  thing. 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT.        253 

Oh,  I  seem  to  stand 
Trembling,  where  foot  of  mortal  ne'er  hath  been, 
Wrapped  in  the  radiance  of  Thy  sinless  hand 

Which  eye  hath  never  seen. 

Visions  come  and  go, — 
Shapes  of  resplendent  beauty  round  me  throng ; 
From  angel  lips  I  seem  to  hear  the  flow 

Of  soft  and  holy  song. 

It  is  nothing  now, — 
When  Heaven  is  ripening  on  my  sightless  eyes, 
When  airs  from  Paradise  refresh  my  brow, 

That  earth  in  darkness  lies. 

In  a  purer  clime, 
My  being  fills  with  rapture, — waves  of  thought 
Roll  in  upon  my  spirit, — strains  sublime 

Break  over  me  unsought. 

Give  me  now  my  lyre ! 
I  feel  the  stirrings  of  a  gift  divine ; 
Within  my  bosom  glows  unearthly  fire, 

Lit  by  no  skill  of  mine. 

Elizabeth  Lloyd  Howell. 

OTurfeto  Mmt  not  Iftmg  Co^mgfjt. 

England  s  sun  was  slowly  setting  o'er  the  hills  so  far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close  of  one  sad 

day; 
And  the  last  rays  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  a  man  and  maiden 

fair, 
He  with  step  so  slow  and  weakened,  she  with  sunny, 

floating  hair ; 
He  with  sad  bowed  head,  and  thoughtful,  she  with  lips  so 

cold  and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur,  "  Curfew  must  not 

ring  to-night" 
22 


254  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

"  Sexton,"  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered,  pointing  to  the  prison 

old, 
With  its  walls  so  dark  and  gloomy, — walls  so  dark,  and 

damp,  and  cold, — 
"  I  've  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doomed  this  very  night  to  die, 
At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew,  and  no  earthly  help  is  nigh. 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset,"  and  her  face  grew 

strangely  white, 
As  she  spoke  in  husky  whispers,  "  Curfew  must  not  ring 

to-night." 

"  Bessie,"  calmly  spoke  the  sexton — every  word  pierced  her 
young  heart 
Like  a  thousand  gleaming  arrows — like  a  deadly  poisoned 

dart; 
'  Long,  long  years  I  've  rung  the  Curfew  from  that  gloomy 

shadowed  tower ; 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told  the  twilight  hour ; 
I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right, 
Now  I  'm  old,  I  will  not  miss  it;  girl,  the  Curfew  rings  to- 
night!" 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern  and  white  her 

thoughtful  brow, 
And  within  her  heart's  deep  centre,  Bessie  made  a  solemn 

vow; 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read,  without  a  tear  or 

sigh, 
"  At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew — Basil  Underwood  must  die." 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes  grew 

large  and  bright — 
One  low  murmur,  scarcely  spoken — "  Curfew  must  not  ring 

to-night ! " 

She  with  light  step  bounded  forward,  sprang  within  the  old 
church  door, 

Left  the  old  man  coming  slowly,  paths  he  'd  trod  so  oft  be- 
fore: 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING  TO-NIGHT.        255 

Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but  with  cheek  and 

brow  aglow, 
Staggered  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the  bell  swung  to 

and  fro : 
Then  she  climbed  the  slimy  ladder,  dark,  without  one  ray 

of  light, 
Upward  still,  her  pale  lips  saying :  u  Curfew  shall  not  ring 

to-night." 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder,  o'er  her  hangs  the 
great  dark  bell, 

And  the  awful  gloom  beneath  her,  like  the  pathway  down 
to  hell; 

See,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging,  't  is  the  hour  of 
Curfew  now — 

And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,  stopped  her  breath 
and  paled  her  brow. 

Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?  No,  never !  her  eyes  flash  with  sud- 
den light, 

As  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly — "Curfew  shall  not 
ring  to-night!  " 

Out  she  swung,  far  out,  the  city  seemed  a  tiny  speck  be- 
low; 

There,  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended,  as  the  bell 
swung  to  and  fro ; 

And  the  half-deaf  Saxon  ringing  (years  he  had  not  heard 
the  bell,) 

And  he  thought  the  twilight  Curfew  rang  young  Basil's 
funeral  knell ; 

Still  the  maiden  clinging  firmly,  cheek  and  brow  so  pale 
and  white, 

Stilled  her  frightened  heart's  wild  beaming — "  Curfew  shall 
not  ring  to-nighV 

It  was  o'er — the  bell  ceased  swaying,   and   the  maiden 

stepped  once  more 
Firmly  on  the  damp  old  ladder,  where  for  hundred  years 

before 


256  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

Human  foot  had  not  been  planted;    and  what  she  thie 

night  had  done, 
Should  be  told  in  long  years  after — as  the  rays  of  setting 

sun 
Light  the  sky  with  mellow  beauty,  aged  sires  with  heads 

of  white, 
Tell  their  children  why  the  Curfew  did  not  ring  that  one 

sad  night. 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell;  Bessie  saw  him, 

and  her  brow, 
Lately  white  with  sickening  terror,  glows  with  sudden 

beauty  now ; 
At  his  feet  she  told  her  story,  showed  her  hands  all  bruised 

and  torn ; 
And  her  sweet  young  face  so  haggard,  with  a  look  so  sad 

and  worn, 
Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity — lit  his  eyes  with 

misty  light ; 
"Go,  your  lover  lives!"  cried  Cromwell;    "Curfew  shall 

not  ring  to-night." 

Rosa  Hartwick  Thorpe. 

i&ebdtj)  in  $ntria. 

We  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare ; 
As  they  echo  the  peals  of  laughter 

It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there ; 
But  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

We  drink  to  our  comrades'  eyes ; 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  1 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  flowing, 

Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet ; 
'T  is  cold,  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 

And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 


REVELRY  IN  INDIA.  257 

But  stand  to  jour  glasses  steady, 

And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink ; 
We  '11  fall,  'midst  the  wine-cup's  sparkles, 

As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 
So  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

'T  is  in  this  that  our  respite  lies ; 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Time  was  when  we  frowned  at  others, 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then ; 
Ha !  ha !  let  those  think  of  their  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 
No  I  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

The  thoughtless  are  here  the  wise ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

There  's  many  a  hand  that 's  shaking, 

There  's  many  a  cheek  that 's  sunk ; 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 

They  '11  burn  with  the  wine  we  've  drunk. 
So  stand  to  your  glasses  steady, 

'T  is  here  the  revival  lies; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

There  's  a  mist  on  the  glass  congealing, 

'T  is  the  hurricane's  fiery  breath ; 
And  thus  does  the  warmth  of  feeling 

Turn  ice  in  the  grasp  of  death. 
Ho !  stand  to  your  glasses  steady ; 

For  a  moment  the  vapor  flies ; 


258  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 
Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning  ? 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 

Of  the  soul  shall  sing  no  more  ? 
Ho !  stand  to  your  glasses  steady ; 

This  world  is  a  world  of  lies ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betrayed  by  the  land  we  find, 
Where  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 

And  the  dullest  remain  behind — 
Stand,  stand  to  your  glasses  steady ! 

'T  is  all  we  have  left  to  prize ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already — 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Bartholomew  Dowlino. 


W$t  $ttemg  of  tfje  Moon. 

"  O,  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 

Tell  me  why  you  hurry  so." 
il  Hush,  ma  bouchal,  hush  and  listen,"- 

And  his  cheeks  were  all  aglow. 
"  I  bear  ordhers  from  the  captain, 

Get  you  ready  quick  and  soon, 
For  the  pikes  must  be  together 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 

"  0,  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall, 
Where  the  gatherin'  is  to  be." 

"  In  the  ould  spot  by  the  river, 

Right  well  known  to  you  and  me. 


MY  MARYLAND.  25$ 

One  word  more — for  signal  token 

Whistle  up  the  marchin'  tune, 
With  your  pike  upon  your  shoulder, 

By  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 

Out  from  many  a  mud-wall  cabin 

Eyes  were  watching  through  that  night ; 
Many  a  manly  chest  was  throbbing 

For  the  blessed  warning  light. 
Murmurs  passed  along  the  valleys, 

Like  the  banshee's  lonely  croon, 
And  a  thousand  blades  were  flashing, 

At  the  rising  of  the  moon. 

There  beside  the  singing  river 

That  dark  mass  of  men  was  seen ; 
Far  above  the  shining  weapons 

Hung  their  own  beloved  green. 
"  Death  to  every  foe  and  traitor ! 

Forward!  strike  the  marchin'  tune, 
And  hurrah,  my  boys,  for  freedom ! — 

'T  is  the  risin'  of  the  moon." 

Well  they  fought  for  poor  old  Ireland, 

And  full  bitter  was  their  fate. 
0,  what  glorious  pride  and  sorrow 

Fill  the  name  of  Ninety-Eight ! 
Yet,  thank  God !  e'en  still  are  beating 

Hearts  in  manhood's  burning  noon, 
Who  would  follow  in  their  footsteps 

At  the  risin'  of  the  moon. 

John  K.  Casey. 

Jftg  J$argianfc. 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 

Maryland ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland ! 


260  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P OEMS 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  flecked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle  queen  of  yore, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland ! 

Hark  to  a  wandering  son's  appeal, 
Maryland ! 

My  mother  state,  to  thee  I  kneel, 
Maryland ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 

Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 

And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland  I 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland ! 
Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust, 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust, 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland. 

Come,  't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 

Maryland ! 
Come  with  thy  panoplied  array, 
Maryland  I 
With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe  and  dashing  May, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland. 

Dear  mother,  burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland  I 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 
Maryland ! 
She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain  ; 
"  Sic  semper!  "  't  is  the  proud  refrain, 


MY  MARYLAND.  261 

That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland  I 

Come,  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come,  for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland  1 
Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  liberty  along, 
And  give  a  new  key  to  thy  song, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland ! 
But  lo !  there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek; 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland  I 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Yandal  toll, 

Maryland ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland  I 
Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  shot,  the  blade,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 
Maryland,  My  Maryland  1 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 
Maryland ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife,  and  drum, 

Maryland  I 
She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb — 
Huzza  1  she  spurns  the  Northern  scum ; 
She  breathes,  she  burns — she  '11  come !  she  '11  come . 
Maryland,  My  Maryland ! 

James  R.  Randall. 


262  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

"  Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot 

Straight  at  the  heart  of  yon  prowling  vidette; 
Ring  me  a  ball  in  the  glittering  spot 

That  shines  on  his  breast  like  an  amulet  1 " 

u  Ah,  captain !  here  goes  for  a  fine-drawn  bead, 

There  's  music  around  when  my  barrel 's  in  tune !  " 
Crack !  went  the  rifle,  the  messenger  sped, 
And  dead  from  his  horse  fell  the  ringing  dragoon. 

"Now,  rifleman,  steal  through  the  bushes,  and  snatch 
From  your  victim  some  trinket  to  handsel  first  blood ; 
A  button,  a  loop,  or  that  luminous  patch 

That  gleams  in  the  moon  like  a  diamond  stud  1  " 

u  Oh  captain !  I  staggered,  and  sunk  on  my  track, 
When  I  gazed  on  the  face  of  that  fallen  vidette, 
For  he  looked  so  like  you,  as  he  lay  on  his  back, 
That  my  heart  rose  upon  me,  and  masters  me  yet 

"  But  I  snatched  off  the  trinket, — this  locket  of  gold ; 
An  inch  from  the  centre  my  lead  broke  its  way, 
Scarce  grazing  the  picture,  so  fair  to  behold, 
Of  a  beautiful  lady  in  bridal  array." 

" Ha!  rifleman,  fling  me  the  locket! — 't  is  she, 

My  brother's  young  bride, — and  the  fallen  dragoon 
Was  her  husband— Hush !  soldier,  't  was  Heaven's  decree. 
We  must  bury  him  there,  by  the  light  of  the  moon ! 

"  But,  hark !  the  far  bugles  their  warnings  unite ; 
War  is  a  virtue,  weakness  a  sin ; 
There  's  a  lurking  and  loping  around  us  to-night;— 
Load  again,  rifleman,  keep  your  hand  in  !  " 

Charles  Dawson  Shanly  (?) 


THE  PICKET  GUARD.  263 

W$z  It'cfcet  (Buarto. 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say, 
"  Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'T  is  nothing — a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost — only  one  of  the  men, 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle." 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  he  peacefully  dreaming ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night- wind 

Through  the  forest-leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard — for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack — his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep — 

For  their  mother — may  Heaven  defend  her  I 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips — when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 


264  SINGLE  FAMO  VS  POEMS. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine  tree — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle — "  Ah !     Mary,  good-bye !  " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river  ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead— 

The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 


Cfje  (Eountermgn. 

Alas  I  the  weary  hours  pass  slow, 

The  night  is  very  dark  and  still, 
And  in  the  marshes  far  below 

I  hear  the  bearded  whippoorwill. 
I  scarce  can  see  a  yard  ahead ; 

My  ears  are  strained  to  catch  each  sound ; 
I  hear  the  leaves  about  me  shed, 

And  the  spring's  bubbling  through  the  ground. 

Along  the  beaten  path  I  pace, 

Where  white  rags  mark  my  sentry's  track; 
In  formless  shrubs  I  seem  to  trace 

The  foeman's  form,  with  bending  back ; 
I  think  I  see  him  crouching  low — 

I  stop  and  list — I  stoop  and  peer, 
Until  the  neighboring  hillocks  grow 

To  groups  of  soldiers  far  and  near. 

With  ready  piece  I  wait  and  watch, 
Unlil  my  eyes,  familiar  grown, 


SHERMAN'S  MARCH  TO  THE  SEA.  265 

Detect  each  harmless  earthen  notch, 

And  turn  guerillas  into  stone ; 
And  then  amid  the  lonely  gloom, 

Beneath  the  tall  old  chestnut  trees, 
My  silent  marches  I  resume, 

And  think  of  other  times  than  these. 

"  Halt !  who  goes  there  ?  "  my  challenge  cry, 

It  rings  along  the  watchful  line  ; 
"  Relief !  "  I  hear  a  voice  reply — 

"  Advance,  and  give  the  countersign !  " 
With  bayonet  at  the  charge  I  wait — 
The  corporal  gives  the  mystic  spell ; 
With  arms  aport  I  charge  my  mate, 
Then  onward  pass,  and  all  is  well. 

But  in  the  tent  that  night  awake, 

I  ask,  if  in  the  fray  I  fall, 
Can  I  the  mystic  answer  make, 

When  the  angelic  sentries  call  ? 
And  pray  that  Heaven  may  so  ordain, 

Where'er  I  go,  what  fate  be  mine, 
Whether  in  pleasure  or  in  pain, 

I  still  may  have  the  countersign. 

Anonymous. 

Socman's  Maui)  to  tyt  £>w. 

Our  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mountain 

That  frowned  on  the  river  below, 
As  we  stood  by  our  guns  in  the  morning, 

And  eagerly  watched  for  the  foe ; 
When  a  rider  came  out  of  the  darkness 

That  hung  over  mountain  and  tree, 
And  shouted,  "  Boys,  up  and  be  ready ! 

For  Sherman  will  march  to  the  seal  " 


266  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Then  cheer  upon  cheer  for  bold  Sherman 

Went  up  from  each  valley  and  glen, 
And  the  bugles  re-echoed  the  music 

That  came  from  the  lips  of  the  men  ; 
For  we  knew  that  the  stars  in  our  banner 

More  bright  in  their  splendor  would  be, 
And  that  blessings  from  Northland  would  greet  us, 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Then  forward,  boys!  forward  to  battle! 

We  marched  on  our  wearisome  way, 
We  stormed  the  wild  hills  of  Resaca — 

God  bless  those  who  fell  on  that  day ! 
Then  Kenesaw,  dark  in  its  glory, 

Frowned  down  on  the  flag  of  the  free; 
But  the  East  and  the  West  bore  our  standard 

And  Sherman  marched  on  to  the  sea. 

Still  onward  we  pressed,  till  our  banners 

Swept  out  from  Atlanta's  grim  walls, 
And  the  blood  of  the  patriot  dampened 

The  soil  where  the  traitor-flag  falls; 
We  paused  not  to  weep  for  the  fallen, 

Who  slept  by  each  river  and  tree, 
Yet  we  twined  them  a  wreath  of  the  laurel, 

As  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea. 

Oh,  proud  was  our  army  that  morning, 

That  stood  where  the  pine  darkly  towers, 
When  Sherman  said,  "  Boys,  you  are  weary, 

But  to-day  fair  Savannah  is  ours !  " 
Then  sang  we  the  song  of  our  chieftain, 

That  echoed  o'er  river  and  lea, 
And  the  stars  in  our  banner  shone  brighter 

When  Sherman  marched  down  to  the  sea 

Samuel  H.  M.  Byers. 


DRIVING  HOME  THE  COWS.  267 

Bribing  Jgome  tf)e  (ftotoa. 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 

He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane ; 
One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 

Then  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows,  and  over  the  hill, 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  paoe ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 
And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face 

Only  a  boy  1  and  his  father  had  said 

He  never  could  let  his  youngest  go ; 
Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow -swamp, 

Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  on  his  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lanes  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night, 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 
That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  day  grew  cool  and  late, 

He  went  for  the  cows  when  the  work  was  done ; 


268  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coming  one  by  one, — 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass, — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair, 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb ; 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

Kate  Putnam  Osgood. 

popping  (Kent. 

And  there  they  sat,  a-popping  corn, 

John  Styles  and  Susan  Cutter — 
John  Styles  as  fat  as  any  ox, 

And  Susan  fat  as  butter. 

And  there  they  sat  and  shelled  the  corn, 

And  raked  and  stirred  the  fire, 
And  talked  of  different  kinds  of  corn, 

And  hitched  their  chairs  up  nigher. 

Then  Susan  she  the  popper  shook, 
Then  John  he  shook  the  popper, 


THE  TWINS.  261) 

Till  both  their  faces  grew  as  red 
As  saucepans  made  of  copper. 

And  then  they  shelled,  and  popped,  and  ate, 

All  kinds  of  fun  a-poking, 
While  he  haw-hawed  at  her  remarks, 

And  she  laughed  at  his  joking. 

And  still  they  popped,  and  still  they  ate— 

John's  mouth  was  like  a  hopper — 
And  stirred  the  fire,  and  sprinkled  salt, 

And  shook  and  shook  the  popper. 

The  clock  struck  nine — the  clock  struck  ten, 

And  still  the  corn  kept  popping ; 
It  struck  eleven,  and  then  struck  twelve, 

And  still  no  signs  of  stopping. 

And  John  he  ate,  and  Sue  she  thought — 

The  corn  did  pop  and  patter — 
Till  John  cried  out,  "  The  corn  's  a-fire ! 

Why,  Susan,  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

Said  sne,  "  John  Styles,  it 's  one  o'clock ; 

You  '11  die  of  indigestion ; 
I  'm  sick  of  all  this  popping  corn — 

Why  don't  you  pop  the  question  ?  " 

Anonymoub, 

€f)e  Ctom*. 

In  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb, 

I  grew  so  like  my  brother, 
That  folks  got  taking  me  for  him, 

And  each  for  one  another. 
It  puzzled  all  our  kith  and  kin, 

It  reached  a  fearful  pitch ; 


270  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

For  one  of  us  was  born  a  twin, 
And  not  a  soul  knew  which. 

One  day  to  make  the  matter  worse, 

Before  our  names  were  fixed, 
As  we  were  being  washed  by  nurse, 

We  got  completely  mixed ; 
And  thus,  you  see,  by  fate's  decree, 

Or  rather  nurse's  whim, 
My  brother  John  got  christened  me, 

And  I  got  christened  him. 

This  fatal  likeness  ever  dogged 

My  footsteps  when  at  school, 
And  I  was  always  getting  flogged, 

When  John  turned  out  a  fool. 
I  put  this  question,  fruitlessly, 

To  every  one  I  knew, 
"  What  would  you  do,  if  you  were  me, 

To  prove  that  you  were  you." 

Our  close  resemblance  turned  the  tide 

Of  my  domestic  life, 
For  somehow,  my  intended  bride 

Became  my  brother's  wife. 
In  fact,  year  after  year  the  same 

Absurd  mistakes  went  on, 
And  when  I  died,  the  neighbors  came 

And  buried  brother  John. 

Henry  S.  Leigh. 

&  Eittle  <£oose. 

The  chill  November  day  was  done, 
The  working  world  home  faring ; 

The  wind  came  roaring  through  the  streets 
And  set  the  gas-lights  flaring ; 


A  LITTLE  GOOSE  271 

And  hopelessly  and  aimlessly 

The  scared  old  leaves  were  flying ; 
When,  mingled  with  the  sighing  wind, 

I  heard  a  small  voice  crying. 

And  shivering  on  the  corner  stood 

A  child  of  four,  or  over ; 
No  cloak  or  hat  her  small,  soft  arms, 

And  wind  blown  curls  to  cover. 
Her  dimpled  face  was  stained  with  tears ; 

Her  round  blue  eyes  ran  over  ; 
She  cherished  in  her  wee,  cold  hand, 

A  bunch  of  faded  clover. 

And  one  hand  round  her  treasure  while 

She  slipped  in  mine  the  other : 
Half  scared,  half  confidential,  said, 
11  Oh !  please,  I  want  my  mother ! ' 
"Tell  me  your  street  and  number,  pet: 
Do  n't  cry,  I  '11  take  you  to  it." 
Sobbing  she  answered,  "  I  forget : 
The  organ  made  me  do  it. 

"  He  came  and  played  at  Milly's  steps, 

The  monkey  took  the  money  ; 
And  so  I  followed  down  the  street, 

The  monkey  was  so  funny. 
I  've  walked  about  a  hundred  hours, 

From  one  street  to  another : 
The  monkey  's  gone,  I  've  spoiled  my  flowers, 

Oh !  please,  I  want  my  mother." 

"  But  what  's  your  mother's  name  ?  and  what 
The  street?    Now  think  a  minute." 

"  My  mother's  name  is  mamma  dear — 
The  street— I  can't  begin  it." 

"  But  what  is  strange  about  the  house, 
Or  new — not  like  the  others  ?  " 


272  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

"  I  guess  you  mean  my  trundle-bed, 
Mine  and  my  little  brother's. 

H  Oh  dear  I  I  ought  to  be  at  home 

To  help  him  say  his  prayers, — 
He  '8  such  a  baby  he  forgets ; 

And  we  are  both  such  players ; — 
And  there  's  a  bar  to  keep  us  both 

From  pitching  on  each  other, 
For  Harry  rolls  when  he  's  asleep : 

Oh  dear!  I  want  my  mother." 

The  sky  grew  stormy ;  people  passed 

All  muffled,  homeward  faring : 
You  '11  have  to  spend  the  night  with  me," 

I  said  at  last,  despairing. 
I  tied  a  kerchief  round  her  neck — 
11  What  ribbon  's  this,  my  blossom  ?  " 
"  Why  do  n't  you  know? "  she  smiling,  said, 

And  drew  it  from  her  bosom. 

A  card  with  number,  street,  and  name ; 
My  eyes  astonished  met  it ; 
"  For,"  said  the  little  one,  "  you  see 
I  might  sometimes  forget  it : 
And  so  I  wear  a  little  thing 
That  tells  you  all  about  it ; 
For  mother  says  she  's  very  sure 
I  should  get  lost  without  it." 

Eliza  Sproat  Turner. 

€itetr  Mottw*. 

A  little  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee, 

Your  tired  knee  that  has  so  much  to  bear ; 

A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 
From  underneath  a  thatch  of  tangled  hair. 


TIBED  MOTHERS.  273 

Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 

Of  warm,  moist  fingers,  folding  yours  so  tight ; 

You  do  not  prize  this  blessing  overmuch, — 
You  almost  are  too  tired  to  pray  to-night 

But  it  is  blessedness  I     A  year  ago 

I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day — 
We  are  so  dull  and  thankless ;  and  too  slow 

To  catch  the  sunshine  till  it  slips  away. 
And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me, 

That,  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  motherhood, 
I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only  good. 

And  if,  some  night  when  you  sit  down  to  rest, 

You  miss  this  elbow  from  your  tired  knee, — 
This  restless  curling  head  from  off  your  breast, — 

This  lisping  tongue  that  chatters  constantly ; 
If  from  your  own  the  dimpled  hands  had  slipped, 

And  ne'er  would  nestle  in  your  palm  again ; 
If  the  white  feet  into  their  grave  had  tripped, 

1  could  not  blame  you  for  your  heartache  then. 

I  wonder  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children  clinging  to  their  gown  ; 
Or  that  the  footprints,  when  the  days  are  wet, 

Are  ever  black  enough  to  make  them  frown. 
If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot, 

Or  cap,  or  jacket,  on  my  chamber-floor, — 
If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 

And  hear  it  patter  in  my  house  once  more, — 

If  I  could  mend  a  broken  cart  to-day, 
To-morrow  make  a  kite  to  reach  the  sky, 

There  is  no  woman  in  God's  world  could  say 
She  was  more  blissfully  content  than  L 

But  ah !  the  dainty  pillow  next  my  own 
Is  never  rumpled  by  a  shining  head; 


2  74  SINGLE  FAMO  US  POEMS. 

My  singing  birdling  from  its  nest  is  flown, — 
The  little  boy  I  used  to  kiss  is  dead  I 

May  Eiley  Smith. 

W$z  (Bjjfftten. 

When  tne  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 
The  little  ones  gather  around  me  . 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed  : 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 

My  neck  in  their  tender  embrace ! 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 

Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face ! 

And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last; 
Of  joy  that  my  heart  will  remember, 

While  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past, 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin, 
When  the  glory  of  G-od  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 

All  my  heart  grows  as  weak  as  a  woman's, 

And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow, 
When  I  think  of  the  paths,  steep  and  stony, 

Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go ; 
Of  the  mountains  of  Sin  hanging  o'er  them, 

Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing  wild  ; 
Oh !  there  's  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy 

As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child  3 

They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households; 

They  are  angels  of  G-od  in  disguise  ; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes, 
Those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven, 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild ! 


THE  CHILDREN.  275 

And  I  know,  now,  how  Jesus  could  liken 
The  kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 

I  ask  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones, 

All  radiant,  as  others  have  done, 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun ; 
I  would  pray  G-od  to  guard  them  from  evil, 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself ; 
Ah !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  banished  the  rule  and  the  rod ; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge, 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God ; 
My  heart  is  the  dungeon  of  darkness, 

Where  I  shut  them  for  breaking  a  rule ; 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction ; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  schooL 

I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more ; 
Ah  I  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones, 

That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door ; 
I  shall  miss  the  "  good  nights  "  and  the  kisses, 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 
The  group  on  the  green,  and  the  flowers 

That  are  brought  every  morning  for  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  even, 

Their  song  in  the  school  and  the  street ; 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices, 

And  the  tread  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  of  life  are  all  ended, 

And  death  says  "  the  school  is  dismissed," 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed ! 

Charles  M.  Diokinso*. 


276  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

W$t  ISurial  of  Sbix  $ofm  iftoore. 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light, 

And  the  lanthorn  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ; 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's  gone, 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 

But  little  he  '11  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done, 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 


SOKG.—IF  I  HAD  THOUGHT.  211 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone — 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

Charles  Wolfe. 


Song — $f  $  Sato  Cf)ougf)t 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be. 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  passed, 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last. 

And  thou  wouldst  smile  no  more. 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  't  will  smile  again ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook, 

That  I  must  look  in  vain. 
But  when  I  speak,  thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid, 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary,  thou  art  dead. 

If  thou  wouldst  stay  e'en  as  thou  art> 

All  cold  and  all  serene, 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been. 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own ; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave, 

And  I  am  now  alone. 

I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 
Thou  hast  forgotten  me ; 
24 


278  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  I  perhaps  may  soothe  this  heart 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  ; 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore. 

Charles  Wolfe. 

Song.— <£o,  forget  Jfte, 

Go,  forget  me  I     Why  should  sorrow 
O'er  that  brow  a  shadow  fling  ? 

Q-o,  forget  me,  and  to-morrow 
Brightly  smile  and  sweetly  sing. 

Smile — though  I  shall  not  be  near  thee. 

Sing— though  I  shall  never  hear  thee. 
May  thy  soul  with  pleasure  shine, 
Lasting  as  the  gloom  of  mine. 

Like  the  Sun,  thy  presence  glowing 
Clothes  the  meanest  things  in  light; 

And  when  thou,  like  him,  art  going, 
Loveliest  objects  fade  in  night. 

All  things  looked  so  bright  about  thee, 

That  they  nothing  seem  without  thee ; 
By  that  pure  and  lucid  mind 
Earthly  things  are  too  refined. 

Go,  thou  vision  wildly  gleaming, 

Softly  on  my  soul  that  fell  ; 
Go,  for  me  no  longer  beaming 

Hope  and  Beauty,  fare  ye  well! 
Go,  and  all  that  once  delighted 
Take,  and  leave  me  all  benighted  : 

Glory's  burning,  generous  swell, 

Fancy,  and  the  poet's  shell 

Charles  Wolfe. 


A  JAVANESE  POEM,  279 

€f)e  df  tat  iffltracle. 

Lympha  pudica  Deum  vidit,  et  erubuit. 

The  modest  water  saw  its  God,  and  blushed. 

Richard  Orashaw. 

E  gabanese  ^Poern. 

I  do  not  know  where  I  shall  die. 
I  saw  the  great  sea  on  the  south  coast,  when  I  was  there 

with  my  father  making  salt. 
If  I  die  at  sea,  and  my  body  is  thrown  into  the  deep 

water,  then  sharks  will  come : 
They  will  swim  round  my  corpse,  and  ask, 
Which  of  us  shall  devour  the  body  that  goes  down  into  the 
water?" 

I  shall  not  hear  it. 

I  do  not  know  where  I  shall  die. 
I  saw  in  a  blaze  the  house  of  Pa-Ausoe, 
Which  he  himself  had  set  on  fire  because  he  was  mata- 

glap. 
If  I  die  in  a  burning  house,  glowing  embers  will  fall  on  my 

corpse, 
And  outside  the  house  there  will  be  many  cries  of  men 
throwing  water  on  the  fire  to  kill  it. 
I  shall  not  hear  it. 

I  do  not  know  where  I  shall  die. 
I  saw  the  little  Si-Oenah  fall  out  of  a  klappa  tree,  when 

he  plucked  the  klappa  for  his  mother. 
If  I  fall  out  of  a  klappa  tree,  I  shall  lie  dead  below  in  the 

shrubs,  like  Si-Oenah. 
Then  my  mother  will  not  weep,  for  she  is  dead. 
But  others  will  say  with  a  loud  voice,  "See,  there  lies 
Saidjah!" 

I  shall  not  hear  it 

Mata-glap,  insane.  Klappa,  cocoanut. 


280  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

I  do  not  know  where  I  shall  die. 
I  have  seen  the  corpse  of  Pa-Lisoe,  who  died  of  old  age, 

for  his  hairs  were  white. 
If  I  die  of  old  age,  with  white  hairs,  hired  women  will 

stand  weeping  near  my  corpse, 
And  they  will  make  lamentations,  as  did  the  mourners 

over  Pa-Lisoe' s  corpse  ; 
And  the  grandchildren  will  weep  very  loud. 
I  shall  not  hear  it. 

I  do  not  know  where  I  shall  die. 
I  have  seen  at  Badoer  many  that  were  dead. 
They  were  dressed  in  white  shrouds,  and  were  buried  in 

the  earth. 
If  I  die  at  Badoer,  and  am  buried  beyond  the  village,  east- 
ward against  the  hill  where  the  grass  is  high, 
Then  will  Adinda  pass  by  there,  and  the  border  of  her 
sarong  will  sweep  softly  along  the  grass. 
I  shall  hear  it. 

Eduard  Douwes  Dekkeb. 
Translated  by  Baron  Alphonse  Nahuys. 

a  gufcrm  OTtatil^Song. 

The  wind  blows  over  the  Yukon. 

My  husband  hunts  the  deer  on  the  Koyukun  mountains. 

Ahmi,  Ahmi,  sleep,  little  one. 

There  is  no  wood  for  the  fire. 

The  stone  axe  is  broken,  my  husband  carries  the  other. 

Where  is  the  sun- warmth  ?     Hid  in  the  dam  of  the  beaver, 

waitiug  the  spring-time. 
Ahmi,  Ahmi,  sleep,  little  one,  wake  not. 

Look  not  for  ukali,  old  woman. 

Long  since  the  cache  was  emptied,  and  the  crow  does  not 
light  on  the  ridge-pole. 


A  YUKON  CRADLE-SONG.  281 

Long  since  my  husband  departed.     Why  does  he  wait  in 

the  mountains  ? 
Ahmi,  Ahmi,  sleep,  little  one,  softly. 

Where  is  my  own  ? 

Does  he  lie  starving  on  the  hillside  ?  Why  does  he  linger  ? 
Comes  he  not  soon,  I  will  seek  him  among  the  mountains. 
Ahmi,  Ahmi,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep. 

The  crow  has  come,  laughing. 
His  beak  is  red,  his  eyes  glisten,  the  false  one ! 
"  Thanks  for  a  good  meal  to  Kuskokala  the  shaman. 
On  the  sharp  mountain  quietly  lies  your  husband." 
Ahmi,  Ahmi,  sleep,  little  one,  wake  not 

11  Twenty  deers'  tongues  tied  to  the  pack  on  his  shoulders; 

Not  a  tongue  in  his  mouth  to  call  to  his  wife  with. 

Wolves,  foxes,  and  ravens  are  tearing  and  fighting  for  mor- 
sels. 

Tough  and  hard  are  the  sinews ;  not  so  the  child  in  your 
bosom." 

Ahmi,  Ahmi,  sleep,  little  one,  wake  not. 

Over  the  mountain  slowly  staggers  the  hunter. 

Two  bucks'  thighs  on  his  shoulders,  with  bladders  of  fat 

between  them. 
Twenty  deers'  tongues  in  his  belt.     Go,  gather  wood,  old 

woman ! 
Off  flew  the  crow — liar,  cheat,  and  deceiver ! 
Wake,  little  sleeper,  wake,  and  call  to  your  father. 

He  brings  you  buckfat,  marrow,  and  venison  fresh  from 

the  mountain. 
Tired  and  worn,  he  has  carved  a  toy  of  the  deer's  horn, 
While  he  was  sitting  and  waiting  long  for  the  deer  on  the 

hillside. 
Wake,  and  see  the  crow,  hiding  himself  from  the  arrow  1 
Wake,  little  one,  wake,  for  here  is  your  father. 

Translated  by  W.  H.  Dall. 


282  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEM& 

Cf)e  passage. 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave, 
Since  1  crossed  this  restless  wave; 
And  the  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then,  in  this  same  boat,  beside, 
Sat  two  comrades,  old  and  tried ; 
One  with  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  with  all  the  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought, 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought ; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  form 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone  by, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 

Friends  who  closed  their  course  before  me. 

Yet  what  binds  us  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  hours  of  yore ; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more ! 

Take,  0  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee ; 

Take — I  give  it  willingly ; 

For,  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

Ludwig  Uhlanb. 
Translated  by  Sarah  Austin. 


%Lnn  ?£atf)atoag. 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  song, 


ANN  HATHA  WAT.  283 

To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay, 
Listen  to  mine  Ann  Hathaway  1 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phcebus  might  wondering  stop  to  hear. 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  nature  charm,  Ann  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  breathe  delight,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

When  Envy's  breath  and  rancorous  tooth 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 

And  merit  to  distress  betray, 

To  soothe  the  heart,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day, 

Thou  know'st,  fond  heart,  Ann  hath  a  way, 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  make  grief  bliss,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  orient  list, 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst, 
The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay, 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Ann  Hathaway. 
She  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye, 
Their  various  lustre  to  defy, — 
The  jewels  she,  and  the  foil  they, 
So  sweet  to  look  Ann  Hathaway, 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  shame  bright  gems,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

But  were  it  to  my  fancy  given, 
To  rate  her  charms,  I  'd  call  them  heaven; 
For  though  a  mortal  made  of  clay, 
Angels  must  love  Ann  Hathaway ; 


284  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P  OEMS. 

She  hath  a  way  so  to  control, 
To  rapture  the  imprisoned  soul, 
And  sweetest  heaven  on  earth  display, 
That  to  be  heaven  Ann  hath  a  way ; 

She  hath  a  way, 

Ann  Hathaway ; 
To  be  heaven's  self,  Ann  hath  a  way. 

Attributed  to  Shakespeare. 

<©n  patting  tottf)  f)te  ISoofeg. 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  but  hopes  again,  erewhile, 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affliction's  dart, — 

Thus,  loved  associates !  chiefs  of  elder  art ! 
Teachers  of  wisdom !  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

I  now  resign  you — nor  with  fainting  heart. 

For,  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours, 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore ; 

When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 

William  Roscoe. 

"  Lovely  river,  lovely  river, 
0  to  float  upon  thy  stream  I 
0  to  rest  on  thee  forever, 
Life  a  long,  delicious  dream  I 

"  There  are  forms  about  me  winging, 
Far  too  bright  for  mortal  eye. 
There  are  thoughts  within  me  springing, 
That  would  make  it  sweet  to  die." 


WE  PARTED  IN  SILENCE  285 

Where  the  sparkling  crystal  waters 

Shot  in  music  from  their  cell, 
Couched  on  ro3e,  the  fountain's  daughters 

Watched  the  working  of  their  spell. 

Hylas,  hark !  the  breeze  is  gushing 

Through  thy  gallant  vessel's  sail. 
Hylas,  hark !  the  tide  is  rushing— 

Hark !  the  sailors'  parting  hail  1 

But  a  nobler  fate  has  found  thee 

Than  was  e'er  by  valor  won  ; 
And  a  deeper  spell  has  bound  thee 

Than  was  e'er  by  man  undone. 

O'er  the  crystal  waters  bending, 

Low  he  dips  the  marble  urn ; 
Thoughts  of  home  and  anguish  blending 

With  the  dreams  that  in  him  burn. 

Deeper  still  the  charm  is  stealing — 
Forms  of  beauty  crowd  the  shore, 

Till  his  brain  and  eye  are  reeling — 
In  he  plunges — all  is  o'er  1 

In  the  naiads'  bosom  ever, 

Vainly  now  by  hill  and  grove, 
Ocean's  marge,  and  sacred  river, 

Shalt  thou  seek  him,  son  of  Jove. 

Anonymous. 


W&t  larteti  in  Silence. 

We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night, 
On  the  banks  of*that  lonely  river; 

Where  the  fragrant  limes  their  boughs  unite, 
We  met — and  we  parted  for  ever. 
24* 


286  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P OEMS. 

The  night-bird  sang,  and  the  stars  above 

Told  many  a  touching  story,  . 
Of  friends  long  passed  to  the  kingdom  of  love, 

Where  the  soul  wears  its  mantle  of  glory. 

We  parted  in  silence — our  cheeks  were  wet 

With  the  tears  that  were  past  controlling ; 
We  vowed  we  would  never,  no,  never  forget, 

And  those  vows  at  the  time  were  consoling; 
But  those  lips  that  echoed  the  sounds  of  mine, 

Are  as  cold  as  that  lonely  river ; 
And  that  eye,  that  beautiful  spirit's  shrine, 

Has  shrouded  its  fires  forever. 

And  now  on  the  midnight  sky  I  look, 

And  my  heart  grows  full  of  weeping ; 
Each  star  is  to  me  a  sealed  book, 

Some  tale  of  that  loved  one  keeping. 
We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  in  tears, 

On  the  banks  of  that  lonely  river  • 
But  the  odor  and  bloom  of  those  by-gone  years 

Shall  hang  o'er  its  waters  forever. 

Julia  Crawford. 

Fanttas  Fam'tatum. 

The  stream  that  hurries  by  your  fixed  shore. 

Returns  no  more  ; 
The  wind  that  dries  at  morn  yon  dewy  lawn 

Breathes  and  is  gone ; 
Those  withered  flowers  to  summer's  ripening  glow 

No  more  shall  blow  ; 
Those  fallen  leaves  that  strew  yon  garden  bed 

For  aye  are  dead ; 
On  shore,  or  sea,  or  hill,  or  vale,  or  plain, 

Naught  shall  remain ; 
Vainly  for  sunshine  fled,  and  joys  gone  by, 

We  heave  a  sigh ; 


VANITAS  VANITATUM.  287 

On,  ever  on,  with  unexhausted  breath, 

Time  hastes  to  death  ; 
Even  with  each  word  we  speak  a  moment  flies- 
Is  born  and  dies ; 
Of  all  for  which  poor  mortals  vainly  mourn, 

Naught  shall  return ; 
Life  hath  its  home  in  heaven  and  earth  beneath, 

And  so  hath  death ; 
Not  all  the  chains  that  clank  in  eastern  clime 

Can  fetter  time ; 
For  all  the  phials  in  the  doctor's  store 

Youth  comes  no  more ; 
No  drugs  on  age's  wrinkled  cheek  renew 

Life's  early  hue ; 
Not  all  the  tears  by  pious  mourners  shed 
Can  wake  the  dead. 

If  thus  through  lesser  nature's  empire  wide 

Nothing  abide — 
If  wind,  and  wave,  and  leaf,  and  sun,  and  flower, 

Have  all  their  hour — 
He  walks  on  ice  whose  dallying  spirit  clings 

To  earthly  things ; 
And  he  alone  is  wise  whose  well  taught  love 

Is  fixed  above : 
Truths  firm  and  bright,  but  oft  to  mortal  ear 

Chilling  and  drear ; 
Harsh  as  the  raven's  croak  the  sounds  that  tell 

Of  pleasure's  knelL 
Pray,  reader,  that  the  minstrel's  strain 

Not  all  be  vain ; 
And  when  thou  bend'st  to  God  the  suppliant  knee, 

Remember  me. 

Gerald  Griffin. 


288  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

saaonberlan*. 

Mournfully  listening  to  the  waves'  strange  talk, 
And  marking  with  a  sad  and  moistened  eye 
The  summer  days  sink  down  behind  the  sea, — 
Sink  down  beneath  the  level  brine,  and  fall 
Into  the  Hades  of  forgotten  things, — 
A  mighty  longing  stealeth  o'er  the  soul ; 
As  of  a  man  who  panteth  to  behold 
His  idol  in  another  land, — if  yet 
Her  heart  be  treasured  for  him, — if  her  eyes 
Have  yet  the  old  love  in  them.     Even  so, 
With  passion  strong  as  love  and  deep  as  death, 
Yearneth  the  spirit  after  Wonderland. 

Ah,  happy,  happy  land !     The  busy  soul 
Calls  up  in  pictures  of  the  half-shut  eye 
Thy  shores  of  splendor.     As  a  fair  blind  girl, 
Who  thinks  the  roses  must  be  beautiful, 
But  cannot  see  their  beauty.     Olden  tones, 
Borne  on  the  bosom  of  the  breeze  from  far, — 
Angels  that  came  to  the  young  heart  in  dreams, 
And  then  like  birds  of  passage  flew  away, — 
Return.     The  rugged  steersman  at  the  wheel 
Softens  into  a  cloudy  shape.     The  sails 
Move  to  a  music  of  their  own.     Brave  bark, 
Speed  well,  and  bear  us  unto  Wonderland  I 

Leave  far  behind  thee  the  vext  earth,  where  men 
Spend  their  dark  days  in  weaving  their  own  shrouds 
And  Fraud  and  Wrong  are  crowned  kings ;  and  Toil 
Hath  chains  for  Hire  ;  and  all  Creation  groans, 
Crying,  in  its  great  bitterness,  to  God; 
And  Love  can  never  speak  the  thing  it  feels, 
Or  save  the  thing  it  loves, — is  succorless. 
For  if  one  say,  "I  love  thee,"  what  poor  words 
They  are !     Whilst  they  are  spoken,  the  beloved 
Traveleth  as  a  doomed  lamb  the  road  of  death; 


NATHAN  HALE,  280 

And  sorrow  blanches  the  fair  hair,  and  pales 
The  tinted  cheek.     Not  so  in  Wonderland. 

There  larger  natures  sport  themselves  at  ease 
'Neath  kindlier  suns  that  nurture  fairer  flowers, 
And  richer  harvests  billow  in  the  vales, 
And  passionate  kisses  fall  on  godlike  brows 
As  summer  rain.     And  never  know  they  there 
The  passion  that  is  desolation's  prey ; 
The  bitter  tears  begotten  of  farewells ; 
Endless  renunciations,  when  the  heart 
Loseth  the  all  it  lived  for ;  vows  forgot, 
Cold  looks,  estranged  voices, — all  the  woes 
That  poison  earth's  delight.     For  love  endures, 
Nor  fades  nor  changes,  in  the  Wonderland. 

Alas !  the  rugged  steersman  at  the  wheel 
Comes  back  again  to  vision.     The  hoarse  sea 
Speaketh  from  its  great  heart  of  discontent, 
And  in  the  misty  distance  dies  away. 
The  Wonderland ! — 'T  is  past  and  gone.     0  soul, 
Whilst  yet  unbodied  thou  didst  summer  there, 
God  saw  thee,  led  thee  forth  from  thy  green  haunta, 
And  bade  thee  know  another  world  less  fair, 
Less  calm.     Ambition,  knowledge,  and  desire 
Drove  from  thee  thy  first  worship.     Live  and  learn, 
Believe  and  wait, — and  it  may  be  that  he 
Will  guide  thee  back  again  to  Wonderland. 

Cradook  Newton. 

Natjan  Jgale. 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat, 

A  soldier  marches  by : 
There  is  color  in  his  cheek, 

There  is  courage  in  his  eye, 
Yet  to  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

In  a  moment  he  must  die. 
25 


290  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

By  starlight  and  moonlight, 
He  seeks  the  Briton's  camp ; 

He  hears  the  rustling  flag, 
And  the  armed  sentry's  tramp; 

And  the  starlight  and  moonlight 
His  silent  wanderings  lamp. 

With  slow  tread  and  still  tread, 
He  scans  the  tented  line  ; 

And  he  counts  the  battery  guns 
By  the  gaunt  and  shadowy  pine; 

And  his  slow  tread  and  still  tread 
Gives  no  warning  sign. 

The  dark  wave,  the  plumed  wave, 
It  meets  his  eager  glance ; 

And  it  sparkles  'neath  the  stars, 
Like  the  glimmer  of  a  lance — 

A  dark  wave,  a  plumed  wave, 
On  an  emerald  expanse. 

A  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 
And  terror  in  the  sound ! 

For  the  sentry,  falcon-eyed, 
In  the  camp  a  spy  hath  found; 

With  a  sharp  clang,  a  steel  clang, 
The  patriot  is  bound. 

With  calm  brow,  steady  brow, 
He  listens  to  his  doom ; 

In  his  look  there  is  no  fear, 
Nor  a  shadow-trace  of  gloom ; 

But  with  calm  brow  and  steady  brow 
He  robes  him  for  the  tomb. 

In  the  long  night,  the  still  nighty 
He  kneels  upon  the  sod ; 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GBAY.  291 

And  the  brutal  guards  withhold 

E'en  the  solemn  Word  of  G-od ! 
In  the  long  night,  the  still  night, 

He  walks  where  Christ  hath  trod. 

'Neath  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn, 

He  dies  upon  the  tree ; 
And  he  mourns  that  he  can  lose 

But  one  life  for  Liberty  ; 
And  in  the  blue  morn,  the  sunny  morn. 

His  spirit-wings  are  free. 

But  his  last  words,  his  message-words, 

They  burn,  lest  friendly  eye 
Should  read  how  proud  and  calm 

A  patriot  could  die, 
With  his  last  words,  his  dying  words, 

A  soldier's  battle-cry. 

From  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf, 

From  monument  and  urn, 
The  sad  of  earth,  the  glad  of  heaven, 

His  tragic  fate  shall  learn ; 
And  on  Fame-leaf  and  Angel-leaf 

The  name  of  Hale  shall  burn ! 

Francis  Miles  Finoh. 


Cf)e  ISlue  antJ  tje  (Skap, 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue  ; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 


292  SINGLE  FAMO  US  P0EM8. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat; 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours, 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers, 
Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So,  with  an  equal  splendor, 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  Summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain ; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done ; 


THE  DEATH  OF  KING  BOMBA.  293 

In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won ; 

Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red ; 
They  banish  our  anger  for  ever, 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ; 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  Love  for  the  Gray. 

Francis  Miles  Finoh. 

Cf)e  Ueati)  of  I&mg  ISomfca. 

Could  I  pass  those  lounging  sentries, 
Through  the  aloe-bordered  entries, 

Up  the  sweep  of  squalid  stair, 
On  through  chamber  after  chamber, 
Where  the  sunshine's  gold  and  amber 

Turn  decay  to  beauty  rare, — 
I  should  reach  a  guarded  portal, 
Where,  for  strife  of  issue  mortal, 

Face  to  face  two  kings  are  met: 
One  the  grisly  King  of  Terrors ; 
One  a  Bourbon,  with  his  errors, 

Late  to  conscience-clearing  set 

Well  his  fevered  pulse  may  flutter, 
And  the  priests  their  mass  may  mutter 

With  such  fervor  as  they  may ; 
Cross  and  chrism  and  genuflection, 
Mop  and  mow  and  interjection, 

Will  not  frighten  Death  away. 


294  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

By  the  dying  despot  sitting, 

At  the  hard  heart's  portals  hitting, 

Shocking  the  dull  brain  to  work, 
Death  makes  clear  what  life  has  hidden, 
Chides  what  life  has  left  unchidden, 

Quickens  truth  life  tried  to  burke. 

He  but  ruled  within  his  borders 
After  Holy  Church's  orders, 

Did  what  Austria  bade  him  do, — 
By  their  guidance  flogged  and  tortured 
High-born  men,  and  gently  nurtured 

Chained  with  crime's  felonious  crew. 
What  if  summer  fevers  gripped  them, 
What  if  winter  freezings  nipped  them, 

Till  they  rotted  in  their  chains  ? 
He  had  word  of  Pope  and  Kaiser — 
None  could  holier  be  or  wiser ; 

Theirs  the  counsel,  his  the  reins. 

So  he  pleads  excuses  eager, 
Clutching  with  his  fingers  meagre 
*  At  the  bed-clothes  as  he  speaks ; 
But  King  Death  sits  grimly  grinning 
At  the  Bourbon's  cobweb-spinning, 

As  each  cobweb-cable  breaks. 
And  the  poor  soul  from  life's  islet, 
Rudderless,  without  a  pilot, 

Drifteth  slowly  down  the  dark; 
While  'mid  rolling  incense  vapor, 
Chanted  dirge,  and  flaring  taper, 

Lies  the  body,  stiff  and  stark. 

Anonymous. 

Cfje  <£ott»nt  &2Eetrtimg. 

O  Love,  whose  patient  pilgrim  feet 
Life's  longest  path  have  trod, 


TACKING  SHIP  OFF  SHORE.  295 

Whose  ministry  hath  symboled  sweet 

The  dearer  love  of  God, — 
The  sacred  myrtle  wreathes  again 

Thine  altar,  as  of  old ; 
And  what  was  green  with  summer  then, 

Is  mellowed  now  to  gold. 

Not  now,  as  then,  the  Future's  face 

Is  flushed  with  fancy's  light ; 
But  Memory,  with  a  milder  grace, 

Shall  rule  the  feast  to-night. 
Blest  was  the  sun  of  joy  that  shone, 

Nor  less  the  blinding  shower — 
The  bud  of  fifty  years  agone 

Is  Love's  perfected  flower. 

0  Memory,  ope  thy  mystic  door  I 

0  dream  of  youth,  return  I 
And  let  the  lights  that  gleamed  of  yore 

Beside  this  altar  burn  I 
The  past  is  plain ;  't  was  Love  designed 

E'en  Sorrow's  iron  chain, 
And  Mercy's  shining  thread  has  twined 

With  the  dark  warp  of  Pain. 

So  be  it  still.     0  thou  who  hast 

That  younger  bridal  blest, 
Till  the  May-morn  of  love  has  passed 

To  evening's  golden  west, 
Come  to  this  later  Cana,  Lord, 

And,  at  thy  touch  divine, 
The  water  of  that  earlier  board 

To-night  shall  turn  to  wine. 

David  Gray. 

Cacfetttfl  S>f)ip  off  Sfiore. 

The  weather  leech  of  the  topsail  shivers, 

The  bowlines  strain,  and  the  lee  shrouds  slacken, 


296  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

The  braces  are  taut,  the  lithe  boom  quivers, 
And  the  waves  with  the  coming  squall-cloud  blacken. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather  bow, 

Is  the  light-house  tall  on  Fire  Island  Head. 

There  's  a  shade  of  doubt  on  the  captain's  brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager  eye 

To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 
Till  the  muttered  order  of  "  Full  and  by  I  " 

Is  suddenly  changed  for  "  Full  for  stays  1 " 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze, 
As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays ; 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas, 
As  the  pilot  calls,  "  Stand  by  for  stays  1  " 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place, 

With  the  gathered  coil  in  his  hardened  hands, 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace, 
Waiting  the  watchword,  impatient  stands. 

And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  Head  draws  near, 

As,  trumpet-winged,  the  pilot's  shout 
From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel  I  hear, 

With  the  welcome  call  of  "  Ready  1  About!  " 

No  time  to  spare !     It  is  touch  and  go ; 

And  the  captain  growls,  "  Down  helm !  hard  down ! " 
As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I  throw, 

While  heaven  grows  black  with  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

High  o'er  the  knight-heads  flies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea ; 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I  lay, 
As  I  answer,  "Ay,  ay,  Sir!  Ha-a-rd  a-leel" 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed, 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind; 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  HOUSE  297 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede, 
And  the  headland  white  we  have  left  behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse, 

And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats ; 

The  spanker  slats,  and  the  mainsail  flaps ; 

And  thunders  the  order,  "Tacks  and  sheets  I  " 

Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp  of  the  crew, 

Hisses  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall ; 
The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew, 

And  now  is  the  moment  for  "Mainsail  haul  I  " 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby's  toy, 

By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung; 
She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 

For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the  bulwarks  flung. 

u  Let  go,  and  haul  1  "     'T  is  the  last  command, 
And  the  head-sails  fill  to  the  blast  once  more ; 
Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

With  its  breakers  white  on  a  shingly  shore. 

What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the  squall  ? 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea ; 
The  first  mate  clamors,  "Belay  there,  all  I  " 

And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes  free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly ; 

Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow, 
In  my  fo'castle  bunk,  in  a  jacket  dry, 

Eight  bells  have  struck,  and  my  watch  is  below. 

Walter  Mitchell 

Ci)e  Mi#ttt$$  of  if)e  J^ouse. 

The  guests  are  come,  all  silent  they  have  waited ; 

Entering  the  noiseless  hush  with  silent  bows, 
They  linger  for  her  coming,  sore  belated — 

Where  is  the  little  mistress  of  the  house  ? 
25* 


298  SINGLE  FAMO US  POEMS. 

She  is  not  wont  to  leave  her  friends  so  lonely 
That  come  too  seldom,  as  she  gayly  vows ; 

Yet  they  are  here,  and  wait  her  pleasure  only — 
Where  is  the  little  mistress  of  the  house  ? 

She  cannot  be  far  off — perhaps  but  sleeping ; 

Doubtless  at  their  low  call  she  would  arouse ; 
Why  do  they  summon  her  alone  with  weeping  ? 

Where  is  the  little  mistress  of  the  house  ? 

The  portraits  stare  behind  their  veiling  covers ; 

The  dust  is  in  the  melancholy  room, 
Upon  the  air  a  ghastly  silence  hovers — 

Within  the  threshold  loneliness  and  gloom. 

Cold,  dark,  and  desolate  the  place  without  her, 
Wanting  her  gentle  smile  as  each  allows ; 

She  bears  a  sunbeam  light  and  warmth  about  her — 
Where  is  the  little  mistress  of  the  house  ? 

The  curtains  fall,  undraped  by  her  slight  fingers, 
Behind  the  wainscot  gnaws  a  secret  mouse, 

Her  treasures  need  her  care,  but  still  she  lingers — 
Where  is  the  little  mistress  of  the  house  ? 

Alas  !  there  was  a  rumor  and  a  whisper 
Threading  the  busy  town,  this  many  days ; 

The  youngest  baby  here,  a  tiny  lisper, 
Can  falter  forth  the  reason  why  she  stays, 

Why  care  and  love,  the  tenderest  and  sincerest, 

Have  failed  to  shield  and  guard  her  fair  young  head 

Why  she  has  fled  from  all  she  loved  the  dearest — 
For  there  has  been  a  rumor,  she  is  dead. 

Throw  wide  the  door !     Within  the  gloomy  portal, 
Where  her  small  feet  fell  light  as  falling  snow, 

They  bear  her  in,  the  mortal  made  immortal  1 
She  comes  again,  but  heavenly  and  slow  I 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL.  290 

0  empty  shell !     0  beautiful  frail  prison ! 

Cold,  white,  and  vacant,  tenantless  and  dumb, 
From  such  poor  clay  as  this  has  Christ  arisen — 

For  such  as  this  He  shall  in  glory  come  1 

But  in  the  calm  indifference  to  our  sorrow, 
In  the  sharp  anguish  of  her  parting  breath, 

In  the  dark  gulf  that  hides  her  form  to-morrow, 
Thou  hast  thy  victory,  Grave ;  thy  sting,  0  Death  1 

Yet  shall  she  walk  so  fair  that  we  who  knew  her, 
Would  pale  before  the  glory  of  her  brows, 

Nor  in  the  radiant  beauty  dare  to  woo  her 
To  be  again  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

Leslie  Walter. 


In  tf)e  igogpital. 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
With  little  thought  or  care 

Whether  my  waking  find 
Me  here,  or  there. 

A  bowing,  burdened  head, 
That  only  asks  to  rest, 

Unquestioning,  upon 
A  loving  breast. 

My  good  right  hand  forgets 

Its  cunning  now ; 
To  march  the  weary  march 

I  know  not  how. 

I  am  not  eager,  bold, 

Nor  strong — all  that  is  past ; 
I  am  ready  not  to  do 

At  last,  at  last. 


300  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

My  half  day's  work  is  done, 

And  this  is  all  my  part — 
I  give  a  patient  G-od 

My  patient  heart, 

And  grasp  His  banner  still. 

Though  all  the  blue  be  dim ; 
These  stripes  as  well  as  stars 

Lead  after  Him. 

Mary  Woolsey  Howland. 

Citne  an*  ISteniitg. 

It  is  not  Time  that  flies  ; 

'T  is  we,  't  is  we  are  flying. 
It  is  not  Life  that  dies ; 

'T  is  we,  't  is  we  are  dying. 
Time  and  eternity  are  one; 
Time  is  eternity  begun. 
Life  changes,  yet  without  decay ; 
'T  is  we  alone  who  pass  away. 

It  is  not  Truth  that  flies ; 

'T  is  we,  't  is  we  are  flying. 
It  is  not  Faith  that  dies ; 

'T  is  we,  't  is  we  are  dying. 
0  ever-during  Faith  and  Truth, 
Whose  youth  is  age,  whose  age  is  youth, 
Twin  stars  of  immortality, 
Ye  cannot  perish  from  our  sky. 

It  is  not  Hope  that  flies ; 

'T  is  we,  't  is  we  are  flying. 
It  is  not  Love  that  dies ; 

'T  is  we,  't  is  we  are  dying. 
Twin  streams  that  have  in  heaven  your  birtb, 
Ye  glide  in  gentle  joy  through  earth. 
We  fade,  like  flowers  beside  you  sown ; 
Ye  still  are  flowing,  flowing  on. 


MY  AIN  COUNTREE.  301 

Yet  we  but  die  to  live ; 

It  is  from  death  we  're  flying ; 
Forever  lives  our  life, 

For  us  there  is  no  dying. 
We  die  but  as  the  spring  bud  dies, 
In  summer's  golden  glow  to  rise. 
These  be  our  days  of  April  bloom ; 
Our  July  is  beyond  the  tomb. 

HORATIUS  BONAR. 


Jftg  %Lin  OTountree. 

I  am  far  from  my  hame,  an'  I  'm  weary  often  whiles 

For  the  longed-for  hame-bringing  an'  my  Father's  welcome 

smiles ; 
I  '11  ne'er  be  fu'  content  until  my  een  do  see 
The  gowden  gates  o'  heaven,  an'  my  ain  countree. 

The  earth  is  fleck'd  wi'  flow'rs,   mony-tinted,  fresh  an' 

gay, 

The  birdies  warble  blithely,  for  my  Father  made  them  sae  ; 
But  these  sights  an'  these  soun's  will  as  naething  be  to  me, 
When  I  hear  the  angels  singing  in  my  ain  countree. 

I  've  his  gude  word  of  promise,  that  some  gladsome  day 

the  King 
To  his  ain  royal  palace  his  banished  hame  will  bring ; 
Wi'  een  an'  wi'  heart  running  over  we  shall  see 
"The  King  in  his  beauty,"  an'  our  ain  countree. 

My  sins  hae  been  mony'  an'  my  sorrows  hae  been  sair, 
But  there  they  '11  never  vex  me,  nor  be  remembered  mair ; 
His  bluid  has  made  me  white,  his  hand  shall  wipe  mine  ee, 
When  he  brings  me  hame  at  last  to  my  ain  countree. 

Like  a  bairn  to  his  mither,  a  wee  birdie  to  its  nest, 
I  wud  fain  be  ganging  noo  unto  my  Saviour's  breast,; 
26 


302  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

For  he  gathers  in  his  bosom  witless,  worthless  lambs  like 

me, 
An'  he  carries  them  himself  to  his  ain  countree. 

He  's  faithfu'  that  hath  promisea,  he  '11  surely  come  again ; 
He  '11  keep  his  tryst  wi'  me,  at  what  hour  I  dinna  ken ; 
But  he  bids  me  still  to  watch,  an'  ready  aye  to  be 
To  gang  at  ony  moment  to  my  ain  countree. 

So  I  'm  watching  aye  an'  singing  o'  my  hame  as  I  wait, 
For  the  soun'ing  o'  his  footsteps  this  side  the  gowden  gate. 
God  gie  his  grace  to  ilka  ane  wha  listens  noo  to  me, 
That  we  may  a'  gang  in  gladness  to  our  ain  countree. 

Mary  Lee  Demarest. 


In  a  valley,  centuries  ago, 

Grew  a  little  fern-leaf  green  and  slender, 

Veining  delicate  and  fibres  tender, 
Waving  when  the  wind  crept  down  so  low. 

Rushes  tall,  and  moss,  and  grass  grew  round  it ; 

Playful  sunbeams  darted  in  and  found  it ; 

Drops  of  dew  stole  down  by  night  and  crowned  it  ; 
But  no  foot  of  man  e'er  came  that  way  ;— 
Earth  was  young  and  keeping  holiday. 

Monster  fishes  swam  the  silent  main ; 

Stately  forests  waved  their  giant  branches; 

Mountains  hurled  their  snowy  avalanches ; 
Mammoth  creatures  stalked  across  the  plain. 

Nature  revelled  in  grand  mysteries; 

But  the  little  fern  was  not  like  these, 

Did  not  number  with  the  hills  and  trees, 
Only  grew  and  waved  its  sweet,  wild  way ; 
No  one  came  to  note  it  day  by  day. 


THE  PETRIFIED  FERN.  303 

Earth,  one  time,  put  on  a  frolic  mood, 

Heaved  the  rocks,  and  changed  the  mighty  motion 

Of  the  strong,  dread  currents  of  the  ocean ; 
Moved  the  hills,  and  shook  the  haughty  wood; 

Crushed  the  little  fern  in  soft,  moist  clay, 

Covered  it,  and  hid  it  safe  away. 

0,  the  long,  long  centuries  since  that  day  1 
0,  the  changes  1     0,  life's  bitter  cost, 
Since  the  little  useless  fern  was  lost ! 

Useless  ?    Lost  ?     There  came  a  thoughtful  man, 
Searching  Nature's  secrets  far  and  deep  ; 
From  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  steep 

He  withdrew  a  stone,  o'er  which  there  ran 
Fairy  pencilings,  a  quaint  design, — 
Leafage,  veining,  fibres,  clear  and  fine — 
And  the  fern's  life  lay  in  every  line. 

So,  I  think,  God  hides  some  souls  away, 

Sweetly  to  surprise  us  the  Last  Day. 

Mary  L.  Bowles  Branoi 


Culoom. 

On  the  coast  of  Yucatan, 
As  untenanted  of  man 
As  a  castle  under  ban 

By  a  doom 
For  the  deeds  of  bloody  hours, 
Overgrown  with  tropic  bowers, 
Stand  the  teocallis  towers 

Of  Tuloom. 

One  of  these  is  fair  to  sight, 
Where  it  pinnacles  a  height ; 
And  the  breakers  blossom  white, 
As  they  boom 


304  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  split  beneath  the  walls, 
And  an  ocean  murmur  falls 
Through  the  melancholy  halls 
Of  Tuloom. 

On  the  summit,  as  you  stand, 
All  the  ocean  and  the  land 
Stretch  away  on  either  hand, 

But  the  plume 
Of  the  palm  is  overhead, 
And  the  grass,  beneath  your  tread, 
Is  the  monumental  bed 

Of  Tuloom. 

All  the  grandeur  of  the  woods, 
And  the  greatness  of  the  floods, 
And  the  sky  that  overbroods, 

Dress  a  tomb, 
Where  the  stucco  drops  away, 
And  the  bat  avoids  the  day, 
In  the  chambers  of  decay 

In  Tuloom. 

They  are  battlements  of  death. 
When  the  breezes  hold  their  breath, 
Down  a  hundred  feet  beneath, 

In  the  flume 
Of  the  sea,  as  still  as  glass, 
You  can  see  the  fishes  pass 
By  the  promontory  mass 

Of  Tuloom. 

Toward  the  forest  is  displayed, 
On  the  terrace,  a  facade 
With  devices  overlaid  ; 
And  the  bloom 


TULOOM.  305 


Of  the  vine  of  sculpture,  led 
O'er  the  soffit  overhead, 
Was  a  fancy  of  the  dead 
Of  Tuloom. 

Here  are  corridors,  and  there, 
From  the  terrace,  goes  a  stair  ; 
And  the  way  is  broad  and  fair 

To  the  room 
Where  the  inner  altar  stands  ; 
And  the  mortar's  tempered  sands 
Bear  the  print  of  human  hands, 

In  Tuloom. 

O'er  the  sunny  ocean  swell, 
The  canoas  running  well 
Toward  the  Isle  of  Cozumel 

Cleave  the  spume ; 
On  they  run,  and  never  halt 
Where  the  shimmer,  from  the  salt, 
Makes  a  twinkle  in  the  vault 

Of  Tuloom. 

When  the  night  is  wild  and  dark, 
And  a  roar  is  in  the  park, 
And  the  lightning,  to  its  mark, 

Cuts  the  gloom, 
All  the  region,  on  the  sight, 
Rushes  upward  from  the  night, 
In  a  thunder-crash  of  light 

O'er  Tuloom. 

Oh  !  could  such  a  flash  recall 
All  the  flamens  to  their  hall, 
All  the  idols  on  the  wall, 
In  the  fume 


306  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Of  the  Indian  sacrifice  — 
All  the  lifted  hands  and  eyes, 
All  the  laughters  and  the  cries 
Of  Tuloom  — 

All  the  kings  in  feathered  pride, 
All  the  people,  like  a  tide, 
And  the  voices  of  the  bride 

And  the  groom  !  — 
But,  alas  !  the  prickly  pear, 
And  the  owlets  of  the  air, 
And  the  lizards,  make  a  lair 

Of  Tuloom. 

"We  are  tenants  on  the  strand 
Of  the  same  mysterious  land. 
Must  the  shores  that  we  command 

Reassume 
Their  primeval  forest  hum, 
And  the  future  pilgrim  come 
Unto  monuments  as  dumb 

As  Tuloom  ? 

'Tis  a  secret  of  the  clime, 
And  a  mystery  sublime, 
Too  obscure,  in  coming  time, 

To  presume  ; 
But  the  snake  amid  the  grass 
Hisses  at  us  as  we  pass, 
And  we  sigh,  Alas  !  alas  ! 

In  Tuloom. 

Erastus  Wolcott  Ellsworth. 


THE  OCEAN.  307 


€f)e  <©cean* 

Likeness  of  heaven,  agent  of  power, 
Man  is  thy  victim,  shipwrecks  thy  dower  ! 
Spices  and  jewels  from  valley  and  sea, 
Armies  and  banners,  are  buried  in  thee ! 

"What  are  the  riches  of  Mexico's  mines 
To  the  wealth  that  far  down  in  thy  deep  water  shines  ? 
The  proud  navies  that  cover  the  conquering  west, 
Thou  fling'st  them  to  death  with  one  heave  of  thy  breast. 

From  the  high  hills  that  visor  thy  wreck-making  shore, 
When  the  bride  of  the  mariner  shrieks  at  thy  roar. 
When,  like  lambs  in  the  tempest  or  mews  in  the  blast, 
O'er  thy  ridge-broken  billows  the  canvas  is  cast, — 

How  humbling  to  one  with  a  heart  and  a  soul, 
To  look  on  thy  greatness  and  list  to  thy  roll, 
And  to  think  how  that  heart  in  cold  ashes  shall  be, 
While  the  voice  of  eternity  rises  from  thee. 

Yes,  where  are  the  cities  of  Thebes  and  of  Tyre  ? 
Swept  from  the  nations  like  sparks  from  the  lire  ! 
The  glory  of  Athens,  the  splendor  of  Rome, 
Dissolved,  and  forever,  like  dew  in  thy  foam ! 

But  thou  art  almighty,  eternal,  sublime, 
Un weakened,  un wasted,  twin  brother  of  Time  ! 
Fleets,  tempests,  nor  nations  thy  glory  can  bow  ; 
As  the  stars  first  beheld  thee,  still  chainless  art  thou. 

But  hold  ! — when  thy  surges  no  longer  shall  roll. 
And  that  firmament's  length  is  drawn  back  like  a  scroll, 
Then,  then  shall  the  spirit  that  sighs  by  thee  now, 
Be  more  mighty,  more  lasting,  more  chainless  than  thou. 

John  Augustus  Shea. 


308  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 


5ptnm'ng~tof)eel  Song. 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shine  is  beginning  : 
Close  by  the  window  young  Eileen  is  spinning  ; 
Bent  o'er  the  fire,  her  blind  grandmother,  sitting, 
Ts  croaning,  and  moaning,  and  drowsily  knitting, — 
"  Eileen,  achora,  I  hear  some  one  tapping." 
"  '  T  is  the  ivy,  dear  mother,  against  the  glass  flapping." 
"  Eileen,  I  surely  hear  somebody  sighing." 
1 '  Tis  the  sound,  mother  dear,  of  the  summer  wind  dy- 
ing." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's  stir- 
ring ; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing. 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

"  What's  that  noise  that  1  hear  at  the  window,  I  won- 
der?" 
'"Tis  the  little  birds  chirping  the  holly-bush  under." 
• '  What  makes  you  be  shoving  and  moving  your  stool  on, 
And  singing  all  wrong  that  old  song  of  '  The  Coolun  '?" 
There's  a  form  at  the  casement  —  the  form  of  her  true- 
love  — 
And  he  whispers,  with  face  bent,  "  I'm  waiting  for  you, 

love  ; 
Get  up  on  the  stool,  through  the  lattice  step  lightly, 
We  '11  rove  in  the  grove  while  the  moon's  shining  brightly." 

Merrily,  cheerily,  noisily  whirring, 

Swings  the  wheel,  spins  the  reel,  while  the  foot 's  stirring; 

Sprightly,  and  lightly,  and  airily  ringing, 

Thrills  the  sweet  voice  of  the  young  maiden  singing. 

The  maid  shakes  her  head,  on  her  lip  lays  her  fingers, 
Steals  up  from  her  seat—longs  to  go,  and  yet  lingers ; 
A  frightened  glance  turns  to  her  drowsy  grandmother, 


THE  BURIAL   OF  BERANGER.  309 

Puts  one  foot  on  the  stool,  spins  the  wheel  with  the  other. 

Lazily,  easily,  swings  now  the  wheel  round ; 

Slowly  and  lowly  is  heard  now  the  reel's  sound; 

Noiseless  and  light  to  the  lattice  above  her 

The  maid  steps, — then  leaps  to  the  arms  of  her  lover. 

Slower,  and  slower,  and  slower  the  wheel  swings; 

Lower,  and  lower,  and  lower  the  reel  rings. 
Ere  the  reel  and  the  wheel  stop  their  ringing  and  moving. 
Thro'  the  grove  the  young  lovers  by  moonlight  are  roving. 

John  Francis  Waller. 


CiK  burial  of  Granger. 

The  poet  Beranger  is  dead.    The  expenses  of  his  funeral  will 
be  charged  to  the  Imperial  civil  list.— Despatch  of  July  17,  1857. 

Non  mes  amis,  au  spectacle  des  ombres 

Je  ne  veux  point  une  loge  d'honneur.— Beranger. 

Bury  Beranger  !  Well  for  you 
Could  you  bury  the  spirit  of  Beranger  too  ! 
Bury  the  bard  if  you  will,  and  rejoice  ; 
But  you  bury  the  body,  and  not  the  voice. 
Bury  the  prophet  and  garnish  his  tomb; 
The  prophecy  still  remains  for  doom, 
And  many  a  prophecy  since  proved  true 
Has  that  prophet  spoken  for  such  as  you. 

Bury  the  body  of  Beranger  — 

Bury  the  printer's  boy  you  may  ; 

But  the  spirit  no  death  can  ever  destroy 

That  made  a  bard  of  that  printer's  boy. 

A  clerk  at  twelve  hundred  francs  per  ann. 

Weie  a  very  easily  buried  man  ; 

But  the  spirit  that  gave  up  that  little  all 

For  freedom,  is  free  of  the  funeral. 


310  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

You  may  bury  the  prisoner,  it  may  be, 
The  man  of  La  Force  and  Ste.  Pelagie  ; 
But  the  spirit,  mon  Empereur,  that  gave 
That  prisoner  empire  knows  no  grave. 

u  Au  spectacle  des  ombres  une  loge  d'honneur" 
Is  easily  given,  mon  Empereur  ; 
But  a  something  there  is  which  even  the  will 
Of  an  emperor  can  not  inter  or  kill  — 
By  no  space  restrained,  to  no  age  confined, 
The  fruit  of  a  simple  great  man's  mind, 
Which  to  all  eternity  lives  and  feeds 
The  births  of  which  here  it  has  laid  the  seeds. 
Could  you  bury  these,  you  might  sit  secure 
On  the  throne  of  the  Bourbons,  mon  Empereur. 

Alfred  Watts. 


&|K  5ong  of  tf)e  WLwttxn  Jften. 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand, 

A  merry  heart  and  true, 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 
And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when. 

And  shall  Trelawney  die  ? 
Then  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why. 
What  !  will  they  scorn  Tre,  Pol,  and  Pen  ? 

And  shall  Trelawney  die  ? 
Then  twenty  thousand  under  ground 

Will  know  the  reason  why. 

Out  spake  the  captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he  : 
•  Though  London's  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We  '11  set  Trelawney  free. 


TO  A  SWALLOW.  311 

We  '11  cross  the  Tamar  hand  to  hand, 

The  Exe  shall  be  no  stay ; 
We  '11  side  by  side  from  strand  to  strand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ? 
"What !  will  they  scorn  Tre,  Pol,  and  Pen  ? 

And  shall  Trelawney  die  ? 
Then  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why. 

4 '  And  when  we  come  to  London  wall 

We  '11  shout  with  it  in  view, 
*  Come  forth,  come  forth,  ye  cowards  all ! 

We  're  better  men  than  you ! 
Trelawney,  he 's  in*  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawney,  he  may  die; 
But  here 's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold 

Will  known  the  reason  why  ! ' 
What !  will  they  scorn  Tre,  Pol,  and  Pen  ? 

And  shall  Trelawney  die  ? 
Then  twenty  thousand  under  ground 
Will  know  the  reason  why." 

Robert  Stephen  Hawker. 

Eo  a  Stoalloto,  ISutOimg  mxtim  <&ux  ISabe*. 

Thou  too  hast  travelled,  little  fluttering  thing, 
Hast  seen  the  world,  and  now  thy  weary  wing 

Thou  too  must  rest. 
But  much,  my  little  bird,  could'st  thou  but  tell, 
I'd  give  to  know  why  here  thou  lik'st  so  well 

To  build  thy  nest. 

For  thou  hast  passed  fair  places  in  thy  flight ; 
A  world  lay  all  beneath  thee  where  to  light ; 

And,  strange  thy  taste, 
Of  all  the  varied  scenes  that  met  thine  eye, 
Of  all  the  spots  for  building  'neath  the  sky, 

To  choose  this  waste  ! 


312  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Did  fortune  try  thee  ?  —  was  thy  little  purse 
Perchance  run  low,  and  thou,  afraid  of  worse, 

Felt  here  secure  ? 
Ah  no  !  thou  need'st  not  gold,  thou  happy  one  ! 
Thou  know'st  it  not.     Of  all  God's  creatures,  man 

Alone  is  poor. 

What  was  it,  then  ?  —  some  mystic  turn  of  thought, 
Caught  under  German  eaves,  and  hither  brought, 

Marring  thine  eye 
For  the  world's  loveliness,  till  thou  art  grown 
A  sober  thing  that  dost  but  mope  and  moan, 

Not  knowing  why  ? 

Nay,  if  thy  mind  be  sound,  I  need  not  ask, 
Since  here  I  see  thee  working  at  thy  task 

With  wing  and  beak. 
A  well-laid  scheme  doth  that  small  head  contaiu, 
At  which  thou  work'st,  brave  bird,  with  might  and  main, 

Nor  more  need'st  seek. 

In  truth,  I  rather  take  it  thou  hast  got 
By  instinct  wise  much  sense  about  thy  lot, 

And  hast  small  care 
Whether  an  Eden  or  a  desert  be 
Thy  home,  so  thou  remain'st  alive  and  free 

To  skim  the  air. 

God  speed  thee,  pretty  bird  !    May  thy  small  nest 
With  little  ones  all  in  good  time  be  blest. 

I  love  thee  much  ; 
For  well  thou  managest  that  life  of  thine, 
While  I  —  oh,  ask  not  what  I  do  with  mine  ! 

Would  I  were  such  ! 

Jane  Welsh  Carlyle. 


CARCASSONNE.  313 


Gtarcassonne. 

"  I'm  growing  old,  I've  sixty  years  ; 

I've  labored  all  my  life  in  vain. 
In  all  that  time  of  hopes  and  fears, 

I've  failed  my  dearest  wish  to  gain. 
I  see  full  well  that  here  below 

Bliss  unalloyed  there  is  for  none, 
My  prayer  would  else  fulfilment  know  — 

Never  have  I  seen  Carcassonne  ! 

Never  have  I  seen  Carcassonne  ! 

"  You  spy  the  city  from  the  hill, 

It  lies  beyond  the  mountain  blue  ; 
And  yet  to  reach  it  one  must  still 

Five  long  and  weary  leagues  pursue, 
And,  to  return,  as  many  more. 

Had  but  the  vintage  plenteous  grown 
But,  ah!  the  grape  withheld  its  store. 

I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne  ! 

I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne  ! 

"  They  tell  me  every  day  is  there 

Not  more  or  less  than  Sunday  gay; 
In  shining  robes  and  garments  fair 

The  people  walk  upon  their  way. 
One  gazes  there  on  castle  walls 

As  grand  as  those  of  Babylon, 
A  bishop  and  two  generals  ! 

What  joy  to  dwell  in  Carcassonne  ! 

Ah  !  might  I  but  see  Carcassonne  ! 

"The  vicar's  right :  he  says  that  we 
Are  ever  wayward,  weak,  and  blind; 
He  tells  us  in  his  homily 

Ambition  ruins  all  mankind  ; 


314  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Yet  could  I  these  two  days  have  spent, 
While  still  the  autumn  sweetly  shone, 

Ah,  me  !  I  might  have  died  content 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne, 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne. 

"Thy  pardon,  Father,  I  beseech, 

In  this  my  prayer  if  I  offend  ; 
One  something  sees  beyond  his  reach 

From  childhood  to  his  journey's  end. 
My  wife,  our  little  boy  Aignan, 

Have  travelled  even  to  Narbonne  ; 
My  grandchild  has  seen  Perpignan ; 

And  I  —  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, 

And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne  !  " 

So  crooned,  one  day,  close  by  Limoux, 

A  peasant,  double-bent  with  age. 
11  Rise  up,  my  friend,'"  said  I ;  "with  you 

I  '11  go  upon  this  pilgrimage." 
We  left,  next  morning,  his  abode, 

But  (Heaven  forgive  him!)  half-way  on 
The  old  man  died  upon  the  road. 

He  never  gazed  on  Carcassonne. 

Each  mortal  has  his  Carcassonne. 

GrUSTAVE  NADAUD. 

Translated  by  John  R  Thompson. 

(Crossing  tf)e  tftappafjamtocfc. 

They  leaped  in  the  rocking  shallops  — 
Ten  offered  where  one  could  go  — 

And  the  breeze  was  alive  with  laughter, 
Till  the  boatmen  began  to  row. 

Then  the  shore,  where  the  rebels  harbored, 
Was  fringed  with  a  gush  of  flame, 


GROSSING   THE  RAPPAHANNOCK.  315 

And  buzzing  like  bees  o'er  the  water 
The  swarms  of  their  bullets  came. 

In  silence  how  dread  and  solemn, 

With  courage  how  grand  and  true, 
Steadily,  steadily  onward 

The  line  of  the  shallops  drew. 

Not  a  whisper  !    Each  man  was  conscious 

He  stood  in  the  sight  of  death, 
So  he  bowed  to  the  awful  presence 

And  treasured  his  living  breath. 

'Twixt  death  in  the  air  above  them, 

And  death  in  the  waves  below, 
Through  ball  and  grape  and  shrapnel 

They  moved  —  my  God,  how  slow  ! 

And  many  a  brave,  stout  fellow, 
Who  sprang  in  the  boats  with  mirth, 

Ere  they  made  that  fatal  crossing 
Was  a  load  of  lifeless  earth. 

And  many  a  brave,  stout  fellow, 

Whose  limbs  with  strength  were  rife, 

Was  torn  and  crushed  and  shattered  — 
A  helpless  wreck  for  life. 

But  yet  the  boats  moved  onward  ; 

Through  fire  and  lead  they  drove, 
With  the  dark,  still  mass  within  them, 

And  the  floating  stars  above. 

They  formed  in  line  of  battle  — 

Not  a  man  was  out  of  place ; 
Then  with  levelled  steel  they  hurled  them 

Straight  in  the  rebels'  face. 

Anonymous. 


316  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 


"  Corporal  Green  !"  the  orderly  cried. 
"  Here! "  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 

From  the  lips  of  the  soldier  who  stood  near  ; 
And  "Here! "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

■'  Cyrus  Drew!  "—  then  silence  fell, 

This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call; 
Only  his  rear  man  had  seen  him  fall, 
Killed  or  wounded,  he  could  riot  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  failing  light, 
These  men  of  battle,  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 

The  fern  on  the  hill-side  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn,  where  the  poppies  grew, 
"Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew, 

And  crimson-dyed  was  the  river's  Hood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire, 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

'  Herbert  Kline  ! "    At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Kline, 
Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 

;  Ezra  Kerr ! "  —  and  a  voice  answered  "Here  ! " 
"  Hiram  Kerr  !  "  —  but  no  man  replied. 

They  were  brothers,  these  two;  the  sad  wind  sighed. 
And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 


HEROES.  3l* 

tk  Ephraim  Deane  !  "—then  a  soldier  spoke  : 
"  Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said; 
"  Where  our  ensign  was  shot  I  left  him  dead, 
Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  drink  ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 

And  death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'Twas  a  victory,  yes,  but  it  cost  us  dear  ; 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 

Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "  Here! " 

Nathaniel  Graham  Shepherd. 


heroes. 

The  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 

Have  died  by  Neptune's  ruined  shrines, 
And  her  hull  is  the  drift  of  the  deep-sea  floor, 

Though  shaped  of  Pelion's  tallest  pines. 
You  may  seek  her  crew  on  every  isle 

Fair  in  the  foam  of  ^Egean  seas, 
But  out  of  their  rest  no  charm  can  wile 

Jason  and  Orpheus  and  Hercules. 

And  Priam's  wail  is  heard  no  more 

By  windy  Ilion's  sea-built  walls  ; 
Nor  great  Achilles,  stained  with  gore, 

Shouts  "  O  ye  gods,  't  is  Hector  falls  ! " 
On  Ida's  mount  is  the  shining  snow, 

But  Jove  has  gone  from  its  brow  away  ; 
And  red  on  the  plain  the  poppies  grow 

Where  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fought  that  day. 


318  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Mother  Earth,  are  the  heroes  dead  ? 

Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no  more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies  red 

All  that  is  left  of  the  brave  of  yore  ? 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought, 

Far  in  the  young  world's  misty  dawn  ? 
Or  to  teach  as  gray-haired  Nestor  taught  ? 

Mother  Earth,  are  the  heroes  gone  ? 

Gone  ?    In  a  grander  form  they  rise. 

Dead  ?    We  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours, 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer  eyes, 

And  wreathe  their  brows  with  immortal  flowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done, 

'T  is  the  pulse  of  a  hero's  heart  is  stirred  ; 
Wherever  Right  has  a  triumph  won, 

There  are  the  heroes'  voices  heard. 

Their  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

Than  the  Greek  and  the  Trojan  fiercely  trod  ; 
For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they  wield, 

And  the  gleam  above  is  the  smile  of  God. 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away  ; 
For  the  heroes  live,  and  the  sky  is  bright, 

And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day. 

Edna  Dean  Proctor. 

J$oonlfgi)t. 

"  Nay,  wait  me  here  —  I  '11  not  be  long ; 
'T  is  but  a  little  way  ; 
I  '11  come  ere  you  have  sung  the  song 
I  made  you  yesterday. 

"  'T  is  but  to  cross  yon  streak  of  light, 

And  fresh  the  breezes  blow  ; 
You  will  not  lose  me  from  your  sight,— 
One  kiss,  and  now  I  go  ! " 


THE  SONG   OF  ROREK.  319 

So,  in  the  pleasant  night  of  June, 

He  lightly  sails  away, 
To  where  the  glimmer  of  the  moon 

Lies  right  across  the  bay. 

And  she  sits  singing  on  the  shore 

A  song  of  pure  delight ; 
The  boat  flies  on— a  little  more, 

And  he  will  cross  the  light. 

The  boat  flies  on,  the  song  is  done, 

The  light  before  him  gleams  ; 
A  little  more,  and  he  has  won  ! 

'T  is  farther  than  it  seems. 

The  boat  flies  on,  the  boat  flies  fast ; 

The  wind  blows  strong  and  free  ; 
The  boat  flies  on,  the  bay  is  past, 

He  sails  into  the  sea. 

And  on,  and  on,  and  ever  on, 

The  light  lies  just  before  ; 
But  oh,  forevermore  is  done 

The  song  upon  the  shore  ! 

Robert  Kelley  Weeks. 


GTije  Song  of  itvorefc. 

'Twas  on  the  night  of  Michaelmas  that  lordly  Orloffs  heir 
Wed  with  the  noble  Russian  maid,  Dimitry's  daughter 
fair. 


With  mirth  and  song,  and  love  and  wine,  that  was  a  royal 
day  ; 

mners  strea 
gold  array. 


day  ; 

The  banners  streamed,  the  halls  were  hung  in  black  and 


320  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

The  Twelve  Apostles  stood  in  brass,  each  with  a  flambeau 

bright, 
To  blaze  with  holy  altar  sheen  throughout  the  festive 

night. 

The  rings  were  changed,  the  tabor  rolled,  the  Kyrie  was 

said; 
The  boyard  father  drew  his  sword,  and  pierced  the  loaf 

of  bread. 

Soon  as  the  priest  did  drain  his  cup,  and  put  his  pipe 

aside, 
He  wiped  his  lip  upon  his  sleeve,  and  kissed  the  blushing 

bride. 

That  very  night  to  Novgorod  must  hasten  bride  and  heir, 
And  Count  Dimitry  bade  them  well  with  robe  and  bell  pre- 
pare. 

And  when  from  feast  and  wedding-guest  they  parted  at 

the  door, 
He  bade  two  hunters  ride  behind,  two  hunters  ride  before. 

"  Look  to  your  carbines,  men,"  he  called,  "  and  gird  your 

ready  knives ! " 
With  one  accord  they  all  replied,  ' '  We  pledge  thee  with 

our  lives ! " 

I  was  the  haiduk  of  that  night,  and  vowed,  by  horses 

fleet. 
Our  sleigh   must   shoot   with   arrow   speed    behind  the 

coursers'  feet. 

We  journeyed  speedy,  werst  by  werst,  with  bell  and  song 

and  glee, 
And  I,  upon  my  postal-horn,  blew  many  a  melody. 


THE  SONG  OF  ROREK,  321 

I  blew  farewell  to  Minka  mine,  and  bade  the  strain  retire 
Where  she  sat  winding  flaxen  thread  beside  the  kitchen 
fire. 

We  rode,  and  rode,  by  hollow  pass,  by  glen  and  mountain- 
side, 
And  with  each  bell  soft  accents  fell  from  lips  of  bonny 

bride. 

The  night  was  drear,  the  night  was  chill,  the  night  was 

lone  and  bright  ; 
Before  us  streamed  the  polar  rays  in  green  and  golden 

light. 

The  gypsy  thieves  were  in  their  dens;  the  owl  moaned  in 

the  trees  ; 
The  windmill  circled  merrily,  obedient  to  the  breeze. 

Shrill  piped  the  blast  in  birchen  boughs,  and  mocked  the 

snowy  shroud  : 
Thrice  ran  a  hare  across  our  track  ;  thrice  croaked  a 

raven  loud. 

The  horses  pawed  the  frigid  sands,  and  drove  them  with 

the  wind  ; 
We  left  the  village  gallows-tree  full  thirty  wersts  behind. 

We  rode,  and  rode,  by  forest  shade,  by  brake  and  river- 
side ; 

And  as  we  rode  I  heard  the  kiss  of  groom  and  bonny 
bride. 

I  heard  again,— a  boding  strain  ;  I  heard  it.  all  too  well; 
A  neigh,  a  shout,  a  groan,  a  howl,— then  heavy  curses 
fell. 


322  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Our  horses  pricked  their  wary  ears,  and  bounded  with 

affright ; 
From  forest  kennels  picket  wolves  were  baying  in  the 

night. 

"  Haiduk,  haiduk,— the  lash,— the  steeds,— the  wolves  !" 

the  lady  cried  ; 
The  wily  baron  clutched  his  blade,  and  murmured  to  the 

bride  : 

"  This  all  is  but  a  moonlight  hunt ;  the  starveling  hounds 
shall  bleed, 

And  you  shall  be  the  tourney's  queen,  to  crown  the  gal- 
lant deed  ! " 

The  moon  it  crept  behind  a  cloud,  as  covered  by  a  storm ; 
And  the  gray  cloud  became  a  wolf,  a  monster  wolf  in 
form. 

"  Gramercy,  Mother    of    our    Lord,— gramercy  in   our 

needs ! " 
Hold  well  together  hand  and  thong,  hold  well,  ye  sturdy 

steeds ! 

Like  unto  Tartar  cavalry  the  wolf  battalion  sped  ; 
Ungunned,  unspurred,  but  well  to  horse,  and  sharpened 
well  to  head. 

The  pines  stood  by,  the  stars  looked  on,  and  listless  fell 

the  snow  ; 
The  breeze  made  merry  with  the  trees,  nor  heeded  wolf 

nor  woe. 

Now  cracked  the  carbines, — bleeding  beasts  were  rolling 

here  and  there  ; 
'T  was  flash  and  shot  and  howl, — and  yet  the  wolves  were 

everywhere. 


„      THE  SONG   OF  RORBK.  323 

No  more  they  mustered  in  our  wake,  their  legion  ranged 

beside. 
T  was  steed  for  speed,  and  wolf  for  steed,  and  wolf  for 

lord  and  bride. 

In  vain  I  cited  Christian  saints,  I  called  Mahomet  near  : 
Methought,  though  all  the  saints  did  fail,  the  prophet 
would  appear. 

A    moment,  and    pursuit    is    stayed,  —  they    tear    their 

wounded  kind  ; 
A  moment,— then  the  hellish  pack  did  follow  close  behind. 

The  baron  silent  rose  amain,  by  danger  unappalled. 
"Strive  for    your   lives,    with   guns   and  knives,1'   the 
mounted  guardsmen  called. 

The  lady  muttered  agony,  with  crucifix  and  beads  ; 
The  wolves  were  snapping  by  her  side,  and  leaping  at  our 
steeds. 

My  limbs  were  numb,  my  senses  dumb,  nor  reason  held 

its  place  ; 
I  fell  beneath  two  glaring  orbs,  within  a  gaunt  embrace. 

I  roused  to  hear  a  volley  fired,  to  hear  a  martial  shout  ; 
And  when  I  oped  my  stricken  eyes  the  wolves  were  all  to 
rout. 

A  hundred  scouting  Cossacks  met  and  slew  the  deadly 

foe  ; 
Fourscore  of  wolves  in  throes  of  death  lay  bleeding  in  the 

snow. 

Our  lady  rested  in  a  swoon,  our  lord  was  stained  with 

gore; 
But  none  could  tell  of  what  befell  the  trusty  hunters  four. 
John  William  Weidemeyer. 


324  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 


GHje  Krign  of  ILato. 

The  dawn  went  up  the  sky, 

Like  any  other  day  ; 
And  they  had  only  come 
To  mourn  Him  where  he  lay  : 
"  We  ne'er  have  seen  the  law 
Reversed  'neath  which  we  lie ; 
Exceptions  none  are  found, 
And  when  we  die,  we  die. 
Resigned  to  fact  we  wander  hither. 
We  ask  no  more  the  whence  and  whither. 

"  Vain  questions !  from  the  first 
Put,  and  no  answer  found. 
He  binds  us  with  the  chain 

Wherewith  himself  is  bound. 
From  west  to  east  the  earth 
Unrolls  her  primal  curve  ; 
The  sun  himself  were  vexed 
Did  she  one  furlong  swerve  : 
The  myriad  years  have  whirled  us  hither, 
But  tell  not  of  the  whence  and  whither. 

"  We  know  but  what  we  see  — 
Like  cause  and  like  event : 
One  constant  force  runs  on, 
Transmuted  but  unspent. 
Because  they  are,  they  are  ; 

The  mind  may  frame  a  plan  ; 
T  is  from  herself  she  draws 
A  special  thought  for  man  : 
The  natural  choice  that  brought  us  hither, 
Is  silent  on  the  whence  and  whither. 


THE  REIGN  OF  LAW.  325 

"  If  God  there  be,  or  gods, 
Without  our  science  lies  ; 
We  cannot  see  or  touch, 

Measure  or  analyze. 
Life  is  but  what  we  live, 

We  know  but  what  we  know, 
Closed  in  these  bounds  alone 
Whether  God  be,  or  no  : 
The  self-moved  force  that  bore  us  hither 
Reveals  no  whence,  and  hints  no  whither. 

"Ah,  which  is  likelier  truth, 
That  law  should  hold  its  way, 
Or,  for  this  one  of  all, 

Life  re-assert  her  sway  ? 
Like  any  other  morn 

The  sun  goes  up  the  sky  ; 
No  crisis  marks  the  day, 
For  when  we  die,  we  die. 
No  fair  fond  hope  allures  us  hither  : 
The  law  is  dumb  on  whence  and  whither." 

—Then  wherefore  are  ye  come? 

Why  watch  a  worn-out  corse  ? 
Why  weep  a  ripple  past 

Down  the  long  stream  of  force  ? 
If  life  is  that  which  keeps 

Each  organism  whole, 
NTo  atom  may  be  traced 

Of  what  ye  thought  the  soul : 
It  had  its  term  of  passage  hither, 
But  knew  no  whence,  and  knows  no  whither. 

The  forces  that  were  Christ 

Have  ta'en  new  forms  and  fled 
The  common  sun  goes  up, 

The  dead  are  with  the  dead. 
'T  was  but  a  nhantom-life 


326  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

That  seemed  to  think  and  will, 
Evolving  self  and  God 

By  some  subjective  skill, 
That  had  its  day  of  passage  hither, 
But  knew  no  whence,  and  knows  no  whither. 

If  this  be  all  in  all  : 

Life  but  one  mode  of  force  ; 
Law  but  the  plan  which  binds 

The  sequences  in  course  ; 
All  essence,  all  design, 

Shut  out  from  mortal  ken, — 
We  bow  to  Nature's  fate, 

And  drop  the  style  of  men. 
The  summer  dust  the  wind  wafts  hither, 
Is  not  more  dead  to  whence  and  whither. 

But  if  our  life  be  life, 

And  thought  and  will  and  love 
Not  vague  unconscious  airs 

That  o'er  wild  harp-strings  move  ; 
If  consciousness  be  aught 

Of  all  it  seems  to  be, 
And  souls  are  something  more 
Than  lights  that  gleam  and  flee, — 
Though  dark  the  road  that  leads  us  thither, 
The  heart  must  ask  its  whence  and  whither. 

To  matter  or  to  force 

The  All  is  not  confined  ; 
Beside  the  law  of  things 

Is  set  the  law  of  mind  ; 
One  speaks  in  rock  and  star, 

And  one  within  the  brain  ; 
In  unison  at  times, 

And  then  apart  again  : 
And  both  in  one  have  brought  us  hither, 
That  we  may  know  our  whence  and  whither. 


THE  REIGN  OF  LAW.  327 

The  sequences  of  law 

"We  learn  through  mind  alone  ; 
'T  is  only  through  the  soul 

That  aught  we  know  is  known  : 
With  equal  voice  she  tells 

Of  what  we  touch  and  see 
Within  these  bounds  of  life, 

And  of  a  life  to  be  ; 
Proclaiming  One  who  brought  us  hither 
And  holds  the  keys  of  whence  and  whither. 

O  shrine  of  God  that  now 

Must  learn  itself  with  awe  ! 
O  heart  and  soul  that  move 

Beneath  a  living  law  ! 
That  which  seemed  all  the  rule 

Of  nature,  is  but  part ; 
A  larger,  deeper  law 

Claims  also  soul  and  heart. 
The  force  that  framed  and  bore  us  hither 
Itself  at  once  is  whence  and  whither. 

We  may  not  hope  to  read 

Or  comprehend  the  whole 
Or  of  the  law  of  things, 

Or  of  the  law  of  soul  : 
E'en  in  the  eternal  stars 

Dim  perturbations  rise ; 
And  all  the  searcher's  search 

Does  not  exhaust  the  skies  : 
He  who  has  framed  and  brought  us  hither 
Holds  in  his  hands  the  whence  and  whither. 

He  in  his  science  plans 

What  no  known  laws  foretell ; 
The  wandering  fires  and  fixed 

Alike  are  miracle  : 
The  common  death  of  all, 


328  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

The  life  renewed  above, 
And  both  within  the  scheme 

Of  that  all-circling  love. 
The  seeming  chance  that  cast  us  hither 
Accomplishes  his  whence  and  whither. 

Then,  though  the  sun  go  up 

His  beaten  azure  way, 
God  may  fulfill  his  thought, 

And  bless  his  world  to-day  ; 
Beside  the  law  of  things 

The  law  of  mind  enthrone, 
And,  for  the  hope  of  all, 
Reveal  himself  in  one  ; 
Himself  the  way  that  leads  us  thither, 
The  All-in-all,  the  Whence  and  Whither. 

Francis  Turner  Palgrave. 


IBastrr. 

In  Thee,  thou  Son  of  God,  in  Thee  I  rest. 

The  immortality  by  sages  guessed, 

Hath  not  the  rocky  strength  thy  promise  gives, 

That  who  believes  in  Thee  forever  lives. 

The  worm  on  wings  disporting  is  not  here 

The  same  that  wove  its  shroud  the  vanished  year. 

The  flowers  breathe  out  their  fragrance  and  decay, 

The  towering  woods  grow  old  and  pass  away  ; 

The  flowers  return,  but  not  the  same  that  vied 

For  last  year's  prize  of  beauty,  and  then  died; 

Resurgent  woods  again  their  branches  spread, 

But  not  the  same  that  prostrate  lie  and  dead. 

O  reproducing  Nature  !  from  thy  .strife, 

Comes  never  same,  but  always  other  life. 

Men  die,  but  lives  right  on  humanity, — 

So  said  a  Greek  ;  —  not  this  enough  for  me  ; 


IF  I  SHOULD  DIE  TO-JXIGHT.  329 

Shall  I  myself  relive? — the  quest  I  raise. 

To  share  an  undistinguishable  haze 

Of  being,  and,  immerged  in  that  vast  sea, 

To  lose  what  most  I  ask,  myself  to  be. 

Is  empty  vision,  Seer  of  Attic  clime, 

Or  Greek  more  earth-born  of  our  modern  time. 

0  man  of  Calvary,  O  Son  of  God, 

1  mark  the  path  thy  holy  footsteps  trod, 
Through  death  to  life,  thy  Living  Self  to  me 
Potence  and  pledge  of  immortality  ! 

Sew  all  Sylvester  Cutting. 

If  I  should  die  to-night. 
My  friends  would  look  upon  my  quiet  face 
Before  they  laid  it  in  its  resting-place, 
And  deem  that  death  had  left  it  almost  fair  ; 
And,  laying  snow-white  flowers  against  my  hair, 
Would  smooth  it  down  with  tearful  tenderness, 
And  fold  my  hands  with  lingering  caress, — 
Poor  hands,  so  empty  and  so  cold  to-night  ! 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 
My  friends  would  call  to  mind,  with  loving  thought, 
Some  kindly  deed  the  icy  hands  had  wrought, 
Some  gentle  word  the  frozen  lips  had  said, 
Errands  on  which  the  willing  feet  had  sped  ; 
The  memory  of  my  selfishness  and  pride, 
My  hasty  words,  would  ail  be  put  aside, 
And  so  I  should  be  loved  and  mourned  to-night, 

If  I  should  die  to-night. 
Even  hearts  estranged  would  turn  once  more  to  me, 
Recalling  other  days  remorsefully  ; 
The  eyes  that  chill  me  with  averted  glance 
Would  look  upon  me  as  of  yore,  perchance, 


330  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

And  soften  in  the  old  familiar  way  ; 

For  who  could  war  with  dumb,  unconscious  clay  ? 

So  I  might  rest,  forgiven  of  all,  to-night. 

O  friends,  I  pray  to-night, 
Keep  not  your  kisses  for  my  dead,  cold  brow  ; 
The  way  is  lonely,  let  me  feel  them  now. 
Think  gently  of  me  ;  I  am  travel- worn  ; 
My  faltering  feet  are  pierced  with  many  a  thorn. 
Forgive,  O  hearts  estranged,  forgive,  I  plead  ! 
When  dreamless  rest  is  mine,  I  shall  not  need 
The  tenderness  for  which  I  long  to-night. 

Belle  E.  Smith. 


<©  Jftag  $  § om  tt)e  (tfijm'r  Jnbteffcle. 

Longuin  illud  tempus  quum  non  ero  raagis  rae  movet  quam  hoc 
exiguum.— Cicero. 

O  may  1  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  :  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues.     So  to  live  is  heaven  : 

To  make  undying  music  in  the  world. 

Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 

With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 

So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 

For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 

With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 

Kebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 

A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 

Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved  ; 


CUDDLE  DOON.  331 

Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 

Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 

And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 

That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 

That  watched  to  ease  the  burthen  of  the  world, 

Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 

And  what  may  yet  be  better  —  saw  within 

A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 

And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 

Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 

To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love- 

That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 

Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 

Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 

Unread  forever.     This  is  life  to  come, 

Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 

For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 

That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 

The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 

Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 

Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty  — 

Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 

And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 

So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

George  Eliot. 

OTutrtile  IBoon. 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht, 

Wi'  mickle  faucht  an'  din  ; 
"  O  try  and  sleep,  ye  waukrife  rogues, 

Your  faither's  comin'  in." 
They  never  heed  a  word  I  speak  ; 

I  try  to  gie  a  froon, 
But  aye  I  hap  them  up,  an'  cry, 
"  O  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 


332  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Wee  Jamie  wi  the  curly  head  — 
He  aye  sleeps  next  the  wa'  — 

Bangs  up  an'  cries,  "  I  want  a  piece!" 
The  rascal  starts  them  a'. 

I  rin  an'  fetch  them  pieces,  drinks, 
They  stop  awee  the  soun", 

Then  draw  the  blankets  up,  an'  cry, 

II  Noo,  weanies,  cuddle  doon." 

But  ere  five  minutes  gang  wee  Rab 
Cries  oot  frae  'neath  the  claes, 
1 '  Mither,  mak'  Tarn  gic  ower  at  ance, 
He's  kittlin  wi'  his  taes." 

The  mischiefs  in  that  Tarn  for  tricks, 
He'd  bother  half  the  toon, 

But  aye  I  hap  them  up,  an1  cry, 

"  O  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

At  length  they  hear  their  father's  fit, 

An'  as  he  steeks  the  door 
They  turn  their  faces  to  the  wa', 
While  Tarn  pretends  to  snore. 
"  Hae  a'  the  weans  been  gude  ?"  he  asks 

As  he  pits  off  his  shoon. 
"  The  bairnies,  John,  are  in  their  beds, 
An'  lang  since  cuddled  doon." 

An'  just  afore  we  bed  oorsel' 
We  look  at  oor  wee  lambs; 

Tarn  has  his  airm  roun'  wee  Rab's  neck, 
An'  Rab  his  airm  roun'  Tarn's. 

I  lift  wee  Jamie  up  the  bed, 
An'  as  I  straik  each  croon 

I  whisper,  till  my  heart  fills  up, 

"  O  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 


WHAT  MY  LOVER  SAID. 


333 


The  baimies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht, 

Wi'  mirth  that's  dear  to  me  ; 
But  sune  the  big  warl's  cark  au'  care 

Will  quaten  doon  their  glee. 
Yet  come  what  will  to  ilka  ane, 

May  He  who  sits  aboon 
Aye  whisper,  though  their  pows  be  bauld, 
tc  O  bairnies,  cuddle  doon." 

Alexander  Anderson. 


The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done. 

Francis  William  Bourdillon. 

512Et)at  Mv  ^ober  Sato. 

By  the  merest  chance,  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

In  the  orchard  path  he  met  me; 
In  the  tall,  wet  grass,  with  its  faint  perfume, 
And  I  tried  to  pass,  but  he  made  no  room, 

Oh  I  tried,  but  he  would  not  let  me. 
So  I  stood  and  blushed  till  the  grass  grew  red, 

With  my  face  bent  down  above  it, 
While  he  took  my  hand  as  lie  whispering  said— 
(How  the  clover  lifted  each  pink,  sweet  head, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said  ; 

Oh,  the  clover  in  bloom,  I  love  it !) 


334  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

In  the  high,  wet  grass  went  the  path  to  hide, 

And  the  low  wet  leaves  hung  over  ; 
But  I  could  not  pass  upon  either  side, 
For  I  found  myself,  when  I  vainly  tried, 

In  the  arms  of  my  steadfast  lover. 
And  he  held  me  there  and  he  raised  my  head, 

While  he  closed  the  path  before  me, 
And  he  looked  down  into  my  eyes  and  said — 
(How  the  leaves  bent  down  from  the  boughs  o'erhead, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said; 

Oh,  the  leaves  hanging  lowly  o'er  me !) 


Had  he  moved  aside  but  a  little  way, 

I  could  surely  then  have  passed  him  ; 
And  he  knew  I  never  could  wish  to  stay, 
And  would  not  have  heard  what  he  had  to  say, 

Could  I  only  aside  have  cast  him. 
It  was  almost  dark,  and  the  moments  sped, 

And  the  searching  night  wind  found  us, 
But  he  drew  me  nearer  and  softly  said — 
(How  the  pure,  sweet  wind  grew  still,  instead, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said  ; 

Oh,  the  whispering  wind  around  us  !) 


I  am  sure  he  knew,  when  he  held  me  fast, 

That  I  must  be  all  unwilling  ; 
For  I  tried  to  go,  and  I  would  have  passed, 
As  the  night  was  come  with  its  dew,  at  last. 

And  the  sky  with  its  stars  was  filling. 
But  he  clasped  me  close  when  I  would  have  fled, 

And  he  made  me  hear  his  story, 
And  his  soul  came  out  from  his  lips  and  said  — 
(How  the  stars  crept  out  where  the  white  moon  led, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said ; 

Oh,  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  glory  I) 


WHAT  DOES  IT  MATTER?  335 

I  know  that  the  grass  and  the  leaves  will  not  tell, 

And  I'm  sure  that  the  wind,  precious  rover, 
Will  carry  my  secret  so  safely  and  well 

That  no  being  shall  ever  discover 
One  word  of  the  many  that  rapidly  fell 

From  the  soul-speakiDg  lips  of  my  lover  ; 

And  the  moon  and  the  stars  that  looked  over 
Shall  never  reveal  what  a  fairy-like  spell 
They  wove  round  about  us  that  night  in  the  dell, 

In  the  path  through  the  dew-laden  clover, 
Nor  echo  the  whispers  that  made  my  heart  swell 

As  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  my  lover. 

Homer  Greene. 

2Mf)at  Bow  it  jfftatter? 

It  matters  little  where  I  was  born, 

Or  if  my  parents  were  rich  or  poor  ; 
Whether  they  shrank  at  the  cold  world's  scorn, 

Or  walked  in  the  pride  of  wealth  secure. 
But  whether  I  live  an  honest  man, 

And  hold  my  integrity  firm  in  my  clutch, 
I  tell  you,  brother,  plain  as  I  can, 
It  matters  much. 

It  matters  little  how  long  I  stay 

In  a  world  of  sorrow,  sin,  and  care  ; 
Whether  in  youth  I  am  called  away, 

Or  live  till  my  bones  and  pate  are  bare. 
But  whether  I  do  the  best  I  can 

To  soften  the  weight  of  Adversity's  touch 
On  the  faded  cheek  of  my  fellow-man, 
It  matters  much. 

It  matters  little  where  be  my  grave, — 

Or  on  the  land  or  in  the  sea, 
By  purling  brook,  or  'neath  stormy  wave, — 

It  matters  little  or  nought  to  me. 


336  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

But  whether  the  angel  Death  comes  down 

And  marks  my  brow  with  his  loving  touch, 
As  one  that  shall  wear  the  victor's  crown, 
It  matters  much. 

Noah  Barker. 


W$z  Hast  itUimubt. 

Kacelyevo's  slope  still  felt 
The  cannon's  bolts  and  the  rifles'  pelt ; 
For  the  last  redoubt  up  the  hill  remained. 
By  the  Russ  yet  held,  by  the  Turk  not  gained. 

Mehemet  Ali  stroked  his  beard  ; 
His  lips  were  clinched  and  his  look  was  weird  ; 
Round  him  were  ranks  of  his  ragged  folk, 
Their  faces  blackened  with  blood  and  smoke. 

Clear  me  the  Muscovite  out ! "  he  cried 

Then  the  name  of  ' '  Allah  ! "  echoed  wide, 

And  the  fezzes  were  waved  nnd  the  bayonets  lowered. 

And  on  to  the  last  redoubt  they  poured. 

One  fell,  and  a  second  quickly  stopped 
The  gap  that  he  left  when  he  reeled  and  dropped  ; 
The  second,  —  a  third  straight  filled  his  place  ; 
The  third,  — and  a  fourth  kept  up  the  race. 

Many  a  fez  in  the  mud  was  crushed, 
Many  a  throat  that  cheered  was  hushed, 
Many  a  heart  that  sought  the  crest 
Found  Allah's  arms  and  a  houri's  breast. 

Over  their  corpses  the  living  sprang. 
And  the  ridge  with  their  musket-rattle  rang, 
Till  the  faces  that  lined  the  last  redoubt 
Could  see  their  faces  and  hear  their  shout. 


THE  LAST  REDOUBT  337 

In  the  redoubt  a  fair  form  towered, 

That  cheered  up  the  brave  and  chid  the  coward  ; 

Brandishing  blade  with  a  gallant  air  ; 

His  head  erect  and  his  bosom  bare. 

• '  Fly  !  they  are  onus!"  his  men  implored  ; 

But  he  waved  them  on  with  his  waving  sword. 
' '  It  cannot  be  held  ;  'tis  no  shame  to  go  ! " 

But  he  stood  with  his  face  set  hard  to  the  foe. 

Then  clung  they  about  him,  and  tugged,  and  knelt ; 
He  drew  a  pistol  from  out  his  belt, 
And  fired  it  blank  at  the  first  that  set 
Foot  on  the  edge  of  the  parapet. 

Over  that  first  one  toppled  ;  but  on 

Clambered  the  rest  till  their  bayonets  shone, 

As  hurriedly  fled  his  men  dismayed, 

Not  a  bayonet's  length  from  the  length  of  his  blade. 

1 '  Yield  ! "    But  aloft  his  steel  he  flashed, 
And  down  on  their  steel  it  ringing  clashed  ; 
Then  back  he  reeled  with  a  bladeless  hilt, 
His  honor  full,  but  his  life-blood  spilt. 

They  lifted  him  up  from  the  dabbled  ground  ; 
His  limbs  were  shapely  and  soft  and  round, 
No  down  on  his  lip,  on  his  cheek  no  shade, — 
4k  Bismillah  ! "  they  cried,  "  't  is  an  infidel  maid  !" 

Mehemet  Ali  came  and  saw 

The  riddled  breast  and  the  tender  jaw. 
"Make  her  a  bier  of  your  arms,"  he  said, 
1  ■  And  daintily  bury  this  dainty  dead  ! 

4 '  Make  her  a  grave  where  she  stood  and  fell, 
'Gainst  the  jackal's  scratch  and  the  vulture's  smell. 


338  SINGLE  FAMOUS  POEMS. 

Did  the  Muscovite  men  like  their  maidens  fight, 
In  their  lines  we  had  scarcely  supped  to-night." 

So  a  deeper  trench  'mong  the  trenches  there 
Was  dug,  for  the  form  as  brave  as  fair  ; 
And  none,  till  the  judgment  trump  and  shout, 
Shall  drive  her  out  of  the  last  redoubt. 

Alfred  Austin. 


NOTES. 

My  Mind  to  Me  a  Kingdom  is.  Page  1.  Btrd  (b.  1540,  d.  1623)  wai 
organist  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  composed  an  immense  amount  of  vo- 
cal music.  Three  or  four  other  stanzas,  inferior  to  these,  are  some- 
times inserted  in  this  poem,  and  its  authorship  has  been  claimed  for 
Sir  Edward  Dyer,  a  contemporary  of  Byrd's.  There  are  also  four 
stanzas  of  precisely  similar  construction,  having  many  of  the  same 
thoughts,  and  in  some  cases  almost  identical  words,  which  are  attrib- 
uted to  Joshua  Sylvester.    These  are  given  at  page  15. 

The  Lye.  Page  2.  The  authorship  of  this  poem  has  been  disputed. 
Percy  ascribes  it  to  Raleigh  (b.  1552,  executed  1618),  and  a  copy  of  it 
among  the  Chetham  manuscripts  bears  his  signature. 

Man's  Mortality.  Page  6.  Wastel  (b.  about  1566)  published  in  1629 
"  Microbiblion,  or  the  Bible's  Epitome  in  Verse,"  of  which  these  famous 
stanzas  are  a  fragment. 

Witty  Drowned  in  Yarrow.  Page  8.  This  poem  is  believed  to  date 
from  the  15th  century. 

Verses.  Page  9.  The  story  of  Chediock  Ticheborne  is  told  in  Dis- 
raeli's "Curiosities  of  Literature,"  Vol.  H.  He  was  executed  for  trea- 
son (of  which  he  was  probably  innocent)  in  1586. 

The  Battad  of  Agincourt.  Page  10.  Drayton  (b.  1563,  d.  1631)  pub- 
lished many  poems,  this  being  one  of  his  latest.  The  battle,  in  which 
15,000  English  defeated  50,000  French,  took  place  in  1415.  Longfellow 
borrows  the  metrical  formula  of  this  poem  for  his  "  Skeleton  in  Ar- 
mor." 

Take  thy  Old  Cloake  about  thee.  Page  13.  The  seventh  stanza  of  thii 
poem  is  sung  by  Iago  in  the  Second  Act  of  "  Othello."  The  whole  ap- 
peared in  Ramsay's  "Tea-Table  Miscellany,"  1724. 

A  Contented  Mind.  Page  15.  See  the  first  of  these  Notes.  SYLVESTER 
was  born  in  England  in  1563,  and  died  in  1618. 


340  NOTES. 

Love  me  Little,  Love  me  Long.  Page  16.  This  poem  dates  from  th€ 
latter  half  of  the  16th  century. 

Good  Ale.  Page  18.  Still  (d.  1607),  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  was 
the  author  of  "Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,1'  one  of  the  earliest  of  Eng- 
lish comedies,  in  which  this  poem  occurs. 

Exequy.  Page  19.  King  (b.  1593,  d.  1669)  was  chaplain  to  James  I. 
and  became  Bishop  of  Chichester.  A  single  stanza  exactly  imitating 
those  of  Simon  Wastel  given  at  page  6  of  this  volume,  is  attributed  to 
him.    He  turned  the  Psalms  of  David  into  verse,  and  wrote  other  poems. 

The  Angler's  Wish.  Page  23.  These  lines  occur  in  the  "Complete 
Angler  "  of  Izaak  Walton  (b.  1593,  d.  1683).  Old  Piscator  says,  "  When 
I  sat  last  on  this  primrose  bank,  and  looked  down  these  meadows,  I 
thought  of  them  as  Charles  the  Emperor  did  of  the  city  of  Florence, 
'  that  they  were  too  pleasant  to  be  looked  on  but  only  on  holidays.1  As 
I  then  sat  on  this  very  grass,  I  turned  my  pleasant  thoughts  into  verse." 
Bryan,  mentioned  in  the  last  stanza,  is  supposed  to  be  his  dog. 

Death's  Final  Conquest.  Page  24.  Shirley  (b.  in  London,  1596,  d. 
1666)  was  a  dramatist,  and  this  poem  occurs  in  his  "  Contention  of  Ajax 
and  Ulysses.11 

The  Bride.  Page  24.  Suckling's  (b.  1609,  d.  1641)  "Ballad  upon  a 
Wedding,11  from  which  these  stanzas  are  taken,  is  never  printed  com- 
plete now-a-days ;  for  reasons  which  would  be  obvious  if  it  were. 

Ye  Gentlemen  of  England.  Page  26.  These  verses  have  probably  at- 
tracted much  more  attention  than  they  ever  would  if  Campbell  had  not 
re-written  them  as  "  Ye  Mariners  of  England."  The  three  stanzas  here 
given  are  the  best  of  a  long  ballad  which  is  not  worth  printing  entire. 
Parker  lived  in  the  17th  century. 

Song.  Page  26.  Sedley  (b.  1639,  d.  1701)  was  one  of  the  wits  of  the 
Restoration. 

My  Dear  and  Only  Love.  Page  27.  The  author  of  this  poem  (b.  1612, 
hanged  in  Edinburgh  in  1650)  is  the  hero  of  Aytoun's  "Execution  of 
Montrose." 

The  Splendid  Shilling.  Page  32.  Philips  (b.  1676,  d.  1708)  wrote  this 
poem  to  parody  the  style  of  Milton. 

Bonnie  George  Campbell.  Page  36.  Motherwell,  in  his  "  Minstrelsy," 
says  this  is  "  probably  a  lament  for  one  of  the  adherents  of  the  house  of 
Argyle,  who  fell  in  the  battle  of  Glenlivat,  Oct.  3, 1594." 

The  Hermit.  Page  37.  Parnell  (b.  1679,  d.  1718)  was  a  native  of 
Dublin,  and  became  Archdeacon  of  Clogher. 

On  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and  Learning  in  America.  Page  44. 
Bishop  Berkeley  (b.  in  Ireland,  1684,  d.  1753)  formed  a  scheme  "for 
converting  the  American  savages  to  Christianity,  by  a  college  to  be 
erected  in  the  Summer  Islands,  otherwise  called  the  Isles  of  Bermuda,1 


NOTES.  341 

obtained  a  royal  charter,  and  with  several  friends  came  to  Rhode 
Sand.  But  his  promised  funds  were  not  forthcoming,  and  at  the  end 
of  seven  years  he  returned.  This  poem  was  an  expression  of  Ins  enthu 
siastic  faith  in  the  scheme. 

Sally  in  our  Alley.  PageU.  Carey  (d.  by  his  own  band,  1743)  was  an 
Englishman  and  a  musical  composer. 

Grongar  HUl.  Page  46.  Dyer  (b.  in  Wales  1698,  d.  1758) ^ .  • 
landscape  painter,  but  afterward  entered  holy  orders.  Grongar  HUl  is 
in  Caermarthen,  Wales. 

A  Soliloquy.  Page  51.  Harte  (b.  about  1700,  d.  1774)  was  a  clergyman 
of  the  Church  of  England. 

TheBraes  of  Yarrow.  Page  M.  Hamilton  (b.  1704,  d.  1754)  wrote 
this  ballad  in  imitation  of  an  old  one  with  the  same  refrain. 

The  Schoolmistress.  Page  56.  Shenstone  (b.  1714,  d.  1763)  published 
this  noem  in  1742.  Goldsmith  said,  "  It  is  one  of  those  happinesses  in 
which  a  poet  excels  himself,  as  there  is  nothing  in  all  Shenstone  which 
any  way  approaches  it  in  merit.'" 

The  Chameleon.  Page  65.  Merrick  (b.  1730,  d.  1769)  was  an  eminent 
Greek  scholar  at  Oxford,  and  published  a  versification  of  the  Psalms, 
and  other  poems. 

Waly,  Waly,  but  Love  be  Bonny.  Page  68.  Percy  says  the  Heroine  of 
this  ballad  was  the  wife  of  James,  second  Marquis  of  Douglas.  This 
aay,  married  in  1670,  was  expelled  from  the  society  of  her  husband  in 
consequence  of  scandals  which  a  disappointed  lover  basely  insinuated 
into  the  ear  of  the  Marquis.' ' 

The  Tears  of  Scotland.  Page  69.  Smollett  the  novelist  (b.  in  Scot- 
land, 1721,  d.  1771)  produced  a  few  poems,  of  which  this,  written  just 
after  the  battle  of  Culloden,  is  the  most  successful. 

Oumnor  Hall.  Page  73.  Mickle  (b.  in  Scotland,  1734,  d.  1788)  was  a 
printer,  and  used  frequently  to  put  his  poetry  into  type  without  writing 
it.    This  ballad  suggested  to  Scott  his  novel  of  "  Kenilworth. 

The  Sailor's  Wife.  Page  76.  This  poem  has  been  commonly  attrib- 
uted to  Mickle,  author  of  "  Cumnor  Hall,"  because  an  imperfect  copy  of 
it  was  found  among  his  papers.  He  never  claimed  it,  nor  would  he  be 
likely  to  have  written  it,  as  he  never  lived  in  a  seaport.  Miss  Adam 
was  a  schoolmistress,  who  lived  near  Greenock,  and  died  in  Glasgow  in 
1765.  She  published  a  volume  of  poems,  and  claimed  this  as  one  of  hers. 
The  Toper's  Apology.  Page  IS.  Captain  Morris  (b.  in  England,  1739 
or  1749,  d.  1838)  published  a  great  number  of  songs,  scarcely  another 
one  of  which  rises  above  doggerel. 

The  Three  Warnings.  Page  80.  It  is  said  that  Mrs.  Thrale  (b.  1740, 
d.  1821)  was  indebted  to  her  good  friend  Dr.  Johnson  for  much  of  the 
finish  of  this  poem. 


342  NOTES. 

Life.  Page  83.  Mrs.  Barbatjld  (b.  1743,  d.  1825)  wrote  numerous 
short  poems,  iucluding  some  hymns.  This  one  was  greatly  admired  by 
Rogers. 

When  Shall  we  Three  Meet  Again?  Page  84.  There  is  no  very  satis- 
factory theory  as  to  the  authorship  of  this  poem.  The  one  which  as- 
cribes it  to  three  early  students  at  Dartmouth  College  rests  on  slender 
evidence. 

Gaffer  Gray.  Page  85.  Holcroft  (b.  1745,  d.  1809),  author  of  "The 
Road  to  Ruin,"  was  successively  a  shoemaker,  horse-jockey,  school- 
master, actor,  playwright,  and  novelist. 

What  Constitutes  a  State.  Page  86.  Jones  (b.  1746,  d.  1794)  tells  us 
he  got  the  idea  of  this  poem  from  one  of  the  extant  fragments  of 
Alc83us: 

Ov  XiOoiy  ovde  £vXa,  ovds 
Texvi]  TEHTovoor  ai  tc6\bi%  eidir, 
*A\M  onov  it  or'  ar  Godiv"AN APE'S 
AvrovS  6go^eTv  zidoreS, 
'EvravBa  reixv  na^  rtoXeiS. 

To  the  Cuckoo.  Page  87-  Logan  (b.  1748,  d.  1788)  was  a  Scottish 
minister.  Edmund  Burke,  when  in  Edinburgh,  sought  him  out,  solely 
Decause  of  his  admiration  for  this  poem.  Its  authorship  has  been 
claimed  for  Michael  Bruce  (b.  1746,  d.  1767),  whose  manuscript  poems 
were  entrusted  to  Logan  for  editing  and  publication. 

Auld  Robin  Cray.  Page  88.  Lady  Barnard  (b.  in  Scotland,  1750,  d. 
1825)  published  this  ballad  anonymously,  about  1771,  and  it  excited  so 
much  comment  that  a  reward  of  twenty  guineas  was  offered  for  dis- 
covery of  the  authorship.  She  never  acknowledged  it  till  two  years 
before  her  death.  Scott  said,  "  'Auld  Robin  Gray '  is  that  real  pastoral 
which  is  worth  all  the  dialogues  which  Corydon  and  Phillis  have  had 
together,  from  the  days  of  Theocritus  downwards." 

Mary's  Dream.  Page  89.  Lowe  (b-  in  Scotland,  1750,  d.  in  Virginia, 
1798)  wrote  this  poem  on  the  loss  at  sea  of  a  young  surgeon  named 
Miller,  the  fianed  of  a  Miss  McGhie  in  whose  father's  family  Lowe  was 
tutor. 

What  is  Time  t  Page  90.  Marsden  (b.  in  Dublin,  1754,  d.  1836),  who 
spent  thirty  years  in  India,  was  famous  as  an  orientalist. 

The  Groves  of  Blarney.  Page  92.  Mlllikin  (b.  in  Ireland,  1767,  d. 
1815)  was  a  lawyer,  painter,  and  litterateur.  The  intention  of  this 
poem,  written  about  1798,  was  to  ridicule  the  songs  of  the  Irish  village 
bards.  There  are  several  versions,  and  it  is  said  that  the  fifth  stanza 
was  inserted  by  John  Lander,  when  singing  the  song  at  an  electioneer- 
ing dinner. 

Helen  of  Kirkconnel.    Page  93.    There  are  numerous  versions  of  this 


NOTES.  343 

poem.    The  one  here  given,  by  Mayne  (b.  in  Scotland,  1759,  d.  1836) ,  is 
metrically  the  most  perfect.    It  was  published  by  Scott,  in  the    Edin- 
burgh Annual  Register"  for  1815,  who  says :  "A  lady  of  the  name  of 
Helen  Irving,  or  Bell  (for  this  is  disputed  by  the  two  clans),  daughter  of 
the  land  of  Kirkconnel,  in  Dumfriesshire,  and  celebrated  for  her  beauty, 
was  beloved  by  two  gentlemen  in  the  neighborhood.    The  name  of  the 
favored  suitor  was  Adam  Fleming  of  Kirkpatrick  ;  that  of  the  other  has 
escaped  tradition,  although  ;t  has  been  alleged  that  he  was  a  Bell  of 
Blacket  House.    The  addresses  of  the  latter  were,  however  favored  by 
the  friends  of  the  lady,  and  the  lovers  were  therefore  obliged  to  meet  in 
secret  and  by  night,  in  the  church-yard  of  Kirkconnel,  a  romantic  spot 
surrounded  by  the  river  Kirtle.    During  one  of  these  private  interviews, 
the  jealous  and  despised  lover  suddenly  appeared  on  the  opposite  bank 
of  the  stream,  and  leveled  his  carabine  at  the  breast  of  his  rival     Helen 
threw  herself  before  her  lover,  received  in  her  bosom  the  bullet,  and 
died  in  his  arms.    A  desperate  and  mortal  combat  ensued  between 
Fleming  and  the  murderer,  in  which  the  latter  was  cut  to  pieces.    Other 
accounts  say  that  Fleming  pursued  his  enemy  to  Spain  and  slew  him  in 
the  streets  of  Madrid."    These  events  occurred  in  the  reign  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots. 

Connel  and  FWa.  Page  94.  Wilson  (b.  in  Scotland,  1766,  d.  in 
Philadelphia,  1813)  wrote  several  poems,  but  was  only  famous  as  an 
ornithologist. 

The  Soldier.    Page%.    Smyth  (b.  1766,  d.  1849)  was  an  Englishman. 
The  Beggar.    Page  96.    Moss  (d.  1808)  was  an  English  clerpman 
He  published  anonymously  in  1769  a  small  volume  of  poems,  of  which 
this  one  alone  has  survived. 

The  Orphan  Boy.  Page  97.  Mrs.  Opie  (b.  1769,  d.  1853)  was  tbe  wife 
of  a  portrait  painter  of  considerable  celebrity.  She  was  better  known 
for  her  novels  and  tales  than  for  her  poems. 

Night  Page  99.  White  was  born  in  Spain  in  1775,  and  died  in  Eng- 
land in  1841.  Coleridge  considered  this  sonnet  one  of  the  finest  in  the 
language. 

The  Tears  I  Shed.  Page  99.  Helen  D'Arcy  Cranstoun  (b.  in  Scot- 
land 1765,  d.  1838)  became  in  1790  the  second  wife  of  Prof.  Dugald 
Stewart.  The  first  four  lines  of  the  last  stanza  were  inserted  by  Burns. 
To  an  Indian  Gold  Coin.  Page  100.  Leyden  (b  in  Scotland  1TT5) 
went  to  India  as  a  surgeon  in  1803,  and  died  in  1811,  of  a  ^gnant 
fever  which  he  caught  while  searching  the  town  library  of  Batavia,  in 
the  island  of  Java,  for  Indian  manuscripts. 

A  Visit  from  St.  Nicholas.    Page  102.    Moore  (b.  in  New  York,  1779 
d  in  Newport,  R.  I.,  1863)  was  a  professor  in  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Seminary  in  New  York,  and  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1844. 
The  Star  Spangled  Banner.    Page  108.    Key  (b.  in  Maryland,  1779,  d 
26* 


344  NOTES. 

1843)  bagan  writing  this  song  while  he  witnessed  the  bombardment  of 
Fort  McHenry,  near  Baltimore,  by  the  British  in  1814.  A  collection  of 
his  poems  was  published  in  1857. 

Lucy's  FlittirC.  Page  105.  William  Laidlaw  (b.  in  Scotland,  1780, 
d.  1845)  was  the  amanuensis  and  confidential  friend  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
"Lucy's  Flittin' "  was  contributed  to  Hogg's  "Forest  Minstrel,"  and 
Hogg  himself  wrote  the  closing  stanza. 

A  Litany  for  Doneraile.  Page  106.  O'Kelly  published  two  volumes 
of  poems  in  Dublin  (1808  and  1812),  the  former  of  which  contained  this 
famous  litany.  When  Lady  Doneraile  read  it,  she  sent  the  poet  a  splen- 
did gold  watch,  "  with  chain  and  seal,'"  whereupon  he  wrote  a  palinode, 
calling  down  all  sorts  of  blessings  on  Doneraile.  When  he  was  intro- 
duced to  Scott,  at  Limerick  in  1825,  he  got  off,  as  impromptu,  the  follow- 
ing parody  on  Dryden's  epigram: 

Three  poets,  of  three  different  nations  born, 

The  United  Kingdom  in  this  age  adorn  : 

Byron  of  England  ;  Scott  of  Scotia's  blood  ; 

And  Erin's  pride,  O'Kelly,  great  and  good. 

A  Riddle.  Page  109.  This  enigma  has  been  frequently  attributed  to 
Lord  Byron,  and  printed  in  two  or  three  editions  of  his  works.  The 
answer  is,  the  letter  H.  Miss  Fanshawe  was  a  contemporary  of 
Byron's. 

The  Philosopher's  Scales.  Page  109.  Miss  Taylor  (b.  in  England 
1783,  d.  1824)  was  a  sister  of  Isaac  and  Jeffreys  Taylor. 

A  Modest  Wit.  Page  111.  Osborn  (b.  in  Trumbull,  Conn.,  1783,  d.  in 
Philadelphia,  1826)  was  editor  of  various  newspapers,  in  Connecticut, 
Vermont,  and  Delaware,  and  published  a  small  volume  of  poems  in 
Boston  in  1823. 

Saint  Patrick.  Page  113.  According  to  Croker,  this  ballad  was  com- 
posed by  Henry  Bennett  and  a  Mr.  Tolleken,  of  Cork,  who  sang  it  in 
alternate  lines  at  a  masquerade  in  that  city  in  the  winter  of  1814-15. 
They  at  first  made  only  the  first,  second,  and  fifth  stanzas  ;  after  it  had 
become  popular,  Tolleken  added  the  sixth  at  the  request  of  Webb  the 
comedian.    The  third  and  fourth  are  the  work  of  some  other  hand. 

The  Cloud.  Page  114.  Christopher  North  (b.  in  Scotland,  178."),  d. 
1854)  wrote  an  abundance  of  poems,  long  and  short,  but  this  sonnet 
seems  to  be  the  only  one  that  anybody  now  cares  to  read. 

The  Bucket.  Page  115.  Woodworth  (b.  in  Massachusetts,  1785,  d. 
1842)  produced  this  poem  by  some  happy  accident.  His  other  verses  are 
scarcely  more  than  doggerel. 

The  Sours  Defiance.  Page  116.  Lavinia  Stoddard  was  born  in  Guil 
ford,  Conn.,  in  1787,  and  died  in  1820. 

The  Mitherless  Bairn.  Page  117.  Thom  (b.  in  Scotland,  1789,  d.  1848) 
was  a  weaver,  and  became  a  peddler,  flute-player,  and  wandering  poet. 
Speaking  to  a  friend  of  this  poem,  he  said,  "When  I  was  living  in  Aber- 


NOTES.    '  345 

deen,  I  was  limping  roun'  the  house  to  my  garret,  when  I  heard  the 
greetin1  o'  a  wean.  A  lassie  was  thumpin'  a  bairn,  when  out  cam  a  big 
dame  bellowin'  '  Ye  hussie,  will  ye  lick  a  mitherless  bairn  ? '  I  hobbled 
up  the  stair,  and  wrote  the  sang  afore  sleepm'." 

Stanzas.  Page  118.  Wilde  (b.  in  Ireland,  1789,  d.  in  New  Orleans, 
1847)  came  to  this  country  with  his  parents  when  he  was  a  small  boy. 
He  was  a  lawyer,  and  served  several  terms  in  Congress.  These  stanzas, 
which  were  intended  to  be  part  of  a  long  poem,  are  supposed  to  be  sung 
by  a  European  held  captive  among  the  savages  of  Florida. 

Afar  in  tlie  Desert.  Page  119.  Pringle  (b.  in  Scotland,  1788,  d.  1834) 
spent  several  years  in  South  Africa. 

The  Beacon.  Page  122.  This  little  poem  has  been  persistently  at 
tributed  to  Moore.  James  was  a  banker  of  Manchester,  England,  and 
was  an  uncle  of  the  present  Bishop  of  Lincoln.  He  first  published  this 
poem  in  1810,  and  included  it  in  his  collected  poems  (1853).  He  died  in 
1854. 

Mortality.  Page  122.  This  poem  owes  its  popularity  to  the  fact  that 
it  was  a  favorite  with  President  Lincoln,  who  found  it  in  a  newspaper 
and  inquired  in  vain  for  the  authorship.  Knox  was  born  in  Scotland  in 
1789,  and  died  in  1835.  The  poem  in  its  wanderings  has  become  very 
much  corrupted.  I  have  here  printed  it  exactly  as  it  stands  in  Knox's 
" Songs  of  Israel"  (1824). 

Tlie  Whistler.  Page  124.  Story  was  born  in  Scotland  in  1790,  and 
died  in  1859. 

We  '11  go  to  Sea  no  More.  Page  125.  Miss  Mitford  quotes  this  poem  in 
her  "Recollections,"  but  does  not  mention  Miss  Corbett's  Christian 
name,  or  give  any  information  about  her  ;  and  I  have  sought  it  in  vain 
elsewhere. 

Geehale.  Page  127.  Schoolcraft  (b.  near  Albany,  1793,  d.  1864) 
married  the  granddaughter  of  an  Indian  chief,  and  became  famous  for 
his  researches  and  publications  concerning  the  red  race. 

/  would  not  Live  Alway.  Page  128.  Dr.  Muhlenberg  (b.  in  Philadel- 
phia, 1796,  d.  1877)  made  several  revisions  of  his  famous  poem.  The 
versions  in  the  hymn-books  contain  some  striking  lines  that  do  not  ap- 
pear in  his  final  revision,  which  is  here  presented. 

Lines  Written  \*>  <t  chim-h-yanL  Page  130.  Knowles  (b.  in  England, 
1798,  d.  1817)  wrote  this  poem,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  in  the  church-yard 
of  Richmond,  Yorkshire. 

The  Mariner's  Dream.  Page  131.  Dimond  (b.  in  England,  1800,  d. 
1837)  was  a  theatrical  manager. 

Old  Grimes.  Page  133.  Greene  was  a  lawyer  in  Providence,  R.  I. 
where  he  was  born  in  1802,  and  died  in  Cleveland  in  1868.  He  Is  said 
to  have  written  this  poem  at  the  age  of  fifteen. 


346  *  NOTES. 

The  Closing  Year.  Page  135.  Prentice  was  born  in  Connecticut  In 
1802,  and  died  in  Louisville,  Ky.,  in  1870. 

A  Health.  Page  138.  Pinkney  (b.  in  London  while  his  father  was 
U.  S.  Commissioner  to  England,  1803,  d.  in  Baltimore,  1828)  wrote  a  few 
other  poems  which  deserve  to  be  generally  known,  but  are  not.  They 
maybe  found  in  Morris  and  Willis's  "Mirror  Library,'  at  the  end  of 
the  book 

The  Three  Sons.  Page  139.  Moultrie,  (b.  in  England,  1800,  d.  1874), 
was  a  schoolmate  of  Praed's  and  Macaulay's  at  Eton,  became  a  clergy- 
man, and  was  Rector  of  Rugby.    He  published  this  poem  in  1839. 

The  Annuity.  Page  142.  Outram  (b.  in  Scotland,  1805,  d.  1856)  was 
a  lawyer  and  journalist,  and  printed  privately  a  small  volume  of  humor- 
ous verses,  entitled  "Legal  Lyrics." 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor.  Page  146.  Ferguson  (b.  in  Belfast, 
1805;  d.  in  1886)  was  a  lawyer.    He  published  two  volumes  of  poetry. 

The  Bells  of  Shandon.  Page  149.  Mahony  ("Father  Prout,"  b.  In 
Cork  about  1805,  d.  1800)  nrst  published  this  poem  in  Fraser's  Magazine, 
of  which  he  was  an  editor,  in  1834.  The  bells  referred  to  are  the  chime 
in  the  high  steeple  of  St.  Anne,  or  Upper  Shandon,  which  is  in  plain 
view  from  Cork. 

The  Death  of  Napoleon.  Page  151.  McLellan  <b.  in  Portland,  Me., 
about  1805)  has  been  a  lawyer  and  a  farmer,  and  has  published  three 
volumes  of  poetry.    He  resides  on  Shelter  Island,  east  of  Long  Island. 

The  Grave  of  Bonaparte.  Page  152.  I  have  not  been  able  to  learn 
anything  concerning  the  author  of  this  poem. 

Widow  Malone.  Page  153.  Lever,  the  novelist,  was  born  in  Dublin 
in  1806,  and  died  in  1872. 

Lament  of  the  Msh  Emigrant.  Page  155.  Helen  Selina  Sheridan 
(b.  in  Ireland,  1807,  d.  1867)  married  the  Hon.  Price  Blackwood  in  1825. 
He  became  fourth  Baron  Dufferin,  and  died  in  1841.  In  1862  she  mar- 
ried her  old  friend  Earl  Gifford.    She  was  Mrs.  Norton's  sister. 

The  Happy  Land.  Page  157.  Young  (b.  about  1805)  is  a  native  and 
resident  of  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  where  he  was  for  many  years  a  teacher. 

Gluggity  Glug.  Page  158.  George  Colman  the  Younger  (b.  in  Eng- 
land, 1762,  d.  1836)  was  a  dramatist  and  theatrical  manager. 

Here  she  Goes— and  There  she  Goes.  Page  158.  Nack  (b.  in  New  York, 
1809,  d.  1879)  became  deaf  by  accident  when  he  was  a  boy.  His  poems 
were  published  in  1859,  with  a  memoir  by  George  P.  Morris. 

She  Died  in  Beauty.  Page  163.  Sillery  (b-  in  Ireland,  1807,  d.  In  Edr 
inburgh,  1836)  studied  medicine,  and  published  two  or  three  small  vol- 
umes of  poetry. 

The  New  Tale  of  a  Tub.  Page  164.  Bayley  (b.  in  England,  1807,  d. 
1852)  was  the  first  editor  of  the  London  Illustrated  News. 


NOTES.  347 

The  Old  Sexton.  Page  175.  Benjamin  (b.  in  Demerara,  British  Gui- 
ana, 1809,  d.  in  New  York,  1864)  was  a  journalist  and  lecturer.  His 
writings  have  never  been  collected. 

The  Private  of  the  Buffs.  Page  176.  Doyle  (b.  in  England,  1810; 
d.  in  1888)  was  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford  in  1867-77.  The  poem  is 
explained  by  an  extract  from  a  China  letter  to  the  London  Times: 
"  Some  Seiks,  and  a  private  of  the  Buffs,  having  remained  behind  with 
the  grog-carts,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Chinese.  On  the  next  day 
they  were  brought  before  the  authorities  and  ordered  to  perform  ko- 
tow. The  Seiks  obeyed ;  but  Moyse,  the  English  soldier,  declared  he 
would  not  prostrate  himself  before  any  Chinaman  alive,  and  was  im- 
mediately knocked  upon  the  head,  and  his  body  thrown  upon  a  dung- 
hill." 

Light.  Page  177.  Palmer  (b.  in  Stockbridge,  Mass.,  1805;  d.  in 
1884)  was  an  insurance  officer  in  New  York  City. 

.1  Death-Bed.  Page  179.  Aldrich  (b.  in  Sullivan  Co.,  N.  Y.,  1810; 
d  1856)  was  at  first  a  merchant,  and  afterward  a  magazine  editor. 
This  poem  owes  a  great  part  of  its  fame  to  the  fact  that  Poe  pointed 
out  the  remarkable  resemblance  between  it  and  one  by  Hood  with  an 
almost  identical  title. 

A  Christmas  Hymn.  Page  180.  Domett  (b.  in  England,  1811;  d.  in 
1886)  published  this  poem  in  Blackwood's  in  1837.  He  was  educated  at 
Cambridge,  and  wandered  about  the  world  in  a  most  remarkable 
manner.  For  some  time  he  was  Colonial  Secretary  in  New  Zealand. 
A  few  years  ago  he  re-appeared  in  London,  and  published  two  volumes 
of  poetry.  He  is  understood  to  be  the  hero  of  Robert  Browning's  poem 
"  Waring. " 

Tlie  Ivy  Green.  Page  181.  Dickens  (b.  1812,  d.  1870)  published  this 
poem  as  a  song  in  the  "  Pickwick  Papers." 

The  Polish  Boy.  Page  182.  Mrs.  Stephens  (nee  Winterbotham,  b. 
Derby,  Conn.,  1813;  d.  in  1886),  besides  her  many  novels,  wrote  occa- 
sional poems,  but  never  collected  them  into  a  volume. 

Balaklava.  Page  186.  Meek  (b.  in  Columbia,  S.  0.,  1814,  d.  in  Georgia, 
1865)  was  a  lawyer  and  journalist.  He  published  a  volume  of  poems 
in  Mobile  in  1857. 

The  Pauper's  Drive.  Page  189.  Noel,  an  English  country  gentle- 
man residing  near  Windsor,  published  in  1841  a  volume  of  poems,  which 
included  this  one. 

Florence  Vane.  Page  190.  Cooke  (b.  in  Martinshurg,  Va.,  1816,  d. 
1850)  was  a  lawyer,  and  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1847. 

The  Dule's  V  this  Bonnet  o'  Mine.  Page  191.  Waugh  (b.  in  England, 
1818)  has  published  several  small  volumes  of  poems  in  the  Lancashire 
dialect. 

Abraham  Lincoln.  Page  193.  Taylor  (b.  in  England,  1817,  d.  i880) 
wrote  or  adapted  numerous  plays,  and  published  a  few  fugitive  poems. 


348  NOTES. 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead.    Page  195.    Ingram  was  bora  in  Ireland  in 

1820. 

The  Bivouat'  of  the  Dead.  Page  197.  In  accordance  with  an  act  of  the 
legislature  of  Kentucky,  the  remains  of  the  soldiers  from  that  state  who 
fell  at  Buena  Vista  were  brought  home  to  Frankfort,  and  there  interred 
under  a  handsome  monument.  This  was  the  occasion  of  O'H  ara's  poem. 
He  was  born  in  Kentucky  about  1830,  and  died  in  Alabama  in  1867. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  Thee.  Page  199.  Mrs.  Adams  (b.  in  England, 
1805,  d.  1848)  wrote  several  hymns,  and  a  drama. 

Lines  on  a  Skdeton.  Page  301.  The  manuscript  of  this  poem  was 
found  near  a  skeleton  in  the  London  Royal  College  of  Surgeons,  about 
1830.  The  author  has  never  been  found,  though  a  reward  of  fifty  guineas 
was  offered  for  his  discovery.  Perhaps  the  lines  were  suggested  to  him, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  by  the  6th  stanza  of  the  Second  Canto  of 
"Childe  Harold.1' 

The  Place  where  Man  should  Die.  Page  303.  Barry  (b.  in  Ireland 
about  1815)  published  this  poem  in  the  Dublin  Nation  in  1843. 

A  Hundred  Yean  to  Come.  Page  303.  Brown  (b.  in  Whitingham, 
Vt.,  1813)  has  been  a  teacher  and  editor,  and  now  resides  at  Stevens 
Point,  Wis.  This  poem  was  published  originally  in  the  Mother's  Journal, 
Philadelphia. 

The  Song  of  Steam.  Page  304.  Cutter  (b.  in  Massachusetts,  1801,  d. 
in  Washington,  D.  C,  1865)  was  a  lawyer  by  profession.  He  won  some 
distinction  in  the  Mexican  war,  after  which  he  married  Miss  Drake,  an 
actress  of  Cincinnati,  and  settled  at  Covington,  Ky.  He  published  ;i 
volume  entitled  "  Buena  Vista,  and  other  Poems,"  in  Cincinnati  in  1848. 
His  "Song  of  the  Lightning"  is  very  similar  to  the  "Song  of  Steam," 
but  has  not  been  so  successful. 

Why  thus  Longing/  Pagi  3U6.  Mrs.  sew  all  (formerly  Mrs.  LIST) 
was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  and  after  her  first  marriage  resided  in 
Philadelphia.    She  now  lives  in  Boston. 

Nothing  to  Wear.  Page  307.  Butler  (b.  in  Albany,  N.  Y..  1835)  pub- 
lished this  poem  in  1857.  He  considers  his  "Two  Millions"  a  much 
better  poem,  though  it  never  attained  equal  popularity. 

Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Pago  317.  Gen  Lytle  (b.  in  Cincinnati,  1836, 
fell  in  the  battle  of  Chickamauga,  September,  1863)  is  said  to  have  writ- 
ten this  poem  one  night  after  seeing  Edwin  Booth  in  Shakespeare's 
"Antony  and  Cleopatra." 

The  Nautilus  and  the  Ammonite.  Page  318.  Richardson,  who  was 
connected  with  the  British  Museum,  wrote  essays,  poems,  and  geolog- 
ical works.  This  poem  — first  published,  I  believe,  in  Mantell'a 
"Thoughts  on  a  Pebble,"  London,  1849— gained  much  of  its  popularit) 
through  recitation  by  lecturers  on  geology. 


NOTES.  349 

Carmen  Bellicosnm .     Page  220.    Judge  McMaster  (b.  1829,  d.  1887) 
resided  in  Bath,  Steuben  Co.,  N.  Y. 

Doi'is.  Page  221.  Munby,  an  Englishman,  published  a  volume  of 
poems  in  1865. 

The  Exile  to  his  Wife.  Page  223.  Brenan  (b.  1829,  d.  1857)  was 
a  native  of  the  north  of  Ireland.  He  joined  the  Young  Ireland  party  in 
1848,  and  was  one  of  the  conductors  of  the  Irish  Felon.  He  was  im- 
prisoned fur  nine  months  in  Dublin,  afterward  edited  the  Irishman,  and 
in  October,  1849,  being  implicated  in  an  insurrectionary  movement  in 
Tipperary,  fled  to  America.  He  was  for  three  years  connected  with  the 
New  Orleans  Delta,  and  died  in  that  city  in  May,  1857. 

Rock  Me  to  Sleep.  Page  224.  Mrs.  Allen  sent  this  poem  from  Italy 
(she  was  then  Mrs.  Paul  Akers)  to  the  Saturday  Evening  Gazette  in 
1860.  When  it  had  become  popular,  several  claimants  to  its  authorship 
arose,  and  a  fierce  dispute  ensued,  one  claimant  hiring  a  whole  page  of 
a  New  York  daily  in  which  to  set  forth  his  proofs.  Mrs.  Allen's  volume 
(Boston,  1865)  contains  better,  though  less  popular,  poems  than  this. 

Only  a  Baby  Small.  Page  226.  Barr  (b.  in  Edinburgh,  1831)  resides 
in  London.  He  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1865 ;  enlarged  edition, 
1870.    He  has  been  called  "  the  Children's  Laureate.-' 

The  Jolly  Old  Ptdagogue.  Page  226.  Arnold  (b.  in  New  York  city, 
1834,  d.  1865)  published  this  poem  in  the  Round  Table,  and  without  his 
signature  it  traveled  the  rounds  of  the  press.  His  poems  were  edited 
with  a  memoir  by  his  friend  William  Winter  (Boston,  1867). 

Ode  on  the  Centenary  of  Burns.  Page  229.  Miss  Craig's  ode,  which 
bore  off  the  prize  of  £50,  offered  by  the  directors  of  the  Crystal  Palace 
Company,  from  more  than  six  hundred  competitors,  is  one  of  the  few 
prize  poems  which  have  possessed  any  poetical  merit.  She  was  born  in 
Edinburgh  in  1831,  and  in  1866  married  John  Knox,  a  London  merchant. 
She  has  published  three  small  volumes  of  poetry. 

Over  the  River.  Page  232.  Miss  Priest  (b.  in  Hinsdale,  N.  H.,  1837, 
d.  1870)  published  this  poem  in  the  Springfield  Republican  in  August, 
1857.    She  married  Lieut.  A.  C.  Wakefield  in  1865. 

The  Old  Sergeant.  Page  234.  Willson  (b.  in  Little  Genesee,  N.  YM 
1837,  d.  1867)  wrote  this  poem  as  a  carrier's  address  for  the  Louisville 
Journal,  Jan.  1, 1863.  John  James  Piatt  published  a  sketch  of  him  ni 
the  Atlantic  for  March,  1875.    His  poems  were  published  in  1867. 

Too  Late.  Page  239.  Ludlow  (b.  in  Poughkeepsie,  N.  Y.,  1837,  d.  in 
Switzerland,  1870)  wrote  some  of  our  best  American  college  songs. 

What  the  End  Shall  be.  Page  240.  This  poem  has  been  handed  abo*t 
in  manuscript  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  century.  It  is  attributed  to 
Prances  Browne,  the  blind  poetess  (b.  in  Stranolar,  Ireland.  1816). 

The   Tieo    Worlds.      Page  243.      This  poem  has  long  been   going  the 


350  NOTES. 

rounds  credited  only  to  the  Dublin  University  Magazine.  Coluns  (b. 
n  England,  1827  d.  1876)  was  editor  of  that  periodical.  He  pubShe^ 
three  volumes  of  poetry.  p        ueu 

Rain  on  the  Roof.  Page2U.  Kinney  (b.  in  Penn  Yan,  N.  Y  1836)  is 
a  lawyer  and  journalist,  and  resides  in  Xenia,  O.    The  text  of  this  poem 

hy  sred is  very  corrupt- » is  »»•  -  *"*  a  -  *" 

Willie  Winkie.    PageUQ.    Miller  is  a  native  of  Scotland, 
The  Old  Game     Page  247.    Miss  Page  (b.  in  Bradford,  Vt.,  about 
1835,  d.  about  1859)  wrote  this  poem  at  the  age  of  seventeen. 

In«&4  WaiUUg-    P^em    Published  in  the  Waterville,  Me.,  Mail 

The  Burial  of  Moses.  Page  249.  Miss  Humphreys  (b.  in  Strabane 
Ireland)  married  in  1850  the  Rev.  William  Alexander,  who  is  now  Bishop 
of  Derry. 

Milton's  Prayer  of  Patience.  Page  252.  Mrs.  Howell  was  a  resident 
of  Philadelphia. 

Curfew  Must  not  Ring  To-night.  Page  253.  Rosa  Hartwick  (b  in 
Mishawaka,  Ind.,  1850)  married  Edmund  C.  Thorpe  in  1871,  and  now  re- 
sides in  Missouri.  She  wrote  this  poem  in  1867,  and  published  it  in  the 
Detroit  Commerciat  Advertiser  in  the  autumn  of  1870. 

Revelry  in  India.  Page  256.  These  lines  are  said  to  have  been  sung 
by  a  company  of  British  officers  stationed  at  a  frontier  post  in  India 
during  a  pestilence.  It  is  also  said  that  the  author  of  them  was  the 
next  victim.  They  have  been  persistently  attributed  to  Alfred  Domett ; 
but  in  a  letter  to  me,  dated  February  6, 1879,  he  says  :  "  I  did  not  write 
that  poem,  and  was  never  in  India  in  my  life.  I  am  as  ignorant  of  the 
authorship  as  you  can  be ;  indeed,  I  never  heard  of  the  poem  until  I 
saw  it  attributed  to  myself  in  an  article  in  the  Chicago  Times,  in  the 
year  1872,  I  think.  ....  The  poem  has  splendid  talent,  and  even 
more  spirit,  which  makes  me  the  more  anxious  to  disclaim  it,  as  I  do 
not  wish  to  take  any  credit  that  properly  belongs  to  another  man." 

The  Rising  of  the  Moon.  Page  258.  Casey  (b.  in  Ireland  about  1840) 
has  published  a  small  volume  of  poems. 

My  Maryland.  Page  259.  This  song,  written  in  the  first  year  of  the 
Rebellion,  was  first  published  in  the  Charleston  Mercury.  Perhaps  it 
was  suggested  by  Mangan's  "Karamanian  Exile,"  to  which  it  bears  a 
strong  resemblance. 

Civil  War.  Page  262.  This  poem,  which  appeared  originally  in  Lon- 
don Once  a  Week,  with  the  signature  "  From  the  once  United  States," 
has  been  attributed  to  Charles  Dawson  Shanly  (b.  about  1830,  d.  1876). 

The  Picket  Guard.  Page  263,  The  authorship  of  this  poem  has  been 
disputed,  but  there  is  now  no  reason  to  doubt  that  it  belongs,  to  Mrs 
Beers,  who  resided  in  Orange,  X.  J.,  and  died  Oct.  10  1879. 


NOTES.  351 

The  Countersign.  Page  264.  Concerning  the  authorship  of  "The 
Countersign,"  we  only  know  that  it  was  written  by  a  private  in  Company 
G  of  Stuart's  Engineers,  at  Camp  Lesley,  near  Washington,  during  the 
first  year  of  the  Rebellion.  It  seems  too  good  to  have  been  a  first  poem  ; 
but  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  chances  of  war  made  it  the  last,  as  it  has 
never  been  claimed. 

Sherman' 's  March  to  the  Sea.  Page  265.  Adjutant  Byers  (b.  In  Penn- 
sylvania about  1835),  Fifth  Iowa  Infantry,  wrote  this  song  while  a 
prisoner  at  Columbia,  S.  C.  General  Sherman,  to  whom  a  copy  of  the 
lines  was  handed  when  he  arrived  at  that  place,  so  admired  them  that 
he  sent  for  the  author  and  attached  him  to  his  staff.  Byers  was 
afterward  U.  S.  Consul  at  Zurich,  Switzerland. 

Driving  Home  the  Cows.  Page  267.  Miss  Osgood,  who  is  a  native  of 
Fryeburg,  Maine,  contributed  this  poem  to  Harpers  Magazine  for  March, 
1865. 

The  Twins.  Page  269.  Leigh  (b.  in  England  about  1840)  published 
"  Carols  of  Cockayne  "  in  1869. 

A  Little  Goose.  Page  270.  Mrs.  Turner,  who  resides  in  Pennsylvania, 
published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1871. 

Tired  Mothers.  Page  272.  Mrs.  Smith  (nee  Riley,  Brighton,  near 
Rochester,  N.  Y.)  resides  in  New  York  city. 

Tlie  Children.  Page  274.  Dickinson  (b.  about  1845)  was  a  teacher 
when  he  wrote  this  poem.    He  is  now  a  journalist  in  Binghamton,  N.  Y. 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.  Page  276.  This  famous  ode  is  here 
printed  exactly  as  it  stands  in  "Wolfe's  Remains,"  where  it  is  copied 
from  the  original  manuscript.  The  Rev.  Samuel  O'Sullivau,  writing 
under  date  of  April  22, 1841,  says  :  "  I  think  it  was  about  the  summer  of 
1814  or  1815  (I  cannot  say  for  certainty  which),  I  was  sitting  in  my 
college  rooms  [in  Dublin]  and  reading  in  the  '  Edinburgh  Annual  Reg- 
ister,' in  which  a  very  striking  and  beautiful  account  is  given  of  the 
burial  of  Sir  John  Moore.  Wolfe  came  in,  and  I  made  him  listen  to  me 
as  I  read  the  passage,  which  he  heard  with  deep  and  sensible  emotion. 
We  were  both  loud  and  ardent  in  our  commendation  of  it ;  and  after 
some  little  time  I  proposed  to  our  friend  to  take  a  walk  into  the  country. 
He  consented,  and  we  bent  our  way  to  Simpson's  nursery,  about  half- 
way between  Dublin  and  the  Rock.  During  our  stroll  Wolfe  was  un- 
usually meditative  and  silent ;  and  I  remember  having  been  provoked 
a  little  by  meeting  with  no  response  or  sympathy  to  my  frequent  bursts 
of  admiration  about  the  country  and  the  scenery,  in  which,  on  other 
occasions,  he  used  so  cordially  to  join.  But  he  atoned  for  his  apparent 
dullness  and  insensibility  upon  his  return,  when  he  repeated  for  me  the 
first  and  last  verses  of  his  beautiful  ode,  in  the  composition  of  which  he 

had  been  absorbed  during  our  little  perambulation These  were 

the  only  verses  which  our  dear  friend  at  first  contemplated  ;  but  moved, 
as  he  said,  by  my  approbation,  his  mind  worked  upon  the  subject  after 


352  X0TE8. 

he  left  me,  and  in  the  morning  he  came  over  to  me  with  the  other  vera* 
by  which  it  was  completed."  Wolfe  (b.  in  Dublin,  Dec.  14, 1791,  d.  Feb. 
21, 1823)  neither  published  this  poem  nor  took  pains  to  claim  it.  Manu- 
script copies  were  taken  down  from  recitation,  and  it  was  finally  print- 
ed, with  the  initials  "C.  W.11,  in  the  Newry,  Ireland,  Telegraph,  from 
wbich  it  was  speedily  copied  far  and  wide.  An  interesting  discussion 
of  its  merits  by  Byron  and  Shelley  is  given  in  Medwin's  "Conversations 
of  Byron.11 

Song.— If  I  had  tJwugh  t.  Page  277.  The  Dish  air ' '  Gramachree ' '  was 
a  favorite  with  Wolfe,  but  he  thought  no  words  had  ever  been  written 
for  it  which  were  worthy  of  its  peculiar  pathos.  Accordingly,  he  com- 
posed these. 

Song.— Go,  forget  me!  Page  278.  These  words  were  written  for  a 
celebrated  singer,  to  an  unpublished  air  of  her  own  composition. 

The  First  Miracle.  Page  279.  Crashaw  (b.  in  London,  d.  in  Italy 
about  1650)  was  a  clergyman— at  first  Protestant,  afterward  Catholic. 
This,  famous  as  "the  one-line  poem,11  appeared  in  a  volume  which  he 
published  anonymously  at  Cambridge  in  1634. 

A  Javanese  Poem.  Page  279.  Dekker  is  a  native  of  Holland.  This 
poem  occurs  in  his  novel  "  Max  Havelaar ;  or,  the  Coffee  Auctions  of  the 
Dutch  Trading  Company,11  the  English  translation  of  which  was  pub- 
lished in  Edinburgh  in  1868. 

A  Yukon  Cradle-Song.    Page  280.    This  occurs  in  Dall's  "  Alaska.1 ' 

The  Passage.  Page  282.  Longfellow  brought  this  poem  into  notice 
by  quoting  it  in  his  "  Hyperion,11  where  he  makes  one  of  his  characters 
say  that,  "  though  not  very  literal,  it  equals  the  original  in  beauty  ;  .  .  . 
though  in  the  measure  of  the  original  there  is  something  like  the  rock- 
ing  motion  of  a  boat,  which  is  not  preserved  in  the  translation.11  Uhland 
was  born  in  Tubingen  in  1787,  and  died  in  1862.  Mrs.  Austin,  {nee 
Taylor,  England,  1793,  d.  1867)  was  the  translator  of  Ranke's  works. 

Ann  Hathaivay.  Page  282.  These  lines  were  originally  addressed 
"  To  the  Idol  of  my  Eyes  and  Delight  of  my  Heart.1' 

On  Parting  ivith  his  Books.  Page  284.  ROSCOE  (b.  in  Liverpool  1753, 
d.  1831)  was  a  banker  and  historian.  His  firm  failed  in  1816,  and  he  was 
ooliged  to  sell  his  library  and  art  collections. 

Hylas.  Page  284.  Hylas,  a  beautiful  youth,  was  one  of  the  Argonauts. 
When  they  stopped  on  the  coast  of  Mysia,  he  went  for  water,  and  was 
seized  by  the  nymphs  of  the  stream  into  which  he  dipped  his  urn.  Her- 
cules, to  whom  he  had  been  entrusted,  went  in  search  of  him,  and  was 
left  by  the  ship.    These  lines  appeared  in  the  "  London  Keepsake,11 1838. 

We  Parted  in  Silence.  Page  285.  Mrs.  Crawford  was  a  native  of 
Ireland. 

\  'a  it  itas  Vanitatum.    Page  286.    These  lines,  which  do  not  appear  ii 


NOTES.  353 

the  collected  poems  of  Griffin  (b.  in  Ireland,  1803,  d.  1840),  are  attrib- 
uted to  him  on  the  authority  of  the  Glasgow  Free  Press,  which  published 
them  about  1861. 

Wonderland.  Page  288.  Newton,  an  Englishman,  contributed  this 
poem  to  the  London  At/ienceum  in  September,  1851. 

Nathan  Hale.  Page  289.  Nathan  Hale  (b.  in  Coventry,  Conn.,  1755) 
was  a  captain  in  the  Continental  army,  went  within  the  British  lines  at 
New  York  as  a  spy  in  September,  1776,  was  discovered  and  arrested,  and 
by  order  of  Lord  Howe  was  executed  the  next  morning,  23d.  The  ladies 
of  his  native  town  have  recently  erected  a  monument  to  his  memory. 
Finch  (b.  in  Ithaca,  N.  Y.,  1827)  introduced  this  lyric  in  the  poem  which 
he  read  before  the  Linonian  Society  of  Yale  in  1853.  An  unknown  con- 
temporary of  Hale's  wrote  a  poem  on  the  subject,  which  is  almost  as 
unique  as  Finch's : 

The  breezes  went  steadily  through  the  tall  pines, 
A-saying  "Oh,  hu-ush  !|"  a-saying  "Oh,  hu-ush  ! " 

As  stilly  stole  by  a  bold  legion  of  horse, 
For  Hale  in  the  bush,  for  Hale  in  the  bush. 

"Keep  still,"  said  the  thrush,  as  she  nestled  her  young 

In  a  nest  by  the  road,  in  a  nest  by  the  road ; 
"For  the  tyrants  are  near,  and  with  them  appear 

What  bodes  us  no  good,  what  bodes  us  no  good." 

The  brave  Captain  heard  it,  and  thought  of  his  home 

In  a  cot  by  the  brook,  in  a  cot  by  the  brook  ; 
With  mother  and  sister  and  memories  dear, 

He  so  gayly  forsook,  he  so  gayly  forsook. 

Cooling  shades  of  the  night  were  coming  apace, 

The  tattoo  had  beat,  the  tattoo  had  beat ; 
The  noble  one  sprang  from  his  dark  lurking-place, 

To  make  his  retreat,  to  make  his  retreat. 

He  warily  trod  on  the  dry  rustling  leaves, 

As  he  passed  through  the  wood,  as  he  passed  through  the  wood 
And  silently  gained  his  rude  launch  on  the  shore, 

As  she  played  with  the  flood,  as  she  played  with  the  flood. 

The  guards  of  the  camp,  on  that  dark,  dreary  night, 
Had  a  murderous  will,  had  a  murderous  will ; 

They  took  him,  and  bore  him  afar  from  the  shore, 
To  a  hut  on  the  hill,  to  a  hut  on  the  hill. 

No  mother  was  there,  nor  a  friend  who  could  cheer, 
In  that  little  stone  cell,  in  that  little  stone  cell ; 

But  he  trusted  in  love  from  his  Father  above,— 
In  his  heart  all  was  well,  in  his  heart  all  was  well. 

An  ominous  owl,  with  his  solemn  bass  voice, 
Sat  moaning  hard  by,  sat  moaning  hard  by  : 
"  The  tyrant's  proud  minions  most  gladly  rejoice, 
For  he  must  soon  die.  for  he  must  soon  die." 


354  NOTES. 

The  brave  fellow  told  them,  no  thing  he  restrained,— 

The  cruel  gen'ral,  the  cruel  gen'ral,— 
Of  his  errand  from  camp,  of  the  end  to  he  gained, 

And  said  that  was  all,  and  said  that  was  all. 

They  took  him,  and  bound  him,  and  bore  him  away, 
Down  the  hill's  grassy  side,  down  the  bill's  grassy  side ; 

'T  was  there  the  base  hirelings  in  royal  array 
His  cause  did  deride,  his  cause  did  deride. 

Five  minutes  were  given,  short  moments,  no  more, 

For  him  to  repent,  for  him  to  repent ; 
He  prayed  for  his  mother,  he  asked  not  another,— 

To  heaven  he  went,  to  heaven  he  went. 

The  faith  of  a  martyr  the  tragedy  showed, 
As  he  trod  the  last  stage,  as  he  trod  the  last  stage ; 

And  Britons  will  shudder  at  gallant  Hale's  blood, 
As  his  words  do  presage,  as  his  words  do  presage. 

Thou  pale  king  of  terrors,  thou  life's  gloomy  foe, 

Go  frighten  the  slave,  go  frighten  the  slave ; 
Tell  tyrants,  to  you  their  allegiance  they  owe. 

No  fears  for  the  brave,  no  fears  for  the  brave. 

The  Blue  and  the  Qray.  Page  291.  This  poem  appeared  originally  in 
the  Atlantic  Monthly.  It  was  suggested  by  the  women  of  Columbus, 
Miss.,  decorating  alike  the  graves  of  national  and  rebel  dead.  Certainly 
no  fault  can  be  found  with  it  as  poetry  ;  I  know  of  nothing  of  its  kind 
that  surpasses  it ;  but  James  M.  Dalzell,  who  served  in  the  116th  Ohic 
Volunteers,  thus  takes  issue  with  it  on  the  score  of  patriotism  or  policy : 

You  may  sing  of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray, 
And  mingle  their  hues  in  your  rhyme, 
But  the  blue  that  we  wore  in  the  fray 
Is  covered  with  glory  sublime. 

So  no  more  let  us  hear  of  the  Gray, 

The  symbol  of  treason  and  shame— 
We  pierced  it  with  bullets— away  ! 
Or  we'll  pierce  it  with  bullets  again. 
Then  up  with  the  Blue  and  down  with  the  Gray, 
And  hurrah  for  the  Blue  that  won  us  the  day  ! 

Of  the  rebels  who  sleep  in  the  Gray, 

Our  silence  is  fitting  alone, 
But  we  cannot  afford  them  a  bay, 
A  sorrow,  a  tear,  or  a  moan. 

Let  oblivion  seal  up  their  graves 

Of  treason,  disgrace,  and  defeat ; 
Had  they  triumphed,  the  Blue  had  been  slaves. 
And  Union  been  lost  in  retreat. 
Then  up  with  the  Blue  and  down  with  the  Gray, 
And  hurrah  for  the  Blue  that  won  us  the  day  1 


NOTES.  355 

Of  the  rebels  whom  mercy  still  spares 

To  boast  of  the  traitorous  fray, 
No  boy  in  the  Blue  thinks  or  cares, 
For  the  struggle  is  ended  to-day. 

Let  them  come  as  they,  promised  w  come, 

Under  Union  and  Liberty  too, 
And  we'll  hail  them  with  life  and  with  drum, 
And  forget  that  they  fired  on  the  Blue. 
Then  up  with  the  Blue  and  down  with  the  Gray, 
And  hurrah  for  the  Blue  that  won  us  the  day  1 

As  they  carried  your  flag  through  the  fray, 

Ye  Northmen,  ye  promised  the  Blue 
That  ye'd  never  disgrace  with  the  Gray 
The  color  so  gallant  and  true. 

Will  ye  trace  on  the  leaves  of  your  souls 

The  Blue  and  the  Gray  in  one  line, 
And  mingle  their  hues  on  the  scrolls 
Which  glorify  Victory's  shrine, 
And  cheer  for  the  false,  and  hiss  at  the  true, 
And  up  with  the  Gray  and  down  with  the  Blue  ? 

Let  the  traitors  all  go  if  you  may, 

(Your  heroes  would  punish  the  Head), 
But  never  confound  with  the  Gray 
The  Blue,  whether  living  or  dead. 

Oh  !  remember  the  price  that  was  paid— 

The  blood  of  the  brave  and  the  true— 
And  you  never  can  suffer  to  fade 
The  laurels  that  cover  the  Blue. 
Then  up  with  the  Blue,  and  down  with  the  Gray, 
And  hurrah  for  the  Blue  that  won  us  the  day  ! 

The  Death  of  King  Bomba  of  Naples.  Page  293.  Ferdinand  II,  King 
of  the  two  Sicilies,  who  died  at  Bari,  on  the  Adriatic,  in  1859,  was  called 
King  Bomba,  according  to  some  authorities,  because  during  an  insur- 
rection he  ordered  the  bombardment  of  his  cities.  This  poem  was  first 
published  in  Punch. 

The  Golden  Wedding.  Page  294.  This  poem  has  been  mistakenly  at- 
tributed to  David  Gray,  the  young  Scottish  poet  (b.  1838,  d.  1861)  who 
had  so  romantic  and  mournful  a  history.  It  was  written  in  1862,  by 
David  Gray,  editor  of  the  Buffalo,  N.  Y.,  Courier,  for  a  golden  wedding 
in  Albany.  Mr.  Gray  died  in  1888.  His  writings  have  been  edited  by 
J.  N.  Lamed. 

Tacking  Ship  off  STiore.  Page  295.  Mitchell  (b.  in  Nantucket  about 
1825)  is  an  Episcopal  clergyman  and  resides  in  New  York  City. 
This  poem  was  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  in  1858. 

The  Mistress  of  the  House.  Page  297.  I  have  not  been  able  to  ascer- 
tain anything  whatever  concerning  the  author  of  this  poem. 


356  NOTES. 

In  the  Hospital.  Page  299.  These  lines  were  loug  supposed  to  have 
been  "found  under  the  pillow  of  a  soldier  who  died  at  Port  Royal, 
South  Carolina.1' 

The  Petrified  Fern.  Page  302.  Mrs.  Branch,  a  native  of  Brooklyn, 
resides  in  Connecticut. 

Tuloom.  Page  303.  Mr.  Ellsworth,  who  resides  in  Windsor,  Conn., 
published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1855,  of  which  this  one  alone  has  gained 
popular  favor.    It  appeared  originally  in  Putnam's  Magazine. 

The  Ocean.  Page'Wi.  A  small  volume  of  Mr.  Shea's  poems,  edited 
by  his  son,  the  Hon.  George  Shea,  was  published  in  New  York  in  1846. 
Mr.  Shea  was  born  in  Ireland  in  1802,  and  died  in  New  York  in  1845. 

Spinning-Wheel  Song.  Page  308.  Mr.  Waller,  an  Irish  barrister, 
was  born  in  1810. 

The  Burial  of  Beranger.  Page  309.  This  poem,  which  appeared 
about  three  years  before  the  John  Brown  song,  probably  furnishes  the 
original  of  its  popular  refrain.  It  exemplifies  the  power  of  musical 
versification,  the  striking  thought  being  put  somewhat  clumsily  in  the 
earlier  poem,  but  with  perfect  rhythm  in  the  later  and  better  known 
one. 

The  Song  of  the  Western  Men.  Page  310.  Mr.  Hawker,  who  was 
"Vicar  of  Morwenstow,  in  Cornwall,  for  forty-one  years,  was  born  in 
England  in  1804,  and  died  in  1875.  He  was  an  eccentric  character,  and 
published  several  little  volumes  of  verse.  The  interesting  story  of  his 
life,  written  by  Sabine  Baring-Gould,  has  been  re-published  in  New 
York.  Trelawney  was  one  of  the  seven  bishops  that  were  committed 
to  the  Tower  in  1688,  and  the  refrain  of  this  poem  was  a  popular  catch 
at  the  time.  The  story  is  told  in  chapter  VIII.  of  Macaulay's  History. 
Mr.  Hawker  slightly  altered  his  poem  from  time  to  time;  I  have  pre- 
ferred to  give  his  first  version. 

Crossing  the  Rappahannock.  Page  314.  The  incident  related  in  this 
poem  occurred  at  the  battle  of  Fredericksburg,  in  December,  1862, 
when  the  pontoon  bridges  were  being  laid  for  the  National  army  to 
cross  the  river.  '*  The  bridges  had  not  spanned  more  than  half  the  dis- 
tance when  the  sun  rose  and  the  fog  lifted  sufficiently  to  reveal  what 
was  going  on.  A  detachment  of  Mississippi  riflemen  had  been  posted 
in  cellars,  behind  stone  walls,  and  at  every  point  where  a  man  could  be 
sheltered  on  the  south  bank;  and  now  the  incessant  crack  of  their 
weapons  was  heard,  picking  off  the  men  that  were  laying  the  bridges. 
The  losses  were  so  serious  that  it  was  impossible  to  continue  the  work. 
....  At  last,  General  Hunt  suggested  a  solution  of  the  difficulty. 
Four  regiments  that  volunteered  for  the  service— the  7th  Michigan, 
the  19th  and  20th  Massachusetts,  and  the  89th  New  York— crossed  the 
river  in  pontoon  boats,  under  the  fire  of  the  sharpshooters,  lauded 


NOTES.  357 

quickly,  and  drove  them  out  of  their  fastness,  capturing  a  hundred  of 
them,  while  the  remainder  escaped  to  the  hills. 

Roll-Call.    Page  316.    Mr.  Shepherd  was  a  New  York  journalist. 

Heroes.  Page  317.  This  poem  was  contributed  by  Miss  Proctor  to 
the  publication  of  a  sanitary  fair  during  the  last  year  of  the  War  of  the 
Rebellion. 

Moonlight.  Page  318.  Mr.  Weeks,  born  in  New  York  m  1840,  was  a 
graduate  of  Yale  College,  and  died  in  1876.  Three  volumes  of  his  poems 
were  published,  in  1866-76.  They  contain  much  fine  work,  but  the 
piece  here  given  has  surpassed  all  the  others  in  popularity. 

The  Song  of  Rorek.  Page  319.  This  poem  appeared  originally  in  the 
Atlantic  Monthly.  Its  author,  a  business  man  of  New  York,  published 
a  small  volume  of  original  poems  and  translations  in  1864,  under  the 
pen-name  of  John  W.  Montclair. 

Easter.  Page  328.  Dr.  Cutting,  who  was  born  in  Windsor,  Vt,  in 
1813,  and  died  in  Brooklyn,  N.  Y.,  in  1882,  wrote  many  fugitive  poems, 
which  have  never  been  collected. 

If  I  Should  Die  To-Night .  Page  329.  This  poem,  originally  published 
in  The  Christian  Union  in  June,  1873,  was  brought  into  special  promi- 
nence when  H.  Rider  Haggard  inserted  a  large  portion  of  it,  without 
credit,  in  his  novel  entitled  "Jess"  (1887),  where  it  is  supposed  to  be 
written  by  the  heroine  and  addressed  to  the  hero,  the  necessary  changes 
for  that  purpose  being  made.  The  lines  have  been  attributed  to  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  and  to  others,  but  the  evidence  leaves  no  reasonable 
doubt  that  Miss  Smith,  of  Tabor  College,  Iowa,  is  their  author. 

Cuddle  Doon.  Page  331.  The  author  of  this  piece  is  a  Scottish  work- 
ing-man, whose  poems  have  been  published  in  a  small  volume. 

Light.    Page  333.    Mr.  Bourdillon  is  an  Englishman,  born  in  1852. 

What  My  Lover  Said.  Page  333.  This  poem  has  been  attributed  to 
Horace  Greeley  from  the  accident  that  the  writer's  initials,  correspond- 
ing to  his,  were  signed  to  it  on  its  first  appearance  in  the  New  York 
Evening  Post.  Some  controversy  has  arisen  over  the  authorship,  one 
newspaper  correspondent  asserting  with  great  positiveness  that  the 
lines  were  written  by  Richard  Realf;  but  they  bear  no  marks  of 
Realf'shand.  Mr.  Greene  is  a  lawyer  of  Honesdale,  Pa.,  whose  name 
is  known  in  magazine  literature. 

What  Does  It  Matter?  Page  335.  Mr.  Barker,  being  elected  to  the 
Maine  legislature,  received  a  circular  requesting  material  for  a  bio- 
graphical sketch,  and  wrote  this  poem  in  reply. 

The  Last  Redoubt.  Page  336.  Mr.  Austin,  an  English  journalist, 
born  in  1835,  has  published  three  novels,  several  tragedies,  and  two 
or  three  small  volumes  of  poems,  of  which  this  one  alone  seems  to  have 
caught  the  popular  ear, 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Accept,  thou  shrine  of  my  dead  saint 

A  cloud  lay  cradled  near  the  setting  sun 

Afar  in  the  desert  I  love  to  ride 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand 

Ah  me  !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn 

A  jolly  fat  friar  loved  liquor  good  store     . 

Alas  !  how  dismal  is  my  tale 

Alas  !  the  weary  hours  pass  slow 

A  little  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee 

"  All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,"  they  say 

A  monk,  when  his  rites  sacerdotal  were  o'er 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true? 

And  there  they  sat,  a-popping  corn 

As  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part 

A  supercilious  nabob  of  the  east    . 


PAGE 

19 
114 
119 
310 

56 
158 
100 
264 
272 
26:: 
109 

76 
268 
284 
111 


Backward,  turn  backward,  O  Time,  in  your  flight    .  224 

Behold  this  ruin  !  'T  is  a  skull 201 

Bury  Berauger !  Well  for  you 309 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bounie,  bonnie  bride           .        .  52 

B}'  Nebo's  lonely  mountain 249 

By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river 291 

By  the  merest  chance,  in  the  twilight  gloom      .         .  333 


Come  a  little  nearer,  Doctor,— thank  you  !— let  me       .  234 

Come  see  the  Dolphin's  anchor  forged;  't  is  at  a        .  146 

Come  to  me,  darling,  I  'm  lonely  without  thee     .         .  223 

"  Corporal  Green  !"  the  orderly  cried        .         .         .  316 

Could  I  pass  those  lounging  sentries      ....  293 

359 


360 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Dark  lowers  the  night  o'er  the  wide  stormy  main 
Did  you  hear  of  the  Widow  Malone 

England's  sun  was  slowly  setting,  o'er  the  hills 

Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France 

Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view 

From  the  quickened  womb  of  the  primal  gloom 


PAGE 

94 
153 

253 

10 
37 

177 


Goc,  soule,  the  bodie's  guest 

Go,  forget  me  !  Why  should  sorrow 

Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  grove  ! 

Happy  insect !  ever  blest 

Happy  the  man  who,  void  of  cares  and  strife 

Harness  me  down  with  your  iron  bands 

Her  suffering  ended  with  the  day 

Hie  upon  Hielands  .... 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my 

Ho  !   why  dost  thou  shiver  and  shake 

How  little  recks  it  where  men  lie 


childhood 


I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying 

I  am  far  from  my  hame,  an'  I'm  weary  often  whiles 

I  am  old  and  blind 

I  asked  an  aged  man.  with  hoary  hairs 

I  can  not  eat  but  little  meat    . 

I  do  not  know  where  1  shall  die 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up      . 

If  I  should  die  to-night 

I  gaed  to  spend  a  week  in  Fife 

I  have  a  son,  a  little  son,  a  boy  just  five  years  old 

I  in  these  flowery  meads  would  be 

I  lay  me  down  to  sleep 

I  loved  thee  long  and  dearly 

I  'm  growing  old,  I  've  sixty  years     . 

I'm  often  asked  by  plodding  souls 


2 

278 

87 
51 
32 

204 

179 
36 

115 
85 

202 

217 
301 
252 

90 

18 
279 
277 
138 
329 
142 
139 

23 
299 
190 
313 

78 


INDEX  OF  FIBST  LINES. 


361 


I  'm  sittin'  on  the  stile,  Mary 

In  a  valley,  centuries  ago 

In  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb    . 

In  good  King  Charles's  golden  days 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor-boy  lay 

In  Thee,  thou  Son  of  God,  in  Thee  I  rest 

In  their  ragged  regimentals 

I  said  to  sorrow's  awful  storm 

I  sat  with  Doris,  the  shepherd  maiden 

It  is  not  time  that  flies 

It  matters  little  where  I  was  born 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night     . 

I  weigh  not  fortune's  frown  or  smile 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies 

I  would  not  live  alway,  I  ask  not  to  stay 


PAGE 

155 
302 
269 
71 
131 
328 
220 
116 
221 
300 
335 
180 
15 
93 
128 


Kacelyevo's  slope  still  felt 


336 


Last  night  among  his  fellow  roughs 

Life,  I  know  not  what  thou  art 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see 

Likeness  of  heaven,  agent  of  power 

Lovely  river,  lovely  river     .... 

Love  me  little,  love  me  long 

Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea    . 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave    .... 

Mellow  the  moonlight  to  shiue  is  beginning 

Methiuks  it  is  good  to  be  here 

Miss  Flora  McFlimsey,  of  Madison  Square 

Mournfully  listening  to  the  waves'  strange  talk 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

My  life  is  like  the  summer  rose 

My  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is 

My  prime  of  youth  is  but  a  frost  of  care    . 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 


176 

83 

6 

307 

284 
16 


282 
308 
130 
207 


27 

118 

1 

9 

99 


362 


INDEX  OF  F1MST  LINES. 


"  Nay,  wait  me  here — I'll  not  be  long 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee 

Nigh  to  a  grave  that  was  newly  made 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note    . 

O,  a  dainty  plant  is  the  ivy  green 

O,  blithely  shines  the  bonny  sun    .... 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

Oft  has  it  been  my  lot  to  mark       .... 

Old  Grimes  is  dead  ;  that  good  old  man     . 

O  Love,  whose  patient  pilgrim  feet 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

On  a  loue  barren  isle,  where  the  wild  roaring  billow 

Only  a  baby  small 

Only  waiting  till  the  shadows 

On  the  coast  of  Yucatan     .... 

O  say  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light 

O,  the  charge  at  Balaklava  ! 

O  then  tell  me,  Shawn  O'Ferrall    . 

Our  camp-fires  shone  bright  on  the  mountain 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass    . 

<  )vcr  the  river  they  beckon  to  me 

O,  waly,  waly  up  the  bank    .... 

O,  where  will  be  the  birds  that  sing 

O,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 

Pity  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man     . 

Rifleman,  shoot  me  a  fancy  shot     . 

St.  Patrick  was  a  gentleman 

She  died  in  beauty, — like  a  rose     . 
Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye 
Slave  of  the  dark  and  dirty  mine 
Stay,  lady,  stay,  for  mercy's  sake 

The  bairnies  cuddle  doon  at  nicht 

The  blackbird  is  singing  on  Michigan's  shore 


318 
199 
175 

276 

181 
125 
44 
65 
128 
294 
330 
152 
220 
248 
303 
103 
186 
258 
265 
267 
232 
68 
203 
122 

96 

262 

113 

163 
46 

100 
97 

331 
127 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


363 


The  breezes  went  steadily  through  the  tall  pines 

The  chill  November  dajr  was  done     . 

The  dawn  went  up  the  sky    .... 

The  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall 

The  dule  's  i'  this  bonnet  o'  mine 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

The  groves  of  Blarney,  they  look  so  charming 

The  guests  are  come,  all  silent  they  have  waited 

The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale    . 

The  modest  water  saw  its  God,  and  blushed 

The  moon  had  climbed  the  highest  hill 

The  muffled  drum's  sad  roll  has  beat 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

The  nautilus  and  the  ammonite 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes     .... 

The  Orient  day  was  fresh  and  fair 

There  is  a  happy  land         . 

There's  a  grim  one-horse  hearse  in  a  jolly  round  ti 

There  sat  an  old  man  on  a  rock 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  the  eye 

The  stream  that  hurries  by  your  fixed  shore 

The  tears  I  shed  must  ever  fall 

The  tree  of  deepest  root  is  found 

The  weather  leech  of  the  topsail  shivers 

The  wind  blows  over  the  Yukon 

The  winds  that  once  the  Argo  bore 

They  leaped  in  the  rocking  shallops 

This  winter  weather,  it  waxeth  cold 

Thou  too  hast  travelled,  little  fluttering  thiug 

'T  is  midnight's  holy  hour, — and  silence  now 

To  drum-beat  and  heart-beat 

'T  was  a  jolly  old  pedagogue,  long  ago 

'T  was  in  heaven  pronounced,  and   t  was  muttered 

'T  was  the  night  before  Christmas,  when  all  through 

'T  was  on  the  night  of  Michaelmas     .... 

'T  was  when  the  wan  leaf  frae  the  birk  tree  wus  fa'in' 


rot 


PAGE 

353 

270 
324 
259 

72 
191 

24 

92 
297 

24 
279 

89 
197 

44 
218 
333 
164 
157 
189 
239 
122 
286 

99 

80 
295 
280 
317 
314 

13 
311 
135 
289 
226 
109 
102 
319 
105 


364 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES. 


Two  worlds  there  are.     To  one  our  eyes  we  strain 
Two  Yankee  wags,  one  summer  day 

Wee  Willie  Winkie  rins  through  the  town 

We  hail  this  morn 

We  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter 
We  parted  in  silence,  we  parted  by  night 

What  constitutes  a  state 

What  dreaming  drone  was  ever  blest     . 
When  a'  ither  bairnies  are  hushed  to  their  hame 
When  another  life  is  added     .... 
Whence  come  those  shrieks  so  wild  and  shrill    . 
When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 
When  the  humid  shadows  hover  over  all  the 
When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended 
When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  a'  the  kye 
Where  the  rocks  are  gray,  and  the  shore  is  steep 
Who  fears  to  speak  of  Ninety-Eight  ? 
AVhy  thus  longing,  thus  for  ever  sighing 
Wild  was  the  night,  yet  a  wilder  night 
AVilly  's  rare,  and  Willy  's  fair 

With  deep  affection 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng 


PAGE 

243 
158 

246 
229 
256 

285 

86 

95 

117 

240 

182 

84 

244 

274 

88 

247 

195 

206 

151 

8 

249 


Ye  gentlemen  of  England 26 

"  You  have  heard,"  said  a  youth  to  his  sweetheart,  .     124 

You  knew — who  knew  not  Astrophel  ?       ...  5 

You  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier       .  .     190 

You  may  sing  of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray    .        .        .  354 


THE  END 


Deacidified  using  the  Bookkeeper  process. 
Neutralizing  agent:  Magnesium  Oxide 
Treatment  Date:  Jan.  2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A  WORLD  LEADER  IN  COLLECTIONS  PRESERVATION 

111  Thomson  Park  Drive 
Cranberry  Township,  PA  16066 
(724)779-2111 


LIBRARY  OF  CONGRESS 


0  014  090  056  4 


■ 


H 


MM