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The Baby's Tear.

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

A tiny drop of crystal dew That fell from baby eyes of blue; A shining treasure, there it lay For grandma's love to wipe away. A tear of sorrow, pure and meek It graced our darling's dimpled cheek; A gem so fair, that angels smiled And claimed the treasure undefiled. A sunbeam came with winsome grace And chased the shadow from her face; A smile fell from its wings of light And baby eyes laughed at the sight. The wee bright tear was kissed away, Yet in our hearts its sorrow lay; For like a shadow came the thought, With pain and sorrow life is wrought. Oh, baby heart, what will you do When life's unrest is given you; And mother-love no more like this Each tear can banish with a kiss? The love you brought, oh, baby dear, Is like the sunbeam passing near; A ray of light--a touch of gold To keep our hearts from growing old. Then may thy life grow strong and sweet With mother-love to guide thy feet; And may the sunbeams ever chase Each shadow, darling from thy face.

The Holy War

Rudyard Kipling

"For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul, that the walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto." - BUNYAN'S Holy War. A tinker out of Bedford, A vagrant oft in quod, A private under Fairfax, A minister of God, Two hundred years and thirty Ere Armageddon came His single hand portrayed it, And Bunyan was his name! He mapped for those who follow, The world in which we are, "This famous town of Mansoul" That takes the Holy War. Her true and traitor people, The Gates along her wall, From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate, John Bunyan showed them all. All enemy divisions, Recruits of every class, And highly-screened positions For flame or poison-gas; The craft that we call modern, The crimes that we call new, John Bunyan had 'em typed and filed In Sixteen Eighty-two. Likewise the Lords of Looseness That hamper faith and works, The Perseverance-Doubters, And Present-Comfort shirks, With brittle intellectuals Who crack beneath a strain, John Bunyan met that helpful set In Charles the Second's reign. Emmanuel's vanguard dying For right and not for rights, My Lord Apollyon lying To the State-kept Stockholmites, The Pope,the swithering Neutrals The Kaiser and his Gott, Their roles, their goals, their naked souls, He knew and drew the lot. Now he hath left his quarters, In Bunhill Fields to lie, The wisdom that he taught us Is proven prophecy, One watchword through our Armies, One answer from our Lands: "No dealings with Diabolus As long as Mansoul stands!" A pedlar from a hovel, The lowest of the low, The Father of the Novel, Salvation's first Defoe, Eight blinded generations Ere Armageddon came, He showed us how to meet it, And Bunyan was his name!

To The Women Of Australia

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A toast to the splendid daughters Of the New World over the waters, A world that is great as new; Daughters of brave old races, Daughters of heights and spaces, Broad seas and broad earth places - Hail to your land and you! The sun and the winds have fed you; The width of your world has led you Out into the larger view; Strong with a strength that is tender, Bright with a primal splendour, Homage and praise we render - Hail to your land and you! Sisters and daughters and mothers, Standing abreast with your brothers, Working for things that are true; Thinking and doing and daring, Giving, receiving, and sharing, Earning the crowns you are wearing - Hail to your land and you!

The Price Of Victory.

Horatio Alger, Jr.

"A Victory! --a victory!" Is flashed across the wires; Speed, speed the news from State to State, Light up the signal fires! Let all the bells from all the towers A joyous peal ring out; We've gained a glorious victory, And put the foe to rout! A mother heard the chiming bells; Her joy was mixed with pain. "Pray God," she said, "my gallant boy Be not among the slain!" Alas for her! that very hour Outstretched in death he lay, The color from his fair, young face Had scarcely passed away. His nerveless hand still grasped the sword. He never more might wield, His eyes were sealed in dreamless sleep Upon that bloody field. The chestnut curls his mother oft Had stroked in fondest pride, Neglected hung ia clotted locks, With deepest crimson dyed. Ah! many a mother's heart shall ache, And bleed with anguish sore, When tidings come of him who marched So blithely forth to war. Oh! sad for them, the stricken down In manhood's early dawn, And sadder yet for loving hearts. God comfort them that mourn! Yes, victory has a fearful price Our hearts may shrink to pay, And tears will mingle with the joy That greets a glorious day. But he who dies in freedom's cause, We cannot count him lost; A battle won for truth and right Is worth the blood it cost! O mothers! count it something gained That they, for whom you mourn, Bequeath fair Freedom's heritage To millions yet unborn;-- And better than a thousand years Of base, ignoble breath, A patriot's fragrant memory, A hero's early death!

Reading The Tides: Petroglyph Park

Paul Cameron Brown

" ... A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain ... a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a faery's wing." THE GREAT GATSBY Perceiving the universe as an orchid stem, wild hibiscus crane & heron breaking water - voyage of elliptical, pea-shaped canoe down dancing images of the underworld. This temperature charged, climate-controlled glass geode designed to war on moss and stone munching aphid lichens seems everybit as fanciful as any animal totem. Grim crevice in the rock (animistic female orifice) fertility turtle swollen with eggs carrying Earth thru gorged labours of darting salamander & the spaceman snake. And coming to that rushing sound, (subterranean, evocative stream) or so Algonkians, pensive & puzzled, paused for a thought encased in deep, riverine bowels. Glass slipper, blue guitar - Silent Lake with something of wild dimensions in Warsas Caves (Cyclopean boulders), Serpent Mounds, this runic enchantment with glyphs & a cabalistic moon of May.

Memory

Fannie Isabelle Sherrick

A treasured link of shining pearls, A by-gone melody, A shower of tears with smiles between-- And this is memory. A thing so light a breath of air May waft its life away; A thing so dark that moments of pain Seem like some endless day. A careless word may wound the heart, And quickly it may die; Yet in the seas of memory Forever it will lie. And sometimes when the tide rolls back Its waves of joy and pain, That careless word, though long forgot, Will wound the heart again. The restless seas of memory Are vast and deep and wide; And every deed that we can know Sleeps in that tireless tide. Upon the thoughtless lives of men Its waves in mockery roll; And sweep a might of bitter pain Across each human soul. And few can stand upon the sands Beside this boundless sea, And say with calm unfaltering voice "It has no grief for me." The passing wave may bear away Our deeds and words untrue; Yet surely as the tide comes in The wrecks will follow too.

A Chameleon.

Oliver Herford

A USE-FUL les-son you may con, My Child, from the Cha-me-le-on: He has the gift, ex-treme-ly rare In an-i-mals, of sav-oir-faire. And if the se-cret you would guess Of the Cha-me-le-on's suc-cess, A-dapt your-self with great-est care To your sur-round-ings ev-er-y-where; And then, un-less your sex pre-vent, Some day you may be Pres-i-dent.

A Rover Chanty

Arthur Conan Doyle

A trader sailed from Stepney town - Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the mainsail! A trader sailed from Stepney town With a keg full of gold and a velvet gown: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Waiting with his yard aback Out upon the Lowland sea! The trader he had a daughter fair - Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the foresail The trader he had a daughter fair, She had gold in her ears, and gold in her hair: All for bully rover Jack, Waiting with his yard aback, Out upon the Lowland sea! 'Alas the day, oh daughter mine!' - Shake her up! Wake her up! Try her with the topsail! 'Alas the day, oh daughter mine! Yon red, red flag is a fearsome sign!' Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack, Out upon the Lowland sea! 'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried - Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the jibsail! 'A fearsome flag!' the maiden cried, But comelier men I never have spied!' Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack, Out upon the Lowland sea! There's a wooden path that the rovers know - Wake her up! Shake her up! Try her with the headsails! There's a wooden path that the rovers know, Where none come back, though many must go: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Lying with his yard aback, Out upon the Lowland sea! Where is the trader of Stepney town? - Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stick a-bending! Where is the trader of Stepney town? There's gold on the capstan, and blood on the gown: Ho for bully rover Jack, Waiting with his yard aback, Out upon the Lowland sea! Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? - Wake her up! Shake her up! Every stitch a-drawing! Where is the maiden who knelt at his side? We gowned her in scarlet, and chose her our bride: Ho, the bully rover Jack, Reaching on the weather tack, Right across the Lowland sea! So it's up and its over to Stornoway Bay, Pack it on! Crack it on! Try her with the stunsails! It's off on a bowline to Stornoway Bay, Where the liquor is good and the lasses are gay: Waiting for their bully Jack, Watching for him sailing back, Right across the Lowland sea.

The Jaffa And Jerusalem Railway

Eugene Field

A tortuous double iron track; a station here, a station there; A locomotive, tender, tanks; a coach with stiff reclining chair; Some postal cars, and baggage, too; a vestibule of patent make; With buffers, duffers, switches, and the soughing automatic brake-- This is the Orient's novel pride, and Syria's gaudiest modern gem: The railway scheme that is to ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. Beware, O sacred Mooley cow, the engine when you hear its bell; Beware, O camel, when resounds the whistle's shrill, unholy swell; And, native of that guileless land, unused to modern travel's snare, Beware the fiend that peddles books--the awful peanut-boy beware. Else, trusting in their specious arts, you may have reason to condemn The traffic which the knavish ply 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem. And when, ah, when the bonds fall due, how passing wroth will wax the state From Nebo's mount to Nazareth will spread the cry "Repudiate"! From Hebron to Tiberius, from Jordan's banks unto the sea, Will rise profuse anathemas against "that ---- monopoly!" And F.M.B.A. shepherd-folk, with Sockless Jerry leading them, Will swamp that corporation line 'twixt Jaffa and Jerusalem.

Meeting In Summer

Madison Julius Cawein

A tranquil bar Of rosy twilight under dusk's first star. A glimmering sound Of whispering waters over grassy ground. A sun-sweet smell Of fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell. A lazy breeze Jostling the ripeness from the apple-trees. A vibrant cry, Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky. And faintly now The katydid upon the shadowy bough. And far-off then The little owl within the lonely glen. And soon, full soon, The silvery arrival of the moon. And, to your door, The path of roses I have trod before. And, sweetheart, you! Among the roses and the moonlit dew.

The Old House

Walter De La Mare

A very, very old house I know- And ever so many people go, Past the small lodge, forlorn and still, Under the heavy branches, till Comes the blank wall, and there's the door. Go in they do; come out no more. No voice says aught; no spark of light Across that threshold cheers the sight; Only the evening star on high Less lonely makes a lonely sky, As, one by one, the people go Into that very old house I know.

The Turk

Alfred Lichtenstein

A totally perverse Turk bought for himself, Out of grief for the recent death Of plump Fatme, his favorite wife, From his white-slaver, two former mannequins, in quite good condition - You could almost say: brand new - Just imported from France. When he had them, he sang, in celebration of himelf: Sit down on my thighs. Hold me around my loins. With your sweet tongues Stroke my tearful cheeks. Ah, you have such beautifully bejeweled Eyes and such clear hands, Weariest of my wives, And such long, gentle legs. Tomorrow I buy six pairs of new Stockings of the thinnest silk As well as very small, black silk shoes. And in the evening you will dance Soft, false dances In the new silk shoes And new silk stockings. In the garden.    In the sun. Close to the water. But at night I'll have you whipped By four smiling eunuchs.

In Memoriam. - Henrietta Selden Colt,

Lydia Howard Sigourney

Daughter of Col. SAMUEL and Mrs. ELIZABETH COLT, died January 20th, 1862, aged 7 months and 27 days. THE MOURNING MOTHER. A tomb for thee, my babe! Dove of my bosom, can it be? But yesterday in all thy charms, Laughing and leaping in my arms, A tomb and shroud for thee! A couch for thee mine own, Beneath the frost and snow! So fondly cradled, soft and warm, And sheltered from each breath of storm, A wintry couch for thee! Thy noble father's there, But the last week he died, He would have stretched his guarding arm, To shelter thee from every harm, Nestle thee to his side. Thy ruby lip skill'd not That father's name to speak, Yet wouldst thou pause mid infant play To kiss his picture when away, The love smile on thy cheek. Thy brother slumbereth there, Our first-born joy was he, Thy little sister sweetly fair, Most like a blessed bird of air; A goodly company. Only one left with me, One here and three above, Be not afraid my precious child! The Shepherd of the lambs is mild,-- Sleep in His love. Thou never saw'st our Spring Unfold the blossoms gay; But thou shalt see perennial bowers, Enwreathed with bright and glorious flowers, That cannot fade away. And thou shalt join the song, That happy cherubs pour, In their adoring harmonies: I'll hear ye, darlings, when I rise To that celestial shore. Yes, there's a Saviour dear,-- Keep down, oh tears, that swell! A righteous God who reigns above, Whose darkest ways are truth and love, He doeth all things well.

Buffalo Creek

John Le Gay Brereton

A timid child with heart oppressed By images of sin, I slunk into the bush for rest, And found my fairy kin. The fire I carried kept me warm: The friendly air was chill. The laggards of the lowing storm Trailed gloom along the hill. I watched the crawling monsters melt And saw their shadows wane As on my satin skin I felt The fingers of the rain. The sunlight was a golden beer, I drank a magic draught; The sky was clear and, void of fear, I stood erect and laughed. And sudden laughter, idly free, About me trilled and rang, And love was shed from every tree, And little bushes sang. The bay of conscience' bloody hound That tears the world apart Has never drowned the silent sound Within my happy heart.

Guilt And Sorrow Or Incidents Upon Salisbury Plain

William Wordsworth

I A Traveler on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. II While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" The pendent grapes glittered above the door; On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. III The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. IV No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. V Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. VI And be it so for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long endured in hope of just reward, He to an armed fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in 'his' heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. VII For years the work of carnage did not cease, And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. VIII Vain hope! for frand took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run. He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. IX From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. X It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way. XI As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. XII Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight. XIII All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye which, wheresoe'er it strays, Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. XIV Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain. XV Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. XVI No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cowered o'er fire of furze or broom; No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night. XVII At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; The downs were visible and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain. XVIII Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs, his eyes begin to close; XIX When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; XX Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. XXI Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. XXII But soon his voice and words of kind intent Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its 'rage' was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. XXIII "By Derwent's side my father dwelt a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. XXIV "A little croft we owned a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side. XXV "The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. XXVI "The suns of twenty summers danced along, Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune might put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came; our final leave we took. XXVII "It was indeed a miserable hour When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made! Tilt then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed; I could not pray: through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! XXVIII "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. XXIX "Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! What tender vows, our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned: we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. XXX "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. XXXI "'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. XXXII "There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed; Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed at last the land withdrew. XXXIII "But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. XXXIV "The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished all in one remorseless year, Husband and children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." XXXV Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. XXXVI "O come," he cried, "come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near. XXXVII They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed. XXXVIII "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. XXXIX "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunderstroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! XL "Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. XLI "And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful flood.' To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. XLII "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. XLIII "So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recall. XLIV "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; I heard my neighbours in their beds complain Of many things which never troubled me Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. XLV "These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed, The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food and rest, more welcome, more desired. XLVI "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. XLVII "But ill they suited me those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. XLVIII "What could I do, unaided and unblest? My father! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. XLIX "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Foregone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. L "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend Oh! tell me whither for no earthly friend Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. LI True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 'Twas not for 'him' to speak a man so tried, Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. LII Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle, -but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement, LIII A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. LIV His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad; Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. LV Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw there and upon that ground Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. LVI Within himself he said What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. LVII "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase?" While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. LVIII Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. LIX They saw and heard, and, winding with the road, Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort, by prouder mansions unbestowed, Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn; the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. LX Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. LXI A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her, wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. LXII The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. LXIII While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife "God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!" LXIV So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said "I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. LXV "Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain; For I shall never see my father's door again. LXVI "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. LXVII "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; LXVIII "For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And 'he' had done the deed in the dark wood Near his own home! but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband's lovingkindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." LXIX Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried "Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish forgive me, but forgive!" LXX To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." LXXI 'She' slept in peace, his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face, then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!" LXXII The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot, And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour heremained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. LXXIII Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" LXXIV His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not: no one on 'his' form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

A Sentiment

Oliver Wendell Holmes

A triple health to Friendship, Science, Art, From heads and hands that own a common heart! Each in its turn the others' willing slave, Each in its season strong to heal and save. Friendship's blind service, in the hour of need, Wipes the pale face, and lets the victim bleed. Science must stop to reason and explain; ART claps his finger on the streaming vein. But Art's brief memory fails the hand at last; Then SCIENCE lifts the flambeau of the past. When both their equal impotence deplore, When Learning sighs, and Skill can do no more, The tear of FRIENDSHIP pours its heavenly balm, And soothes the pang no anodyne may calm May 1, 1855.

The Miller And His Son

Walter De La Mare

A twangling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play the livelong day, 'The Miller and his Son.' 'The Miller went a-walking All in the forest high, He sees three doves a-flitting Against the dark blue sky: 'Says he, "My son, now follow These doves so white and free, That cry above the forest, And surely cry to thee." "I go, my dearest Father, But O! I sadly fear, These doves so white will lead me far, But never bring me near." 'He kisses the Miller, He cries, "Awhoop to ye!" And straightway through the forest Follows the wood-doves three. 'There came a sound of weeping To the Miller in his Mill; Red roses in a thicket Bloomed over near his wheel; 'Three stars shone wild and brightly Above the forest dim: But never his dearest son Returns again to him. 'The cuckoo shall call "Cuckoo!" In vain along the vale, The linnet, and the blackbird, The mournful nightingale; 'The Miller hears and sees not, A-thinking of his son; His toppling wheel is silent; His grinding done. '"Ye doves so white," he weepeth, "Ye roses on the tree, Ye stars that shine so brightly, Ye shine in vain for me!" 'I bade him follow, follow, He said, "O Father dear, These doves so white will lead me far But never bring me near!"' A twangling harp for Mary, A silvery flute for John, And now we'll play the livelong day, 'The Miller and his Son.'

The Ingratitude And Injustice Of Men Towards Fortune.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A trader on the sea to riches grew; Freight after freight the winds in favour blew; Fate steer'd him clear; gulf, rock, nor shoal Of all his bales exacted toll. Of other men the powers of chance and storm Their dues collected in substantial form; While smiling Fortune, in her kindest sport, Took care to waft his vessels to their port. His partners, factors, agents, faithful proved; His goods - tobacco, sugar, spice - Were sure to fetch the highest price. By fashion and by folly loved, His rich brocades and laces, And splendid porcelain vases, Enkindling strong desires, Most readily found buyers. In short, gold rain'd where'er he went - Abundance, more than could be spent - Dogs, horses, coaches, downy bedding - His very fasts were like a wedding. A bosom friend, a look his table giving, Inquired whence came such sumptuous living. 'Whence should it come,' said he, superb of brow, 'But from the fountain of my knowing how? I owe it simply to my skill and care In risking only where the marts will bear.' And now, so sweet his swelling profits were, He risk'd anew his former gains: Success rewarded not his pains - His own imprudence was the cause. One ship, ill-freighted, went awreck; Another felt of arms the lack, When pirates, trampling on the laws, O'ercame, and bore it off a prize. A third, arriving at its port, Had fail'd to sell its merchandize, - The style and folly of the court Not now requiring such a sort. His agents, factors, fail'd; - in short, The man himself, from pomp and princely cheer, And palaces, and parks, and dogs, and deer, Fell down to poverty most sad and drear. His friend, now meeting him in shabby plight, Exclaim'd, 'And whence comes this to pass?' 'From Fortune,' said the man, 'alas!' 'Console yourself,' replied the friendly wight: 'For, if to make you rich the dame denies, She can't forbid you to be wise.' What faith he gain'd, I do not wis; I know, in every case like this, Each claims the credit of his bliss, And with a heart ingrate Imputes his misery to Fate.[2]

At The Grave Of A Young Mother

Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

A transient day, A troubled night, The swift decay, The certain blight, And death and dust; - And are these all? - Nay: those are past; And she who sleeps Shall wake at last Among the just!

Shakespeare

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A vision as of crowded city streets, With human life in endless overflow; Thunder of thoroughfares; trumpets that blow To battle; clamor, in obscure retreats, Of sailors landed from their anchored fleets; Tolling of bells in turrets, and below Voices of children, and bright flowers that throw O'er garden-walls their intermingled sweets! This vision comes to me when I unfold The volume of the Poet paramount, Whom all the Muses loved, not one alone;-- Into his hands they put the lyre of gold, And, crowned with sacred laurel at their fount, Placed him as Musagetes on their throne.

The Pashaw And The Merchant.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A trading Greek, for want of law, Protection bought of a pashaw; And like a nobleman he paid, Much rather than a man of trade - Protection being, Turkish-wise, A costly sort of merchandise. So costly was it, in this case, The Greek complain'd, with tongue and face. Three other Turks, of lower rank, Would guard his substance as their own, And all draw less upon his bank, Than did the great pashaw alone. The Greek their offer gladly heard, And closed the bargain with a word. The said pashaw was made aware, And counsel'd, with a prudent care These rivals to anticipate, By sending them to heaven's gate, As messengers to Mahomet - Which measure should he much delay, Himself might go the self-same way, By poison offer'd secretly, Sent on, before his time, to be Protector to such arts and trades As flourish in the world of shades. On this advice, the Turk - no gander - Behaved himself like Alexander.[2] Straight to the merchant's, firm and stable, He went, and took a seat at table. Such calm assurance there was seen, Both in his words and in his mien, That e'en that weasel-sighted Grecian Could not suspect him of suspicion. 'My friend,' said he, 'I know you've quit me, And some think caution would befit me, Lest to despatch me be your plan: But, deeming you too good a man To injure either friends or foes With poison'd cups or secret blows, I drown the thought, and say no more. But, as regards the three or four Who take my place, I crave your grace To listen to an apologue. 'A shepherd, with a single dog, Was ask'd the reason why He kept a dog, whose least supply Amounted to a loaf of bread For every day. The people said He'd better give the animal To guard the village seignior's hall; For him, a shepherd, it would be A thriftier economy To keep small curs, say two or three, That would not cost him half the food, And yet for watching be as good. The fools, perhaps, forgot to tell If they would fight the wolf as well. The silly shepherd, giving heed, Cast off his dog of mastiff breed, And took three dogs to watch his cattle, Which ate far less, but fled in battle. His flock such counsel lived to rue, As doubtlessly, my friend, will you. If wise, my aid again you'll seek - ' And so, persuaded, did the Greek. Not vain our tale, if it convinces Small states that 'tis a wiser thing To trust a single powerful king, Than half a dozen petty princes.

The Wolf And The Lean Dog.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A troutling, some time since, Endeavour'd vainly to convince A hungry fisherman Of his unfitness for the frying-pan. That controversy made it plain That letting go a good secure, In hope of future gain, Is but imprudence pure. The fisherman had reason good - The troutling did the best he could - Both argued for their lives. Now, if my present purpose thrives, I'll prop my former proposition By building on a small addition. A certain wolf, in point of wit The prudent fisher's opposite, A dog once finding far astray, Prepared to take him as his prey. The dog his leanness pled; 'Your lordship, sure,' he said, 'Cannot be very eager To eat a dog so meagre. To wait a little do not grudge: The wedding of my master's only daughter Will cause of fatted calves and fowls a slaughter; And then, as you yourself can judge, I cannot help becoming fatter.' The wolf, believing, waived the matter, And so, some days therefrom, Return'd with sole design to see If fat enough his dog might be. The rogue was now at home: He saw the hunter through the fence. 'My friend,' said he, 'please wait; I'll be with you a moment hence, And fetch our porter of the gate.' This porter was a dog immense, That left to wolves no future tense. Suspicion gave our wolf a jog, - It might not be so safely tamper'd. 'My service to your porter dog,' Was his reply, as off he scamper'd. His legs proved better than his head, And saved him life to learn his trade.

Misty Sky

Charles Baudelaire

A vapour seems to hide your face from view; Your mystic eye (is it green, grey, or blue?) Tender by turns, dreamy or merciless, Reflects the heavens' pallid indolence. You call to mind white, mild, enshrouded days That make enchanted hearts dissolve away, When, agitated by a twisting ache, The taut nerves call the spirit to awake. Sometimes you're like horizons set aglow By suns in rainy seasons here below... Like you superb, a watery countryside That rays enflame out of a misty sky! O weather! woman! - both seduce me so! Will I adore as well your frost and snow, And will I draw from winter's ruthless vice Pleasures more keen than iron or than ice?

Fragments On Nature And Life - Life

Ralph Waldo Emerson

A train of gay and clouded days Dappled with joy and grief and praise, Beauty to fire us, saints to save, Escort us to a little grave. No fate, save by the victim's fault, is low, For God hath writ all dooms magnificent, So guilt not traverses his tender will. Around the man who seeks a noble end, Not angels but divinities attend. From high to higher forces The scale of power uprears, The heroes on their horses, The gods upon their spheres. This shining moment is an edifice Which the Omnipotent cannot rebuild. Roomy Eternity Casts her schemes rarely, And an aeon allows For each quality and part Of the multitudinous And many-chambered heart. The beggar begs by God's command, And gifts awake when givers sleep, Swords cannot cut the giving hand Nor stab the love that orphans keep. In the chamber, on the stairs, Lurking dumb, Go and come Lemurs and Lars. Such another peerless queen Only could her mirror show. Easy to match what others do, Perform the feat as well as they; Hard to out-do the brave, the true, And find a loftier way: The school decays, the learning spoils Because of the sons of wine; How snatch the stripling from their toils?-- Yet can one ray of truth divine The blaze of revellers' feasts outshine. Of all wit's uses the main one Is to live well with who has none. The tongue is prone to lose the way, Not so the pen, for in a letter We have not better things to say, But surely say them better. She walked in flowers around my field As June herself around the sphere. Friends to me are frozen wine; I wait the sun on them should shine. You shall not love me for what daily spends; You shall not know me in the noisy street, Where I, as others, follow petty ends; Nor when in fair saloons we chance to meet; Nor when I'm jaded, sick, anxious or mean. But love me then and only, when you know Me for the channel of the rivers of God From deep ideal fontal heavens that flow. To and fro the Genius flies, A light which plays and hovers Over the maiden's head And dips sometimes as low as to her eyes. Of her faults I take no note, Fault and folly are not mine; Comes the Genius,--all's forgot, Replunged again into that upper sphere He scatters wide and wild its lustres here. Love Asks nought his brother cannot give; Asks nothing, but does all receive. Love calls not to his aid events; He to his wants can well suffice: Asks not of others soft consents, Nor kind occasion without eyes; Nor plots to ope or bolt a gate, Nor heeds Condition's iron walls,-- Where he goes, goes before him Fate; Whom he uniteth, God installs; Instant and perfect his access To the dear object of his thought, Though foes and land and seas between Himself and his love intervene. The brave Empedocles, defying fools, Pronounced the word that mortals hate to hear-- "I am divine, I am not mortal made; I am superior to my human weeds." Not Sense but Reason is the Judge of truth; Reason's twofold, part human, part divine; That human part may be described and taught, The other portion language cannot speak. Tell men what they knew before; Paint the prospect from their door. Him strong Genius urged to roam, Stronger Custom brought him home. That each should in his house abide. Therefore was the world so wide. Thou shalt make thy house The temple of a nation's vows. Spirits of a higher strain Who sought thee once shall seek again. I detected many a god Forth already on the road, Ancestors of beauty come In thy breast to make a home. The archangel Hope Looks to the azure cope, Waits through dark ages for the morn, Defeated day by day, but unto victory born. As the drop feeds its fated flower, As finds its Alp the snowy shower, Child of the omnific Need, Hurled into life to do a deed, Man drinks the water, drinks the light. Ever the Rock of Ages melts Into the mineral air, To be the quarry whence to build Thought and its mansions fair. Go if thou wilt, ambrosial flower, Go match thee with thy seeming peers; I will wait Heaven's perfect hour Through the innumerable years. Yes, sometimes to the sorrow-stricken Shall his own sorrow seem impertinent, A thing that takes no more root in the world Than doth the traveller's shadow on the rock. But if thou do thy best, Without remission, without rest, And invite the sunbeam, And abhor to feign or seem Even to those who thee should love And thy behavior approve; If thou go in thine own likeness, Be it health, or be it sickness; If thou go as thy father's son, If thou wear no mask or lie, Dealing purely and nakedly,-- *            *            * Ascending thorough just degrees To a consummate holiness, As angel blind to trespass done, And bleaching all souls like the sun. From the stores of eldest matter, The deep-eyed flame, obedient water, Transparent air, all-feeding earth, He took the flower of all their worth, And, best with best in sweet consent, Combined a new temperament.

Golden - Of The Selkirks

Emily Pauline Johnson

A trail upwinds from Golden; It leads to a land God only knows, To the land of eternal frozen snows, That trail unknown and olden. And they tell a tale that is strange and wild - Of a lovely and lonely mountain child That went up the trail from Golden. A child in the sweet of her womanhood, Beautiful, tender, grave and good As the saints in time long olden. And the days count not, nor the weeks avail; For the child that went up the mountain trail Came never again to Golden. And the watchers wept in the midnight gloom, Where the canyons yawn and the Selkirks loom, For the love that they knew of olden. And April dawned, with its suns aflame, And the eagles wheeled and the vultures came And poised o'er the town of Golden. God of the white eternal peaks, Guard the dead while the vulture seeks! - God of the days so olden. For only God in His greatness knows Where the mountain holly above her grows, On the trail that leads from Golden.

The Night.

W. M. MacKeracher

A tremor, a quiver, Through her ran As over the river The dawn began. She drew her veil Over her eyes, And her face grew pale, As she watched the sun rise. She faded, turned To a ghost, was gone, As the morning burned And the day came on. With veiled, sad eye, And face still wan, She waited nigh When the dusk began. With her tears of bliss The earth was wet, And soothed with her kiss, When the sun had set. And with stately pride She sat on the throne Of her empire wide When the day had gone; And her robes she spread With their sable hem, And crowned her head With her diadem. And the mute earth saw That a Queen was she, And gazed with awe On her majesty.

Hamomlette

Paul Cameron Brown

A VICTIM OF INDIGESTION OR PATRICIDE? MAGIC PAN: CASTLE OF ELSINORE CHEF: THE MAD PRINCE OF DENMARK INGREDIENTS: THE TRAGEDY OF THE HUMAN CONDITION, SENSELESS FORCES THAT RAGE AND DESTROY A MAN COOKING INSTRUCTIONS: SIMMER SLOWLY A PERFECT SOUFFLE - ALAS POOR YORICK I KNEW HIM WELL...

Incidents Upon Salisbury Plain Or Guilt And Sorrow

William Wordsworth

I A Traveler on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. II While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" The pendent grapes glittered above the door; On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. III The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. IV No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. V Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. VI And be it so for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long endured in hope of just reward, He to an armed fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in 'his' heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. VII For years the work of carnage did not cease, And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. VIII Vain hope! for frand took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run. He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. IX From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. X It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way. XI As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. XII Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight. XIII All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye which, wheresoe'er it strays, Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. XIV Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain. XV Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. XVI No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cowered o'er fire of furze or broom; No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night. XVII At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; The downs were visible and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain. XVIII Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs, his eyes begin to close; XIX When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; XX Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. XXI Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. XXII But soon his voice and words of kind intent Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its 'rage' was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. XXIII "By Derwent's side my father dwelt a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. XXIV "A little croft we owned a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side. XXV "The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. XXVI "The suns of twenty summers danced along, Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune might put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came; our final leave we took. XXVII "It was indeed a miserable hour When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made! Tilt then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed; I could not pray: through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! XXVIII "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. XXIX "Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! What tender vows, our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned: we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. XXX "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. XXXI "'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. XXXII "There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed; Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed at last the land withdrew. XXXIII "But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. XXXIV "The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished all in one remorseless year, Husband and children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." XXXV Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. XXXVI "O come," he cried, "come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near. XXXVII They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed. XXXVIII "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. XXXIX "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunderstroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! XL "Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. XLI "And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful flood.' To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. XLII "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. XLIII "So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recall. XLIV "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; I heard my neighbours in their beds complain Of many things which never troubled me Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. XLV "These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed, The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food and rest, more welcome, more desired. XLVI "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. XLVII "But ill they suited me those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. XLVIII "What could I do, unaided and unblest? My father! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. XLIX "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Foregone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. L "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend Oh! tell me whither for no earthly friend Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. LI True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 'Twas not for 'him' to speak a man so tried, Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. LII Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle, -but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement, LIII A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. LIV His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad; Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. LV Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw there and upon that ground Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. LVI Within himself he said What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. LVII "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase?" While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. LVIII Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. LIX They saw and heard, and, winding with the road, Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort, by prouder mansions unbestowed, Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn; the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. LX Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. LXI A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her, wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. LXII The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. LXIII While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife "God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!" LXIV So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said "I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. LXV "Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain; For I shall never see my father's door again. LXVI "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek. Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. LXVII "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; LXVIII "For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And 'he' had done the deed in the dark wood Near his own home! but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband's lovingkindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." LXIX Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried "Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish forgive me, but forgive!" LXX To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." LXXI 'She' slept in peace, his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face, then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!" LXXII The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot, And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour heremained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. LXXIII Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" LXXIV His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not: no one on 'his' form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

The Troubadour

William Schwenck Gilbert

A troubadour he played Without a castle wall, Within, a hapless maid Responded to his call. "Oh, willow, woe is me! Alack and well-a-day! If I were only free I'd hie me far away!" Unknown her face and name, But this he knew right well, The maiden's wailing came From out a dungeon cell. A hapless woman lay Within that dungeon grim That fact, I've heard him say. Was quite enough for him. "I will not sit or lie, Or eat or drink, I vow. Till thou art free as I, Or I as pent as thou." Her tears then ceased to flow, Her wails no longer rang, And tuneful in her woe The prisoned maiden sang: "Oh, stranger, as you play I recognize your touch; And all that I can say Is, thank you very much." He seized his clarion straight, And blew thereat, until A warden oped the gate, "Oh, what might be your will?" "I've come, sir knave, to see The master of these halls: A maid unwillingly Lies prisoned in their walls." With barely stifled sigh That porter drooped his head, With teardrops in his eye, "A many, sir," he said. He stayed to hear no more, But pushed that porter by, And shortly stood before Sir Hugh de Peckham Rye. Sir Hugh he darkly frowned, "What would you, sir, with me?" The troubadour he downed Upon his bended knee. "I've come, De Peckham Rye, To do a Christian task; You ask me what would I? It is not much I ask. "Release these maidens, sir, Whom you dominion o'er Particularly her Upon the second floor. "And if you don't, my lord" He here stood bolt upright, And tapped a tailor's sword "Come out, you cad, and fight!" Sir Hugh he called and ran The warden from the gate: "Go, show this gentleman The maid in forty-eight." By many a cell they past, And stopped at length before A portal, bolted fast: The man unlocked the door. He called inside the gate With coarse and brutal shout, "Come, step it, Forty-eight!" And Forty-eight stepped out. "They gets it pretty hot, The maidens what we cotch Two years this lady's got For collaring a wotch." "Oh, ah! indeed I see," The troubadour exclaimed "If I may make so free, How is this castle named?" The warden's eyelids fill, And sighing, he replied, "Of gloomy Pentonville This is the female side!" The minstrel did not wait The warden stout to thank, But recollected straight He'd business at the Bank.

Rebecca

Hilaire Belloc

Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably A trick that everyone abhors In little girls is slamming doors. A wealthy banker's little daughter Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater (By name Rebecca Offendort), Was given to this furious sport. She would deliberately go And slam the door like billy-o! To make her uncle Jacob start. She was not really bad at heart, But only rather rude and wild; She was an aggravating child... It happened that a marble bust Of Abraham was standing just Above the door this little lamb Had carefully prepared to slam, And down it came! It knocked her flat! It laid her out! She looked like that. Her funeral sermon (which was long And followed by a sacred song) Mentioned her virtues, it is true, But dwelt upon her vices too, And showed the deadful end of one Who goes and slams the door for fun. The children who were brought to hear The awful tale from far and near Were much impressed, and inly swore They never more would slam the door, As often they had done before.

Ballade Of Muhammad Din Tilai

Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

A twist of fresh flowers on your dark hair, And your hair is a panther's shadow. On your white cheeks the down of a thousand roses, They speak about your beauty in Lahore. You have your mother's lips; Your ring is frosted with rubies, And your hair is a panther's shadow. Your ring is frosted with rubies; I was unhappy and you looked over the wall, I saw your face among the crimson lilies; There is no armour that a lover can buy, And your hair is a panther's shadow. "The cool fingers of the mistress burn her lovers And they go away. I have fatigued the wise of many lands, And my hair is a tangle of serpents. What is the profit of these shawls without you? And my hair is a panther's shadow." "A squadron of my father's men are about me, And I have woven a collar of yellow flowers. My eyes are veiled because I drink cups of bhang, Being a daughter of the daughter of queens. You cannot touch me because of my palaces, And my hair is a panther's shadow." I will touch you, though your beauty be as fair as song; For I am a disciple of Abdel Qadir Gilani, And my songs are as beautiful as women and as strong as love; And your hair is a panther's shadow. Your ring is frosted with rubies.... Muhammad Din awaits the parting of your scarves; Tilai is standing here, young and magnificent like a tree; And your hair is a panther's shadow. From the Pus'hto (Afghans, nineteenth century).

A Toad Can Die Of Light!

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A toad can die of light! Death is the common right Of toads and men, -- Of earl and midge The privilege. Why swagger then? The gnat's supremacy Is large as thine.

From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay

James Whitcomb Riley

A troth, and a grief, and a blessing, Disguised them and came this way, And one was a promise, and one was a doubt, And one was a rainy day. And they met betimes with this maiden, And the promise it spake and lied, And the doubt it gibbered and hugged itself, And the rainy day - she died.

Alone

Walter De La Mare

A very old woman Lives in yon house - The squeak of the cricket, The stir of the mouse, Are all she knows Of the earth and us. Once she was young, Would dance and play, Like many another Young popinjay; And run to her mother At dusk of day. And colours bright She delighted in; The fiddle to hear, And to lift her chin, And sing as small As a twittering wren. But age apace Comes at last to all; And a lone house filled With the cricket's call; And the scampering mouse In the hollow wall.

Little Charlie.

Horatio Alger, Jr.

A violet grew by the river-side, And gladdened all hearts with its bloom; While over the fields, on the scented air, It breathed a rich perfume. But the clouds grew dark in the angry sky, And its portals were opened wide; And the heavy rain beat down the flower That grew by the river-side. Not far away in a pleasant home, There lived a little boy, Whose cheerful face and childish grace Filled every heart with joy. He wandered one day to the river's verge, With no one near to save; And the heart that we loved with a boundless love Was stilled in the restless wave. The sky grew dark to our tearful eyes, And we bade farewell to joy; For our hearts were bound by a sorrowful tie To the grave of the little boy. The birds still sing in the leafy tree That shadows the open door; We heed them not, for we think of the voice That we shall hear no more. We think of him at eventide, And gaze on his vacant chair With a longing heart that will scarce believe That Charlie is not there. We seem to hear his ringing laugh, And his bounding step at the door; But, alas! there comes the sorrowful thought, We shall never hear them more! We shall walk sometimes to his little grave, In the pleasant summer hours; We will speak his name in a softened voice, And cover his grave with flowers; We will think of him in his heavenly home,-- In his heavenly home so fair; And we will trust with a hopeful trust That we shall meet him there.

The Trumpeter Taken Prisoner

Walter Crane

A Trumpeter, prisoner made, Hoped his life would be spared when he said He'd no part in the fight, But they answered him--"Right, But what of the music you made?" Songs May Serve A Cause As Well As Swords

The West-Of-Wessex Girl

Thomas Hardy

A very West-of-Wessex girl, As blithe as blithe could be, Was once well-known to me, And she would laud her native town, And hope and hope that we Might sometime study up and down Its charms in company. But never I squired my Wessex girl In jaunts to Hoe or street When hearts were high in beat, Nor saw her in the marbled ways Where market-people meet That in her bounding early days Were friendly with her feet. Yet now my West-of-Wessex girl, When midnight hammers slow From Andrew's, blow by blow, As phantom draws me by the hand To the place Plymouth Hoe Where side by side in life, as planned, We never were to go! Begun in Plymouth, March 1913.

On The Departure Of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford, For Naples

William Wordsworth

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laureled conqueror knows Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

Leaves Compared With Flowers

Robert Lee Frost

A tree's leaves may be ever so good, So may its bar, so may its wood; But unless you put the right thing to its root It never will show much flower or fruit. But I may be one who does not care Ever to have tree bloom or bear. Leaves for smooth and bark for rough, Leaves and bark may be tree enough. Some giant trees have bloom so small They might as well have none at all. Late in life I have come on fern. Now lichens are due to have their turn. I bade men tell me which in brief, Which is fairer, flower or leaf. They did not have the wit to say, Leaves by night and flowers by day. Leaves and bar, leaves and bark, To lean against and hear in the dark. Petals I may have once pursued. Leaves are all my darker mood.

A Train Went Through A Burial Gate,

Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

A train went through a burial gate, A bird broke forth and sang, And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat Till all the churchyard rang; And then adjusted his little notes, And bowed and sang again. Doubtless, he thought it meet of him To say good-by to men.

In The Record Room, Surrogate's Office.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

A tomb where legal ghouls grow fat; Where buried papers, fold on fold, Crumble to dust, that 'thwart the sun Floats dim, a pallid ghost of gold. The day is dying. All about, Dark, threat'ning shadows lurk; but still I ponder o'er a dead girl's name Fast fading from a dead man's will. Katrina Harland, fair and sweet, Sole heiress of your father's land, Full many a gallant wooer rode To snare your heart, to win your hand. And one, perchance who loved you best, Feared men might sneer "he sought her gold" And never spoke, but turned away Stubborn and proud, to call you cold. Cold? Would I knew! Perhaps you loved, And mourned him all a virgin life. Perhaps forgot his very name As happy mother, happy wife. Unanswered, sad, I turn away "You loved her first, then?" First well no You little goose, the Harland will Was proved full sixty years ago. But Katrine's lands to-day are known To lawyers as the Glass House tract; Who were her heirs, no record shows; The title's bad, in point of fact, If she left children, at her death, I've been retained to clear the title; And all the questions, raised above, Are, you'll perceive, extremely vital.

The Toast

Virna Sheard

A toast to thee, 0 dear old year, While the last moments fly, A toast to thy sweet memory - We'll lift the glasses high, And bid to thee a fond farewell As thou art passing by! A toast to those who reaped success In this good year of grace; A toast to every one of them - Come! Give the victors place! Come, wish them well with right good will - The winners in the race! And one toast more! To those who failed Wherever they may be; - With faces white they fought the fight, But missed the victory; So here's to them - the ones who strove - On land and on the sea! Fair dreams to thee, 0 grey old year, Thy working time is done, And gone for thee the silver moon, And golden noon-day sun; Yet sad old year - and glad old year - We'll know no better one.

Easter Morn

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A truth that has long lain buried At Superstition's door, I see, in the dawn uprising In all its strength once more. Hidden away in the darkness, By Ignorance crucified, Crushed under stones of dogmas - Yet lo! it has not died. It stands in the light transfigured, It speaks from the heights above, "EACH SOUL IS ITS OWN REDEEMER; THERE IS NO LAW BUT LOVE." And the spirits of men are gladdened As they welcome this Truth re-born With its feet on the grave of Error And its eyes to the Easter Morn.

On The Departure Of Sir Walter Scott From Abbotsford

William Wordsworth

A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping rain, Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height: Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain For kindred Power departing from their sight; While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, Saddens his voice again, and yet again. Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners! for the might Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; Blessings and prayers in nobler retinue Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea, Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope!

Alphabet, No. 6.

Edward Lear

tumbled down, and hurt his Arm, against a bit of wood, said. "My Boy, oh, do not cry; it cannot do you good!" said, "A Cup of Coffee hot can't do you any harm." said, "A Doctor should be fetched, and he would cure the arm." said, "An Egg beat up with milk would quickly make him well." said, "A Fish, if broiled, might cure, if only by the smell." said, "Green Gooseberry fool, the best of cures I hold." said, "His Hat should be kept on, to keep him from the cold." said, "Some Ice upon his head will make him better soon." said, "Some Jam, if spread on bread, or given in a spoon!" said, "A Kangaroo is here, - this picture let him see." said, "A Lamp pray keep alight, to make some barley tea." said, "A Mulberry or two might give him satisfaction." said, "Some Nuts, if rolled about, might be a slight attraction." said, "An Owl might make him laugh, if only it would wink." said, "Some Poetry might be read aloud, to make him think." said, "A Quince I recommend, - a Quince, or else a Quail." said, "Some Rats might make him move, if fastened by their tail." said, "A Song should now be sung, in hopes to make him laugh!" said, "A Turnip might avail, if sliced or cut in half!" said, "An Urn, with water hot, place underneath his chin!" said, "I'll stand upon a chair, and play a Violin!" said, "Some Whisky-Whizzgigs fetch, some marbles and a ball!" said, "Some double XX ale would be the best of all!" said, "Some Yeast mixed up with salt would make a perfect plaster!" said, "Here is a box of Zinc! Get in, my little master! We'll shut you up! We'll nail you down! We will, my little master! We think we've all heard quite enough of this your sad disaster!"

A Valentine

Barcroft Boake

A Valentine The Bree was up; the floods were out Around the hut of Culgo Jim: The hand of God had broke the drought And filled the channels to the brim: The outline of the hut loomed dim Among the shades of murmurous pine, That eve of good Saint Valentine. He watched, and to his sleepy gaze The dying embers of the fire, Its yellow reds and pearly greys, Made pictures of his younger days. Outside the waters mounted higher Beneath a half-moon's sickly shine, That eve of good Saint Valentine. There, in the great slab fire-place The oak log, burnt away to coal, Showed him the semblance of a face Framed in a golden aureole: Eyes, the clear windows of a soul Soul of a maid, who used to sign Herself, 'Jim, dear, your Valentine.' Lips, whose pink curves were made to bear Love's kisses, not to be the mock Of grave-worms . . . Suddenly a whirr, And twelve loud strokes upon the clock; Then at the door a gentle knock. The collie dog began to whine That morn of good Saint Valentine. He opened; by his heels the hound Sniffed at the night. 'Who comes, and why? What? no one! Hush! was that a sound? Methought I heard a human cry. Bah! 'twas a curlew passing by Out where the lignum bushes twine, This morn of good Saint Valentine. 'What ails the dog? Down, Stumpy, down! No? Well, lead on, perchance a It is, poor brute, that fears to drown. Heavens! how chill the waters creep! Why, Stumpy, do you splash and leap? 'Tis but a foolish quest of thine, This morn of good Saint Valentine. 'Nay, not so foolish as I thought . . . Hark! 'mid those reeds a feeble scream! Mother of God! a cradle brought Down from some homestead up the stream! A white-robed baby! Do I dream? No, 'tis that dear dead love of mine Who sends me thus a Valentine!'

The Yarrow

Madison Julius Cawein

I. A Tortured tree in a huddled hollow, On whose gnarled boughs three leaves are blowing: A strip of path that the hunters follow, That leads to fields of the wind's wild sowing, And a rain-washed hill with the wild-thorn growing. II. And here one day, when the sky was raining, And the wind came sharp as an Indian-arrow, And Winter walked on the hills complaining, I found a blossom of summer yarrow, In the freezing wet, where the way was narrow. III. Its dim white umble was bravely lifted, Defying Winter and wind and weather, Facing the rout as they whirled and shifted, Twisting its blossom and leaves together, Its fern-fair leaves that were sweet as the heather. IV. And I thought, as I saw it there so fearless, Facing death, that was sure to follow When the sky and the earth with white were cheerless, And the rabbit shivered within its hollow, That here was a weed that was worth the swallow. V. Its fortitude and its strength reminded My soul of the souls that arc like the yarrow, That face defeat, though its blows have blinded, And smile, and fight, in their heart an arrow, And fall unknown in the path that is narrow.

In Peace

John Greenleaf Whittier

A track of moonlight on a quiet lake, Whose small waves on a silver-sanded shore Whisper of peace, and with the low winds make Such harmonies as keep the woods awake, And listening all night long for their sweet sake A green-waved slope of meadow, hovered o'er By angel-troops of lilies, swaying light On viewless stems, with folded wings of white; A slumberous stretch of mountain-land, far seen Where the low westering day, with gold and green, Purple and amber, softly blended, fills The wooded vales, and melts among the hills; A vine-fringed river, winding to its rest On the calm bosom of a stormless sea, Bearing alike upon its placid breast, With earthly flowers and heavenly' stars impressed, The hues of time and of eternity Such are the pictures which the thought of thee, O friend, awakeneth,--charming the keen pain Of thy departure, and our sense of loss Requiting with the fullness of thy gain. Lo! on the quiet grave thy life-borne cross, Dropped only at its side, methinks doth shine, Of thy beatitude the radiant sign! No sob of grief, no wild lament be there, To break the Sabbath of the holy air; But, in their stead, the silent-breathing prayer Of hearts still waiting for a rest like thine. O spirit redeemed! Forgive us, if henceforth, With sweet and pure similitudes of earth, We keep thy pleasant memory freshly green, Of love's inheritance a priceless part, Which Fancy's self, in reverent awe, is seen To paint, forgetful of the tricks of art, With pencil dipped alone in colors of the heart

The Unattained

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A vision beauteous as the morn, With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming, Slow glided o'er a field late shorn Where walked a poet idly dreaming. He saw her, and joy lit his face, "Oh, vanish not at human speaking," He cried, "thou form of magic grace, Thou art the poem I am seeking. "I've sought thee long!    I claim thee now - My thought embodied, living, real." She shook the tresses from her brow. "Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal. I am the phantom of desire - The spirit of all great endeavour, I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,' That calls men up and up for ever. "'Tis not alone thy thought supreme That here upon thy path has risen; I am the artist's highest dream, The ray of light he cannot prison. I am the sweet ecstatic note Than all glad music gladder, clearer, That trembles in the singer's throat, And dies without a human hearer. "I am the greater, better yield, That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbour, For me he bravely tills the field And whistles gaily at his labour. Not thou alone, O poet soul, Dost seek me through an endless morrow, But to the toiling, hoping whole I am at once the hope and sorrow. "The spirit of the unattained, I am to those who seek to name me, A good desired but never gained: All shall pursue, but none shall claim me."

The Two Samaritans And The Tramp

Henry Lawson

A tramp was trampin' on the road, The afternoon was warm an' muggy, And by-and-by he chanced to meet A parsin ridin' in a buggy. Said he: 'As follerers ov the Loard, To do good offices we oughter!' An' from a water-bag he poured, An' guv the tramp, a drink er water. The parsin he went rattlin' 'ome To ware his fam-i-lee was thrivin', The tramp went on until he met A bullick-driver, bullick drivin', 'It's bilin' 'ot,' the driver sed As soon's the dirty tramp drawed nearer, And from a little keg he poured, And giv the tramp a pint of beer, 'ah!' (P.S., The 'ah' is meant to stand for the tramp a-drinking ov it.) I ain't agin the temperance cause, Nor yet no advocate ov drinkin', I only tells the yarn because, Well, at the time it somehow seemed Ter kind ov set me thinkin'.

A Voice By The Cedar Tree

Alfred Lord Tennyson

A voice by cedar tree In the meadow under the Hall! She is singing an air that is known to me, A passionate ballad gallant and gay, A martial song like a trumpet's call! Singing of men that in battle array Ready in heart and ready in hand, March with banner and bugle and fife To the death, for their native land. Maud with her exquisite face, And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky, And feet like sunny gems on an English green, Maud in the light of her youth and her grace, Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die, Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean, And myself so languid and base.

The Future

Matthew Arnold

A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a ship On the breast of the river of Time; Brimming with wonder and joy He spreads out his arms to the light, Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. Whether he wakes, Where the snowy mountainous pass, Echoing the screams of the eagles, Hems in its gorges the bed Of the new-born clear-flowing stream; Whether he first sees light Where the river in gleaming rings Sluggishly winds through the plain; Whether in sound of the swallowing sea As is the world on the banks, So is the mind of the man. Vainly does each, as he glides, Fable and dream Of the lands which the river of Time Had left ere he woke on its breast, Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. Only the tract where he sails He wots of; only the thoughts, Raised by the objects he passes, are his. Who can see the green earth any more As she was by the sources of Time? Who imagines her fields as they lay In the sunshine, unworn by the plough? Who thinks as they thought, The tribes who then roam'd on her breast, Her vigorous, primitive sons? What girl Now reads in her bosom as clear As Rebekah read, when she sate At eve by the palm-shaded well? Who guards in her breast As deep, as pellucid a spring Of feeling, as tranquil, as sure? What bard, At the height of his vision, can deem Of God, of the world, of the soul, With a plainness as near, As flashing as Moses felt When he lay in the night by his flock On the starlit Arabian waste? Can rise and obey The beck of the Spirit like him? This tract which the river of Time Now flows through with us, is the plain. Gone is the calm of its earlier shore. Border'd by cities and hoarse With a thousand cries is its stream. And we on its breast, our minds Are confused as the cries which we hear, Changing and shot as the sights which we see. And we say that repose has fled For ever the course of the river of Time. That cities will crowd to its edge In a blacker, incessanter line; That the din will be more on its banks, Denser the trade on its stream, Flatter the plain where it flows, Fiercer the sun overhead. That never will those on its breast See an ennobling sight, Drink of the feeling of quiet again. But what was before us we know not, And we know not what shall succeed. Haply, the river of Time As it grows, as the towns on its marge Fling their wavering lights On a wider, statelier stream May acquire, if not the calm Of its early mountainous shore, Yet a solemn peace of its own. And the width of the waters, the hush Of the grey expanse where he floats, Freshening its current and spotted with foam As it draws to the Ocean, may strike Peace to the soul of the man on its breast As the pale waste widens around him, As the banks fade dimmer away, As the stars come out, and the night-wind Brings up the stream Murmurs and scents of the infinite sea.

In Memory of Edward Butler

Henry Kendall

A voice of grave, deep emphasis Is in the woods to-night; No sound of radiant day is this, No cadence of the light. Here in the fall and flights of leaves Against grey widths of sea, The spirit of the forests grieves For lost Persephone. The fair divinity that roves Where many waters sing Doth miss her daughter of the groves The golden-headed Spring. She cannot find the shining hand That once the rose caressed; There is no blossom on the land, No bird in last year's nest. Here, where this strange Demeter weeps This large, sad life unseen Where July's strong, wild torrent leaps The wet hill-heads between, I sit and listen to the grief, The high, supreme distress, Which sobs above the fallen leaf Like human tenderness! Where sighs the sedge and moans the marsh, The hermit plover calls; The voice of straitened streams is harsh By windy mountain walls; There is no gleam upon the hills Of last October's wings; The shining lady of the rills Is with forgotten things. Now where the land's worn face is grey And storm is on the wave, What flower is left to bear away To Edward Butler's grave? What tender rose of song is here That I may pluck and send Across the hills and seas austere To my lamented friend? There is no blossom left at all; But this white winter leaf, Whose glad green life is past recall, Is token of my grief. Where love is tending growths of grace, The first-born of the Spring, Perhaps there may be found a place For my pale offering. For this heroic Irish heart We miss so much to-day, Whose life was of our lives a part, What words have I to say? Because I know the noble woe That shrinks beneath the touch The pain of brothers stricken low I will not say too much. But often in the lonely space When night is on the land, I dream of a departed face A gracious, vanished hand. And when the solemn waters roll Against the outer steep, I see a great, benignant soul Beside me in my sleep. Yea, while the frost is on the ways With barren banks austere, The friend I knew in other days Is often very near. I do not hear a single tone; But where this brother gleams, The elders of the seasons flown Are with me in my dreams. The saintly face of Stenhouse turns His kind old eyes I see; And Pell and Ridley from their urns Arise and look at me. By Butler's side the lights reveal The father of his fold, I start from sleep in tears, and feel That I am growing old. Where Edward Butler sleeps, the wave Is hardly ever heard; But now the leaves above his grave By August's songs are stirred. The slope beyond is green and still, And in my dreams I dream The hill is like an Irish hill Beside an Irish stream.

Ballad. A Weedling Wild, On Lonely Lea

John Clare

A weedling wild, on lonely lea, My evening rambles chanc'd to see; And much the weedling tempted me To crop its tender flower: Expos'd to wind and heavy rain, Its head bow'd lowly on the plain; And silently it seem'd in pain Of life's endanger'd hour. "And wilt thou bid my bloom decay, And crop my flower, and me betray? And cast my injur'd sweets away,"-- Its silence seemly sigh'd-- "A moment's idol of thy mind? And is a stranger so unkind, To leave a shameful root behind, Bereft of all its pride?" And so it seemly did complain; And beating fell the heavy rain; And low it droop'd upon the plain, To fate resign'd to fall: My heart did melt at its decline, And "Come," said I, "thou gem divine, My fate shall stand the storm with thine;" So took the root and all.

Gray Nights

Ernest Christopher Dowson

A while we wandered (thus it is I dream!) Through a long, sandy track of No Man's Land, Where only poppies grew among the sand, The which we, plucking, cast with scant esteem, And ever sadlier, into the sad stream, Which followed us, as we went, hand in hand, Under the estranged stars, a road unplanned, Seeing all things in the shadow of a dream. And ever sadlier, as the stars expired, We found the poppies rarer, till thine eyes Grown all my light, to light me were too tired, And at their darkening, that no surmise Might haunt me of the lost days we desired, After them all I flung those memories!

The Star-Treader

Clark Ashton Smith

I A voice cried to me in a dawn of dreams, Saying, "Make haste: the webs of death and birth Are brushed away, and all the threads of earth Wear to the breaking; spaceward gleams Thine ancient pathway of the suns, Whose flame is part of thee; And deeps outreach immutably Whose largeness runs Through all thy spirit's mystery. Go forth, and tread unharmed the blaze Of stars where through thou camest in old days; Pierce without fear each vast Whose hugeness crushed thee not within the past. A hand strikes off the chains of Time, A hand swings back the door of years; Now fall earth's bonds of gladness and of tears, And opens the strait dream to space sublime." II Who rides a dream, what hand shall stay! What eye shall note or measure mete His passage on a purpose fleet, The thread and weaving of his way! It caught me from the clasping world, And swept beyond the brink of Sense, My soul was flung, and poised, and whirled, Like to a planet chained and hurled With solar lightning strong and tense. Swift as communicated rays That leap from severed suns a gloom Within whose waste no suns illume, The wing'd dream fulfilled its ways. Through years reversed and lit again I followed that unending chain Wherein the suns are links of light; Retraced through lineal, ordered spheres The twisting of the threads of years In weavings wrought of noon and night; Through stars and deeps I watched the dream unroll, Those folds that form the raiment of the soul. III Enkindling dawns of memory, Each sun had radiance to relume A sealed, disused, and darkened room Within the soul's immensity. Their alien ciphers shown and lit, I understood what each had writ Upon my spirit's scroll; Again I wore mine ancient lives, And knew the freedom and the gyves That formed and marked my soul. IV I delved in each forgotten mind, The units that had builded me, Whose deepnesses before were blind And formless as infinity - Knowing again each former world - From planet unto planet whirled Through gulfs that mightily divide Like to an intervital sleep. One world I found, where souls abide Like winds that rest upon a rose; Thereto they creep To loose all burden of old woes. And one I knew, where warp of pain Is woven in the soul's attire; And one, where with new loveliness Is strengthened Beauty's olden chain - Soft as a sound, and keen as fire - In light no darkness may depress. V Where no terrestrial dreams had trod My vision entered undismayed, And Life her hidden realms displayed To me as to a curious god. Where colored suns of systems triplicate Bestow on planets weird, ineffable, Green light that orbs them like an outer sea, And large auroral noons that alternate With skies like sunset held without abate, Life's touch renewed incomprehensibly The strains of mirth and grief's harmonious spell. Dead passions like to stars relit Shone in the gloom of ways forgot; Where crownless gods in darkness sit The day was full on altars hot. I heard - once more a part of it - The central music of the Pleiades, And to Alcyone my soul Swayed with the stars that own her song's control. Unchallenged, glad I trod, a revenant In worlds Edenic longly lost; Or walked in spheres that sing to these, O'er space no light has crossed, Diverse as Hell's mad antiphone uptossed To Heaven's angelic chant. VI What vasts the dream went out to find! I seemed beyond the world's recall In gulfs where darkness is a wall To render strong Antares blind! In unimagined spheres I found The sequence of my being's round - Some life where firstling meed of Song, The strange imperishable leaf, Was placed on brows that starry Grief Had crowned, and Pain anointed long; Some avatar where Love Sang like the last great star at morn Ere Death filled all its sky; Some life in fresher years unworn Upon a world whereof Peace was a robe like to the calms that lie On pools aglow with latter spring: There Life's pellucid surface took Clear image of all things, nor shook Till touch of Death's obscuring wing; Some earlier awakening In pristine years, when giant strife Of forces darkly whirled First forged the thing called Life - Hot from the furnace of the suns - Upon the anvil of a world. VII Thus knew I those anterior ones Whose lives in mine were blent; Till, lo! my dream, that held a night Where Rigel sends no word of might, Was emptied of the trodden stars, And dwindled to the sun's extent - The brain's familiar prison-bars, And raiment of the sorrow and the mirth Wrought by the shuttles intricate of earth.

Dame Fidget And Her Silver Penny

Clara Doty Bates

Versified by Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. A Wee, wee woman Was little old Dame Fidget, And she lived by herself In a wee, wee room, And early every morning, So tidy was her habit, She began to sweep it out With a wee, wee broom. To sweep for the cinders, Though never were there any, She whisked about, and brushed about, Humming like a bee; When, odd enough, one day She found a silver penny, Shining in a corner, As bright as bright could be. She eyed it, she took it Between her thumb and finger; She put it in the sugar bowl And quickly shut the lid; And after planning over carefully The way to spend it, She resolved to go to market And to buy herself a kid. And that she did next day; but, ah, The kid proved very lazy! And it moved toward home so slowly She could scarcely see it crawl; At first she coaxed and petted it, And then she stormed and scolded, Till at last, when they had reached the bridge, It would not go at all. Just then Dame Fidget saw a dog run by, And whistled to him, And cried:--"Pray dog bite kid, Kid won't go! I see by the moonlight 'Tis almost midnight, And time kid and I were home Half an hour ago!" But no, he said he wouldn't; So to the stick she pleaded:-- "Pray stick beat dog, dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! I see by the moonlight 'Tis almost midnight, And time kid and I were home Half an hour ago!" But the stick didn't stir, So she called upon the fire:-- "Pray fire burn stick, stick won't beat dog, Dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! And I see by the moonlight 'Tis almost midnight, And time kid and I were home Half an hour ago!" But the fire only smoked, So she turned and begged the water:-- "Pray water quench fire, fire won't burn stick, Stick won't beat dog, dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! I see by the moonlight 'Tis already midnight, And time kid and I were home An hour and a half ago!" "Ha, ha!" the water gurgled, So to the ox appealing:-- "Pray ox drink water, water won't quench fire, Fire won't burn stick, stick won't beat dog, Dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! And I see by the moonlight 'Tis already midnight, And time kid and I were home An hour and a half ago!" But the ox bellowed "no!" So she shouted to the butcher:-- "Pray butcher kill ox, ox won't drink water, Water won't quench fire, fire won't burn stick, Stick won't beat dog, dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! I see by the moonlight 'Tis getting past midnight, And time kid and I were home An hour and a half ago!" But the butcher only laughed at her, And to the rope she hurried:-- "Pray rope hang butcher, butcher won't kill ox, Ox won't drink water, water won't quench fire, Fire won't burn stick, stick won't beat dog, Dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! And I see by the moonlight 'Tis getting past midnight, And time kid and I were home An hour and a half ago." The rope swayed round for "nay!" So to the rat she beckoned:-- "Pray rat gnaw rope, rope won't hang butcher, Butcher won't kill ox, ox won't drink water, Water won't quench fire, fire won't burn stick, Stick won't beat dog, dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! And I see by the moonlight 'Tis long past midnight, And time kid and I were home A couple of hours ago!" A scornful squeak was all he deigned, And so she called the kitten:-- "Pray cat eat rat, rat won't gnaw rope, Rope won't hang butcher, butcher won't kill ox, Ox won't drink water, water won't quench fire, Fire won't burn stick, stick won't beat dog, Dog won't bite kid, Kid won't go! And I see by the moonlight 'Tis long past midnight, And time kid and I were home Hours and hours ago!" Now pussy loved a rat, So she seized him in a minute: And the cat began to eat the rat, The rat began to gnaw the rope, The rope began to hang the butcher, The butcher began to kill the ox, The ox began to drink the water, The water began to quench the fire, The fire began to burn the stick, The stick began to beat the dog, The dog began to bite the kid, And the kid began to go! And home through the moonlight, Long after midnight, The little dame and little kid Went trudging--oh, so slow! The little Boy in the Barn, Lay down on some hay. The Owl came out, And flew about, And the little Boy ran away.

A Waft Of Perfume

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A waft of perfume from a bit of lace Moved lightly by a passing woman's hand; And on the common street, a sensuous grace Shone suddenly from some lost time and land. Tall structures changed to dome and parapet; The stern-faced Church an oracle became; In sheltered alcoves marble busts were set; And on the wall frail Lais wrote her name. Phryne before her judges stood at bay, Fearing the rigour of Athenian laws; Till Hyperides tore her cloak away, And bade her splendid beauty plead its cause. Great Alexander walking in the dusk, Dreamed of the hour when Greek with Greek should meet; From Thais' window attar breathed, and musk: His footsteps went no farther down the street. Faint and more faint the pungent perfume grew; Of wall and parapet remained no trace. Temple and statue vanished from the view: The city street again was commonplace.

Billy's Alphabetical Animal Show.

James Whitcomb Riley

A was an elegant Ape Who tied up his ears with red tape, And wore a long veil Half revealing his tail Which was trimmed with jet bugles and crape. B was a boastful old Bear Who used to say, - "Hoomh! I declare I can eat - if you'll get me The children, and let me - Ten babies, teeth, toenails and hair!" C was a Codfish who sighed When snatched from the home of his pride, But could he, embrined, Guess this fragrance behind, How glad he would be that he died! D was a dandified Dog Who said, - "Though it's raining like fog I wear no umbrellah, Me boy, for a fellah Might just as well travel incog!" E was an elderly Eel Who would say, - "Well, I really feel - As my grandchildren wriggle And shout 'I should giggle' - A trifle run down at the heel!" F was a Fowl who conceded Some hens might hatch more eggs than she did, - But she'd children as plenty As eighteen or twenty, And that was quite all that she needed. G was a gluttonous Goat Who, dining one day, table-d'hote, Ordered soup-bone, au fait, And fish, papier-mache, And a filet of Spring overcoat. H was a high-cultured Hound Who could clear forty feet at a bound, And a coon once averred That his howl could be heard For five miles and three-quarters around. I was an Ibex ambitious To dive over chasms auspicious; He would leap down a peak And not light for a week, And swear that the jump was delicious. J was a Jackass who said He had such a bad cold in his head, If it wasn't for leaving The rest of us grieving, He'd really rather be dead. K was a profligate Kite Who would haunt the saloons every night; And often he ust To reel back to his roost Too full to set up on it right. L was a wary old Lynx Who would say, - "Do you know wot I thinks? - I thinks ef you happen To ketch me a-nappin' I'm ready to set up the drinks!" M was a merry old Mole, Who would snooze all the day in his hole, Then - all night, a-rootin' Around and galootin' - He'd sing "Johnny, Fill up the Bowl!" N was a caustical Nautilus Who sneered, "I suppose, when they've caught all us, Like oysters they'll serve us, And can us, preserve us, And barrel, and pickle, and bottle us!" O was an autocrat Owl - Such a wise - such a wonderful fowl! Why, for all the night through He would hoot and hoo-hoo, And hoot and hoo-hooter and howl! P was a Pelican pet, Who gobbled up all he could get; He could eat on until He was full to the bill, And there he had lodgings to let! Q was a querulous Quail, Who said: "It will little avail The efforts of those Of my foes who propose To attempt to put salt on my tail!" R was a ring-tailed Raccoon, With eyes of the tinge of the moon, And his nose a blue-black, And the fur on his back A sad sort of sallow maroon. S is a Sculpin - you'll wish Very much to have one on your dish, Since all his bones grow On the outside, and so He's a very desirable fish. T was a Turtle, of wealth, Who went round with particular stealth, - "Why," said he, "I'm afraid Of being waylaid When I even walk out for my health!" U was a Unicorn curious, With one horn, of a growth so luxurious, He could level and stab it - If you didn't grab it - Clean through you, he was so blamed furious! V was a vagabond Vulture Who said: "I don't want to insult yer, But when you intrude Where in lone solitude I'm a-preyin', you're no man o' culture!" W was a wild Woodchuck, And you can just bet that he could "chuck" He'd eat raw potatoes, Green corn, and tomatoes, And tree roots, and call it all "good chuck!" X was a kind of X-cuse Of a some-sort-o'-thing that got loose Before we could name it, And cage it, and tame it, And bring it in general use. Y is the Yellowbird, - bright As a petrified lump of star-light, Or a handful of lightning- Bugs, squeezed in the tight'ning Pink fist of a boy, at night. Z is the Zebra, of course! - A kind of a clown-of-a-horse, - Each other despising, Yet neither devising A way to obtain a divorce! & here is the famous - what-is-it? Walk up, Master Billy, and quiz it: You've seen the rest of 'em - Ain't this the best of 'em, Right at the end of your visit?

On Himself

Robert Herrick

A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here, Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year; Long I have lasted in this world; 'tis true But yet those years that I have lived, but few. Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres tell, Lives not those years, but he that lives them well: One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he Of all those three-score has not lived half three: He lives who lives to virtue; men who cast Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last.

The Family Burying-Ground.

Madison Julius Cawein

A wall of crumbling stones doth keep Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep, Old chronicled grave-stones of its dead, On which oblivious mosses creep And lichens gray as lead. Warm days the lost cows as they pass Rest here and browse the juicy grass That springs about its sun-scorched stones; Afar one hears their bells' deep brass Waft melancholy tones. Here the wild morning-glory goes A-rambling as the myrtle grows, Wild morning-glories pale as pain, With holy urns, that hint at woes, The night hath filled with rain. Here are blackberries largest seen, Rich, winey dark, whereon the lean Black hornet sucks, noons sick with heat, That bend not to the shadowed green The heavy bearded wheat. At dark, for its forgotten dead, A requiem, of no known wind said, Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs, While to thin starlight overhead The shivering screech-owl sobs.

The Sweeps Complaint.

Thomas Hood

"I like to meet a sweep - such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the peep, peep, of a young sparrow." - ESSAYS OF ELIA. -    - "A voice cried Sweep no more! Macbeth hath murdered sweep." SHAKSPEARE. One morning, ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb Still linger in the street; And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed, Though he was rather run to seed, In height above five feet. A mongrel tint he seemed to take, Poetic simile to make, DAY through his MARTIN 'gan to break, White overcoming jet. From side to side he crossed oblique, Like Frenchman who has friends to seek, And yet no English word can speak, He walked upon the fret: And while he sought the dingy job His lab'ring breast appeared to throb, And half a hiccup half a sob Betray'd internal woe. To cry amain he had by rote He yearn'd, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat, He gaped - but not a crow! I watched him and the glimpse I snatched Disclosed his sorry eyelids patch'd With red, as if the soot had catch'd That hung about the lid; And soon I saw the tear-drop stray, He did not care to brush away; Thought I, the cause he will betray - And thus at last he did. Well, here's a pretty go! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a gagging! But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in doing it had plenty of magging. They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regularly mum. But they can't undo natur - as sure as ever the morning begins to peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chimbley-pots, that say Cheep! For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when you are sneezy. Well, it's all up with us! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up. Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup! If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear, and order, order. I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathize with us As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus. God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings? I'm sure we're not half so bad as other businesses with their bawlings. For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about ringing, And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to sleep with singing. Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks - to do the unpartial job, If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a Dusty Bob. Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a seeking arter the cinders, Instead of a little boy like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily under your windows? There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling out Bank and City; Let his Worship, the Mayor, decide if our call of Sweep is not just as pretty. I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close thro' their hooky noses, And Christian laws should be ten times more hard than the old stone laws of Moses. Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally shut? Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never eat no sut. Next year there won't be any May-day at all, we shan't have no heart to dance, And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our mischance; If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter and pinching weather, For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul together. I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable starving figures, A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking Father and Mother. They havn't a rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, like a swarm of common black beadles. If they'd only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few such peeps, I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face against sweeps. Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any vally, Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd climb, if the way I only knew, And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the flue. As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are higher, But how can I now say God save the King, if I ain't to be a Cryer? There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off than black cows? Do we go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy Billingsgate vermin, And disturb the parson with "All alive O!" in the middle of a funeral sermon? But the fish won't keep, not the mackerel won't, is the cry of the Parliament elves, Everything, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep themselves! Lord help us! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no more? We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door. And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot nations, For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think of our situations! And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve ladies of quality nimbly, For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist the chimbley.

Dora.

Jean Ingelow

A waxing moon that, crescent yet, In all its silver beauty set, And rose no more in the lonesome night To shed full-orbed its longed-for light. Then was it dark; on wold and lea, In home, in heart, the hours were drear. Father and mother could no light see, And the hearts trembled and there was fear. - So on the mount, Christ's chosen three, Unware that glory it did shroud, Feared when they entered into the cloud. She was the best part of love's fair Adornment, life's God-given care, As if He bade them guard His own, Who should be soon anear His throne. Dutiful, happy, and who say When childhood smiles itself away, 'More fair than morn shall prove the day.' Sweet souls so nigh to God that rest, How shall be bettering of your best! That promise heaven alone shall view, That hope can ne'er with us come true, That prophecy life hath not skill, No, nor time leave that it fulfil. There is but heaven, for childhood never Can yield the all it meant, for ever. Or is there earth, must wane to less What dawned so close by perfectness. How guileless, sweet, by gift divine, How beautiful, dear child, was thine - Spared all their grief of thee bereaven. Winner, who had not greatly striven, Hurts of sin shall not thee soil, Carking care thy beauty spoil. So early blest, so young forgiven. Among the meadows fresh to view, And in the woodland ways she grew, On either side a hand to hold, Nor the world's worst of evil knew, Nor rued its miseries manifold, Nor made discovery of its cold. What more, like one with morn content. Or of the morrow diffident, Unconscious, beautiful she stood, Calm, in young stainless maidenhood. Then, with the last steps childhood trod, Took up her fifteen years to God. Farewell, sweet hope, not long to last, All life is better for thy past. Farewell till love with sorrow meet, To learn that tears are obsolete.

Lines On The Death Of A Young Mother

Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

A voice missed by the dear home-hearth - A voice of music and gentle mirth - A voice whose lingering sweetness long Will float through many a Sabbath song, And many a hallowed, evening hymn, Tenderly breathed in the twilight dim! - But that missing voice, with a richer tone, Is heard in the anthems before the throne; And another voice and another lyre, Are added now to the angel-choir! There's a missing face when the board is spread - There's a vacant seat at the table's head, - A watchful eye and a helpful hand That will come no more to that broken band. - But she sits to-day at the board above, In the tender light of a holier love; And the kindling eye and the beaming face At the feast on high hold a nobler place! A form is missed in the hour of prayer, At the altar, now, there's an empty chair, Where one lonely pleader hath scarcely won Strength, e'en yet, for "Thy will be done!" - But that missing form in its saintly dress Of Christ's unsullied righteousness, Bows with worshipful accents sweet, Where angels bow at the Saviour's feet A step is missed by the cradle bed Where an infant nestles its sleeping head - Smiling, perchance, in his baby rest, Deeming his pillow her gentle breast - But the feet that moved with a soundless tread In the calm still night by that cradle bed, Beyond the waters of death now stand Mid the fadeless flowers of the Heavenly land O heart, sore pierced by the fatal dart - O, wounded, suffering, bleeding heart - More than all others doomed to miss The glance, the accent, the smile, the kiss, - Nothing is lost that you miss to day - Not even the beautiful, death cold clay But Jesus guards it with watchful eye, Soon to restore it no more to die, Clothed in the bloom of immortal life, The sinless mother, the sainted wife!

Nursery Rhyme. XLIII. Literal

Unknown

A was an apple-pie; B bit it; C cut it; D dealt it; E eat it; F fought for it; G got it; H had it; J joined it; K kept it; L longed for it; M mourned for it; N nodded at it; O opened it; P peeped in it; Q quartered it; R ran for it; S stole it; T took it; V viewed it; W wanted it; X, Y, Z, and amperse-and, All wish'd for a piece in hand.

The Lost Pleiad.

Mary Gardiner Horsford

A void is in the sky! A light has ceased the seaman's path to cheer, A star has left its ruby throne on high, A world forsook its sphere. Thy sisters bright pursue their circling way, But thou, lone wanderer! thou hast left our vault for aye. Did Sin invade thy bowers, And Death with sable pinion sweep thine air, Blasting the beauty of thy fairest flowers, And God admit no prayer? Didst thou, as fable saith, wax faint and dim With the first mortal breath between thy zone and Him? Did human love, with all Its passionate might and meek endurance strong,-- The love that mocks at Time and scorns the pall, Through conflict fierce and long,-- Live in thy soul, yet know no future's ray? Then, mystic world! 't was well that thou shouldst pass away. Perchance a loftier fate Removed thy radiance from our feeble sight. Did HE, whose Spirit wills but to create, Far upward urge thy flight From this low fraction of expiring time, To realms where ages roll, as hours, in peace sublime? E'en there does science soar With trembling pinion, bright and eager eye, Striving to reach the still-receding shore That bounds the vision high: Immortal longings fill the fettered mind; Unfathomed glory lies around it, veiled and shrined! Oh! when the brooding cloud Shall pass like mist from o'er our straining sight, And, as the sun-born insect, from its shroud The soul speed forth in might, From phase to phase in Being's endless day, Shall we behold thy light, and learn thy future way?

Standing-Stone Creek.

Madison Julius Cawein

A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain Has washed the brown rocks bare, Leads tangled from a lonely lane Down to a creek's broad stair Of stone, that, through the solitude, Winds onward to a quiet wood. An intermittent roof of shade The beech above it throws; Along its steps a balustrade Of beauty builds the rose; In which, a stately lamp of green At intervals the cedar's seen. The water, carpeting each ledge Of rock that runs across, Glints 'twixt a flow'r-embroidered edge Of ferns and grass and moss; And in its deeps the wood and sky Seem patterns of the softest dye. Long corridors of pleasant dusk Within the house of leaves It reaches; where, on looms of musk, The ceaseless locust weaves A web of summer; and perfume Trails a sweet gown from room to room. Green windows of the boughs, that swing, It passes, where the notes Of birds are glad thoughts entering, And butterflies are motes; And now a vista where the day Opens a door of wind and ray. It is a stairway for all sounds That haunt the woodland sides; On which, boy-like, the southwind bounds, Girl-like, the sunbeam glides; And, like fond parents, following these, The oldtime dreams of rest and peace.

Ode To Rae Wilson, Esq. To The Editor Of The Athen'um.

Thomas Hood

MY DEAR SIR - The following Ode was written anticipating the tone of some strictures on my writings by the gentleman to whom it is addressed. I have not seen his book; but I know by hearsay that some of my verses are characterized as "profaneness and ribaldry" - citing, in proof, the description of a certain sow, from whose jaw a cabbage sprout "Protruded, as the dove so staunch For peace supports an olive branch." If the printed works of my Censor had not prepared me for any misapplication of types, I should have been surprised by this misapprehension of one of the commonest emblems. In some cases the dove unquestionably stands for the Divine Spirit; but the same bird is also a lay representative of the peace of this world, and, as such, has figured time out of mind in allegorical pictures. The sense in which it was used by me is plain from the context; at least, it would be plain to any one but a fisher for faults, predisposed to carp at some things, to dab at others, and to flounder in all. But I am possibly in error. It is the female swine, perhaps, that is profaned in the eyes of the Oriental tourist. Men find strange ways of marking their intolerance; and the spirit is certainly strong enough, in Mr. W.'s works, to set up a creature as sacred, in sheer opposition to the Mussulman, with whom she is a beast of abomination. It would only be going the whole sow. - I am, dear Sir, yours very truly, THOS. HOOD. "Close, close your eyes with holy dread, And weave a circle round him thrice, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise." - COLERIDGE. "It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be." - Old Ballad. A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, Where rolls between us the eternal sea, Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand, - Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall; Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call; Across the wavy waste between us stretch'd, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Wherein my likeness you have darkly etch'd, And though I have not seen the shadow sketch'd, Thus I remark prophetic on the picture. I guess the features: - in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint. Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks - not physicians - in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out mortal taints, And call the devil over his own coals - Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd; Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd, But endless flames, to scorch them up like flax - Yet sure of heav'n themselves, as if they'd cribb'd Th' impression of St. Peter's keys in wax! Of such a character no single trace Exists, I know, in my fictitious face; There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall, - That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till ev'ry farthing-candle ray Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace. Well! - be the graceless lineaments confest! I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth; And dote upon a jest "Within the limits of becoming mirth"; - No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious - Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull. I pray for grace - repent each sinful act - Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible; And love my neighbor far too well, in fact, To call and twit him with a godly tract That's turn'd by application to a libel. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, All creeds I view with toleration thorough, And have a horror of regarding heaven As anybody's rotten borough. What else? no part I take in party fray, With troops from Billingsgate's slang-whanging tartars, I fear no Pope - and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Foxs' Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham-Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times - but then It's when I've got my wine - I say d -    - canters! I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow souls, a Spiritual Pry - 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses, Who thrust them into matters none of theirs; And tho' no delicacy discomposes Your Saint, yet I consider faith and pray'rs Amongst the privatest of men's affairs. I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it. On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk; Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk, - For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat; 'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, A man has got his belly full of meat Because he talks with victuals in his mouth! Mere verbiage, - it is not worth a carrot! Why, Socrates - or Plato - where's the odds? - Once taught a jay to supplicate the Gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot! A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is Not a whit better than a Mantis, - An insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages - thro' sheer pretence - Is reckon'd quite a saint amongst the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the nous, To ride on one's religion thro' the lobby, Whether a stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to "the house"? I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pinder, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lash'd by law, wherever found, And driv'n to church, as to the parish pound. I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that grovelling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy, who longs to be a beadle. On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor: One wishes worship freely giv'n to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor - The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say - Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I - the Saviour with his law of love. Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north? I do confess that I abhor and shrink From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles's sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly - My soul revolts at such a bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of Hosts with an Exclusive Lord Of this world's aristocracy. It will not own a notion so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heav'n, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage, as they do in ships. One place there is - beneath the burial sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is - the Fane of God, Where all are equal, who draw living breath; - Juggle who will elsewhere with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole - He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to ev'ry pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope - He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbow'd by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor, - Might sit for Hell and represent the Devil! Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last Journey-Work, perchance you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots, - A Scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Maw-worms less than merry maggots! The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts; But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knoll'd to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sounds of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells As flutter'd by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight th' ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, - With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon; - O Pagans, Heathens, Infidels and Doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters? A man may cry "Church! Church!" at ev'ry word, With no more piety than other people - A daw's not reckon'd a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple. The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor! Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his Ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against his sinful bias - "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie - I cheat - do anything for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious?" In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts. One Sunday morning - (at the day don't fret) - In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let. "Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it! 'Twas built by the same man as built yon chapel And master wanted once to buy it, - But t'other driv the bargain much too hard - He ax'd sure-ly a sum purdigious! But being so particular religious, Why, that, you see, put master on his guard!" Church is "a little heav'n below, I have been there and still would go," - Yet I am none of those, who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock, Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in form' pauperis to God. As for the rest, - intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Ev'n the poor Pagan's homage to the Sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurn'd some elements of Christian pray'r - An aim, tho' erring, at a "world ayont," Acknowledgment of good - of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want - Humility. Such, unto Papists, Jews or turban'd Turks, Such is my spirit - (I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my works! I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own commonplace-book in the other - But you have been to Palestine - alas! Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, Resemble copper wire, or brass, Which gets the narrower by going farther! Worthless are all such Pilgrimages - very! If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The human heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulchre they ought to bury. A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak! Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renown'd for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For - doing as the Romans do at Rome? With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops? - People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home, in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes. Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, You might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo. For me - thro' heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine, - I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travellers would blaze with here in France. Dolls I can see in virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixote at the puppet's play, If their "offence be rank," should mine be rancor? Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him two black eyes for being blind? Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a canker'd stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine? The images, 'tis true, are strangely dress'd, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason - Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly Catholic, one common form, At which uncheck'd All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm. Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss, One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a pray'r upon the spot - While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trail'd around its base The blue significant Forget-me-not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly, along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope Giving the eye much variegated scope; - "Look round," it whisper'd, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But" - (how the simple legend pierced me thro'!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX." With sweet kind natures, as in honey'd cells, Religion lives, and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb. Shun pride, O Rae! - whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! A pride there is of rank - a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride - in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint. To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail! As for the humble breed retain'd by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan - He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, At last, with stately dodgings, in a corner He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan! "Look here," he cries (to give him words), "Thou feather'd clay - thou scum of birds!" Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes, - "Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doom'd to be roasted for a dinner, Behold those lovely variegated dyes! These are the rainbow colors of the skies, That Heav'n has shed upon me con amore - A Bird of Paradise? - a pretty story! I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill!" And off goes Partlet, wriggling from a kick, With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill! That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints. By saints! - the Hypocrites that ope heav'n's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches - But put the wicked, naked, barelegg'd poor In parish stocks instead of breeches. The Saints! - the Bigots that in public spout, Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian, And go like walking "Lucifers" about Mere living bundles of combustion. The Saints! - the aping Fanatics that talk All cant and rant, and rhapsodies high-flown - That bid you baulk A Sunday walk, And shun God's work as you should shun your own. The Saints! - the Formalists, the extra pious, Who think the mortal husk can save the soul, By trundling with a mere mechanic bias, To church, just like a lignum-vit' bowl! The Saints! - the Pharisees, whose beadle stands Beside a stern coercive kirk. A piece of human mason-work, Calling all sermons contrabands, In that great Temple that's not made with hands! Thrice blessed, rather, is the man, with whom The gracious prodigality of nature, The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, The bounteous providence in ev'ry feature, Recall the good Creator to his creature, Making all earth a fane, all heav'n its dome! To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The jubilate of the soaring lark Is chant of clerk; For choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; The sod's a cushion for his pious want; And, consecrated by the heav'n within it, The sky-blue pool, a font. Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove; And the full heart's a Psalter, Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love! Sufficiently by stern necessitarians Poor Nature, with her face begrimed by dust, Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked; but must Religion have its own Utilitarians, Labell'd with evangelical phylacteries, To make the road to heav'n a railway trust, And churches - that's the naked fact - mere factories? Oh! simply open wide the Temple door, And let the solemn, swelling, organ greet, With Voluntaries meet, The willing advent of the rich and poor! And while to God the loud Hosannas soar, With rich vibrations from the vocal throng - From quiet shades that to the woods belong, And brooks with music of their own, Voices may come to swell the choral song With notes of praise they learned in musings lone. How strange it is while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The Saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor! Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, What men of all political persuasion Extol - and even use upon occasion - That Christian principle, Conciliation? But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus: One market morning, in my usual rambles, Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt awhile, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter. A sturdy man he looke'd to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks Beside those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle - Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd And meekly snuff'd, but did not taste the puddle. Fierce bark'd the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it, - And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it. At last there came a pause of brutal force, The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool, The man had whoop'd and holloed till dead hoarse. The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by - "Zounds! - my good fellow, - it quite makes me - why, It really - my dear fellow - do just try Conciliation!" Stringing his nerves like flint, The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint, - At least he seized upon the foremost wether, - And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and crop Just nolens volens thro' the open shop - If tails come off he didn't care a feather, - Then walking to the door and smiling grim, He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together - "There! - I have conciliated him!" Again - good-humoredly to end our quarrel - (Good humor should prevail!) I'll fit you with a tale, Whereto is tied a moral. Once on a time a certain English lass Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, The Doctors gave her over - to an ass. Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaff'd a frothy bowl Of asinine new milk, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny - Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann! She can't get over it! she never can!" When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny. To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long ear'd creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water. No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back, - "Your sarvant, Miss", - a worry spring-like day, - Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack! Jenny be dead, Miss, - but I've brought ye Jack, He doesn't give no milk - but he can bray. So runs the story, And, in vain self-glory, Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness - But what the better are their pious saws To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness?

The Monument Commonly Called Long Meg And Her Daughters, Near The River Eden

William Wordsworth

A weight of awe, not easy to be borne, Fell suddenly upon my Spirit cast From the dread bosom of the unknown past, When first I saw that family forlorn. Speak Thou, whose massy strength and stature scorn The power of years pre-eminent, and placed Apart, to overlook the circle vast Speak, Giant-mother! tell it to the Morn While she dispels the cumbrous shades of Night; Let the Moon hear, emerging from a cloud; At whose behest uprose on British ground That Sisterhood, in hieroglyphic round Forth-shadowing, some have deemed, the infinite The inviolable God, that tames the proud!

The Last Masquerade

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

A wan new garment of young green Touched, as you turned your soft brown hair And in me surged the strangest prayer Ever in lover's heart hath been. That I who saw your youth's bright page, A rainbow change from robe to robe, Might see you on this earthly globe, Crowned with the silver crown of age. Your dear hair powdered in strange guise, Your dear face touched with colours pale: And gazing through the mask and veil The mirth of your immortal eyes.

A Session With Uncle Sidney - IV - And Makes Nursery Rhymes - 4 "It"

James Whitcomb Riley

A wee little worm in a hickory-nut Sang, happy as he could be, - "O I live in the heart of the whole round world, And it all belongs to me!"

The Weed

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A weed is but an unloved flower! Go dig, and prune, and guide, and wait, Until it learns its high estate, And glorifies some bower. A weed is but an unloved flower! All sin is virtue unevolved, Release the angel from the clod - Go love thy brother up to God. Behold each problem solved. All sin is virtue unevolved.

The Unattained.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A vision beauteous as the morn, With heavenly eyes and tresses streaming, Slow glided o'er a field late shorn Where walked a poet idly dreaming. He saw her, and joy lit his face, "Oh, vanish not at human speaking," He cried, "thou form of magic grace, Thou art the poem I am seeking. "I've sought thee long! I claim thee now - My thought embodied, living, real." She shook the tresses from her brow. "Nay, nay!" she said, "I am ideal. I am the phantom of desire - The spirit of all great endeavor, I am the voice that says, 'Come higher,' That calls men up and up forever. "'Tis not alone thy thought supreme That here upon thy path has risen; I am the artist's highest dream, The ray of light he cannot prison. I am the sweet ecstatic note Than all glad music gladder, clearer, That trembles in the singer's throat, And dies without a human hearer. "I am the greater, better yield, That leads and cheers thy farmer neighbor, For me he bravely tills the field And whistles gayly at his labor. Not thou alone, O poet soul, Dost seek me through an endless morrow, But to the toiling, hoping whole I am at once the hope and sorrow. The spirit of the unattained, I am to those who seek to name me, A good desired but never gained. All shall pursue, but none shall claim me."

Knight-Errant

Paul Cameron Brown

A well-thumbed book like a well-thumbed life, "whilst you walk this earth" yet nothing is "afoot", as so many small boys throwing stones through the funeral parlour glass door. A cake-walk? Being alive and interacting across the face of the multitude is terrible algebra running into unfathomable sums. "Doing your sums", my grade school teacher used to say and I still am. Whippersnapper, learning lessons in a strange stamina sort of way. One of the multitude died last night & is now "resting" in a large, Victorian parlour. Even the walls grimace. I went by, caught a peek at the assemblage chasing thru rain to see his last hurrah. Look, "parlour" can be deadly serious even if ice-cream and pizza attach dead-pan humour to the term. Imagine, picking the last day of the month to go packing. Finale. "Going down to the sea in ships". Death as voyage escaping prison confines of the harbour. Cliches donate dim glimpses into the apparent. One sees a lot by the moon. Crisp, fall air and leaves yellowing frightened from their wits to end their brief, balloon walk. Such faraway faces of Eve and a boat moored to a dock. Crossing streets - a gray, fusillade church, knight-errant, breaks the night. Trees chuckle in coves through wispy clouds. Madonna's face in a shawl only it's not on the stained glass window I see her. She seems to be pouting. Ashamed of what we have to go through at the end of this filth and stupidity? Restrictions? Death lifts them in one heave of the casket. More illuminating are the mourners. Dashing thru the sleet in brief poignancy; shrill, old voices that knew the deceased reciting what can only be the obvious. Leaden eyes that cast no shadow. Hardly analogous to being "called home" or "going to their reward". More light is cast by the street lamp, the pale glow of fireflies and neon signs winking-drinking waves like the fisherman's cork. This place is holy to me. A shrine. Night air with mist collecting, watching flames shuffle over hearth-stones; leaves mount a glade. The bitterest berry, flower to lily of the valley. A heart that makes gravelly noise. Tiny angel spread of petals, no black funeral vestments for me. Standing close to the clock and thinking. A luxury bought with time, in every evening weeping in the corner.

A Song Of Dreams

Clark Ashton Smith

A voice came to me from the night, and said, What profit hast thou in thy dreaming Of the years that are set And the years yet unrisen? Hast thou found them tillable lands? Is there fruit that thou canst pluck therein, Or any harvest to be mown? Shalt thou dig aught of gold from the mines of the past, Or trade for merchandise In the years where all is rotten? Are they a sea that will bring thee to any shore, Or a desert that vergeth upon aught but the waste? Shalt thou drink from the springs that are emptied, Or find sustenance in shadows? What value hath the future given thee? Is there aught in the days yet dark That thou canst hold with thy hands? Are they a fortress That will afford thee protection Against the swords of the world? Is there justice in them To balance the world's inequity, Or benefit to outweigh its loss? Then spake I in answer, saying, Of my dreams I have made a road, And my soul goeth out thereon To that unto which no eye hath opened, Nor ear become keen to hearken - To the glories that are shut past all access Of the keys of sense; Whose walls are hidden by the air, And whose doors are concealed with clarity. And the road is travelled of secret things, Coming to me from far - Of bodiless powers, And beauties without colour or form Holden by any loveliness seen of earth. And of my dreams have I builded an inn Wherein these are as guests. And unto it come the dead For a little rest and refuge From the hollowness of the unharvestable wind, And the burden of too great space. The fields of the past are not void to me, Who harvest with the scythe of thought; Nor the orchards of future years unfruitful To the hands of visionings. I have retrieved from the darkness The years and the things that were lost, And they are held in the light of my dreams, With the spirits of years unborn, And of things yet bodiless. As in an hospitable house, They shall live while the dreams abide.

Maurine Part V.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A visit to a cave some miles away Was next in order. So, one sunny day, Four prancing steeds conveyed a laughing load Of merry pleasure-seekers o'er the road. A basket picnic, music and croquet Were in the programme. Skies were blue and clear, And cool winds whispered of the Autumn near. The merry-makers filled the time with pleasure: Some floated to the music's rhythmic measure, Some played, some promenaded on the green. Ticked off by happy hearts, the moments passed. The afternoon, all glow and glimmer, came. Helen and Roy were leaders of some game, And Vivian was not visible. "Maurine, I challenge you to climb yon cliff with me! And who shall tire, or reach the summit last Must pay a forfeit," cried a romping maid. "Come! start at once, or own you are afraid." So challenged I made ready for the race, Deciding first the forfeit was to be A handsome pair of bootees to replace The victor's loss who made the rough ascent. The cliff was steep and stony. On we went As eagerly as if the path was Fame, And what we climbed for, glory and a name. My hands were bruised; my garments sadly rent, But on I clambered. Soon I heard a cry, "Maurine! Maurine! my strength is wholly spent! You've won the boots! I'm going back - good bye!" And back she turned, in spite of laugh and jeer. I reached the summit: and its solitude, Wherein no living creature did intrude, Save some sad birds that wheeled and circled near, I found far sweeter than the scene below. Alone with One who knew my hidden woe, I did not feel so much alone as when I mixed with th' unthinking throngs of men. Some flowers that decked the barren, sterile place I plucked, and read the lesson they conveyed, That in our lives, albeit dark with shade And rough and hard with labor, yet may grow The flowers of Patience, Sympathy, and Grace. As I walked on in meditative thought, A serpent writhed across my pathway; not A large or deadly serpent; yet the sight Filled me with ghastly terror and affright. I shrieked aloud: a darkness veiled my eyes - And I fell fainting 'neath the watchful skies. I was no coward. Country-bred and born, I had no feeling but the keenest scorn For those fine lady "ah's" and "oh's" of fear So much assumed (when any man is near). But God implanted in each human heart A natural horror, and a sickly dread Of that accurs'd, slimy, creeping thing That squirms a limbless carcass o'er the ground. And where that inborn loathing is not found You'll find the serpent qualities instead. Who fears it not, himself is next of kin, And in his bosom holds some treacherous art Whereby to counteract its venomed sting. And all are sired by Satan - Chief of Sin. Who loathes not that foul creature of the dust, However fair in seeming, I distrust. I woke from my unconsciousness, to know I leaned upon a broad and manly breast, And Vivian's voice was speaking, soft and low, Sweet whispered words of passion, o'er and o'er. I dared not breathe. Had I found Eden's shore? Was this a foretaste of eternal bliss? "My love," he sighed, his voice like winds that moan Before a rain in Summer time, "My own, For one sweet stolen moment, lie and rest Upon this heart that loves and hates you both! O fair false face! Why were you made so fair! O mouth of Southern sweetness! that ripe kiss That hangs upon you, I do take an oath His lips shall never gather. There! - and there! I steal it from him. Are you his - all his? Nay you are mine, this moment, as I dreamed - Blind fool - believing you were what you seemed - You would be mine in all the years to come. Fair fiend! I love and hate you in a breath. O God! if this white pallor were but death, And I were stretched beside you, cold and dumb, My arms about you, so - in fond embrace! My lips pressed, so - upon your dying face!" "Woman, how dare you bring me to such shame! How dare you drive me to an act like this, To steal from your unconscious lips the kiss You lured me on to think my rightful claim! O frail and puny woman! could you know The devil that you waken in the hearts You snare and bind in your enticing arts, The thin, pale stuff that in your veins doth flow Would freeze in terror. Strange you have such power To please, or pain us, poor, weak, soulless things - Devoid of passion as a senseless flower! Like butterflies, your only boast, your wings. There, now, I scorn you - scorn you from this hour, And hate myself for having talked of love!" He pushed me from him. And I felt as those Doomed angels must, when pearly gates above Are closed against them. With a feigned surprise I started up and opened wide my eyes, And looked about. Then in confusion rose And stood before him. "Pardon me, I pray!" He said quite coldly. "Half an hour ago I left you with the company below, And sought this cliff. A moment since you cried, It seemed, in sudden terror and alarm. I came in time to see you swoon away. You'll need assistance down the rugged side Of this steep cliff. I pray you take my arm." So, formal and constrained, we passed along, Rejoined our friends, and mingled with the throng To have no further speech again that day. Next morn there came a bulky document, The legal firm of Blank & Blank had sent, Containing news unlooked for. An estate Which proved a cosy fortune - no-wise great Or princely - had in France been left to me, My grandsire's last descendant. And it brought A sense of joy and freedom in the thought Of foreign travel, which I hoped would be A panacea for my troubled mind, That longed to leave the olden scenes behind With all their recollections, and to flee To some strange country. I was in such haste To put between me and my native land The briny ocean's desolating waste, I gave Aunt Ruth no peace, until she planned To sail that week, two months: though she was fain To wait until the Springtime. Roy Montaine Would be our guide and escort. No one dreamed The cause of my strange hurry, but all seemed To think good fortune had quite turned my brain. One bright October morning, when the woods Had donned their purple mantles and red hoods In honor of the Frost King, Vivian came, Bringing some green leaves, tipped with crimson flame, - First trophies of the Autumn time. And Roy Made a proposal that we all should go And ramble in the forest for a while. But Helen said she was not well - and so Must stay at home. Then Vivian, with a smile, Responded, "I will stay and talk to you, And they may go;" at which her two cheeks grew Like twin blush roses; - dyed with love's red wave, Her fair face shone transfigured with great joy. And Vivian saw - and suddenly was grave. Roy took my arm in that protecting way Peculiar to some men, which seems to say, "I shield my own," a manner pleasing, e'en When we are conscious that it does not mean More than a simple courtesy. A woman Whose heart is wholly feminine and human, And not unsexed by hobbies, likes to be The object of that tender chivalry, That guardianship which man bestows on her, Yet mixed with deference; as if she were Half child, half angel. Though she may be strong, Noble and self-reliant, not afraid To raise her hand and voice against all wrong And all oppression, yet if she be made, With all the independence of her thought, A woman womanly, as God designed, Albeit she may have as great a mind As man, her brother, yet his strength of arm His muscle and his boldness she has not, And cannot have without she loses what Is far more precious, modesty and grace. So, walking on in her appointed place, She does not strive to ape him, nor pretend But that she needs him for a guide and friend, To shield her with his greater strength from harm. We reached the forest; wandered to and fro Through many a winding path and dim retreat. Till I grew weary: when I chose a seat Upon an oak tree, which had been laid low By some wind storm, or by some lightning stroke. And Roy stood just below me, where the ledge On which I sat sloped steeply to the edge Of sunny meadows lying at my feet. One hand held mine; the other grasped a limb That cast its checkered shadows over him; And, with his head thrown back, his dark eyes raised And fixed upon me, silently he gazed Until I, smiling, turned to him and spoke: "Give words, my cousin, to those thoughts that rise, And, like dumb spirits, look forth from your eyes." The smooth and even darkness of his cheek Was stained one moment by a flush of red. He swayed his lithe form nearer as he stood Still clinging to the branch above his head. His brilliant eyes grew darker; and he said, With sudden passion, "Do you bid me speak? I can not, then, keep silence if I would. That hateful fortune, coming as it did, Forbade my speaking sooner; for I knew A harsh tongued world would quickly misconstrue My motive for a meaner one. But, sweet, So big my heart has grown with love for you I can not shelter it, or keep it hid. And so I cast it throbbing at your feet, For you to guard and cherish, or to break. Maurine, I love you better than my life. My friend - my cousin - be still more, my wife! Maurine, Maurine, what answer do you make?" I scarce could breathe for wonderment; and numb With truth that fell too suddenly, sat dumb With sheer amaze, and stared at Roy with eyes That looked no feeling but complete surprise. He swayed so near his breath was on my cheek. "Maurine, Maurine," he whispered, "will you speak?" Then suddenly, as o'er some magic glass One picture in a score of shapes will pass, I seemed to see Roy glide before my gaze. First, as the playmate of my earlier days - Next, as my kin - and then my valued friend, And last, my lover. As when colors blend In some unlooked-for group before our eyes, We hold the glass, and look them o'er and o'er So now I gazed on Roy in his new guise, In which he ne'er appeared to me before. His form was like a panther's in its grace, So lithe and supple, and of medium height, And garbed in all the elegance of fashion. His large black eyes were full of fire and passion, And in expression fearless, firm, and bright. His hair was like the very deeps of night, And hung in raven clusters 'round a face Of dark and flashing beauty. He was more Like some romantic maiden's grand ideal Than like a common being. As I gazed Upon the handsome face to mine upraised, I saw before me, living, breathing, real, The hero of my early day-dreams: though So full my heart was with that clear-cut face, Which, all unlike, yet claimed the hero's place, I had not recognized him so before, Or thought of him, save as a valued friend. So now I called him, adding, "Foolish boy! Each word of love you utter aims a blow At that sweet trust I had reposed in you. I was so certain I had found a true, Steadfast man friend, on whom I could depend, And go on wholly trusting, to the end. Why did you shatter my delusion, Roy, By turning to a lover?" "Why, indeed! Because I loved you more than any brother, Or any friend could love." Then he began To argue like a lawyer, and to plead With all his eloquence. And, listening, I strove to think it was a goodly thing To be so fondly loved by such a man, And it were best to give his wooing heed, And not deny him. Then before my eyes In all its clear-cut majesty, that other Haughty and poet-handsome face would rise And rob my purpose of all life and strength. Roy urged and argued, as Roy only could, With that impetuous, boyish eloquence. He held my hands, and vowed I must, and should Give some least hope; till, in my own defense, I turned upon him, and replied at length: "I thank you for the noble heart you offer: But it deserves a true one in exchange. I could love you if I loved not another Who keeps my heart; so I have none to proffer." Then, seeing how his dark eyes flashed, I said, "Dear Roy! I know my words seem very strange; But I love one I cannot hope to wed. A river rolls between us, dark and deep. To cross it - were to stain with blood my hand. You force my speech on what I fain would keep In my own bosom, but you understand? My heart is given to love that's sanctified, And now can feel no other. Be you kind Dear Roy, my brother! speak of this no more, Lest pleading and denying should divide The hearts so long united. Let me find In you my cousin and my friend of yore And now come home. The morning, all too soon And unperceived, has melted into noon. Helen will miss us, and we must return." He took my hand, and helped me to arise, Smiling upon me with his sad dark eyes. Where passion's fires had, sudden, ceased to burn. "And so," he said, "too soon and unforeseen My friendship melted into love, Maurine. But, sweet! I am not wholly in the blame, For what you term my folly. You forgot, So long we'd known each other, I had not In truth a brother's or a cousin's claim. But I remembered, when through every nerve Your lightest touch went thrilling; and began To love you with that human love of man For comely woman. By your coaxing arts, You won your way into my heart of hearts, And all Platonic feelings put to rout. A maid should never lay aside reserve With one who's not her kinsman, out and out. But as we now, with measured steps, retrace The path we came, e'en so my heart I'll send, At your command, back to the olden place, And strive to love you only as a friend." I felt the justice of his mild reproof, But answered laughing, "'Tis the same old cry: 'The woman tempted me, and I did eat.' Since Adam's time we've heard it. But I'll try And be more prudent, sir, and hold aloof The fruit I never once had thought so sweet 'Twould tempt you any. Now go dress for dinner, Thou sinned against! as also will the sinner. And guard each act, that no least look betray What's passed between us." Then I turned away And sought my room, low humming some old air That ceased upon the threshold; for mine eyes Fell on a face so glorified and fair All other senses, merged in that of sight, Were lost in contemplation of the bright And wond'rous picture, which had otherwise Made dim my vision. Waiting in my room, Her whole face lit as by an inward flame That shed its halo 'round her, Helen stood; Her fair hands folded like a lily's leaves Weighed down by happy dews of summer eves. Upon her cheek the color went and came As sunlight flickers o'er a bed of bloom; And, like some slim young sapling of the wood, Her slender form leaned slightly; and her hair Fell 'round her loosely, in long curling strands All unconfined, and as by loving hands Tossed into bright confusion. Standing there, Her starry eyes uplifted, she did seem Like some unearthly creature of a dream; Until she started forward, gliding slowly, And broke the breathless silence, speaking lowly, As one grown meek, and humble in an hour, Bowing before some new and mighty power. "Maurine, Maurine!" she murmured, and again, "Maurine, my own sweet friend, Maurine!" And then, Laying her love light hands upon my head, She leaned, and looked into my eyes, and said With voice that bore her joy in ev'ry tone, As winds that blow across a garden bed Are weighed with fragrance, "He is mine alone, And I am his - all his - his very own. So pledged this hour, by that most sacred tie Save one beneath God's over-arching sky. I could not wait to tell you of my bliss: I want your blessing, sweetheart! and your kiss." So hiding my heart's trouble with a smile, I leaned and kissed her dainty mouth; the while I felt a guilt-joy, as of some sweet sin, When my lips fell where his so late had been. And all day long I bore about with me A sense of shame - yet mixed with satisfaction, As some starved child might steal a loaf, and be Sad with the guilt resulting from her action, While yet the morsel in her mouth was sweet. That ev'ning when the house had settled down To sleep and quiet, to my room there crept A lithe young form, robed in a long white gown: With steps like fall of thistle-down she came, Her mouth smile-wreathed; and, breathing low my name, Nestled in graceful beauty at my feet. "Sweetheart," she murmured softly, "ere I sleep, I needs must tell you all my tale of joy. Beginning where you left us - you and Roy. You saw the color flame upon my cheek When Vivian spoke of staying. So did he; - And, when we were alone, he gazed at me With such a strange look in his wond'rous eyes. The silence deepened; and I tried to speak Upon some common topic, but could not, My heart was in such tumult. In this wise Five happy moments glided by us, fraught With hours of feeling. Vivian rose up then, And came and stood by me, and stroked my hair. And, in his low voice, o'er and o'er again, Said, 'Helen, little Helen, frail and fair.' Then took my face, and turned it to the light, And looking in my eyes, and seeing what Was shining from them, murmured, sweet and low, 'Dear eyes, you cannot veil the truth from sight. You love me, Helen! answer, is it so?' And I made answer straightway, 'With my life And soul and strength I love you, O my love!' He leaned and took me gently to his breast, And said, 'Here then this dainty head shall rest Henceforth forever: O my little dove! My lily-bud - my fragile blossom-wife!' "And then I told him all my thoughts; and he Listened, with kisses for his comments, till My tale was finished. Then he said, 'I will Be frank with you, my darling, from the start, And hide no secret from you in my heart. I love you, Helen, but you are not first To rouse that love to being. Ere we met I loved a woman madly - never dreaming She was not all in truth she was in seeming. Enough! she proved to be that thing accursed Of God and man - a wily vain coquette. I hate myself for having loved her. Yet So much my heart spent on her, it must give A love less ardent, and less prodigal, Albeit just as tender and as true - A milder, yet a faithful love to you. Just as some evil fortune might befall A man's great riches, causing him to live In some low cot, all unpretending, still As much his home - as much his loved retreat, As was the princely palace on the hill, E'en so I give you all that's left, my sweet! Of my heart-fortune.' 'That were more to me,' I made swift smiling answer, 'than to be The worshiped consort of a king.' And so Our faith was pledged. But Vivian would not go Until I vowed to wed him New Year day. And I am sad because you go away Before that time. I shall not feel half wed Without you here. Postpone your trip and stay, And be my bridesmaid." "Nay, I cannot, dear! 'Twould disarrange our plans for half a year. I'll be in Europe New Year day," I said, "And send congratulations by the cable." And from my soul thanked Providence for sparing The pain, to me, of sharing in, and wearing The festal garments of a wedding scene, While all my heart was hung with sorrow's sable. Forgetting for a season, that between The cup and lip lies many a chance of loss, I lived in my near future, confident All would be as I planned it; and, across The briny waste of waters, I should find Some balm and comfort for my troubled mind. The sad Fall days, like maidens auburn-tressed And amber-eyed, in purple garments dressed, Passed by, and dropped their tears upon the tomb Of fair Queen Summer, buried in her bloom. Roy left us for a time, and Helen went To make the nuptial preparations. Then, Aunt Ruth complained one day of feeling ill: Her veins ran red with fever; and the skill Of two physicians could not stem the tide. The house, that rang so late with laugh and jest, Grew ghostly with low whispered sounds; and when The Autumn day, that I had thought to be Bounding upon the billows of the sea, Came sobbing in, it found me pale and worn, Striving to keep away that unloved guest Who comes unbidden, making hearts to mourn. Through all the anxious weeks I watched beside The suff'rer's couch, Roy was my help and stay; Others were kind, but he alone each day Brought strength and comfort, by his cheerful face, And hopeful words, that fell in that sad place Like rays of light upon a darkened way. November passed; and Winter, crisp and chill, In robes of ermine walked on plain and hill. Returning light and life dispelled the gloom That cheated Death had brought us from the tomb. Aunt Ruth was saved, and slowly getting better - Was dressed each day, and walked about the room. Then came one morning in the Eastern mail, A little white-winged birdling of a letter. I broke the seal and read, "Maurine, my own! I hear Aunt Ruth is better, and am glad. I felt so sorry for you; and so sad To think I left you when I did - alone To bear your pain and worry, and those nights Of weary, anxious watching. Vivian writes Your plans are changed now, and you will not sail Before the Springtime. So you'll come and be My bridesmaid, darling! Do not say me nay. But three weeks more of girlhood left to me. Come, if you can, just two weeks from to-day, And make your preparations here. My sweet! Indeed I am not glad Aunt Ruth was ill - I'm sorry she has suffered so; and still I'm thankful something happened, so you stayed. I'm sure my wedding would be incomplete Without your presence. Selfish, I'm afraid You'll think your Helen. But I love you so, How can I be quite willing you should go? Come Christmas Eve, or earlier. Let me know And I will meet you, dearie! at the train. Your happy, loving Helen." Then the pain That, hidden under later pain and care, Had made no moan, but silent, seemed to sleep, Woke from its trance-like lethargy, to steep My tortured heart in anguish and despair. I had relied too fully on my skill In bending circumstances to my will: And now I was rebuked and made to see That God alone knoweth what is to be. Then came a messenger from Vivian, who Came not himself, as he was wont to do, But sent his servant each new day to bring A kindly message, or an offering Of juicy fruits to cool the lips of fever, Or dainty hot-house blossoms, with their bloom To brighten up the convalescent's room. But now the servant only brought a line From Vivian Dangerfield to Roy Montaine, "Dear Sir, and Friend" - in letters bold and plain, Written on cream-white paper, so it ran: "It is the will and pleasure of Miss Trevor, And therefore doubly so a wish of mine, That you shall honor me next New Year Eve, My wedding hour, by standing as best man. Miss Trevor has six bridesmaids I believe. Being myself a novice in the art - If I should fail in acting well my part, I'll need protection 'gainst the regiment Of outraged ladies. So, I pray, consent To stand by me in time of need, and shield Your friend sincerely, Vivian Dangerfield." The last least hope had vanished; I must drain, E'en to the dregs, this bitter cup of pain.

Nonsense Alphabet 2

Edward Lear

A a A was once an apple-pie, Pidy, Widy, Tidy, Pidy, Nice insidy, Apple-pie! B b B was once a little bear, Beary, Wary, Hairy, Beary, Taky cary, Little bear! C c C was once a little cake, Caky, Baky, Maky, Caky, Taky caky, Little cake! D d D was once a little doll, Dolly, Molly, Polly, Nolly, Nursy dolly, Little doll! E e E was once a little eel, Eely, Weely, Peely, Eely, Twirly, tweely, Little eel! F f F was once a little fish, Fishy, Wishy, Squishy, Fishy, In a dishy, Little fish! G g G was once a little goose, Goosy, Moosy, Boosey, Goosey, Waddly-woosy, Little goose! H h H was once a little hen, Henny, Chenny, Tenny, Henny. Eggsy-any, Little hen? I i I was once a bottle of ink Inky, Dinky, Thinky, Inky, Blacky minky, Bottle of ink! J j J was once a jar of jam, Jammy, Mammy, Clammy, Jammy, Sweety, swammy, Jar of jam! K k K was once a little kite, Kity, Whity, Flighty, Kity, Out of sighty, Little kite! L l L was once a little lark, Larky, Marky, Harky, Larky, In the parky, Little lark! M m M was once a little mouse, Mousy, Bousy, Sousy, Mousy, In the housy, Little mouse! N n N was once a little needle, Needly, Tweedly, Threedly, Needly, Wisky, wheedly, Little needle! O o O was once a little owl, Owly, Prowly, Howly, Owly, Browny fowly, Little owl! P p P was once a little pump, Pumpy, Slumpy, Flumpy, Pumpy, Dumpy, thumpy, Little pump! Q q Q was once a little quail, Quaily, Faily, Daily, Quaily, Stumpy-taily, Little quail! R r R was once a little rose, Rosy, Posy, Nosy, Rosy, Blows-y, grows-y, Little rose! S s S was once a little shrimp, Shrimpy, Nimpy, Flimpy, Shrimpy. Jumpy, jimpy, Little shrimp! T t T was once a little thrush, Thrushy, Hushy, Bushy, Thrushy, Flitty, flushy, Little thrush! U u U was once a little urn, Urny, Burny, Turny, Urny, Bubbly, burny, Little urn! V v V was once a little vine, Viny, Winy, Twiny, Viny, Twisty-twiny, Little vine! W w W was once a whale, Whaly, Scaly, Shaly, Whaly, Tumbly-taily, Mighty whale! X x X was once a great king Xerxes, Xerxy, Perxy, Turxy, Xerxy, Linxy, lurxy, Great King Xerxes! Y y Y was once a little yew, Yewdy, Fewdy, Crudy, Yewdy, Growdy, grewdy, Little yew! Z z Z was once a piece of zinc, Tinky, Winky, Blinky, Tinky, Tinkly minky, Piece of zinc!

The City

Alfred Lichtenstein

A white bird is the big sky. Under it a cowering city stares. The houses are half-dead old people. A gaunt carriage-horse gapes grumpily. Winds, skinny dogs, run weakly. Their skins squeel on sharp corners. In a street a crazed man groans: You, oh, you - If only I could find you... A crowd around him is surprised and grins derisively. Three little people play blind man's bluff - A gentle tear-stained god lays the grey powdery hands Of afternoon over everything.

Nonsense Alphabet 3

Edward Lear

A A was an ape, Who stole some white tape, And tied up his toes In four beautiful bows. a! Funny old ape! B B was a bat, Who slept all the day, And fluttered about When the sun went away. b! Brown little bat! C C was a camel: You rode on his hump; And if you fell off, You came down such a bump! c! What a high camel! D D was a dove, Who lived in a wood, With such pretty soft wings, And so gentle and good! d! Dear little dove! E E was an eagle, Who sat on the rocks, And looked down on the fields And the-far-away flocks. e! Beautiful eagle! F F was a fan Made of beautiful stuff; And when it was used, It went puffy-puff-puff! f! Nice little fan! G G was a gooseberry, Perfectly red; To be made into jam, And eaten with bread. g! Gooseberry red! H H was a heron, Who stood in a stream: The length of his neck And his legs was extreme. h! Long-legged heron! I I was an inkstand, Which stood on a table, With a nice pen to write with When we are able. i! Neat little inkstand! J J was a jug, So pretty and white, With fresh water in it At morning and night. j! Nice little jug! K K was a kingfisher: Quickly he flew, So bright and so pretty! - Green, purple, and blue. k! Kingfisher blue! L L was a lily, So white and so sweet! To see it and smell it Was quite a nice treat. l! Beautiful lily! M M was a man, Who walked round and round; And he wore a long coat That came down to the ground. m! Funny old man! N N was a nut So smooth and so brown! And when it was ripe, It fell tumble-dum-down. n! Nice little nut! O O was an oyster, Who lived in his shell: If you let him alone, He felt perfectly well. o! Open-mouthed oyster! P P was a polly, All red, blue, and green, - The most beautiful polly That ever was seen. p! Poor little polly! Q Q was a quill Made into a pen; But I do not know where, And I cannot say when. q! Nice little quill! R R was a rattlesnake, Rolled up so tight, Those who saw him ran quickly, For fear he should bite. r! Rattlesnake bite! S S was a screw To screw down a box; And then it was fastened Without any locks. s! Valuable screw! T T was a thimble, Of silver so bright! When placed on the finger, It fitted so tight! t! Nice little thimble! U U was an upper-coat, Woolly and warm, To wear over all In the snow or the storm. u! What a nice upper-coat! V V was a veil With a border upon it, And a ribbon to tie it All round a pink bonnet. v! Pretty green veil! W W was a watch, Where, in letters of gold, The hour of the day You might always behold. w! Beautiful watch! X X was King Xerxes, Who wore on his head A mighty large turban, Green, yellow, and red. x! Look at King Xerxes! Y Y was a yak, From the land of Thibet: Except his white tail, He was all black as jet. y! Look at the yak! Z Z was a zebra, All striped white and black; And if he were tame, You might ride on his back. z! Pretty striped zebra!

Oberon's Chapel

Robert Herrick

A way enhanced with glass and beads There is, that to the Chapel leads; Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon's curious nest; Into the which who looks, shall see His Temple of Idolatry; Where he of god-heads has such store, As Rome's Pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls. First in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polish'd oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly; Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is. Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that where'er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now this the Fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixt religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papistical. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is. Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But, alias, call'd here FATUUS IGNIS. Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly; Neither those other saint-ships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite; Which, one by one, here set down are In this most curious calendar. First, at the entrance of the gate, A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there, 'Favour your tongues, who enter here. 'Pure hands bring hither, without stain.' A second pules, 'Hence, hence, profane!' Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut, The holy-water there is put; A little brush of squirrels' hairs, Composed of odd, not even pairs, Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family. Near to the altar stands the priest, There offering up the holy-grist; Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much good do't him) reverence. The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular; Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone; Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) cockall. Whose linen-drapery is a thin, Sub|ile, and ductile codling's skin; Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked. The fringe that circumbinds it, too, Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show, Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow. Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for shew-bread, and at hand (Just in the middle of the altar) Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter, Graced with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings. Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the Rubric, which they read: And if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do; Ay, and their book of canons too. And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their book of articles; And if that Fairy knight not lies They have their book of homilies; And other Scriptures, that design A short, but righteous discipline. The bason stands the board upon To take the free-oblation; A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold; Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there's any. Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails, The elves, in formal manner, fix Two pure and holy candlesticks, In either which a tall small bent Burns for the altar's ornament. For sanctity, they have, to these, Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by In their religious vestery. They have their ash-pans and their brooms, To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister. Their ush'ring vergers here likewise, Their canons and their chaunteries; Of cloister-monks they have enow, Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too: And if their legend do not lie, They much affect the papacy; And since the last is dead, there's hope Elve Boniface shall next be Pope. They have their cups and chalices, Their pardons and indulgences, Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax- Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle, Their sacred salt here, not a little. Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones, Beside their fumigations. Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it. Next then, upon the chanter's side An apple's-core is hung up dried, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even-song. The saint, to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss, And, humbly, chives of saffron brings For his most cheerful offerings. When, after these, he's paid his vows, He lowly to the altar bows; And then he dons the silk-worm's shed, Like a Turk's turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense; And by the glow-worm's light well guided, Goes to the Feast that's now provided.

Nursery Rhyme. XLII. Literal

Unknown

[Tom Thumb's Alphabet.] A was an archer, and shot at a frog, B was a butcher, and had a great dog. C was a captain, all covered with lace, D was a drunkard, and had a red face. E was an esquire, with pride on his brow, F was a farmer, and followed the plough. G was a gamester, who had but ill luck, H was a hunter and hunted a buck. I was an innkeeper, who lov'd to bouse, J was a joiner, and built up a house. K was King William, once governed this land, L was a lady, who had a white hand. M was a miser, and hoarded up gold, N was a nobleman, gallant and bold. O was an oyster wench, and went about town, P was a parson, and wore a black gown. Q was a queen, who was fond of good flip, R was a robber, and wanted a whip. S was a sailor, and spent all he got, T was a tinker, and mended a pot. U was an usurer, a miserable elf, V was a vintner, who drank all himself. W was a watchman, and guarded the door. X was expensive, and so became poor. Y was a youth, that did not love school, Z was a zany, a poor harmless fool.

The Eye.

Robert Herrick

A wanton and lascivious eye Betrays the heart's adultery.

Alphabet, No. 5.

Edward Lear

A A was an Area Arch Where washerwomen sat; They made a lot of lovely starch To starch Papa's Cravat. B B was a Bottle blue, Which was not very small; Papa he filled it full of beer, And then he drank it all. C C was Papa's gray Cat, Who caught a squeaky Mouse; She pulled him by his twirly tail All about the house. D D was Papa's white Duck, Who had a curly tail; One day it ate a great fat frog, Besides a leetle snail. E E was a little Egg, Upon the breakfast table; Papa came in and ate it up As fast as he was able. F F was a little Fish. Cook in the river took it Papa said, "Cook! Cook! bring a dish! And, Cook! be quick and cook it!" G G was Papa's new Gun; He put it in a box; And then he went and bought a bun, And walked about the Docks. H H was Papa's new Hat; He wore it on his head; Outside it was completely black, But inside it was red. I I was an Inkstand new, Papa he likes to use it; He keeps it in his pocket now, For fear that he should lose it. J J was some Apple Jam, Of which Papa ate part; But all the rest he took away And stuffed into a tart. K K was a great new Kite; Papa he saw it fly Above a thousand chimney pots, And all about the sky. L L was a fine new Lamp; But when the wick was lit, Papa he said, "This Light ain't good! I cannot read a bit!" M M was a dish of mince; It looked so good to eat! Papa, he quickly ate it up, And said, "This is a treat!" N N was a Nut that grew High up upon a tree; Papa, who could not reach it, said, "That's _much_ too high for me!" O O was an Owl who flew All in the dark away, Papa said, "What an owl you are! Why don't you fly by day?" P P was a little Pig, Went out to take a walk; Papa he said, "If Piggy dead, He'd all turn into Pork!" Q Q was a Quince that hung Upon a garden tree; Papa he brought it with him home, And ate it with his tea. R R was a Railway Rug Extremely large and warm; Papa he wrapped it round his head, In a most dreadful storm. S S was Papa's new Stick, Papa's new thumping Stick, To thump extremely wicked boys, Because it was so thick. T T was a tumbler full Of Punch all hot and good; Papa he drank it up, when in The middle of a wood. U U was a silver urn, Full of hot scalding water; Papa said, "If that Urn were mine, I'd give it to my daughter!" V V was a Villain; once He stole a piece of beef. Papa he said, "Oh, dreadful man! That Villain is a Thief!" W W was a Watch of Gold: It told the time of day, So that Papa knew when to come, And when to go away. X X was King Xerxes, whom Papa much wished to know; But this he could not do, because Xerxes died long ago. Y Y was a Youth, who kicked And screamed and cried like mad; Papa he said, "Your conduct is Abominably bad!" Z Z was a Zebra striped And streaked with lines of black; Papa said once, he thought he'd like A ride upon his back.

A Voice Spake Out Of The Skies

Alfred Lord Tennyson

A voice spake out of the skies To a just man and a wise' 'The world and all within it Will only last a minute!' And a beggar began to cry 'Food, food or I die'! Is it worth his while to eat, Or mine to give him meat, If the world and all within it Were nothing the next minute?

The Rover's Adieu

Walter Scott (Sir)

A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew. 'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.' He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore.'

Nonsense Alphabet 1

Edward Lear

A A was an ant Who seldom stood still, And who made a nice house In the side of a hill. a! Nice little ant! B B was a book With a binding of blue, And pictures and stories For me and for you. b! Nice little book! C C was a cat Who ran after a rat; But his courage did fail When she seized on his tail. c! Crafty old cat! D D was a duck With spots on his back, Who lived in the water, And always said "Quack!" d! Dear little duck! E E was an elephant, Stately and wise: He had tusks and a trunk, And two queer little eyes. e! Oh, what funny small eyes! F F was a fish Who was caught in a net; But he got out again, And is quite alive yet. f! Lively young fish! G G was a goat Who was spotted with brown: When he did not lie still He walked up and down. g! Good little goat! H H was a hat Which was all on one side; Its crown was too high, And its brim was too wide. h! Oh, what a hat! I I was some ice So white and so nice, But which nobody tasted; And so it was wasted. i! All that good ice! J J was a jackdaw Who hopped up and down In the principal street Of a neighboring town. j! All through the town! K K was a kite Which flew out of sight, Above houses so high, Quite into the sky. k Fly away, kite! L L was a light Which burned all the night, And lighted the gloom Of a very dark room. l! Useful nice light! M M was a mill Which stood on a hill, And turned round and round With a loud hummy sound. m! Useful old mill! N N was a net Which was thrown in the sea To catch fish for dinner For you and for me. n! Nice little net! O O was an orange So yellow and round: When it fell off the tree, It fell down to the ground. o! Down to the ground! P P was a pig, Who was not very big; But his tail was too curly, And that made him surly. p! Cross little pig! Q Q was a quail With a very short tail; And he fed upon corn In the evening and morn. q! Quaint little quail! R R was a rabbit, Who had a bad habit Of eating the flowers In gardens and bowers. r! Naughty fat rabbit! S S was the sugar-tongs, Nippity-nee, To take up the sugar To put in our tea. s! Nippity-nee! T T was a tortoise, All yellow and black: He walked slowly away, And he never came back. t! Torty never came back! U U was an urn All polished and bright, And full of hot water At noon and at night. u! Useful old urn! V V was a villa Which stood on a hill, By the side of a river, And close to a mill. v! Nice little villa! W W was a whale With a very long tail, Whose movements were frantic Across the Atlantic. w! Monstrous old whale! X X was King Xerxes, Who, more than all Turks, is Renowned for his fashion Of fury and passion. x! Angry old Xerxes! Y Y was a yew, Which flourished and grew By a quiet abode Near the side of a road. y! Dark little yew! Z Z was some zinc, So shiny and bright, Which caused you to wink In the sun's merry light. z! Beautiful zinc!

The Weasel In The Granary.

Jean de La Fontaine

[1] A weasel through a hole contrived to squeeze, (She was recovering from disease,) Which led her to a farmer's hoard. There lodged, her wasted form she cherish'd; Heaven knows the lard and victuals stored That by her gnawing perish'd! Of which the consequence Was sudden corpulence. A week or so was past, When having fully broken fast. A noise she heard, and hurried To find the hole by which she came, And seem'd to find it not the same; So round she ran, most sadly flurried; And, coming back, thrust out her head, Which, sticking there, she said, 'This is the hole, there can't be blunder: What makes it now so small, I wonder, Where, but the other day, I pass'd with ease?' A rat her trouble sees, And cries, 'But with an emptier belly; You enter'd lean, and lean must sally.' What I have said to you Has eke been said to not a few, Who, in a vast variety of cases,[2] Have ventured into such-like places.

A Question

Robert Lee Frost

A voice said, Look me in the stars And tell me truly, men of earth, If all the soul-and-body scars Were not too much to pay for birth.

Vanity

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

A wan sky greener than the lawn, A wan lawn paler than the sky. She gave a flower into my hand, And all the hours of eve went by. Who knows what round the corner waits To smite? If shipwreck, snare, or slur Shall leave me with a head to lift, Worthy of him that spoke with her. A wan sky greener than the lawn, A wan lawn paler than the sky. She gave a flower into my hand, And all the days of life went by. Live ill or well, this thing is mine, From all I guard it, ill or well. One tawdry, tattered, faded flower To show the jealous kings in hell.

A Thrush Before Dawn

Alice Christiana Gertrude Thompson Meynell

A voice peals in this end of night A phrase of notes resembling stars, Single and spiritual notes of light. What call they at my window-bars? The South, the past, the day to be, An ancient infelicity. Darkling, deliberate, what sings This wonderful one, alone, at peace? What wilder things than song, what things Sweeter than youth, clearer than Greece, Dearer than Italy, untold Delight, and freshness centuries old? And first first-loves, a multitude, The exaltation of their pain; Ancestral childhood long renewed; And midnights of invisible rain; And gardens, gardens, night and day, Gardens and childhood all the way. What Middle Ages passionate, O passionless voice!    What distant bells Lodged in the hills, what palace state Illyrian!    For it speaks, it tells, Without desire, without dismay, Some morrow and some yesterday. All-natural things!    But more-Whence came This yet remoter mystery? How do these starry notes proclaim A graver still divinity? This hope, this sanctity of fear? O innocent throat!    O human ear!

In the South Pacific

Mary Hannay Foott

A vision of a savage land, A glimpse of cloud-ringed seas; A moonlit deck, a murderous hand; No more, no more of these! No more! how heals the tender flesh, Once torn by savage beast? The wound, re-opening, bleeds afresh, Each season at the least! O day, for dawn of thee how prayed The spirit, sore distressed; Thy latest beams, upslanting, made A pathway for the blest. And robes, new-donned, of the redeemed, Gleamed white past grief's dark pall: So this, a day of death which seemed, A birthday let us call. Remembering, such day as this, A soul from flesh was shriven, By death, God's messenger of bliss; A spirit entered Heaven. Thy dying head no loving breast Upheld, O early slain; But soon, mid welcoming saints, 'twas prest Where God's own Child has lain! Though none at death broke Bread for thee, Or poured the Sacred Wine; Thou, nourished at His Board, dost see The Substance of the Sign. We mourned thee! Heaven's new born, and rich Past all our prayers could claim, Secure in blessedness, of which We have not learnt the name.

The Fairy Temple; Or, Oberon's Chapel

Robert Herrick

A way enhanced with glass and beads There is, that to the Chapel leads; Whose structure, for his holy rest, Is here the Halcyon's curious nest; Into the which who looks, shall see His Temple of Idolatry; Where he of god-heads has such store, As Rome's Pantheon had not more. His house of Rimmon this he calls, Girt with small bones, instead of walls. First in a niche, more black than jet, His idol-cricket there is set; Then in a polish'd oval by There stands his idol-beetle-fly; Next, in an arch, akin to this, His idol-canker seated is. Then in a round, is placed by these His golden god, Cantharides. So that where'er ye look, ye see No capital, no cornice free, Or frieze, from this fine frippery. Now this the Fairies would have known, Theirs is a mixt religion: And some have heard the elves it call Part Pagan, part Papistical. If unto me all tongues were granted, I could not speak the saints here painted. Saint Tit, Saint Nit, Saint Is, Saint Itis, Who 'gainst Mab's state placed here right is. Saint Will o' th' Wisp, of no great bigness, But, alias, call'd here FATUUS IGNIS. Saint Frip, Saint Trip, Saint Fill, Saint Filly; Neither those other saint-ships will I Here go about for to recite Their number, almost infinite; Which, one by one, here set down are In this most curious calendar. First, at the entrance of the gate, A little puppet-priest doth wait, Who squeaks to all the comers there, 'Favour your tongues, who enter here. 'Pure hands bring hither, without stain.' A second pules, 'Hence, hence, profane!' Hard by, i' th' shell of half a nut, The holy-water there is put; A little brush of squirrels' hairs, Composed of odd, not even pairs, Stands in the platter, or close by, To purge the fairy family. Near to the altar stands the priest, There offering up the holy-grist; Ducking in mood and perfect tense, With (much good do't him) reverence. The altar is not here four-square, Nor in a form triangular; Nor made of glass, or wood, or stone, But of a little transverse bone; Which boys and bruckel'd children call (Playing for points and pins) cockall. Whose linen-drapery is a thin, Sub|ile, and ductile codling's skin; Which o'er the board is smoothly spread With little seal-work damasked. The fringe that circumbinds it, too, Is spangle-work of trembling dew, Which, gently gleaming, makes a show, Like frost-work glitt'ring on the snow. Upon this fetuous board doth stand Something for shew-bread, and at hand (Just in the middle of the altar) Upon an end, the Fairy-psalter, Graced with the trout-flies' curious wings, Which serve for watchet ribbonings. Now, we must know, the elves are led Right by the Rubric, which they read: And if report of them be true, They have their text for what they do; Ay, and their book of canons too. And, as Sir Thomas Parson tells, They have their book of articles; And if that Fairy knight not lies They have their book of homilies; And other Scriptures, that design A short, but righteous discipline. The bason stands the board upon To take the free-oblation; A little pin-dust, which they hold More precious than we prize our gold; Which charity they give to many Poor of the parish, if there's any. Upon the ends of these neat rails, Hatch'd with the silver-light of snails, The elves, in formal manner, fix Two pure and holy candlesticks, In either which a tall small bent Burns for the altar's ornament. For sanctity, they have, to these, Their curious copes and surplices Of cleanest cobweb, hanging by In their religious vestery. They have their ash-pans and their brooms, To purge the chapel and the rooms; Their many mumbling mass-priests here, And many a dapper chorister. Their ush'ring vergers here likewise, Their canons and their chaunteries; Of cloister-monks they have enow, Ay, and their abbey-lubbers too: And if their legend do not lie, They much affect the papacy; And since the last is dead, there's hope Elve Boniface shall next be Pope. They have their cups and chalices, Their pardons and indulgences, Their beads of nits, bells, books, and wax- Candles, forsooth, and other knacks; Their holy oil, their fasting-spittle, Their sacred salt here, not a little. Dry chips, old shoes, rags, grease, and bones, Beside their fumigations. Many a trifle, too, and trinket, And for what use, scarce man would think it. Next then, upon the chanter's side An apple's-core is hung up dried, With rattling kernels, which is rung To call to morn and even-song. The saint, to which the most he prays And offers incense nights and days, The lady of the lobster is, Whose foot-pace he doth stroke and kiss, And, humbly, chives of saffron brings For his most cheerful offerings. When, after these, he's paid his vows, He lowly to the altar bows; And then he dons the silk-worm's shed, Like a Turk's turban on his head, And reverently departeth thence, Hid in a cloud of frankincense; And by the glow-worm's light well guided, Goes to the Feast that's now provided.

The Trinkets

Gilbert Keith Chesterton

A wandering world of rivers, A wavering world of trees, If the world grow dim and dizzy With all changes and degrees, It is but Our Lady's mirror Hung dreaming in its place, Shining with only shadows Till she wakes it with her face. The standing whirlpool of the stars, The wheel of all the world, Is a ring on Our Lady's finger With the suns and moons empearled With stars for stones to please her Who sits playing with her rings With the great heart that a woman has And the love of little things. Wings of the whirlwind of the world From here to Ispahan, Spurning the flying forests Are light as Our Lady's fan: For all things violent here and vain Lie open and all at ease Where God has girded heaven to guard Her holy vanities.

Kingsborough

Henry Kendall

A waving of hats and of hands, The voices of thousands in one, A shout from the ring and the stands, And a glitter of heads in the sun! 'They are off they are off!' is the roar, As the cracks settle down to the race, With the 'yellow and black' to the fore, And the Panic blood forcing the pace. At the back of the course, and away Where the running-ground home again wheels, Grubb travels in front on the bay, With a feather-weight hard at his heels. But Yeomans, you see, is about, And the wily New Zealander waits, Though the high-blooded flyer is out, Whose rider and colours are Tait's. Look! Ashworth comes on with a run To the head of the Levity colt; And the fleet the magnificent son Of Panic is shooting his bolt. Hurrah for the Weatherbit strain! A Fireworks is first in the straight; And 'A Kelpie will win it again!' Is the roar from the ring to the gate. The leader must have it but no! For see, full of running, behind A beautiful, wonderful foe With the speed of the thunder and wind! A flashing of whips, and a cry, And Ashworth sits down on his horse, With Kingsborough's head at his thigh And the 'field' scattered over the course! In a clamour of calls and acclaim The pair race away from the ruck: The horse to the last of it game A marvel of muscle and pluck! But the foot of the Sappho is there, And Kingston's invincible strength; And the numbers go up in the air The colt is the first by a length! The first, and the favourite too! The terror that came from his stall, With the spirit of fire and of dew, To show the road home to them all; From the back of the field to the straight He has come, as is ever his wont, And carried his welter-like weight, Like a tradesman, right through to the front. Nor wonder at cheering a wit, For this is the popular horse, That never was beaten when 'fit' By any four hoofs on the course; To starter for Leger or Cup, Has he ever shown feather of fear When saddle and rider were up And the case to be argued was clear? No! rather the questionless pluck Of the blood unaccustomed to yield, Preferred to spread-eagle the ruck, And make a long tail of the 'field'. Bear witness, ye lovers of sport, To races of which he can boast, When flyer by flyer was caught, And beaten by lengths on the post! Lo! this is the beautiful bay Of many, the marvellous one Who showed us last season the way That a Leger should always be won. There was something to look at and learn, Ye shrewd irreproachable 'touts', When the Panic colt tired at the turn, And the thing was all over but shouts! Aye, that was the spin, when the twain Came locked by the bend of the course, The Zealander pulling his rein, And the veteran hard on his horse! When Ashworth was 'riding' 'twas late For his friends to applaud on the stands, And the Sappho colt entered the straight With the race of the year in his hands. Just look at his withers, his thighs! And the way that he carries his head! Has Richmond more wonderful eyes, Or Melbourne that spring in his tread? The grand, the intelligent glance From a spirit that fathoms and feels, Makes the heart of a horse-lover dance Till the warm-blooded life in him reels. What care have I ever to know His owner by sight or by name? The horse that I glory in so Is still the magnificent same. I own I am proud of the pluck Of the sportsman that never was bought; But the nag that spread-eagled the ruck Is bound to be first in my thought. For who that has masculine flame, Or who that is thorough at all, Can help feeling joy in the fame Of this king of the kings of the stall? What odds if assumption has sealed His soulless hereafter abode, So long as he shows to his 'field' The gleam of his hoofs, and the road?

Well Of St. Keyne, The

Robert Southey

A well there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. An oak and an elm-tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below. A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne, Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky. He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he; And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree. There came a man from the house hard by At the well to fill his pail; On the well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail. "Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, "For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drank this day That ever thou didst in thy life. "Or hast thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drank of the Well of St. Keyne." "I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply; "But that my draught should be the better for that I pray you answer me why?" "St. Keyne," quoth the Cornishman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well, And before the angels summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell. "If the husband of this gifted well Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life. "But if the wife should drink of it first, God help the husband then!" The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again. "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the Cornishman said: But the Cornishman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head. "I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But i' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church."

The Cry Of The Karens

Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Lines written after hearing a returned missionary relate some of the traditions, and speak of the long-cherished hopes of this interesting people. A voice from the distant East - A voice from a far-off shore - A voice from the perishing tribes of Earth Has wandered the blue seas o'er! It comes with a lingering cry, With a wail of anguish and pain, - "O brothers, - our brothers! - why Do we look for you still in vain? "We are weary, - we droop, - we die! We grope in the deepening gloom! We look above with despairing eye! We drop in the yawning tomb! Our children stretch their hands Far over the waters blue, And vainly cry from our darkened lands - Alas, how long - for you! "Brothers! do ye not keep Our law of the olden time, For which, through ages of woe, we weep In darkness, and sin, and crime? There are sails from the distant West Dotting our waters blue, And the feet of strangers our shores have pressed, But they came not, alas, from you! "We know there's a God above, We know there's a land of rest, - But there's naught that whispers of pard'ning love To our spirits by guilt oppressed! We call to the earth below, - To the calm, unanswering heaven, - But no voice replies to our cry of woe That can tell us of sins forgiven! "And yet we look and wait, With sorrowing hearts and sore, If haply we may behold, though late, Your sails from the western shore; - O, come with that precious word We lost in the far-off years, And tell us the voice of woe is heard, And God has beheld our tears!"

A Whirl-Blast From Behind The Hill

William Wordsworth

A Whirl-Blast from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Then, all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There's not a breeze, no breath of air,    Yet here, and there, and everywhere Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy.

Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part III. - VIII - Acquittal Of The Bishops

William Wordsworth

A voice, from long-expecting thousands sent, Shatters the air, and troubles tower and spire; For Justice hath absolved the innocent, And Tyranny is balked of her desire: Up, down, the busy Thames, rapid as fire Coursing a train of gunpowder it went, And transport finds in every street a vent, Till the whole City rings like one vast quire. The Fathers urge the People to be still, With outstretched hands and earnest speech in vain! Yea, many, haply wont to entertain Small reverence for the mitre's offices, And to Religion's self no friendly will, A Prelate's blessing ask on bended knees.

A Volant Tribe Of Bards On Earth Are Found

William Wordsworth

A volant Tribe of Bards on earth are found, Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play, On "coignes of vantage" hang their nests of clay; How quickly from that aery hold unbound, Dust for oblivion! To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye; Convinced that there, there only, she can lay Secure foundations. As the year runs round, Apart she toils within the chosen ring; While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye Is gently closing with the flowers of spring; Where even the motion of an Angel's wing Would interrupt the intense tranquility Of silent hills, and more than silent sky.

Reminiscences

James McIntyre

On the laying of the corner stone of the Brock monument at Queenston Heights, and the final interment of the General who had fallen at the battle of Queenston, Oct. 13th, 1812. The remains of his Aide, Col. McDonald, were also deposited under the new tower. A wail went o'er broad Canada, When it was known a vile outlaw Had at midnight's awful hour, With ruffian hand blown up the tower. 'Neath which had slept the gallant Brock Who bravely fell on Queenston's rock, But graceful column soon shall rise, Its beauteous shaft will kiss the skies. For from Queenston's woody height You may behold a pleasing sight, The grim old veterans of the war, Militiamen with many a scar. Indian braves from each nation, Grouped to pay their last ovation, Round the remains of General Brock, Who led them oft in battle's shock. Old heroes now again do rally, Feebly they move along the valley, Not as they rushed in days of yore When torrent like they onward bore. And swept away the foeman's ranks O'er Niagara's rugged banks, So indignant was their grief On losing of their warrior chief. Now with triumphant funeral car, Adorned with implements of war, The sad procession slow ascends, As round the hill its way it wends. Marching to mournful, solemn note, While grand old flags around it float, And now may peace be never broken 'Mong lands where Saxon tongue is spoken. "For peace hath victories by far More glorious than horrid war," England doth Longfellow revere, And America loves Shakespeare. The oration on the above interesting occasion was delivered by the late Hon. William H. Merritt, projector of the Welland Canal. He served at the battle when a young man. We witnessed the interesting ceremony and shall never forget it.