English Poems: Selected from the best Authors [3rd ed. Reprint 2020] 9783112335048, 9783112335031

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ENGLISH POEMS.

ENGLISH POEMS SELECTED FROM THE BEST AUTHORS BY

G. BENGUEREL DR. PH. HEAD MASTER OF THE NEUE REALSCHULE AT STRASBURG.

THIRD

EDITION.

BONN 1886. A D O L P H

M A R C U S .

PREFACE. In publishing these few Extracts I have no other object in view but to provide my pupils with a good selection of English. Poems which they may learn by heart; that being the best way to gain fluency in speaking. G.

BENGUEREL.

TABLE OF CONTENTS. Page.

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. C. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

Nature. Spring is coming. A wet Sheet and a flowing Sea. The Sea. The first Voyage. The Sailor's Consolation. My Heart's in the Highlands. The native Land. The Graves of a Household. Aspiration of Youth. Break, break, break. A Farewell. 'Tis the last Rose of Summer. Sunshine. The Autumn Leaf. The Skylark. Ulysses' Dog. The Glove and the Lions. A Psalm of Life. The Light of Stars. Footsteps of Angels This World is all a fleeting Show. Night. I remember, I remember. As slow our Ship. The Soldier's Dream. Hunting Song. The Palmer. The Burial of Sir John Moore. The Battle of Blenheim. John Barleycorn.

ANONYMOUS. NACK. ALLAN

CUNNINGHAM.

BARRY

CORNWALL.

MISS ELIZA CHARLES

COOK.

DIBDIN.

R O B E R T BURNS. M R S F E L I C I A HEMANS. JAMES

MONTGOMERY. TENNYSON.

jj » THOMAS MOORE. MARY

HOWITT.

CHARLES MACKAY. JAMES

HOGG.

ALEXANDER

POPE.

LEIGH

HUNT.

II. W .

LONGFELLOW.

»

J)

»

n n n THOMAS M O O R E . JAMES

MONTGOMERY.

THOMAS HOOD. THOMAS

MOORE.

THOMAS

CAMPBELL.

WALTER

SCOTT.

» CHARLES

5

7 8 9

BROWNE.

ALFRED

1 2 3 4

» WOLFE.

ROBERT

SOUTHEY.

ROBERT

BURNS.

11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22 23 24 26 26 28 29 31 32 33 34 36 38

VIII Page.

32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

The Village Blacksmith. The Village Schoolmaster. The Village Parson. The Pilgrim Fathers. The castled Crag of Drachenfels. Childe Harold's Adieu to England. Home. Retribution. The Arab's Farewell to his Horse. Verses supposed to be written by A. Selkirk. Vision of Belshazzar. Never give up. Labour. Like one pale, flitting, lonely Gleam. The Lake of Geneva. After a Tempest. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. Antony's funeral Oration. Henry the Fourth's Soliloquy on Sleep. Morning Hymn. Sonnet on his Blindness. To my Books. Address to the Ocean. Greatness.

H. W .

LONGFELLOW.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

40 42

43 F.

HEMANS.

44

LORD BYRON.

46

47 J A M E S MONTGOMERY.

49

R O B E R T SOTJTHEY.

50

MRS. C. E .

53

NORTON.

W I L L I A M COWPER.

56

LORD BYRON.

58

MARTIN TOPPER.

59

F R A N C I S S . OSGOOD.

60

HARTLEY

61

COLERIDGE.

LORD BYRON.

62

W.

64

CULLEN BRYANT.

T H O M A S GRAY.

66

W.

69

SIIAKSPEARE.

73 JOHN MILTON.

74

75 W.

ROSCOE.

70

LORD BYRON.

76

MARK

78

AKENSIDE.

1.

NATURE. The fair smile of morning, The glory of noon, The bright stars adorning The path of the moon; The mist-cover'd mountain, The valley and plain, T h e ' l a k e and the fountain, The river and main, Their magic combining Illume and control The care and repining That darken the soul. The timid Spring stealing Through light and perfume; The Summer's revealing Of beauty and bloom; The rich Autumn, glowing With fruit-treasures crown'd; The pale Winter, throwing His snow-wreaths around; All widely diffusing A charm on the earth, Wake loftier musing And holier mirth. There is not a sorrow That hath not a balm From Nature to borrow, In tempest or calm; 1

2

There is not a season, There is not a scene, But Fancy and Reason May gaze on serene, And own it possessing A zest for the glad, A solace and blessing To comfort the sad. ANONYMOUS.

2.

SPRING IS COMING. Spring is coming, Spring is coming, Birds are chirping, insects humming; Flowers are peeping from their sleeping, Streams escaped from Winter's keeping, In delighted freedom rushing, Dance along in music gushing; Scenes of late in deadness sadden'd, Smile in animation gladden'd; All is beauty, all is mirth, All is glory upon earth. Shout we then with Nature's voice, Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice! Spring is coming, come, my brother, Let us rove with one another, To our well-remember'd wild-wood, Flourishing in nature's childhood; Where a thousand flowers are springing, And a thousand birds are singing; Where the golden sunbeams quiver On the verdure-girdled river; Let our youth of feeling out, To the youth of nature shout,

2

There is not a season, There is not a scene, But Fancy and Reason May gaze on serene, And own it possessing A zest for the glad, A solace and blessing To comfort the sad. ANONYMOUS.

2.

SPRING IS COMING. Spring is coming, Spring is coming, Birds are chirping, insects humming; Flowers are peeping from their sleeping, Streams escaped from Winter's keeping, In delighted freedom rushing, Dance along in music gushing; Scenes of late in deadness sadden'd, Smile in animation gladden'd; All is beauty, all is mirth, All is glory upon earth. Shout we then with Nature's voice, Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice! Spring is coming, come, my brother, Let us rove with one another, To our well-remember'd wild-wood, Flourishing in nature's childhood; Where a thousand flowers are springing, And a thousand birds are singing; Where the golden sunbeams quiver On the verdure-girdled river; Let our youth of feeling out, To the youth of nature shout,

3 While the waves repeat our voice, Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice! NACK.

James Nack, an American, has published some poems, the good versification of which is the more surprising, as their author is deaf and dumb.

3.

A W E T SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast: And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. 0 for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high: And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free, — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And h a r k ! the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud: The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free, —

3 While the waves repeat our voice, Welcome Spring! rejoice! rejoice! NACK.

James Nack, an American, has published some poems, the good versification of which is the more surprising, as their author is deaf and dumb.

3.

A W E T SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast: And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. 0 for a soft and gentle wind! I heard a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high: And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good ship tight and free, — The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And h a r k ! the music, mariners, The wind is piping loud: The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free, —

4

While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Allan Cunningham, the son of a gardener, was born 1784, at Blackwood in Dumfriesshire. In his early years he was apprenticed to his uncle, a mason of some repute, but he soon left this trade and went to London where he remained till his death, which took place 1842. The catalogue of the works of that indefatigable author is very large, but it may suffice to say that he was a happy imitator of the old Scottish Ballads and Songs as well as a distinguished prose-writer. His principal works are: The Lives of Eminent British Painters, Sculptors and Architects and The life of Sir David Wilkie, which he completed two days before his death.

4.

THE SEA. The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the Sea! I am on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh! how I love, to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft its tempest tune,

4

While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Allan Cunningham, the son of a gardener, was born 1784, at Blackwood in Dumfriesshire. In his early years he was apprenticed to his uncle, a mason of some repute, but he soon left this trade and went to London where he remained till his death, which took place 1842. The catalogue of the works of that indefatigable author is very large, but it may suffice to say that he was a happy imitator of the old Scottish Ballads and Songs as well as a distinguished prose-writer. His principal works are: The Lives of Eminent British Painters, Sculptors and Architects and The life of Sir David Wilkie, which he completed two days before his death.

4.

THE SEA. The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea! The blue, the fresh, the ever free! Without a mark, without a bound, It runneth the earth's wide regions round; It plays with the clouds, it mocks the skies, Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the Sea! I am on the Sea! I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh! how I love, to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft its tempest tune,

6 And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull tame shore, But I lov'd the great Sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, L i k e a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was and is to me; For I was born on the open Sea! T h e waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when 1 was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild A s welcomed to life the Ocean-child. I ' v e lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea. BABRY CORNWALL.

Barry Cornwall, the assumed name of Bryan Waller Procter, was born about 1790, in London, where he lived as a barrister, and died in 1874. Since 1815 he has published a tragedy: Mirandola and many lyrical pieces among which his later Songs are the best known. 5.

THE FIRST

VOYAGE.

H e stood upon the sandy beach, And watch'd the dancing foam; He gaz'd upon the leaping waves, Which soon would be his home.

6 And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull tame shore, But I lov'd the great Sea more and more, And backwards flew to her billowy breast, L i k e a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; And a mother she was and is to me; For I was born on the open Sea! T h e waves were white, and red the morn, In the noisy hour when 1 was born; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; And never was heard such an outcry wild A s welcomed to life the Ocean-child. I ' v e lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range, But never have sought nor sighed for change; And death, whenever he come to me, Shall come on the wild unbounded Sea. BABRY CORNWALL.

Barry Cornwall, the assumed name of Bryan Waller Procter, was born about 1790, in London, where he lived as a barrister, and died in 1874. Since 1815 he has published a tragedy: Mirandola and many lyrical pieces among which his later Songs are the best known. 5.

THE FIRST

VOYAGE.

H e stood upon the sandy beach, And watch'd the dancing foam; He gaz'd upon the leaping waves, Which soon would be his home.

6

And then he ey'd his sailor's garb, With look of proud delight: The flowing kerchief round his neck, The trowsers, wide and white. The rose of health was on his cheek, His forehead fair as day; Hope play'd within his hazel eye, And told his heart was gay. And many a time the sturdy boy Long'd for the hour to come Which gave the hammock for his couch, The ocean for his home. And now the gallant ship rides nigh, The wind is fair and free, The busy hands have trimm'd her sails: She stems the open sea. The boy again is on the beach; A mother's arms have press'd him, A sister's hand is link'd in his, A father's lip hath bless'd him. The eyes that lately sparkled bright Are swoll'n with many a tear; His young heart feels a choking pang, To part from all so dear. Another kiss — another sob, And now the struggle 's o'er: He springs into the tiny boat, And pushes from the shore. The last sad drop upon his cheek Falls mingling with the foam,

7

The sea-bird, screaming, welcomes him, The ocean is his home! MISS ELIZA COOK.

Miss Eliza Cook, born 1817, in London, where she is now living, is a poetess of great popularity both in England and America.

She has published a great number of miscellaneous poems.

6.

T H E SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. One night came on a hurricane, The sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline turn'd his quid, And said to Billy Bowling: " A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill; Hark! don't ye hear it roar now? Lord help 'em, how I pity's all Unhappy folks on shore now! "Fool-hardy chaps who live in towns, What dangers they are all in, And now lie quaking in their beds, For fear the roof should fall in! Poor creatures, how they envies us, And wishes (I've a notion,) For our good luck, in such a storm, T o be upon the ocean. "And as for them who're out all day, On business from their houses, And late at night are coming home T o cheer their babes and spouses; While you and I, Bill, on the deck Are comfortably lying,

7

The sea-bird, screaming, welcomes him, The ocean is his home! MISS ELIZA COOK.

Miss Eliza Cook, born 1817, in London, where she is now living, is a poetess of great popularity both in England and America.

She has published a great number of miscellaneous poems.

6.

T H E SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. One night came on a hurricane, The sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline turn'd his quid, And said to Billy Bowling: " A strong nor-wester's blowing, Bill; Hark! don't ye hear it roar now? Lord help 'em, how I pity's all Unhappy folks on shore now! "Fool-hardy chaps who live in towns, What dangers they are all in, And now lie quaking in their beds, For fear the roof should fall in! Poor creatures, how they envies us, And wishes (I've a notion,) For our good luck, in such a storm, T o be upon the ocean. "And as for them who're out all day, On business from their houses, And late at night are coming home T o cheer their babes and spouses; While you and I, Bill, on the deck Are comfortably lying,

8

My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots About their heads are flying! "And often have we seamen heard How men are kill'd and undone, By overturns of carriages, And thieves and fires, in London. We know what risks all landsmen run, From noblemen to tailors; Then, Bill, let us thank Providence That you and I are sailors." CHARLES DIBDIN.

Charles Dibdin (1745—1814), an actor and dramatist, has written innumerable sea-songa and about fifty dramatic pieces.

7.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a chasing the deer: Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods, My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer;

8

My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots About their heads are flying! "And often have we seamen heard How men are kill'd and undone, By overturns of carriages, And thieves and fires, in London. We know what risks all landsmen run, From noblemen to tailors; Then, Bill, let us thank Providence That you and I are sailors." CHARLES DIBDIN.

Charles Dibdin (1745—1814), an actor and dramatist, has written innumerable sea-songa and about fifty dramatic pieces.

7.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a chasing the deer: Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods, My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a chasing the deer;

9

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. E. BUBNS.

Robert Burns, the celebrated Scotch poet, was born of humble parents near the town of Ayr in 1759. In the summer of 1786 he published his first volume of poems, which were received with such an enthusiasm that he was able to take the farm of Ellisland out of the product of a second edition. He also got an appointment in the Excise, but finding that the management of his farm interfered with the duties of his office and his convivial- habits, he abandoned it and retired to the town of Dumfries where he died in 1796. The influence of Burns has been very great and is still so; his popularity may be inferred from the fact t h a t since 1800 more than a hundred editions of his works have been published.

8.

THE NATIVE LAND. They bore him from his barren shore, The country of his birth — From leafless wastes and icefields hoar, And all most loved on earth; They asked him but to leave his tribe, And then he should command Riches and wealth — and for that bribe He left his native land. They shewed him sunny islands spread Beneath unclouded skies, Where orange groves waved overhead, And glanced the bright fire-flies: They carried him to beauteous bowers, By fragrant breezes fanned: What cared he for their trees and flowers? 'Twas not his native land.

9

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. E. BUBNS.

Robert Burns, the celebrated Scotch poet, was born of humble parents near the town of Ayr in 1759. In the summer of 1786 he published his first volume of poems, which were received with such an enthusiasm that he was able to take the farm of Ellisland out of the product of a second edition. He also got an appointment in the Excise, but finding that the management of his farm interfered with the duties of his office and his convivial- habits, he abandoned it and retired to the town of Dumfries where he died in 1796. The influence of Burns has been very great and is still so; his popularity may be inferred from the fact t h a t since 1800 more than a hundred editions of his works have been published.

8.

THE NATIVE LAND. They bore him from his barren shore, The country of his birth — From leafless wastes and icefields hoar, And all most loved on earth; They asked him but to leave his tribe, And then he should command Riches and wealth — and for that bribe He left his native land. They shewed him sunny islands spread Beneath unclouded skies, Where orange groves waved overhead, And glanced the bright fire-flies: They carried him to beauteous bowers, By fragrant breezes fanned: What cared he for their trees and flowers? 'Twas not his native land.

10 On through the water flew the bark, And Albion's white cliffs rose: He would have been more glad to mark T h e glare of his own snows. And many a blithe and joyous sound Came from the crowded strand; But coldly glanced his eye around, — ' T w a s not his native land! T h e y shewed him many And many a scene of 0 he had happier been Beside his own loved

a princely mirth; — at home, hearth!

dome.

T h e y led him to the busy mart, — But while the crowd he scanned, It brought no pleasure to his heart, — 'Twas not his native land! Strangers were kind to him, and tried Vainly to make him blest; But all their efforts he defied — His bosom knew no rest. He saw a mother fondly kiss T h e infant in her hand, And anguish wrung his heart, for this Was in his native land. There is an innate feeling clings Around our human clay, A fondness for familiar things That will not wear a w a y ; But oft consumes the heart it keeps Twined in its deathless band; Even so was his, and now he sleeps Far from his native land. BROWNE.

11

9.

T H E G R A V E S OF A HOUSEHOLD. They grew in beauty, side by side, They fill'd one home with glee; — Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow; She had each folded flower in sight, — Where are those dreamers now? One, 'midst the forest of the west, By a dark stream is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest, F a r in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one; He lies, where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his^low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain: He wrapt his colours round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded 'midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band. And parted thus, they rest, who play'd Beneath the same green tree; Whose voices mingled as,they pray'd Around one parent knee!

12

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer'd with song the hearth; — Alas for love! if thou wert all, And nought beyond, 0 Earth! MBS FELICIA HEMANS.

Mrs Felicia Dorothea Hemans waa born at Liperpool in 1793 and died in Dublin in 1835. She was educated in NorthWales, where her father had removed to, and imbibed there that love of nature which is displayed in all her works. She is the best English poetess of the 19 th century. Her best poems are: The Forest Sanctuary, National Lyrics and Songs of the Affection.

10.

ASPIRATION OF YOUTH. Higher, higher will we climb, Up the mount of glory, That our names may live through time In our country's story; Happy when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls. Deeper, deeper let us toil In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil, Win from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems, Than the stars of. diadems. Onward, onward may we press, Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness, Excellence true beauty. Minds are of celestial birth, Make we then a heaven of earth.

12

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheer'd with song the hearth; — Alas for love! if thou wert all, And nought beyond, 0 Earth! MBS FELICIA HEMANS.

Mrs Felicia Dorothea Hemans waa born at Liperpool in 1793 and died in Dublin in 1835. She was educated in NorthWales, where her father had removed to, and imbibed there that love of nature which is displayed in all her works. She is the best English poetess of the 19 th century. Her best poems are: The Forest Sanctuary, National Lyrics and Songs of the Affection.

10.

ASPIRATION OF YOUTH. Higher, higher will we climb, Up the mount of glory, That our names may live through time In our country's story; Happy when her welfare calls, He who conquers, he who falls. Deeper, deeper let us toil In the mines of knowledge; Nature's wealth and learning's spoil, Win from school and college; Delve we there for richer gems, Than the stars of. diadems. Onward, onward may we press, Through the path of duty; Virtue is true happiness, Excellence true beauty. Minds are of celestial birth, Make we then a heaven of earth.

13

Closer, closer let us knit Hearts and hands together, Where our fireside comforts sit, In the wildest weather; Oh! they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home. MONTGOMERY.

James Montgomery (1771—1854), a Scotch poet, has written several pieces chiefly religious. His principal poems are: The Wanderer in Switzerland, The West Indies, Greenland, The World before the Flood and The Peliean Island.

11.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, 0 Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. 0 well That 0 well That

for he for he

the fisherman's boy, shouts with his sister at play! the sailor lad, Sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But 0 for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, 0 Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. TENNYSON.

13

Closer, closer let us knit Hearts and hands together, Where our fireside comforts sit, In the wildest weather; Oh! they wander wide who roam For the joys of life from home. MONTGOMERY.

James Montgomery (1771—1854), a Scotch poet, has written several pieces chiefly religious. His principal poems are: The Wanderer in Switzerland, The West Indies, Greenland, The World before the Flood and The Peliean Island.

11.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, 0 Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. 0 well That 0 well That

for he for he

the fisherman's boy, shouts with his sister at play! the sailor lad, Sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But 0 for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, 0 Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. TENNYSON.

14 Alfred Tennyson, the present Poet-laureate, is a native of Lincolnshire where he was born about 1810. He is by far the greatest lyrical poet now living in England. His works are: The Princess, In Memoriam, The Idylls of the King, some Volumes of Poems and Enoch Arden. Mr. Tennyson is now living at Farringford, a secluded place in the Isle of Wight.

12. A FAREWELL. Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea A rivulet then a river: No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. TENNYSON.

14 Alfred Tennyson, the present Poet-laureate, is a native of Lincolnshire where he was born about 1810. He is by far the greatest lyrical poet now living in England. His works are: The Princess, In Memoriam, The Idylls of the King, some Volumes of Poems and Enoch Arden. Mr. Tennyson is now living at Farringford, a secluded place in the Isle of Wight.

12. A FAREWELL. Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver: No more by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea A rivulet then a river: No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. TENNYSON.

15

13.

'TIS THE LAST ROSE1 OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping, Go, sleep thou with tbem; Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone! THOMAS MOORE.

Thomas Moore, the great Irish poet, was born in Dublin in 1780. After some years' reading at the University of his native town, he went to London where, with the exception of some travels in America, France and Italy, he spent the greater part

16 of his life. He died 1852, in a small cottage in Wiltshire where he had retired a few years before his death. The principal works of Moore are: Lalla RooJch aad the Irish Melodies. 14.

SUNSHINE. I love the sunshine everywhere — In wood, and field, and glen; I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprisoned men. I love it, when it streameth in The humble cottage door, And casts the chequered casement shade Upon the red brick floor. I love it, where the children lie Deep in the clovery grass, To watch, among the twining roots, The gold-green beetle pass. I love it on the breezy sea, To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore. I love it on the mountain-tops, Where lies the thawless snow; And half a kingdom, bathed in light, Lies stretching out below. Oh yes, I love Like kindness Upon a human Is sunshine on

the sunshine; or like mirth, countenance the earth.

16 of his life. He died 1852, in a small cottage in Wiltshire where he had retired a few years before his death. The principal works of Moore are: Lalla RooJch aad the Irish Melodies. 14.

SUNSHINE. I love the sunshine everywhere — In wood, and field, and glen; I love it in the busy haunts Of town-imprisoned men. I love it, when it streameth in The humble cottage door, And casts the chequered casement shade Upon the red brick floor. I love it, where the children lie Deep in the clovery grass, To watch, among the twining roots, The gold-green beetle pass. I love it on the breezy sea, To glance on sail and oar, While the great waves, like molten glass, Come leaping to the shore. I love it on the mountain-tops, Where lies the thawless snow; And half a kingdom, bathed in light, Lies stretching out below. Oh yes, I love Like kindness Upon a human Is sunshine on

the sunshine; or like mirth, countenance the earth.

17

Upon the earth — upon the sea — And through the crystal air — Or piled up clouds — the gracious sun Is glorious everywhere. MARY HOWITT.

Mary Howitt was born in Gloucestershire in 1806. She has published a great number of poetical pieces which are distinguished by their graceful tenderness. She is still living in London.

15.

T H E AUTUMN L E A F . Poor autumn leaf! down floating Upon the blustering gale; Torn from thy bough, Where goest thou, Withered, and shrunk, and pale? I go, thou sad inquirer, As list the winds to blow, Sear, sapless, lost, And tempest-tost, I go where all things go. The rude winds bear me onward As suiteth them, not me, O'er dale, o'er hill, Through good, through ill, As destiny bears thee. What though for me one summer, And threescore for thy breath — I live my span, Thou thine, poor man! And then adown to death!

17

Upon the earth — upon the sea — And through the crystal air — Or piled up clouds — the gracious sun Is glorious everywhere. MARY HOWITT.

Mary Howitt was born in Gloucestershire in 1806. She has published a great number of poetical pieces which are distinguished by their graceful tenderness. She is still living in London.

15.

T H E AUTUMN L E A F . Poor autumn leaf! down floating Upon the blustering gale; Torn from thy bough, Where goest thou, Withered, and shrunk, and pale? I go, thou sad inquirer, As list the winds to blow, Sear, sapless, lost, And tempest-tost, I go where all things go. The rude winds bear me onward As suiteth them, not me, O'er dale, o'er hill, Through good, through ill, As destiny bears thee. What though for me one summer, And threescore for thy breath — I live my span, Thou thine, poor man! And then adown to death!

18

And thus we go together; For lofty as thy lot, And lowly mine, My fate is thine, To die and be forgot! CHARLES MACKAÏ.

-

Charles Mackay was born at Peith in Scotland in 1814 and lives in London. He has written a great number of Essays which have been published in Reviews and Journals. His poetical productions are: Voices from the Mountains; Town Lyrics Legends of the Isles and other poems. 16.

THE SKYLARK. Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — Oh to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay, and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, O'er the cloudlet dim, O'er the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

18

And thus we go together; For lofty as thy lot, And lowly mine, My fate is thine, To die and be forgot! CHARLES MACKAÏ.

-

Charles Mackay was born at Peith in Scotland in 1814 and lives in London. He has written a great number of Essays which have been published in Reviews and Journals. His poetical productions are: Voices from the Mountains; Town Lyrics Legends of the Isles and other poems. 16.

THE SKYLARK. Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — Oh to abide in the desert with thee! Wild is thy lay, and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, O'er the cloudlet dim, O'er the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!

19 Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place

—

Oh to abide in the desert with thee! JAMES HOGG.

James Hogg, the Ettrick-Shepherd, was born in Scotland in 1772. Hogg was the son of a poor shepherd and became himself a shepherd also. Having learnt to read in his twentieth year he began to imitate the ballads and songs of his native country whilst watching his flocks. Having published his first imitations in 1801, they were received with approbation by his countrymen and he continued to write till his death in 1835. His principal poem is: The Queen's Wake written in 1813.

17. ULYSSES'

DOG.

When wise Ulysses, f r o m his native coast Long kept by wars, and long b y tempest tost, A r r i v e d at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, T o all his friends, and e'en his Queen, unknown: Changed as he was with age, and toils, and cares, Furrow'd his rev'rend face, and white his hairs, In his own palace forced to ask his bread, Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed, Forgot of all his own domestic

crew;

T h e faithful dog alone his master

knew!

Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay, L i k e an old servant, now cashier'd he l a y ; A n d tho' e'en then expiring on the plain, Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful men, A n d longing to behold his ancient lord again. Him when he saw, he rose, and crawl'd to meet, T ' w a s all he could, and fawn'd, and kiss'd his feet, Seized with dumb j o y : then falling b y his side, Own'd his returning lord, look'd up and died. POPE.

19 Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place

—

Oh to abide in the desert with thee! JAMES HOGG.

James Hogg, the Ettrick-Shepherd, was born in Scotland in 1772. Hogg was the son of a poor shepherd and became himself a shepherd also. Having learnt to read in his twentieth year he began to imitate the ballads and songs of his native country whilst watching his flocks. Having published his first imitations in 1801, they were received with approbation by his countrymen and he continued to write till his death in 1835. His principal poem is: The Queen's Wake written in 1813.

17. ULYSSES'

DOG.

When wise Ulysses, f r o m his native coast Long kept by wars, and long b y tempest tost, A r r i v e d at last, poor, old, disguised, alone, T o all his friends, and e'en his Queen, unknown: Changed as he was with age, and toils, and cares, Furrow'd his rev'rend face, and white his hairs, In his own palace forced to ask his bread, Scorned by those slaves his former bounty fed, Forgot of all his own domestic

crew;

T h e faithful dog alone his master

knew!

Unfed, unhoused, neglected, on the clay, L i k e an old servant, now cashier'd he l a y ; A n d tho' e'en then expiring on the plain, Touch'd with resentment of ungrateful men, A n d longing to behold his ancient lord again. Him when he saw, he rose, and crawl'd to meet, T ' w a s all he could, and fawn'd, and kiss'd his feet, Seized with dumb j o y : then falling b y his side, Own'd his returning lord, look'd up and died. POPE.

20 Alexander Pope one of the most important and distinguished poets of E n g l a n d was born in London on the 2 1 " of May 1688. He spent the first years of his life in Windsor Forest, whose beautiful scenery inspired him. with a love of nature which lasted as long as his life. A t the a g e of twelve Pope wrote his Ode to Solitude; at sixteen his Pastorals or Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. F r o m that time till his death, which took place at Twickenham on the 80 t h of May 1744, he wrote a g r e a t number of works among which we find: Ode to St. Cecilia's Day; Essay on Criticism-, The Rape of the Lock; The Temple of Fame; Windsor Forest; Essay on Man etc. His translation of Homer is considered to be the most important of his works.

18.

T H E G L O V E AND T H E L I O N S . King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Yalour and love, and a king above, and the royal beast below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing j a w s ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stiffled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a ihundrous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

20 Alexander Pope one of the most important and distinguished poets of E n g l a n d was born in London on the 2 1 " of May 1688. He spent the first years of his life in Windsor Forest, whose beautiful scenery inspired him. with a love of nature which lasted as long as his life. A t the a g e of twelve Pope wrote his Ode to Solitude; at sixteen his Pastorals or Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter. F r o m that time till his death, which took place at Twickenham on the 80 t h of May 1744, he wrote a g r e a t number of works among which we find: Ode to St. Cecilia's Day; Essay on Criticism-, The Rape of the Lock; The Temple of Fame; Windsor Forest; Essay on Man etc. His translation of Homer is considered to be the most important of his works.

18.

T H E G L O V E AND T H E L I O N S . King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court: The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to make his bride; And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Yalour and love, and a king above, and the royal beast below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing j a w s ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stiffled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a ihundrous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then "Good gentlemen, we're better here than there!"

21

De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lovely dame, With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do desperate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on, the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine!" She dropped her glove to prove his love: then looked on him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regained his place; Ther threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! "In truth!" cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that!" LEIGH HUNT.

James Henry Leigh Hunt was born at Southgate in 1784 and educated at Christ's Hospital together with Charles Lamb and Coleridge. On leaving that school he began to study the law, lut finding that the profession of a barrister did not suit his tistes, he soon devoted himself exclusively to poetry and other literary pursuits. He has published a long series of works the most prominent of which are: Lord Byron and Some of his Contemporaries and The Story of Rimini a poem. He died in Londtn in 1859.

22 19.

A PSALM OF LIFE. Tell rue not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Finds us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act, — act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

23

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Henry "VVadsworth Longfellow was born 1807 at Portland in the State of Maine, U. S. and educated in his native country. After three years' travelling and residence in several parts of Europe, he returned to America and was appointed to the professorship of modern Literature at Harward College, Cambridge, where he died in March 1882. His best known works are: The Voices of the Night, Evangeline, The Skeleton in Armour, The Spanish Student and the strange and wild Song of Hiawatha.

20.

THE LIGHT OF STARS. The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.! Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams ? 0 no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams.

23

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

Henry "VVadsworth Longfellow was born 1807 at Portland in the State of Maine, U. S. and educated in his native country. After three years' travelling and residence in several parts of Europe, he returned to America and was appointed to the professorship of modern Literature at Harward College, Cambridge, where he died in March 1882. His best known works are: The Voices of the Night, Evangeline, The Skeleton in Armour, The Spanish Student and the strange and wild Song of Hiawatha.

20.

THE LIGHT OF STARS. The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars.! Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams ? 0 no! from that blue tent above, A hero's armour gleams.

24

And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. 0 star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars; 1 give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. 0, fear not, in a world like this, And thou shalt know, ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer, and be strong. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

21.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of day are numbered, And the voices of the night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight;

24

And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. 0 star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars; 1 give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. 0, fear not, in a world like this, And thou shalt know, ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer, and be strong. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

21.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. When the hours of day are numbered, And the voices of the night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight;

25

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful fire-light Dance upon the parlour-wall; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted Come to visit me once more. He, the young and stroDg, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, B y the road-side fell and perished Weary with the march of life. They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep, Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, L i k e the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,

26

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. 0, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

22.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of Joy, the tears of'Woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There's nothing true but Heaven! And false the light on Glory's plume, As fading hues of Even; And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — There's nothing bright but Heaven! Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way — There's nothing calm but Heaven! THOMAS MOORE.

23.

NIGHT. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an- aching breast, The curtain of repose,

26

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. 0, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

22.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of Joy, the tears of'Woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There's nothing true but Heaven! And false the light on Glory's plume, As fading hues of Even; And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — There's nothing bright but Heaven! Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way — There's nothing calm but Heaven! THOMAS MOORE.

23.

NIGHT. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an- aching breast, The curtain of repose,

26

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. 0, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died. H. W. LONGFELLOW.

22.

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of Joy, the tears of'Woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — There's nothing true but Heaven! And false the light on Glory's plume, As fading hues of Even; And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — There's nothing bright but Heaven! Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way — There's nothing calm but Heaven! THOMAS MOORE.

23.

NIGHT. Night is the time for rest; How sweet, when labours close, To gather round an- aching breast, The curtain of repose,

27

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams; The gay romance of life, When truth that is and truth that seems, Blend in fantastic strife; Ah! visions less beguiling far Than waking dreams by daylight are! Night is the time for toil! To plough the classic field, Intent to find the buried spoil Its wealthy furrows yield; Till all is ours that sages taught, That poets sang or heroes wrought. Night is the time to weep; To wet with unseen tears Those graves of memory where sleep The joys of other years; Hopes that were angels in their birth, But perished young like things on earth! Night is the time to watch; On ocean's dark expanse To hail the Pleiades, or catch The full moon's earliest glance, That brings unto the home-sick mind All we have loved and left behind. Night is the time for care, Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost.

28

Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Beyond the starry pole, Descries athwart the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Niglit is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away; So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends — such death be mine. JAMES MONTGOMERY.

24.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn: He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses — red and white;

28

Night is the time to muse; Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views Beyond the starry pole, Descries athwart the abyss of night The dawn of uncreated light. Niglit is the time to pray; Our Saviour oft withdrew To desert mountains far away; So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold communion there with God. Night is the time for death; When all around is peace, Calmly to yield the weary breath, From sin and suffering cease: Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign To parting friends — such death be mine. JAMES MONTGOMERY.

24.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn: He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away! I remember, I remember, The roses — red and white;

29

The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day, — The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing: My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. THOMAS HOOD.

Thomas Hood was born in London 1798, and died in the :same town 1845. He is chiefly known as a comic poet and humorist, but several of his compositions also show great ability for grave and sentimental poetry. The Song of the Shirt and the Dream of Iiugen Aram are considered to be his best serious poems. " 25.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP. As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving,

29

The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built And where my brother set The laburnum on his birth-day, — The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing; And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing: My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heav'n Than when I was a boy. THOMAS HOOD.

Thomas Hood was born in London 1798, and died in the :same town 1845. He is chiefly known as a comic poet and humorist, but several of his compositions also show great ability for grave and sentimental poetry. The Song of the Shirt and the Dream of Iiugen Aram are considered to be his best serious poems. " 25.

AS SLOW OUR SHIP. As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving,

80

Her trembling pennant still look'd back To that dear isle 'twas leaving. So loath we part from all we love, From all .the links that bind us: So turn our hearts, where'er we rove, To those we've left behind us! When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years We talk with joyous seeming, — With smiles, that might as well be tears, So faint, so sad their beaming; While mem'ry brings us back again Each early tie that twin'd us, Oh! sweet's the cup that circles then To those we've left behind us! And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle, or vale enchanting, Where all looks flow'ry, wild and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss, If Heav'n had but assign'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us! As travelers oft look back, at eve, When eastward darkly going, To gaze upon that light they leave Still faint behind them glowing, — So, when the close of pleasure's day To gloom hath near consign'd us, We turn to catch one fading ray Of joy that's left behind us! THOMAS MOORE.

31

26.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel-stars set their watch in the sky, And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track, 'Twas in autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my father, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strains that the corn reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay, stay with us, rest — thou art weary and worn!" And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away! TH. CAMPBELL.

Thomas Campbell was born in Glasgow in 1777 and studied at the University of that city. His best productions are: The Pleasures of Hope, Gertrude of Wyoming, Theodoric, and his national songs: Ye Mariners of England, The Battle of the Baltic etc. He died at Boulogne in 1844.

32 27.

H U N G T I N G SONG. Waken, lords and ladies g a y ! On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting s p e a r ; Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily mingle they, "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords' and ladies g a y ! The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming: And foresters have busy been, To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay, "Waken, lords and ladies g a y . " Waken, lords and ladies g a y ! To the green wood haste a w a y ; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot, and tall of size; We can show the marks he made, When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay, "Waken, lords and ladies g a y . " Louder, louder, chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, Run a course as well a s we; Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk?

33

Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay. WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott, the great Scotch writer, was born in Edinburgh in 1771. Having finished his education at the University of his native town he became a barrister. This profession, however, not suiting his taste, he gave it up and began his literary career by translations from the German, which were followed by his metrical tales and afterwards by his Novels. He died in 1832 after a life of unexampled literary prosperity. His best romances are The Lady of the Lake, Marmion, Bolceby, his best Novels Waverley, Ivanhoe, Kenilworth etc.

28.

THE PALMER. 0 open the door, some pity to show, Keen blows the northern wind; The glen is white with the drifted snow, And the path is hard to find. No Outlaw seeks your castle gate, From chasing the King's deer, Though even an Outlaw's wretched state Might claim compassion here. A weary palmer, worn and weak, I wander for my sin! 0 open for our Lady's sake; A pilgrim's blessing win! I'll give you pardons from the pope, And reliques from o'er the sea, Or if for these you will not ope, Yet open for charity. 3

33

Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay. WALTER SCOTT.

Sir Walter Scott, the great Scotch writer, was born in Edinburgh in 1771. Having finished his education at the University of his native town he became a barrister. This profession, however, not suiting his taste, he gave it up and began his literary career by translations from the German, which were followed by his metrical tales and afterwards by his Novels. He died in 1832 after a life of unexampled literary prosperity. His best romances are The Lady of the Lake, Marmion, Bolceby, his best Novels Waverley, Ivanhoe, Kenilworth etc.

28.

THE PALMER. 0 open the door, some pity to show, Keen blows the northern wind; The glen is white with the drifted snow, And the path is hard to find. No Outlaw seeks your castle gate, From chasing the King's deer, Though even an Outlaw's wretched state Might claim compassion here. A weary palmer, worn and weak, I wander for my sin! 0 open for our Lady's sake; A pilgrim's blessing win! I'll give you pardons from the pope, And reliques from o'er the sea, Or if for these you will not ope, Yet open for charity. 3

34 The hare is crouching in her form, The hart beside the hind; An aged man, amid the storm, No shelter can I find. You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, Dark, deep and strong is he, And I must ford the Ettrick «'er, Unless you pity me. The iron gate is bolted hard, At which I knock in vain; The owner's heart is closer barr'd, Who hears me thus complain. Farewell! Farewell! and Mary grant, When old and frail you be, You never may the shelter want That's now denied to me. The Ranger on his couch lay warm, And heard him plead in vain; But oft amid December's storm, He'll hear that voice again: For lo! when through the vapours dank, Morn shone on Ettrick fair, A corpse amid the alders rank; The palmer welter'd there. WALTER SCOTT.

29.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

34 The hare is crouching in her form, The hart beside the hind; An aged man, amid the storm, No shelter can I find. You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, Dark, deep and strong is he, And I must ford the Ettrick «'er, Unless you pity me. The iron gate is bolted hard, At which I knock in vain; The owner's heart is closer barr'd, Who hears me thus complain. Farewell! Farewell! and Mary grant, When old and frail you be, You never may the shelter want That's now denied to me. The Ranger on his couch lay warm, And heard him plead in vain; But oft amid December's storm, He'll hear that voice again: For lo! when through the vapours dank, Morn shone on Ettrick fair, A corpse amid the alders rank; The palmer welter'd there. WALTER SCOTT.

29.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

36 W e buried him darkly at dead of night, T h e sods with our bayonets turning', By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. N o useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, W i t h his martial cloak around him. F e w and short were the prayers w e said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But w e steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And w e bitterly thought of the morrow. W e thought, as w e hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, A n d we far away on the b i l l o w ! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And w e heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly w e laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and g o r y ; W e carved not a line, and w e raised not a stone — But we left him alone with his g l o r y ! CHABLES WOLFE. Charles W o l f e , born in Dublin in 1791, is known by a few short poems of exquisite beauty, the principal of which is: Burial

of Sir

John

Moore.

He died in 1823.

The

36 30.

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. It was a summer evening, Old Caspar's work was done, And he, before his cottage door, Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Caspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, ,,'Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he, „Who fell in the great victory." „1 find them in the garden, for There's many here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he. „Were slain in that great victory." „Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; While little Wilhelmine looks up, With wonder-waiting eyes „Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for."

37

„It was the English," Caspar cried, „Who put the French to rout; But what they kill'd each other for, I could not well make out; But every body said," quoth he, „That 'twas a famous victory." „My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. „With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. „They say it was a shocking sight, After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. „Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good prince Eugene." „Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. „Nay — nay — my little girlj" quoth he, „It was a famous victory." „And every body praised the Duke, Who this great fight did win."

38 „But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. „Why, that I cannot tell," said he, „But 'twas a famous victory." ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Robert Southey, late Poet-laureate of England, equally distinguished as a poet, historian and biographer, was born in Bristol in 1774. His literary activity has been so prodigious that the list of his writings amounts to more than one hundred volumes. He died in a state of imbecility in 1843. His principal poems are: Joan of Arc, Thalaba and Roderick, the Last of the Goths. His best prose-writings History of Brazil, The Peninsular War, The Life of Nelson etc.

31. JOHN BARLEYCORN. A BALLAD.

There were three kings into the east Three kings both great and high; An' they ha'e swore a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they ha'e swore a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

38 „But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. „Why, that I cannot tell," said he, „But 'twas a famous victory." ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Robert Southey, late Poet-laureate of England, equally distinguished as a poet, historian and biographer, was born in Bristol in 1774. His literary activity has been so prodigious that the list of his writings amounts to more than one hundred volumes. He died in a state of imbecility in 1843. His principal poems are: Joan of Arc, Thalaba and Roderick, the Last of the Goths. His best prose-writings History of Brazil, The Peninsular War, The Life of Nelson etc.

31. JOHN BARLEYCORN. A BALLAD.

There were three kings into the east Three kings both great and high; An' they ha'e swore a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die. They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head; And they ha'e swore a solemn oath John Barleycorn was dead. But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all. The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

39

The sober autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail. His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They 've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; They tied him fast upon a cart, Like a rogue for forgerie. They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er. They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim; They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim, They laid him out upon the floor, To work him farther woe: And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro. They wasted o'er The marrow of But a miller us'd He crush'd him

a scorching flame his bones; him worst of all — 'tween two stones.

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood ; And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

40

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'T will make your courage rise. 'T will make a man forget his woe; 'T will heighten all his joy: 'T will make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland. BURNS.

32.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow,

40

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'T will make your courage rise. 'T will make a man forget his woe; 'T will heighten all his joy: 'T will make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye. Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland. BURNS.

32.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. Under a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat, He earns whate'er he can, And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow,

41

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; T h e y love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly L i k e chaff from a thrashing-floor. He goes on Sunday^ to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach, He hears his daughter's voice Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! LONGFELLOW.

42 33.

T H E V I L L A G E SCHOOLMASTER. Beside yon struggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion skill'd to rule, T h e village master taught his little school: A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew. W e l l had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace T h e day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a j o k e had he: Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frowned; Y e t he was kind, or if severe in aught, T h e love he bore to learning was in fault: T h e village all declar'd how much he k n e w ; ' T was certain he could write and cipher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran that he could gauge; In arguing too the parson owned his skill, For e'en though vanquish'd he could argue still; While words of learned length, and thund'ring sound, Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around, And still they gaz'd and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. T h e very spot Where many a time he triumph'd, is forgot. GOLDSMITH. Oliver Goldsmith (1728 —1774), a celebrated poet, historian and essayist, was born at Pallasmore, in Ireland.

H e was intended

for the medical profession, and in his youth g a v e no signs of those talents which he afterwards displayed. almost universally known Vicar of Greece, She Stoops

of Rome-,

His chief works are: the

of Wakefield;

History

of

the comedies of The Good-Natured

to Conquer-,

the poem of The

Deserted

Village

England, Man etc.

and

43 34.

THE VILLAGE PARSON. Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a gardenflower grows wild; There where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 'The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a y e a r ; Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place, Unskilful he to fawn or seek for power, J3y doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; P a r other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise, H i s house was known to all the vagrant train, H e chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; T h e long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; T h e broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, S a t by the fire, and talked thé night a w a y ; Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow And quite forgot their vices in their woe; Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity, gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride. And even his failings leaned to virtue's side; But in his duty prompt at every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ; And, as a bird each fond endearment tries, To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

44

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, aDd led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from bis lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious' man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. GOLDSMITH.

35.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS. The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd;

44

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds, aDd led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church, with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place; Truth from bis lips prevailed with double sway, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious' man, With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; Even children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. GOLDSMITH.

35.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS. The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast; And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches toss'd;

45

And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; — Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; — Not as the flying come, In silence, and in fear; — They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang: Till the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas? the spoils of war? No — it was a faith's pure shrine. Yes, call that holy ground, Which first their brave feet trod! They have left unstain'd what there they found — Freedom to worship God! F . HEMANS.

46 36.

THE CASTLED CRAG OF DRACHENFELS. The castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strew'd a scene, which I should see With double joy wert thou with me. And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine! I send the lilies given to me, Though, long before thy hand they touch, I know that they must wither'd be; But yet reject them not as such: For I have cherish'd them as dear, Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine even here, When thou behold'st them drooping nigb, And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, And offer'd from my heart to thine! The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground,

47

And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! BYRON.

George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron, certainly one of the greatest geniuses of modern days, was born in London in 1788 and died at Missolonghi, in Greece 1824, after a stormy and eventful life. His finest poems are: The Prisoner of Chillon, The Lament of Tasso, The Corsair, The Bream, The Siege of Corinth and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

37.

CHILDE HAROLD'S ADIEU TO ENGLAND. Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee: My native land — Good night! A few short hours and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate.

47

And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varying round; The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! BYRON.

George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron, certainly one of the greatest geniuses of modern days, was born in London in 1788 and died at Missolonghi, in Greece 1824, after a stormy and eventful life. His finest poems are: The Prisoner of Chillon, The Lament of Tasso, The Corsair, The Bream, The Siege of Corinth and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

37.

CHILDE HAROLD'S ADIEU TO ENGLAND. Adieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee: My native land — Good night! A few short hours and he will rise To give the morrow birth; And I shall hail the main and skies, But not my mother earth. Deserted is my own good hall, Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate.

48 Come hither, hither, my little page! Why dost thou weep and wail? Or dost thou dread the*billow's rage, Or tremble at the gale? But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong: Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along. „Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind; Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone, But thee — and one above. My father bless'd me fervently, Yet did not much complain; But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again." — Enough, enough, my little lad! Such tears become thine eye; If I thy guileless bosom had, Mine own would not be dry. Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman! Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman? Or shiver at the gale? — „Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; But thinking of an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek.

49

My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she m a k e ? " Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide s e a ; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land — Good Night! BTBON. 38.

HOME. There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth. 4

49

My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, What answer shall she m a k e ? " Enough, enough, my yeoman good, Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away. And now I'm in the world alone, Upon the wide, wide s e a ; But why should I for others groan, When none will sigh for me? Perchance my dog will whine in vain, Till fed by stranger hands; But long ere I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands. With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine; Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine. Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! And when you fail my sight, Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land — Good Night! BTBON. 38.

HOME. There is a land, of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night; A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth, Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth. 4

50

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A-dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his soften'd looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; 0 , thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy Home. J. MONTGOMERY.

39.

RETRIBUTION. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be, Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;

50

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; In every clime the magnet of his soul, Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole; For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race, There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A-dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride, While in his soften'd looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife, Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; Around her knees domestic duties meet, And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found? Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; 0 , thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy Home. J. MONTGOMERY.

39.

RETRIBUTION. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be, Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;

51 So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell. The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell The mariners heard the warning bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The Sun in heaven was shining gay, All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, And there was joyaunce in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him s i n g ; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float; Quoth he, ,My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go! Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around;

52 Quoth Sir Ralph. „ T h e next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd a w a y , He scour'd the seas for many a d a y ; And now grown rich with plunder'd store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the Sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away. On the deck the Rover takes his stand, So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, „It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon." „Canst hear," said one, „.the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." „Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." T h e y hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, — „Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; He curst himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell The devil below was ringing his knell. SOUTHEY.

53

40.

T H E A R A B ' S F A R E W E L L T O H I S HORSE. My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proud arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye; Fret not to roam the desert now, speed —

with all thy

I may not mount on thee again thou Arab steed.

—

winged

art sold, my

Fret not with that impatient hoof — snuff not the breezy wind — T h e further that thou fliest now — so far am I behind: The stranger hath thy bridle rein — thy master has his gold — Fleet limb'd and beautiful! farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold. Farewell! — these free untired limbs full many a mile must roam, T o reach the chill and wintry sky which clouds the stranger's home; Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare, The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were woDt to be, Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain; Some other steed with slower step shall bear me home again.

64

Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky, Thy master's home — from all of these, my exiled one must fly; Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet. And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright, Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light, And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed, Then must I, starting, wake to feel — thou'rt sold my Arab steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side: And the rich blood that is in thee, swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes which rest on thee, may count each started vein. Will they ill use thee? — If I thought — but no, it cannot be — Thou art so swift, yet easy curb'd; so gentle, yet so free. And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn — Can the hand which casts thee from it now command thee to return? Return! alas my Arab steed! what shall thy master do, When thou, who wert his all of joy, hast vanished from his view?

55

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gath'ring tears, Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirage appears. Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone, Where with fleet step and joyous bound thou oft hast borne me on; And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think, It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink. When last 1 saw thee drink! — away, the fevered dream is o'er, — I could not live a day, and know, that we should meet no more! They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong — They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long. Who said that I had giv'n thee up? Who said that thou wert sold? 'Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed! — I fling them back their gold! Thus; thus I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains; Away! who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains. MBS. NORTON.

Mrs. Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton, the grand daughter of the celebrated Sheridan was born in London, in 1808. She married at the age of nineteen but her union with Mr. Norton was a very unhappy one and was dissolved in the year 1840. She lived in retirement in her native town, where she died 1877. Her chief poems are: The Undying One, The Dream and other 1'oems, The Child of the Islands etc.

56 41.

VERSES supposed to be written by Alexander Selkirk, during his solitary abode in the Island of Juan Fernandez.

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. 0 Solitude! where are the charms, That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. 1 am out of humanity's reach, I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech, I start at the sound of my own. The beasts, that roam over the plain, My form with indifference see; They are so unacquainted with man, Their tameness is shocking to me. Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestow'd upon man, 0 , had I the wings of a dove, How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth. Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land, I shall visit no more.

57

My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? 0 tell me, I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest, And I to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place, And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot. W. COWPER.

William Cowper was bom 1731 at Berkhampstead, Hertfordshire, where his father was a clergyman. He was educated at Westminster School where, being very timid and of a weak bodily constitution in his youth, he had much to suffer from his school-fellows. After having spent some years in studying Law he got an appointment as Clerk of the Journals to the House of Lords, but he was soon obliged to give up this position on account of bad health. His whole life has been disturbed by fits of melancholy which degenerated in utter madness in his later years. He died in the year 1800. His principal productions are: The Task, Charity, Expostulation etc.

58 42.

VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. The King was on his throne, The Satraps throng'd the hall; A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deemed divine — Jehovah's vessels bold The godless heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand: The fingers of a man; — A solitary hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look And tremulous his voice. „Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth, And expound the words of fear, Which mar our royal mirth." Chaldea's seers are good, But here they have no skill: And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage, They saw — but knew no more.

69

A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth. He heard the king's command, He saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, The prophecy in view; He read it on that night, — The morrow proved it true. „Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom passed away, He, in the balance weigh'd, Is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state, His canopy, the stone; The Mede is at his gate! The Persian on his throne!" BYRON.

43.

NEVER GIVE U P ! Never give up! it is wiser and better Always to hope, than once to despair! Fling of the load of Doubt's heavy fetter, And break the spell of tyrannical care. Never give up! the burden may sink you, — Providence kindly has mingled the cup, And in all trials and troubles bethink you, The watchword of life must be: Never give up! Never give up! there are chances and changes Helping the hopeful a hundred to one, And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges Ever success, — if you'll only hope on. Never give up! for Ihe'wisest^is (boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,

69

A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth. He heard the king's command, He saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, The prophecy in view; He read it on that night, — The morrow proved it true. „Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom passed away, He, in the balance weigh'd, Is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state, His canopy, the stone; The Mede is at his gate! The Persian on his throne!" BYRON.

43.

NEVER GIVE U P ! Never give up! it is wiser and better Always to hope, than once to despair! Fling of the load of Doubt's heavy fetter, And break the spell of tyrannical care. Never give up! the burden may sink you, — Providence kindly has mingled the cup, And in all trials and troubles bethink you, The watchword of life must be: Never give up! Never give up! there are chances and changes Helping the hopeful a hundred to one, And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges Ever success, — if you'll only hope on. Never give up! for Ihe'wisest^is (boldest, Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,

60

And of all maxims the best and the oldest, Is the true watchword of: Never give up. Never give u p ! though the grape-shot may rattle Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst; Stand like a rock — and the storm and the battle Little shall harm you, though doing the worst; Never give up; if adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup, And the best counsel in all your distresses, Is the bold watchword of: Never give up! TTJPPER.

Martin Tupper, born in London 1811, has published several poems, the most remarquable of which a r e : Lyrics of the Heart and Mind, Ballads for Time and other Poems etc. 44.

LABOUR. Pause not to dream of the future before u s : Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us: Mark how creation's deep musical chorus, Unintermitting goes up into heaven! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing, Never the little seed stops in its growing More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. „Labour is worship!" the robin is singing „Labour is worship!" the wild bee is ringing. Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing, Speaks to thy sou) out of nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower; From the small insect the rich coral bower; Only man in the plan shrinks from his part. Labour is life! — 'tis the still water faileth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

60

And of all maxims the best and the oldest, Is the true watchword of: Never give up. Never give u p ! though the grape-shot may rattle Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst; Stand like a rock — and the storm and the battle Little shall harm you, though doing the worst; Never give up; if adversity presses, Providence wisely has mingled the cup, And the best counsel in all your distresses, Is the bold watchword of: Never give up! TTJPPER.

Martin Tupper, born in London 1811, has published several poems, the most remarquable of which a r e : Lyrics of the Heart and Mind, Ballads for Time and other Poems etc. 44.

LABOUR. Pause not to dream of the future before u s : Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us: Mark how creation's deep musical chorus, Unintermitting goes up into heaven! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing, Never the little seed stops in its growing More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. „Labour is worship!" the robin is singing „Labour is worship!" the wild bee is ringing. Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing, Speaks to thy sou) out of nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower; From the small insect the rich coral bower; Only man in the plan shrinks from his part. Labour is life! — 'tis the still water faileth; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

61

Keep the watch wound, for the dark night assaileth! Flowers droop and die in the stillnes of noon. Labour is glory! the flying cloud lightens; Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune. Labour is rest — from the sorrows that greet us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from world syrens that lure us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; Work — thou shalt ride over care's coming billow! L i e not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow! Work with a stout heart and resolute will. Droop not tho' shame, sin and anguish are round thee, Bravely fling off the cold chain that has bound thee! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee, Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod! W o r k for some good — be it ever so slowly! Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly! Labour! True labour is noble and holy; — Let labour follow thy prayers to thy God! FRANCIS 8. OSGOOD. 45.

L I K E ONE P A L E , F L I T T I N G , L O N E L Y GLEAM. L i k e one pale, flitting, lonely gleam, Of sunshine on a winter's day, There came a thought upon my dream, 1 know not whence, but fondly deem It came from far away. Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight T h a t visit our bedarken'd clay Like passage-birds, with hasty flight: —

61

Keep the watch wound, for the dark night assaileth! Flowers droop and die in the stillnes of noon. Labour is glory! the flying cloud lightens; Only the waving wing changes and brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune. Labour is rest — from the sorrows that greet us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us, Rest from world syrens that lure us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; Work — thou shalt ride over care's coming billow! L i e not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow! Work with a stout heart and resolute will. Droop not tho' shame, sin and anguish are round thee, Bravely fling off the cold chain that has bound thee! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee, Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod! W o r k for some good — be it ever so slowly! Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly! Labour! True labour is noble and holy; — Let labour follow thy prayers to thy God! FRANCIS 8. OSGOOD. 45.

L I K E ONE P A L E , F L I T T I N G , L O N E L Y GLEAM. L i k e one pale, flitting, lonely gleam, Of sunshine on a winter's day, There came a thought upon my dream, 1 know not whence, but fondly deem It came from far away. Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight T h a t visit our bedarken'd clay Like passage-birds, with hasty flight: —

62

It cannot be they perish quite, — Although they pass away. They come and go, and come again; They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain Before they pass away. But whither go they? No one knows Their home; but yet they seem to say That far beyond this gulf of woes There is a region of repose For them that pass away. HABTLEY COLERIDGE.

Hartley Coleridge, the eon of the celebrated Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born in 1796 and died 1849. He inherited his love of literature from his father. His principal productions are some volumes of Poems and the Lives of Northern Worthies. 46.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near,

62

It cannot be they perish quite, — Although they pass away. They come and go, and come again; They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain Before they pass away. But whither go they? No one knows Their home; but yet they seem to say That far beyond this gulf of woes There is a region of repose For them that pass away. HABTLEY COLERIDGE.

Hartley Coleridge, the eon of the celebrated Samuel Taylor Coleridge, was born in 1796 and died 1849. He inherited his love of literature from his father. His principal productions are some volumes of Poems and the Lives of Northern Worthies. 46.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA. Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake, With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction; once I loved Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved, That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. It is the hush of night, and all between Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darkened Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and drawing near,

63

There breathes a living fragrance from the shore Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; He is an evening reveller, who makes His life an infancy, and sings his fill; At intervals, some bird from out the brakes Starts into voice a moment, then is still. There seems a floating whisper on the hill, But that is fancy, for the starlight dews All silently their tears of love instil, Weeping themselves away, till they infuse Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven! If in your bright leaves we would read the fate Of men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, That in our aspirations to be great, Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, And claim a kindred with you; for ye are A beauty and a mystery, and create In us such love and reverence from afar, That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star. All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — All heaven and earth are still: From the high host Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast, All is concenter'd in a life intense, Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, But hath a part of being, and a sense Of that which is of all Creator and defence. *

*

*

64 The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud. And this is in the night! — Most glorious night: Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth-quake's birth. BYBON.

47.

AFTER A TEMPEST. The day had been a day of wind and storm: — The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, — And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. I stood upon the upland slope, and cast My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between. The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,

64 The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oh night, And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light Of a dark eye in woman! Far along, From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, Leaps the live thunder! not from one lone cloud, But every mountain now hath found a tongue, And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud. And this is in the night! — Most glorious night: Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black, — and now the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth-quake's birth. BYBON.

47.

AFTER A TEMPEST. The day had been a day of wind and storm: — The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, — And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. I stood upon the upland slope, and cast My eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, With pleasant vales scooped out, and villages between. The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground,

66

Was shaken by the flight of startled bird, For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard About the flowers; the cheerful rivulet sung And gossiped as he hastened ocean-ward; To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, And chirping, from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry Flew many a glittering insect here and there, And darted up and down the butterfly, That seemed a living blossom of the air. The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where The violent rain had pent them; in the way Strolled groups of damsels frolicksome and fair. The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, And, twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, Did that serene and golden sunlight fall Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, And precipice upspringing like a wall, And glassy river and white waterfall, And happy living things that trod the bright And beauteous scene; while far beyond them all, On many a lovely valley out of sight, Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light. I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, When o'er earth's continents and isles between, The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, And married nations dwell in harmony; When millions, crouching in the dust to one, No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun The o'er laboured captive toil, and wish his life were done. 6

66

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 't is past. Lo, the clouds roll away — they break, they fly, And like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape, from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. BRYANT.

William Cullen Bryant was born in 1794 at Cummington, Massachusetts, U. S., where his father followed the professional duties of a physician. At the premature age of fourteen he already published two poems: Embargo and Spanish Revolution which had great success. He published his well known and celebrated poem Thanatopsis when twenty two years old. In 1815 he became a barrister but abandoned his profession in 1825 and devoted himself to literary pursuits. Mr. Bryant, one of the best American poets, is equally distinguished by his love of nature and the true national character of his writings. He died in 1878.

48.

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

The The The And

Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, ploughman homeward plods his weary way, leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now And Save And

fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, all the air a solemn stillness holds, where the beetle wheels his droning flight, drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain

66

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers And ruddy fruits; but not for aye can last The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 't is past. Lo, the clouds roll away — they break, they fly, And like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape, from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. BRYANT.

William Cullen Bryant was born in 1794 at Cummington, Massachusetts, U. S., where his father followed the professional duties of a physician. At the premature age of fourteen he already published two poems: Embargo and Spanish Revolution which had great success. He published his well known and celebrated poem Thanatopsis when twenty two years old. In 1815 he became a barrister but abandoned his profession in 1825 and devoted himself to literary pursuits. Mr. Bryant, one of the best American poets, is equally distinguished by his love of nature and the true national character of his writings. He died in 1878.

48.

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

The The The And

Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, ploughman homeward plods his weary way, leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now And Save And

fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, all the air a solemn stillness holds, where the beetle wheels his droning flight, drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain

67

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves thé turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For tliein no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the' inevitable hour; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

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Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full The Full And

many a gem of purest dark unfathomed caves many a flower is born waste its sweetness on

ray serene of ocean bear; to blush unseen, the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's, blood. Th'applause of listening senates to command. The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame; Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt The place of fame and elegy And many a holy text around That teach the rustic moralist

by th'unlettered Muse, supply; she strews, to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies; Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature. cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. GRAY.

Thomas Gray, a celebrated poet of great learning was born in London in 1716 and died at Cambridge 1771. His chief works are: The Progress of Poesy, The Bard and his Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.

49.

ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION OVER THE BODY OF CAESAR. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones;

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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt The place of fame and elegy And many a holy text around That teach the rustic moralist

by th'unlettered Muse, supply; she strews, to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies; Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature. cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. GRAY.

Thomas Gray, a celebrated poet of great learning was born in London in 1716 and died at Cambridge 1771. His chief works are: The Progress of Poesy, The Bard and his Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.

49.

ANTONY'S FUNERAL ORATION OVER THE BODY OF CAESAR. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears: I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones;

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So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: If it were so, it was a grievous fault; And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus, and the rest, (For Brutus is an honourable man, So are they all, all honourable men) Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me: But Brutus says he was ambitious; And Brutus is an honourable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill: Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff; Yet Brutus says he was ambitious And Brutus is an honourable man. You all did see, that on the Lupeical I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which hfe did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; And sure he is an honourable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spake, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him.once, not without cause; What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? 0 judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason! — Bear with me; — My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till to me. # it come back * But yesterday, the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world: now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence.

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0 masters! if I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 1 should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honourable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar, I found it in his closet, 'tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read), And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue. •

*

*

If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; • 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent That day he overcame the Nervii: — Look! in this place, ran Cassius' dagger through: See, what a rent the envious Casca m a d e : Through this, the well-beloved Brutus stabbed; And as he plucked his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it; As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, 0 you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of a l l : For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,

72 Quite vanquished him; then burst his mighty heart; A n d in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. 0 , what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 0 , now you w e e p ; and, I perceive, you feel T h e dint of pity: these are gracious drops. Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. * * *

Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up T o such a sudden flood of mutiny. T h e y that have done this deed are honourable, What private griefs they have, alas! I know not, That made them do it; they are wise and honourable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal a w a y your hearts; I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend; and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him, For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, T o stir men's blood: I only speak right on: I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me: But, were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar, that should move T h e stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 8HAE8PEABE.

73 William Shakspeare, the most illustrious dramatic poet, not only of England, but of modern Europe, was born at Stratfordupon-Avon, in 1564 and died there in 1616. Very little is known about the particulars of his life except that, for many years, he has been living as an actor in London. He has written thirtyseven tragedies and comedies and several poems among which Venus and Adonis, The Passionate Pilgrim and his sonnets are the most remarkable.

50.

HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! 0 sleep, 0 gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? 0 thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? . Canst thou, 0 partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude

73 William Shakspeare, the most illustrious dramatic poet, not only of England, but of modern Europe, was born at Stratfordupon-Avon, in 1564 and died there in 1616. Very little is known about the particulars of his life except that, for many years, he has been living as an actor in London. He has written thirtyseven tragedies and comedies and several poems among which Venus and Adonis, The Passionate Pilgrim and his sonnets are the most remarkable.

50.

HENRY THE FOURTH'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP. How many thousand of my poorest subjects Are at this hour asleep! 0 sleep, 0 gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness ? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody? 0 thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile, In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch, A watch-case, or a common 'larum-bell? Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds, That, with the hurly, death itself awakes? . Canst thou, 0 partial sleep! give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude

74

And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. SHAK8PEA.RE. 51.

MORNING HYMN. Fountain of light! from whom yon rising sun First drew his splendour; source of life and love! Whose smile awakes o'er earth's rekindling face The boundless blush of spring; 0 first and best! Thy essence, though from human sight and search, Though from the climb of all created thought, Ineffably removed; yet man himself, Thy humble child of reason, man may read The Maker's hand, intelligence supreme, Unbounded power, on all his works imprest, In characters coeval with the sun, And with the sun to last; from world to world, From age to age, through every clime reveal'd, Hail Universal Goodness! in fall stream For ever flowing Through earth, air, sea, to all things that have life; From all that live on earth, in air, and sea The great community of nature's sons, To Thee, first Father, ceaseless praise ascend, And in the general hymn my grateful voice Be duly heard, among thy works, not least, Nor lowest; with intelligence inform'd, .To know Thee and adore; with freedom crown'd, Where virtue leads, to follow and be blest. Oh, whether by thy prime decree ordain'd To days of future life, or whether now The mortal hour is instant, still vouchsafe,

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And, in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown. SHAK8PEA.RE. 51.

MORNING HYMN. Fountain of light! from whom yon rising sun First drew his splendour; source of life and love! Whose smile awakes o'er earth's rekindling face The boundless blush of spring; 0 first and best! Thy essence, though from human sight and search, Though from the climb of all created thought, Ineffably removed; yet man himself, Thy humble child of reason, man may read The Maker's hand, intelligence supreme, Unbounded power, on all his works imprest, In characters coeval with the sun, And with the sun to last; from world to world, From age to age, through every clime reveal'd, Hail Universal Goodness! in fall stream For ever flowing Through earth, air, sea, to all things that have life; From all that live on earth, in air, and sea The great community of nature's sons, To Thee, first Father, ceaseless praise ascend, And in the general hymn my grateful voice Be duly heard, among thy works, not least, Nor lowest; with intelligence inform'd, .To know Thee and adore; with freedom crown'd, Where virtue leads, to follow and be blest. Oh, whether by thy prime decree ordain'd To days of future life, or whether now The mortal hour is instant, still vouchsafe,

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Parent and friend! to guide me blameless on Through this dark scene of error and of ill, T h y truth to light me, and thy peace to cheer, All else, of me unask'd, thy will supreme Withhold or grant; and let that will be done. MILTON.

John Milton (1608—1674), the illustrious English poet, was a native of London where he also spent the greater part of his life. He was a stanch republican and a firm adherer to Cromwell. Domestic troubles and the total loss of his sight afflicted his later years. His principal works are: Comus, I'Allegro, II Penscroso and his immortal epics Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, which he wrote during his blindness.

52.

SONNET, on his blindness.

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; „Doth God exact day labour, light denied?" I fondly a s k : But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: „God doth not need „Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best „Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state „ I s kingly; thousands at his bidding speed „And post o'er land and ocean, without rest; ' „They also serve who only stand, and wait." MILTON.

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Parent and friend! to guide me blameless on Through this dark scene of error and of ill, T h y truth to light me, and thy peace to cheer, All else, of me unask'd, thy will supreme Withhold or grant; and let that will be done. MILTON.

John Milton (1608—1674), the illustrious English poet, was a native of London where he also spent the greater part of his life. He was a stanch republican and a firm adherer to Cromwell. Domestic troubles and the total loss of his sight afflicted his later years. His principal works are: Comus, I'Allegro, II Penscroso and his immortal epics Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, which he wrote during his blindness.

52.

SONNET, on his blindness.

When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; „Doth God exact day labour, light denied?" I fondly a s k : But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: „God doth not need „Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best „Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state „ I s kingly; thousands at his bidding speed „And post o'er land and ocean, without rest; ' „They also serve who only stand, and wait." MILTON.

76 53.

TO MY BOOKS, on being obliged to part with them. SONNET.

As one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart; Thus loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore. When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. BOSCOE.

William Roscoe, born in Liverpool 1753, is well known as the author of The Life of Lorenzo de Medici, The Life of Leo X and of some poems. He died in the year 1831. 54.

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

76 53.

TO MY BOOKS, on being obliged to part with them. SONNET.

As one who, destined from his friends to part, Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To share their converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart; Thus loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore. When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold, And kindred spirits meet to part no more. BOSCOE.

William Roscoe, born in Liverpool 1753, is well known as the author of The Life of Lorenzo de Medici, The Life of Leo X and of some poems. He died in the year 1831. 54.

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

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His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray And howling, to his gods, where haply lies His petty hope in some near port or bay, And dashest him again to earth; — there let him lay. The armaments which thunder-strike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals, The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters wasted them while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts: — not so thou. Unchangeable save to thy wild wave's play — Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark —heaving; — boundless, endless, and sublime — The image of eternity — the throne

78. Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. BYRON.

55. GREATNESS. Say, w h y was man so eminently rais'd Amid the vast creation? w h y ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, W i t h thoughts beyond the limits of his frame? But that the Omnipotent might send him forth, In sight of mortal and immortal powers, As on a boundless theatre, to run The great career of justice; to exalt His gen'rous aim to all diviner deeds; T o shake each partial purpose from his breast; And through the mists of passion and of sense, And through the tossing tide of chance and pain T o hold his course unfalt'ring, while the voice Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, The applauding smile of Heav'n. Else wherefore burns In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And mocks possession? Wherefore darts the mind, With such resistless ardour to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free; Spurning the gross control of wilful might; Proud of the strong contention of her toils; Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns T o Heaven's broadfire his unconstrained view, Than to the glimm'ring of a waxen flame! Who that from Alpine heights his labouring eye Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey

78. Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. BYRON.

55. GREATNESS. Say, w h y was man so eminently rais'd Amid the vast creation? w h y ordain'd Through life and death to dart his piercing eye, W i t h thoughts beyond the limits of his frame? But that the Omnipotent might send him forth, In sight of mortal and immortal powers, As on a boundless theatre, to run The great career of justice; to exalt His gen'rous aim to all diviner deeds; T o shake each partial purpose from his breast; And through the mists of passion and of sense, And through the tossing tide of chance and pain T o hold his course unfalt'ring, while the voice Of Truth and Virtue, up the steep ascent Of Nature, calls him to his high reward, The applauding smile of Heav'n. Else wherefore burns In mortal bosoms this unquenched hope, That breathes from day to day sublimer things, And mocks possession? Wherefore darts the mind, With such resistless ardour to embrace Majestic forms; impatient to be free; Spurning the gross control of wilful might; Proud of the strong contention of her toils; Proud to be daring? Who but rather turns T o Heaven's broadfire his unconstrained view, Than to the glimm'ring of a waxen flame! Who that from Alpine heights his labouring eye Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey

79 The Nile, or Ganges, rolling his bright wave Through mountains, plains, through empires black with shade, And continents of sand, will turn his gaze, To mark the windings of a scanty rill, That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul Disdains to rest her Heaven-aspiring wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air; pursues the flying storm; Bides on the volley'd lightning through the heav'ns; Or yok'd with whirlwinds and the northern blast Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars The blue profound, and hov'ring round the Sun, Beholds him pouring the redundant stream Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway Bend the reluctant planets to absolve The fated rounds of time. Thence far effus'd She darts her swiftness up the long career Of devious comets; through its burning signs, Exulting, measures the perennial wheel Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, Whose blended light as with a milky zone Invests the orient. Now amaz'd she views The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold, Beyond this concave Heav'n, their calm abode; And fields of radiance, whose unfading light Has travell'd the profound six- thousand years, Nor yet arrives iu sight of mortal things. Ev'n on the barriers of the world untir'd She meditates the eternal depth below; Till, half recoiling, down the headlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhelm'd and swallow'd up In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth

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Of mortal man, the sov'reign Maker said, That not in humble nor in brief delight, Not in the fading echoes of renown, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flow'ry lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but from these Turning disdainful to an equal good, Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, Till ev'ry bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene.

AKENSIDE.

Mark Akenside, both a physician and a poet, was born at Newcastle-upon-Tyne in the year 1721 and died in London in 1770. His principal poem is: The pleasures of Imagination, one of the finest specimens of blank verse in the English language.