CCLXVTHE PALM-TREE AND THE PINE.

Joy for the promise of our loftier homes!Joy for the promise of another birth!For oft oppressive unto pain becomesThe riddle of the earth.A weary weight it lay upon my youth,5Ere I could tell of what I should complain;My very childhood was not free, in truth,From something of that pain.Hours of a dim despondency were there,Like clouds that take its colour from the rose,10Which, knowing not the darkness of the air,But its own sadness knows.Youth grew in strength—to bear a stronger chain;In knowledge grew—to know itself a slave;And broke its narrower shells again, again,15To feel a wider grave.What woe into the startled spirit sank,When first it knew the inaudible recall,—When first in the illimitable blankIt touched the crystal wall!20Far spreads this mystery of death and sin,Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls;And day encircling day clasps closer inOur solitary souls.O for the time when in our seraph wings25We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne—The day when drinking knowledge at its springs,We know as we are known.Thomas Burbidge.

Joy for the promise of our loftier homes!Joy for the promise of another birth!For oft oppressive unto pain becomesThe riddle of the earth.

Joy for the promise of our loftier homes!

Joy for the promise of another birth!

For oft oppressive unto pain becomes

The riddle of the earth.

A weary weight it lay upon my youth,5Ere I could tell of what I should complain;My very childhood was not free, in truth,From something of that pain.

A weary weight it lay upon my youth,5

Ere I could tell of what I should complain;

My very childhood was not free, in truth,

From something of that pain.

Hours of a dim despondency were there,Like clouds that take its colour from the rose,10Which, knowing not the darkness of the air,But its own sadness knows.

Hours of a dim despondency were there,

Like clouds that take its colour from the rose,10

Which, knowing not the darkness of the air,

But its own sadness knows.

Youth grew in strength—to bear a stronger chain;In knowledge grew—to know itself a slave;And broke its narrower shells again, again,15To feel a wider grave.

Youth grew in strength—to bear a stronger chain;

In knowledge grew—to know itself a slave;

And broke its narrower shells again, again,15

To feel a wider grave.

What woe into the startled spirit sank,When first it knew the inaudible recall,—When first in the illimitable blankIt touched the crystal wall!20

What woe into the startled spirit sank,

When first it knew the inaudible recall,—

When first in the illimitable blank

It touched the crystal wall!20

Far spreads this mystery of death and sin,Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls;And day encircling day clasps closer inOur solitary souls.

Far spreads this mystery of death and sin,

Year beyond year in gloomy tumult rolls;

And day encircling day clasps closer in

Our solitary souls.

O for the time when in our seraph wings25We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne—The day when drinking knowledge at its springs,We know as we are known.Thomas Burbidge.

O for the time when in our seraph wings25

We veil our brows before the Eternal Throne—

The day when drinking knowledge at its springs,

We know as we are known.

Thomas Burbidge.

Beneath an Indian palm a girlOf other blood reposes;Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,Amid that wild of roses.Beside a northern pine a boy5Is learning fancy-bound,Nor listens where with noisy joyAwaits the impatient hound.Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,Relaxt the frosty twine;10The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,The palm-tree of the pine.As soon shall nature interlaceThose dimly-visioned boughs,As these young lovers face to face15Renew their early vows.Lord Houghton.

Beneath an Indian palm a girlOf other blood reposes;Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,Amid that wild of roses.

Beneath an Indian palm a girl

Of other blood reposes;

Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,

Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy5Is learning fancy-bound,Nor listens where with noisy joyAwaits the impatient hound.

Beside a northern pine a boy5

Is learning fancy-bound,

Nor listens where with noisy joy

Awaits the impatient hound.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,Relaxt the frosty twine;10The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,The palm-tree of the pine.

Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,

Relaxt the frosty twine;10

The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,

The palm-tree of the pine.

As soon shall nature interlaceThose dimly-visioned boughs,As these young lovers face to face15Renew their early vows.Lord Houghton.

As soon shall nature interlace

Those dimly-visioned boughs,

As these young lovers face to face15

Renew their early vows.

Lord Houghton.

I hear no more the locust beatHis shrill loud drum through all the day;I miss the mingled odours sweetOf clover and of scented hay.No more I hear the smothered song5From hedges guarded thick with thorn:The days grow brief, the nights are long,The light comes like a ghost at morn.I sit before my fire alone,And idly dream of all the past:10I think of moments that are flown—Alas! they were too sweet to last.The warmth that filled the languid noons—The purple waves of trembling haze—The liquid light of silver moons—15The summer sunset’s golden blaze.I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,I hear them murmur through the rye,I see the milky clouds that seekSome nameless harbour in the sky.20The stile beside the spreading pine,The pleasant fields beyond the grove,The lawn where, underneath the vine,She sang the song I used to love.The path along the windy beach,25That leaves the shadowy linden tree,And goes by sandy capes that reachTheir shining arms to clasp the sea.I view them all, I tread once moreIn meadow-grasses cool and deep;30I walk beside the sounding shore,I climb again the wooded steep.Oh, happy hours of pure delight!Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright—35Each morn and evening seemed to kiss!And that whereon I saw her first,While angling in the noisy brook,When through the tangled wood she burst;In one small hand a glove and book,40As with the other, dimpled, white,She held the slender boughs aside,While through the leaves the yellow lightLike golden water seemed to glide,And broke in ripples on her neck,45And played like fire around her hat,And slid adown her form to fleckThe moss-grown rock on which I sat.She standing rapt in sweet surprise,And seeming doubtful if to turn;50Her novel, as I raised my eyes,Dropped down amid the tall green fern.This day and that—the one so bright,The other like a thing forlorn;To-morrow, and the early light55Will shine upon her marriage morn.For when the mellow autumn flushedThe thickets where the chestnut fell,And in the vales the maple blushed,Another came who knew her well,60Who sat with her below the pine,And with her through the meadow moved,And underneath the purpling vineShe sang to him the song I loved.Nathaniel G. Shepherd.

I hear no more the locust beatHis shrill loud drum through all the day;I miss the mingled odours sweetOf clover and of scented hay.

I hear no more the locust beat

His shrill loud drum through all the day;

I miss the mingled odours sweet

Of clover and of scented hay.

No more I hear the smothered song5From hedges guarded thick with thorn:The days grow brief, the nights are long,The light comes like a ghost at morn.

No more I hear the smothered song5

From hedges guarded thick with thorn:

The days grow brief, the nights are long,

The light comes like a ghost at morn.

I sit before my fire alone,And idly dream of all the past:10I think of moments that are flown—Alas! they were too sweet to last.

I sit before my fire alone,

And idly dream of all the past:10

I think of moments that are flown—

Alas! they were too sweet to last.

The warmth that filled the languid noons—The purple waves of trembling haze—The liquid light of silver moons—15The summer sunset’s golden blaze.

The warmth that filled the languid noons—

The purple waves of trembling haze—

The liquid light of silver moons—15

The summer sunset’s golden blaze.

I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,I hear them murmur through the rye,I see the milky clouds that seekSome nameless harbour in the sky.20

I feel the soft winds fan my cheek,

I hear them murmur through the rye,

I see the milky clouds that seek

Some nameless harbour in the sky.20

The stile beside the spreading pine,The pleasant fields beyond the grove,The lawn where, underneath the vine,She sang the song I used to love.

The stile beside the spreading pine,

The pleasant fields beyond the grove,

The lawn where, underneath the vine,

She sang the song I used to love.

The path along the windy beach,25That leaves the shadowy linden tree,And goes by sandy capes that reachTheir shining arms to clasp the sea.

The path along the windy beach,25

That leaves the shadowy linden tree,

And goes by sandy capes that reach

Their shining arms to clasp the sea.

I view them all, I tread once moreIn meadow-grasses cool and deep;30I walk beside the sounding shore,I climb again the wooded steep.

I view them all, I tread once more

In meadow-grasses cool and deep;30

I walk beside the sounding shore,

I climb again the wooded steep.

Oh, happy hours of pure delight!Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright—35Each morn and evening seemed to kiss!

Oh, happy hours of pure delight!

Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!

Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright—35

Each morn and evening seemed to kiss!

And that whereon I saw her first,While angling in the noisy brook,When through the tangled wood she burst;In one small hand a glove and book,40

And that whereon I saw her first,

While angling in the noisy brook,

When through the tangled wood she burst;

In one small hand a glove and book,40

As with the other, dimpled, white,She held the slender boughs aside,While through the leaves the yellow lightLike golden water seemed to glide,

As with the other, dimpled, white,

She held the slender boughs aside,

While through the leaves the yellow light

Like golden water seemed to glide,

And broke in ripples on her neck,45And played like fire around her hat,And slid adown her form to fleckThe moss-grown rock on which I sat.

And broke in ripples on her neck,45

And played like fire around her hat,

And slid adown her form to fleck

The moss-grown rock on which I sat.

She standing rapt in sweet surprise,And seeming doubtful if to turn;50Her novel, as I raised my eyes,Dropped down amid the tall green fern.

She standing rapt in sweet surprise,

And seeming doubtful if to turn;50

Her novel, as I raised my eyes,

Dropped down amid the tall green fern.

This day and that—the one so bright,The other like a thing forlorn;To-morrow, and the early light55Will shine upon her marriage morn.

This day and that—the one so bright,

The other like a thing forlorn;

To-morrow, and the early light55

Will shine upon her marriage morn.

For when the mellow autumn flushedThe thickets where the chestnut fell,And in the vales the maple blushed,Another came who knew her well,60

For when the mellow autumn flushed

The thickets where the chestnut fell,

And in the vales the maple blushed,

Another came who knew her well,60

Who sat with her below the pine,And with her through the meadow moved,And underneath the purpling vineShe sang to him the song I loved.Nathaniel G. Shepherd.

Who sat with her below the pine,

And with her through the meadow moved,

And underneath the purpling vine

She sang to him the song I loved.

Nathaniel G. Shepherd.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;But O too fond, when have I answered thee?Ask me no more.5Ask me no more: what answer should I give?I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;Ask me no more.10Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:I strove against the stream and all in vain:Let the great river take me to the main:No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;Ask me no more.15Alfred Tennyson.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;But O too fond, when have I answered thee?Ask me no more.5

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But O too fond, when have I answered thee?

Ask me no more.5

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;Ask me no more.10

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?

I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:

Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!

Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;

Ask me no more.10

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:I strove against the stream and all in vain:Let the great river take me to the main:No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;Ask me no more.15Alfred Tennyson.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:

I strove against the stream and all in vain:

Let the great river take me to the main:

No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;

Ask me no more.15

Alfred Tennyson.

Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,Thine odour, like a key,Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to letA thought of sorrow free.The breath of distant fields upon my brow5Blows through that open door,The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and lowAnd sadder than of yore.It comes afar, from that belovèd place,And that belovèd hour,10When life hung ripening in love’s golden grace,Like grapes above a bower.A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,A lark sings o’er my head,Drowned in the sky—O pass, ye visions, pass,15I would that I were dead!—Why hast thou opened that forbidden doorFrom which I ever flee?O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,Let my vexed spirit be!20O violet! thy odour through my brainHath searched, and stung to griefThis sunny day, as if a curse did stainThy velvet leaf.William W. Story.

Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,Thine odour, like a key,Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to letA thought of sorrow free.

Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,

Thine odour, like a key,

Turns noiselessly in memory’s wards to let

A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow5Blows through that open door,The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and lowAnd sadder than of yore.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow5

Blows through that open door,

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low

And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that belovèd place,And that belovèd hour,10When life hung ripening in love’s golden grace,Like grapes above a bower.

It comes afar, from that belovèd place,

And that belovèd hour,10

When life hung ripening in love’s golden grace,

Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,A lark sings o’er my head,Drowned in the sky—O pass, ye visions, pass,15I would that I were dead!—

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,

A lark sings o’er my head,

Drowned in the sky—O pass, ye visions, pass,15

I would that I were dead!—

Why hast thou opened that forbidden doorFrom which I ever flee?O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,Let my vexed spirit be!20

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door

From which I ever flee?

O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,

Let my vexed spirit be!20

O violet! thy odour through my brainHath searched, and stung to griefThis sunny day, as if a curse did stainThy velvet leaf.William W. Story.

O violet! thy odour through my brain

Hath searched, and stung to grief

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain

Thy velvet leaf.

William W. Story.

Sweet order hath its draught of blissGraced with the pearl of God’s consent,Ten times ecstatic in that ’tisConsiderate and innocent.In vain disorder grasps the cup;5The pleasure’s not enjoyed, but spilt;And, if he stoops to lick it up,It only tastes of earth and guilt;His sorry raptures rest destroys;To live, like comets they must roam;10On settled poles turn solid joys,And sun-like pleasures shine at home.Coventry Patmore.

Sweet order hath its draught of bliss

Graced with the pearl of God’s consent,

Ten times ecstatic in that ’tis

Considerate and innocent.

In vain disorder grasps the cup;5

The pleasure’s not enjoyed, but spilt;

And, if he stoops to lick it up,

It only tastes of earth and guilt;

His sorry raptures rest destroys;

To live, like comets they must roam;10

On settled poles turn solid joys,

And sun-like pleasures shine at home.

Coventry Patmore.

He safely walks in darkest ways,Whose youth is lighted from above,Where through the senses’ silvery hazeDawns the veiled moon of nuptial love.Who is the happy husband? He,5Who scanning his unwedded life,Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,’Twas faithful to his future wife.Coventry Patmore.

He safely walks in darkest ways,Whose youth is lighted from above,Where through the senses’ silvery hazeDawns the veiled moon of nuptial love.

He safely walks in darkest ways,

Whose youth is lighted from above,

Where through the senses’ silvery haze

Dawns the veiled moon of nuptial love.

Who is the happy husband? He,5Who scanning his unwedded life,Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,’Twas faithful to his future wife.Coventry Patmore.

Who is the happy husband? He,5

Who scanning his unwedded life,

Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,

’Twas faithful to his future wife.

Coventry Patmore.

I give thee treasures hour by hour,That old-time princes asked in vain,And pined for in their useless power,Or died of passion’s eager pain.I give thee love as God gives light,5Aside from merit, or from prayer,Rejoicing in its own delight,And freer than the lavish air.I give thee prayers, like jewels strungOn golden threads of hope and fear;10And tenderer thoughts than ever hungIn a sad angel’s pitying tear.As earth pours freely to the seaHer thousand streams of wealth untold,So flows my silent life to thee,15Glad that its very sands are gold.What care I for thy carelessness?I give from depths that overflow,Regardless that their power to blessThy spirit cannot sound or know.20Far lingering on a distant dawnMy triumph shines, more sweet than late;When from these mortal mists withdrawn,Thy heart shall know me—I can wait.Rose Terry.

I give thee treasures hour by hour,That old-time princes asked in vain,And pined for in their useless power,Or died of passion’s eager pain.

I give thee treasures hour by hour,

That old-time princes asked in vain,

And pined for in their useless power,

Or died of passion’s eager pain.

I give thee love as God gives light,5Aside from merit, or from prayer,Rejoicing in its own delight,And freer than the lavish air.

I give thee love as God gives light,5

Aside from merit, or from prayer,

Rejoicing in its own delight,

And freer than the lavish air.

I give thee prayers, like jewels strungOn golden threads of hope and fear;10And tenderer thoughts than ever hungIn a sad angel’s pitying tear.

I give thee prayers, like jewels strung

On golden threads of hope and fear;10

And tenderer thoughts than ever hung

In a sad angel’s pitying tear.

As earth pours freely to the seaHer thousand streams of wealth untold,So flows my silent life to thee,15Glad that its very sands are gold.

As earth pours freely to the sea

Her thousand streams of wealth untold,

So flows my silent life to thee,15

Glad that its very sands are gold.

What care I for thy carelessness?I give from depths that overflow,Regardless that their power to blessThy spirit cannot sound or know.20

What care I for thy carelessness?

I give from depths that overflow,

Regardless that their power to bless

Thy spirit cannot sound or know.20

Far lingering on a distant dawnMy triumph shines, more sweet than late;When from these mortal mists withdrawn,Thy heart shall know me—I can wait.Rose Terry.

Far lingering on a distant dawn

My triumph shines, more sweet than late;

When from these mortal mists withdrawn,

Thy heart shall know me—I can wait.

Rose Terry.

If the base violence of wicked menPrevail at last; if Charles, to please his lord,And Louis, for his glory much concerned,Must needs snatch from us our sea-rescued plains,Which soon the tides will make their own again,5When once the strenuous freemen shall have fled,At whose command they ebbed with angry bark;If France must needs prevail and we must yield,Then we will yield our lands, but not ourselves.Ships we have left that will contain, I judge,10Two hundred thousand steadfast Hollanders;And ’twixt the realms where our oppressors liveA heaving highway lies, to Dutchmen known,And to be known hereafter in all lands—The highway of the exodus of freedom!15Prepare then for departure, citizens;And for the little space that yet remains,Make much of home and of your fatherland;Visit your fathers’ graves, take note of allThe furniture of your ancestral homes,20And let your hearts take the impression offTo furnish dreams beside the Southern sea;Fetch home at once your children from the school,And in the garden turn them loose to play,Nor let them want for marbles, hoops, and balls,25That in their old age they may tell their boysTheir home in the cold North was not unsweet.If any skilful painter be among you,At some resplendent noontide let him sit,And paint the busiest street in Amsterdam;30Nor let him slur one stain upon a brick,Nor smoke-dulled slip of greenery in a window;And every old cathedral let him paint,The columns ranged as in some grove of pines,And windows richer than the sunset clouds,35Wherein the Christ for centuries has smiled,And rich-robed haloed saints regarded Him;The Colleges of Leyden and Utrecht,The solemn libraries, with portraits hungOf Gerard and à Kempis, let him paint,40And let him paint the Liberator’s grave:The artist that preserves our Holland for usShall be much honoured in our Southern home.So, bearing with us all that can be moved,We will weigh anchor to the sound of psalms,45And winds from heaven shall waft us to the west,Between the shores of tyranny on the left,And the pale cliffs of falsehood on the right;While looking towards the north, our captains tellTo wondering maidens and exulting boys,50How through the helpless Medway’s mouth they sailed,And saw the towering Keep of Rochester;While looking towards the south, another groupHangs on the lips of some book-learnèd man,Who tells the tale of Egmont and St. Quentin:55Till the low-lying shores recede from sight,And ancient Europe hide herself in foam,Mother of heroes, nurse of beauteous arts,Of serious letters and high Christian truth,Rich bower of beauty, garden fenced with men,60And gorgeous with all blooms of womanhood,Temple inviolate of faith and truthAnd liberty—until the iron time.She for a while shall seem to us far off,A speck of dimness on the sunbright shield,65A roughness on the fine encircling thread,Until the horizon show a perfect ring,And the free nation ride on vaster waves,Plunge onward into more transparent seas,Under more deep ambrosial domes of night,70Into that second Holland like the first,But glad with fuller harvests, richer fruits,Where neither Frenchmen nor rude seas encroach.John Robertson.

If the base violence of wicked men

Prevail at last; if Charles, to please his lord,

And Louis, for his glory much concerned,

Must needs snatch from us our sea-rescued plains,

Which soon the tides will make their own again,5

When once the strenuous freemen shall have fled,

At whose command they ebbed with angry bark;

If France must needs prevail and we must yield,

Then we will yield our lands, but not ourselves.

Ships we have left that will contain, I judge,10

Two hundred thousand steadfast Hollanders;

And ’twixt the realms where our oppressors live

A heaving highway lies, to Dutchmen known,

And to be known hereafter in all lands—

The highway of the exodus of freedom!15

Prepare then for departure, citizens;

And for the little space that yet remains,

Make much of home and of your fatherland;

Visit your fathers’ graves, take note of all

The furniture of your ancestral homes,20

And let your hearts take the impression off

To furnish dreams beside the Southern sea;

Fetch home at once your children from the school,

And in the garden turn them loose to play,

Nor let them want for marbles, hoops, and balls,25

That in their old age they may tell their boys

Their home in the cold North was not unsweet.

If any skilful painter be among you,

At some resplendent noontide let him sit,

And paint the busiest street in Amsterdam;30

Nor let him slur one stain upon a brick,

Nor smoke-dulled slip of greenery in a window;

And every old cathedral let him paint,

The columns ranged as in some grove of pines,

And windows richer than the sunset clouds,35

Wherein the Christ for centuries has smiled,

And rich-robed haloed saints regarded Him;

The Colleges of Leyden and Utrecht,

The solemn libraries, with portraits hung

Of Gerard and à Kempis, let him paint,40

And let him paint the Liberator’s grave:

The artist that preserves our Holland for us

Shall be much honoured in our Southern home.

So, bearing with us all that can be moved,

We will weigh anchor to the sound of psalms,45

And winds from heaven shall waft us to the west,

Between the shores of tyranny on the left,

And the pale cliffs of falsehood on the right;

While looking towards the north, our captains tell

To wondering maidens and exulting boys,50

How through the helpless Medway’s mouth they sailed,

And saw the towering Keep of Rochester;

While looking towards the south, another group

Hangs on the lips of some book-learnèd man,

Who tells the tale of Egmont and St. Quentin:55

Till the low-lying shores recede from sight,

And ancient Europe hide herself in foam,

Mother of heroes, nurse of beauteous arts,

Of serious letters and high Christian truth,

Rich bower of beauty, garden fenced with men,60

And gorgeous with all blooms of womanhood,

Temple inviolate of faith and truth

And liberty—until the iron time.

She for a while shall seem to us far off,

A speck of dimness on the sunbright shield,65

A roughness on the fine encircling thread,

Until the horizon show a perfect ring,

And the free nation ride on vaster waves,

Plunge onward into more transparent seas,

Under more deep ambrosial domes of night,70

Into that second Holland like the first,

But glad with fuller harvests, richer fruits,

Where neither Frenchmen nor rude seas encroach.

John Robertson.

Last night, among his fellow roughs,He jested, quaffed, and swore;A drunken private of the Buffs,Who never looked before.To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown,5He stands in Elgin’s place,Ambassador from Britain’s crown,And type of all her race.Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,Bewildered, and alone,10A heart, with English instinct fraught,He yet can call his own.Ay, tear his body limb from limb,Bring cord, or axe, or flame:He only knows, that not throughhim15Shall England come to shame.Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,Like dreams, to come and go;Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,One sheet of living snow;20The smoke, above his father’s door,In gray soft eddyings hung:Must he then watch it rise no more,Doomed by himself, so young?Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel25He put the vision by;Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;An English lad must die.And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,With knee to man unbent,30Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,To his red grave he went.Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed;Vain, those all-shattering guns;Unless proud England keep, untamed,35The strong heart of her sons.So, let his name through Europe ring—A man of mean estate,Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,Because his soul was great.40Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.

Last night, among his fellow roughs,

He jested, quaffed, and swore;

A drunken private of the Buffs,

Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown,5

He stands in Elgin’s place,

Ambassador from Britain’s crown,

And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,Bewildered, and alone,10A heart, with English instinct fraught,He yet can call his own.Ay, tear his body limb from limb,Bring cord, or axe, or flame:He only knows, that not throughhim15Shall England come to shame.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,

Bewildered, and alone,10

A heart, with English instinct fraught,

He yet can call his own.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb,

Bring cord, or axe, or flame:

He only knows, that not throughhim15

Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,Like dreams, to come and go;Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,One sheet of living snow;20The smoke, above his father’s door,In gray soft eddyings hung:Must he then watch it rise no more,Doomed by himself, so young?

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,

Like dreams, to come and go;

Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,

One sheet of living snow;20

The smoke, above his father’s door,

In gray soft eddyings hung:

Must he then watch it rise no more,

Doomed by himself, so young?

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel25He put the vision by;Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;An English lad must die.And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,With knee to man unbent,30Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,To his red grave he went.

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel25

He put the vision by;

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,

With knee to man unbent,30

Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,

To his red grave he went.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed;Vain, those all-shattering guns;Unless proud England keep, untamed,35The strong heart of her sons.So, let his name through Europe ring—A man of mean estate,Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,Because his soul was great.40Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron framed;

Vain, those all-shattering guns;

Unless proud England keep, untamed,35

The strong heart of her sons.

So, let his name through Europe ring—

A man of mean estate,

Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,

Because his soul was great.40

Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.

See how the small concentrate fiery forceIs grappling with the glory of the main,That follows like some grave heroic corse,Dragged by a sutler from the heap of slain.Thy solemn presence brings us more than pain,—5Something which Fancy moulds into remorse,That we, who of thine honour held the gain,Should from its dignity thy form divorce.Yet will we read in thy high vaunting name,How Britaindidwhat France could onlydare,10And, while the sunset gilds the darkening air,We will fill up thy shadowy lines with fame;And, tomb or temple, hail thee still the same,Home of great thoughts, memorial Téméraire.Lord Houghton.

See how the small concentrate fiery force

Is grappling with the glory of the main,

That follows like some grave heroic corse,

Dragged by a sutler from the heap of slain.

Thy solemn presence brings us more than pain,—5

Something which Fancy moulds into remorse,

That we, who of thine honour held the gain,

Should from its dignity thy form divorce.

Yet will we read in thy high vaunting name,

How Britaindidwhat France could onlydare,10

And, while the sunset gilds the darkening air,

We will fill up thy shadowy lines with fame;

And, tomb or temple, hail thee still the same,

Home of great thoughts, memorial Téméraire.

Lord Houghton.

ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,To please the desert and the sluggish brook;The purple petals, fallen in the pool,5Made the black water with their beauty gay;Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,And court the flower that cheapens his array.Rhodora! if the sages ask thee whyThis charm is wasted on the marsh and sky,10Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing,Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!I never thought to ask, I never knew;But, in my simple ignorance, supposeThe self-same Power that brought me there brought you.Ralph Waldo Emerson.

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook;

The purple petals, fallen in the pool,5

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky,10

Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew;

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

She dwells by Great Kenhawa’s side,In valleys green and cool,And all her hope and all her prideAre in the village school.Her soul, like the transparent air5That robes the hills above,Though not of earth, encircles thereAll things with arms of love.And thus she walks among her girlsWith praise and mild rebukes;10Subduing e’en rude village churlsBy her angelic looks.She reads to them at eventideOf One who came to save;To cast the captives’ chains aside,15And liberate the slave.And oft the blessèd time foretellsWhen all men shall be free;And musical as silver bells,Their falling chains shall be.20And following her belovèd LordIn decent poverty,She makes her life one sweet recordAnd deed of charity.For she was rich, and gave up all25To break the iron bandsOf those who waited in her hall,And laboured in her lands.Long since beyond the Southern SeaTheir outbound sails have sped,30While she in meek humility,Now earns her daily bread.It is their prayers which never cease,That clothe her with such grace:Their blessing is the light of peace,35That shines upon her face.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

She dwells by Great Kenhawa’s side,In valleys green and cool,And all her hope and all her prideAre in the village school.

She dwells by Great Kenhawa’s side,

In valleys green and cool,

And all her hope and all her pride

Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air5That robes the hills above,Though not of earth, encircles thereAll things with arms of love.

Her soul, like the transparent air5

That robes the hills above,

Though not of earth, encircles there

All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girlsWith praise and mild rebukes;10Subduing e’en rude village churlsBy her angelic looks.

And thus she walks among her girls

With praise and mild rebukes;10

Subduing e’en rude village churls

By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventideOf One who came to save;To cast the captives’ chains aside,15And liberate the slave.

She reads to them at eventide

Of One who came to save;

To cast the captives’ chains aside,15

And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessèd time foretellsWhen all men shall be free;And musical as silver bells,Their falling chains shall be.20

And oft the blessèd time foretells

When all men shall be free;

And musical as silver bells,

Their falling chains shall be.20

And following her belovèd LordIn decent poverty,She makes her life one sweet recordAnd deed of charity.

And following her belovèd Lord

In decent poverty,

She makes her life one sweet record

And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all25To break the iron bandsOf those who waited in her hall,And laboured in her lands.

For she was rich, and gave up all25

To break the iron bands

Of those who waited in her hall,

And laboured in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern SeaTheir outbound sails have sped,30While she in meek humility,Now earns her daily bread.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea

Their outbound sails have sped,30

While she in meek humility,

Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers which never cease,That clothe her with such grace:Their blessing is the light of peace,35That shines upon her face.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

It is their prayers which never cease,

That clothe her with such grace:

Their blessing is the light of peace,35

That shines upon her face.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,The charging trumpets blow;Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,No earthquake strives below.And, calm and patient, Nature keeps5Her ancient promise well,Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweepsThe battle’s breath of hell.And still she walks in golden hoursThrough harvest-happy farms,10And still she wears her fruits and flowersLike jewels on her arms.What mean the gladness of the plain,This joy of eve and morn,The mirth that shakes the beard of grain15And yellow locks of corn?Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,And hearts with hate are hot;But even-paced come round the years,And Nature changes not.20She meets with smiles our bitter grief,With songs our groans of pain;She mocks with tint of flower and leafThe war-field’s crimson stain.Still, in the cannon’s pause we hear25Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;Too near to God for doubt or fear,She shares the eternal calm.She knows the seed lies safe belowThe fires that blast and burn;30For all the tears of blood we sowShe waits the rich return.She sees with clearer eye than oursThe good of suffering born,—The hearts that blossom like her flowers,35And ripen like her corn.O, give to us, in times like these,The vision of her eyes;And make her fields and fruited treesOur golden prophecies!40O, give to us her finer ear!Above this stormy din,We too would hear the bells of cheerRing peace and freedom in!John George Whittier.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,The charging trumpets blow;Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,No earthquake strives below.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,

The charging trumpets blow;

Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,

No earthquake strives below.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps5Her ancient promise well,Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweepsThe battle’s breath of hell.

And, calm and patient, Nature keeps5

Her ancient promise well,

Though o’er her bloom and greenness sweeps

The battle’s breath of hell.

And still she walks in golden hoursThrough harvest-happy farms,10And still she wears her fruits and flowersLike jewels on her arms.

And still she walks in golden hours

Through harvest-happy farms,10

And still she wears her fruits and flowers

Like jewels on her arms.

What mean the gladness of the plain,This joy of eve and morn,The mirth that shakes the beard of grain15And yellow locks of corn?

What mean the gladness of the plain,

This joy of eve and morn,

The mirth that shakes the beard of grain15

And yellow locks of corn?

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,And hearts with hate are hot;But even-paced come round the years,And Nature changes not.20

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,

And hearts with hate are hot;

But even-paced come round the years,

And Nature changes not.20

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,With songs our groans of pain;She mocks with tint of flower and leafThe war-field’s crimson stain.

She meets with smiles our bitter grief,

With songs our groans of pain;

She mocks with tint of flower and leaf

The war-field’s crimson stain.

Still, in the cannon’s pause we hear25Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;Too near to God for doubt or fear,She shares the eternal calm.

Still, in the cannon’s pause we hear25

Her sweet thanksgiving psalm;

Too near to God for doubt or fear,

She shares the eternal calm.

She knows the seed lies safe belowThe fires that blast and burn;30For all the tears of blood we sowShe waits the rich return.

She knows the seed lies safe below

The fires that blast and burn;30

For all the tears of blood we sow

She waits the rich return.

She sees with clearer eye than oursThe good of suffering born,—The hearts that blossom like her flowers,35And ripen like her corn.

She sees with clearer eye than ours

The good of suffering born,—

The hearts that blossom like her flowers,35

And ripen like her corn.

O, give to us, in times like these,The vision of her eyes;And make her fields and fruited treesOur golden prophecies!40

O, give to us, in times like these,

The vision of her eyes;

And make her fields and fruited trees

Our golden prophecies!40

O, give to us her finer ear!Above this stormy din,We too would hear the bells of cheerRing peace and freedom in!John George Whittier.

O, give to us her finer ear!

Above this stormy din,

We too would hear the bells of cheer

Ring peace and freedom in!

John George Whittier.

Come up from the fields, father; here’s a letter from our Pete,And come to the front door, mother; here’s a letter from thy dear son.Lo, ’tis autumn;Lo where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder,Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind;5Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)Above all, lo! the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain and with wondrous clouds;Below too all calm, all vital and beautiful—and the farm prospers well.10Down in the fields all prospers well;But now from the fields come, father—come at the daughter’s call;And come to the entry, mother—to the front door come, right away.Fast as she can she hurries—something ominous—her steps trembling;She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap.15Open the envelope quickly;Oh this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is signed.Oh a strange hand writes for our dear son—oh stricken mother’s soul!All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—she catches the main words only;Sentences broken—gunshot wound in the breast—cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,20At present low, but will soon be better.Ah! now the single figure to meAmid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,By the jamb of a door leans.25Grieve not so, dear mother(the just grown daughter speaks through her sobs;The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed).See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor, may be, needs to be better, that brave and simple soul).While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,30The only son is dead.But the mother needs to be better;She, with thin form, presently drest in black;By day her meals untouched—then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,35Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape and withdrawTo follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.Walt Whitman.

Come up from the fields, father; here’s a letter from our Pete,

And come to the front door, mother; here’s a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, ’tis autumn;

Lo where the fields, deeper green, yellower and redder,

Cool and sweeten Ohio’s villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind;5

Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellised vines

(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?

Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)

Above all, lo! the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain and with wondrous clouds;Below too all calm, all vital and beautiful—and the farm prospers well.10

Above all, lo! the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain and with wondrous clouds;

Below too all calm, all vital and beautiful—and the farm prospers well.10

Down in the fields all prospers well;But now from the fields come, father—come at the daughter’s call;And come to the entry, mother—to the front door come, right away.

Down in the fields all prospers well;

But now from the fields come, father—come at the daughter’s call;

And come to the entry, mother—to the front door come, right away.

Fast as she can she hurries—something ominous—her steps trembling;She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap.15

Fast as she can she hurries—something ominous—her steps trembling;

She does not tarry to smooth her white hair, nor adjust her cap.15

Open the envelope quickly;Oh this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is signed.Oh a strange hand writes for our dear son—oh stricken mother’s soul!All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—she catches the main words only;Sentences broken—gunshot wound in the breast—cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,20At present low, but will soon be better.

Open the envelope quickly;

Oh this is not our son’s writing, yet his name is signed.

Oh a strange hand writes for our dear son—oh stricken mother’s soul!

All swims before her eyes—flashes with black—she catches the main words only;

Sentences broken—gunshot wound in the breast—cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,20

At present low, but will soon be better.

Ah! now the single figure to meAmid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,By the jamb of a door leans.25

Ah! now the single figure to me

Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,

Sickly white in the face and dull in the head, very faint,

By the jamb of a door leans.25

Grieve not so, dear mother(the just grown daughter speaks through her sobs;The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed).See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.

Grieve not so, dear mother(the just grown daughter speaks through her sobs;

The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismayed).

See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.

Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor, may be, needs to be better, that brave and simple soul).While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,30The only son is dead.

Alas, poor boy, he will never be better (nor, may be, needs to be better, that brave and simple soul).

While they stand at home at the door he is dead already,30

The only son is dead.

But the mother needs to be better;She, with thin form, presently drest in black;By day her meals untouched—then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,35Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape and withdrawTo follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.Walt Whitman.

But the mother needs to be better;

She, with thin form, presently drest in black;

By day her meals untouched—then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,

In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,35

Oh, that she might withdraw unnoticed, silent from life, escape and withdraw

To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.

Walt Whitman.

Through the night, through the night,In the saddest unrest,Wrapt in white, all in white,With her babe on her breast,Walks the mother so pale,5Staring out on the galeThrough the night!Through the night, through the night,Where the sea lifts the wreck,Land in sight, close in sight!10On the surf-flooded deckStands the father so brave,Drawing on to his graveThrough the night!Richard Henry Stoddard.

Through the night, through the night,In the saddest unrest,Wrapt in white, all in white,With her babe on her breast,Walks the mother so pale,5Staring out on the galeThrough the night!

Through the night, through the night,

In the saddest unrest,

Wrapt in white, all in white,

With her babe on her breast,

Walks the mother so pale,5

Staring out on the gale

Through the night!

Through the night, through the night,Where the sea lifts the wreck,Land in sight, close in sight!10On the surf-flooded deckStands the father so brave,Drawing on to his graveThrough the night!Richard Henry Stoddard.

Through the night, through the night,

Where the sea lifts the wreck,

Land in sight, close in sight!10

On the surf-flooded deck

Stands the father so brave,

Drawing on to his grave

Through the night!

Richard Henry Stoddard.

Genius and its rewards are briefly toldA liberal nature and a niggard doom,A difficult journey to a splendid tomb.New writ, nor lightly weighed that story oldIn gentle Goldsmith’s life I here unfold:5Through other than lone wild or desert gloom,In its mere joy and pain, its blight and bloom,Adventurous. Come with me and behold,O friend with heart as gentle for distress,As resolute with wise true thoughts to bind10The happiest to the unhappiest of our kind,That there is fiercer crowded miseryIn garret toil and London lonelinessThan in cruel islands mid the far-off sea.John Forster.

Genius and its rewards are briefly told

A liberal nature and a niggard doom,

A difficult journey to a splendid tomb.

New writ, nor lightly weighed that story old

In gentle Goldsmith’s life I here unfold:5

Through other than lone wild or desert gloom,

In its mere joy and pain, its blight and bloom,

Adventurous. Come with me and behold,

O friend with heart as gentle for distress,

As resolute with wise true thoughts to bind10

The happiest to the unhappiest of our kind,

That there is fiercer crowded misery

In garret toil and London loneliness

Than in cruel islands mid the far-off sea.

John Forster.

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,Crumbling away beneath our very feet;Sad is our life, for onward it is flowingIn current unperceived, because so fleet;Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing—5But tares, self-sown, have over-topped the wheat;Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing—And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet;And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft usOf that which made our childhood sweeter still;10And sweet is middle life, for it hath left usA newer good to cure an older ill;And sweet are all things when we learn to prize themNot for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.Aubrey De Vere.

Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,

Crumbling away beneath our very feet;

Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing

In current unperceived, because so fleet;

Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing—5

But tares, self-sown, have over-topped the wheat;

Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing—

And still, oh still, their dying breath is sweet;

And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us

Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;10

And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us

A newer good to cure an older ill;

And sweet are all things when we learn to prize them

Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them.

Aubrey De Vere.

My parents bow, and lead them forth,For all the crowd to see—Ah well! the people might not careTo cheer a dwarf like me.They little know how I could love,5How I could plan and toil,To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,Their mites of rye and oil.They little know what dreams have beenMy playmates, night and day,10Of equal kindness, helpful care,A mother’s perfect sway.Now earth to earth in convent walls,To earth in churchyard sod:I was not good enough for man,15And so am given to God.Charles Kingsley.

My parents bow, and lead them forth,For all the crowd to see—Ah well! the people might not careTo cheer a dwarf like me.

My parents bow, and lead them forth,

For all the crowd to see—

Ah well! the people might not care

To cheer a dwarf like me.

They little know how I could love,5How I could plan and toil,To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,Their mites of rye and oil.

They little know how I could love,5

How I could plan and toil,

To swell those drudges’ scanty gains,

Their mites of rye and oil.

They little know what dreams have beenMy playmates, night and day,10Of equal kindness, helpful care,A mother’s perfect sway.

They little know what dreams have been

My playmates, night and day,10

Of equal kindness, helpful care,

A mother’s perfect sway.

Now earth to earth in convent walls,To earth in churchyard sod:I was not good enough for man,15And so am given to God.Charles Kingsley.

Now earth to earth in convent walls,

To earth in churchyard sod:

I was not good enough for man,15

And so am given to God.

Charles Kingsley.

O little feet! that such long yearsMust wander on through hopes and fears,Must ache and bleed beneath your load;I, nearer to the wayside innWhere toil shall cease and rest begin,Am weary, thinking of your road!O little hands! that, weak or strong,Have still to serve or rule so long,Have still so long to give or ask;I, who so much with book and pen10Have toiled among my fellow-men,Am weary, thinking of your task.O little hearts! that throb and beatWith such impatient feverish heat,Such limitless and strong desires;15Mine that so long has glowed and burnedWith passions into ashes turned,Now covers and conceals its fires.O little souls! as pure and whiteAnd crystalline as rays of light20Direct from Heaven, their source divine;Refracted through the mist of years,How red my setting sun appears,How lurid looks this soul of mine!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

O little feet! that such long years

Must wander on through hopes and fears,

Must ache and bleed beneath your load;

I, nearer to the wayside inn

Where toil shall cease and rest begin,

Am weary, thinking of your road!

O little hands! that, weak or strong,Have still to serve or rule so long,Have still so long to give or ask;I, who so much with book and pen10Have toiled among my fellow-men,Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hands! that, weak or strong,

Have still to serve or rule so long,

Have still so long to give or ask;

I, who so much with book and pen10

Have toiled among my fellow-men,

Am weary, thinking of your task.

O little hearts! that throb and beatWith such impatient feverish heat,Such limitless and strong desires;15Mine that so long has glowed and burnedWith passions into ashes turned,Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little hearts! that throb and beat

With such impatient feverish heat,

Such limitless and strong desires;15

Mine that so long has glowed and burned

With passions into ashes turned,

Now covers and conceals its fires.

O little souls! as pure and whiteAnd crystalline as rays of light20Direct from Heaven, their source divine;Refracted through the mist of years,How red my setting sun appears,How lurid looks this soul of mine!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

O little souls! as pure and white

And crystalline as rays of light20

Direct from Heaven, their source divine;

Refracted through the mist of years,

How red my setting sun appears,

How lurid looks this soul of mine!

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

‘O lady, thy lover is dead,’ they cried;‘He is dead, but hath slain the foe;He hath left his name to be magnifiedIn a song of wonder and woe.’‘Alas! I am well repaid,’ said she,5‘With a pain that stings like joy;For I feared, from his tenderness to me,That he was but a feeble boy.‘Now I shall hold my head on high,The queen among my kind.10If ye hear a sound, ’tis only a sighFor a glory left behind.’George MacDonald.

‘O lady, thy lover is dead,’ they cried;‘He is dead, but hath slain the foe;He hath left his name to be magnifiedIn a song of wonder and woe.’

‘O lady, thy lover is dead,’ they cried;

‘He is dead, but hath slain the foe;

He hath left his name to be magnified

In a song of wonder and woe.’

‘Alas! I am well repaid,’ said she,5‘With a pain that stings like joy;For I feared, from his tenderness to me,That he was but a feeble boy.

‘Alas! I am well repaid,’ said she,5

‘With a pain that stings like joy;

For I feared, from his tenderness to me,

That he was but a feeble boy.

‘Now I shall hold my head on high,The queen among my kind.10If ye hear a sound, ’tis only a sighFor a glory left behind.’George MacDonald.

‘Now I shall hold my head on high,

The queen among my kind.10

If ye hear a sound, ’tis only a sigh

For a glory left behind.’

George MacDonald.

A hundred wings are dropt as soft as one;Now ye are lighted—lovely to my sightThe fearful circle of your gentle flight,Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon:And then the sober chiding of your tone,5As ye sit there from your own roofs arraigningMy trespass on your haunts, so boldly done,Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining!O happy, happy race! for though there clingsA feeble fear about your timid clan,10Yet are ye blest! with not a thought that bringsDisquietude, while proud and sorrowing man,An eagle weary of his mighty wings,With anxious inquest fills his little span.Charles Tennyson.

A hundred wings are dropt as soft as one;

Now ye are lighted—lovely to my sight

The fearful circle of your gentle flight,

Rapid and mute, and drawing homeward soon:

And then the sober chiding of your tone,5

As ye sit there from your own roofs arraigning

My trespass on your haunts, so boldly done,

Sounds like a solemn and a just complaining!

O happy, happy race! for though there clings

A feeble fear about your timid clan,10

Yet are ye blest! with not a thought that brings

Disquietude, while proud and sorrowing man,

An eagle weary of his mighty wings,

With anxious inquest fills his little span.

Charles Tennyson.

The Ocean at the bidding of the MoonFor ever changes with his restless tide:Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soonWith kingly pauses of reluctant pride,And semblance of return. Anon from home5He issues forth anew, high-ridged and free—The gentlest murmur of his seething foamLike armies whispering where great echoes be.O leave me here upon this beach to rove,Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone;10A glorious sound, deep drawn, and strongly thrown,And reaching those on mountain heights above,To British ears, (as who shall scorn to own?)A tutelar fond voice, a saviour tone of love.Charles Tennyson.

The Ocean at the bidding of the Moon

For ever changes with his restless tide:

Flung shoreward now, to be regathered soon

With kingly pauses of reluctant pride,

And semblance of return. Anon from home5

He issues forth anew, high-ridged and free—

The gentlest murmur of his seething foam

Like armies whispering where great echoes be.

O leave me here upon this beach to rove,

Mute listener to that sound so grand and lone;10

A glorious sound, deep drawn, and strongly thrown,

And reaching those on mountain heights above,

To British ears, (as who shall scorn to own?)

A tutelar fond voice, a saviour tone of love.

Charles Tennyson.

Blossom of the almond trees,April’s gift to April’s bees,Birthday ornament of spring,Flora’s fairest daughterling;Coming when no flowerets dare5Trust the cruel outer air;When the royal kingcup boldDares not don his coat of gold;And the sturdy black-thorn sprayKeeps his silver for the May;—10Coming when no flowerets would,Save thy lowly sisterhood,Early violets, blue and white,Dying for their love of light.Almond blossom, sent to teach us15That the spring-days soon will reach us,Lest, with longing over-tried,We die as the violets died—Blossom, clouding all the treeWith thy crimson broidery,20Long before a leaf of greenO’er the bravest bough is seen;Ah! when winter winds are swingingAll thy red bells into ringing,With a bee in every bell,25Almond bloom, we greet thee well.Edwin Arnold.

Blossom of the almond trees,

April’s gift to April’s bees,

Birthday ornament of spring,

Flora’s fairest daughterling;

Coming when no flowerets dare5

Trust the cruel outer air;

When the royal kingcup bold

Dares not don his coat of gold;

And the sturdy black-thorn spray

Keeps his silver for the May;—10

Coming when no flowerets would,

Save thy lowly sisterhood,

Early violets, blue and white,

Dying for their love of light.

Almond blossom, sent to teach us15

That the spring-days soon will reach us,

Lest, with longing over-tried,

We die as the violets died—

Blossom, clouding all the tree

With thy crimson broidery,20

Long before a leaf of green

O’er the bravest bough is seen;

Ah! when winter winds are swinging

All thy red bells into ringing,

With a bee in every bell,25

Almond bloom, we greet thee well.

Edwin Arnold.

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